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ieatcocoa · 29 days

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Sweeter Than Hunny

Characters: Alastor/Fem!Reader

Reader's POV

Word Count: 1.6k

Important: 18+ minors do not interact. established relationship (?), accidental food play, use of honey, teasing, hickies, kissing, suggestive

In which Alastor indulges in your sweet tooth...

Divider credits to plutism !

The hotel is quiet. There is no sound except for the occasional creak of old flooring, caused by a particular serpent slithering around in the dark. While his hobby may be relatively harmless, it is still unnerving; the sizable goose egg on his forehead is a reminder of what you detest. During your stay, you have developed an interest in zodiac signs. Unfortunately for you, snakes embody stubbornness, and you are far too exhausted to give his knot a twin.

In your hands, the small porcelain cup radiates a comforting warmth that seeps through your fingertips and palms, soothing away the remnants of your tension. You take a moment to savor the aroma of the delicate brew before bringing the drink to your mouth.

The hell?

Immediately, your eyes widen in surprise, a deep grimace forming on your lips as you register the unexpected taste. A sharp bitterness lingers on, contrasting the anticipated sweetness. With a determined resolve to salvage your tea time, you set down the cup and rise from the couch. Making your way to the kitchen, you move around the familiar area effortlessly, and the pitter of your footsteps reverberates softly against the tiled floor. There is only one thing that could salvage a brew that harsh:

Ah ha!

Nestled among the pristine shelves sat your beacon of hope—the honey jar. As you retrieve the sweet treat, you cannot help but notice the signs of wear and tear that mar its once-pristine surface. The edges of the ceramic vessel are chipped and worn from its countless journeys to and from the pantry. Traces of sticky residue cling to the sides of the pot, and the substance adheres to the surface of your hands, creating an uncomfortable sensation. Would it kill folks to wipe it down after use?

Your gaze trails along to the lid; it sits slightly askew, showing signs of repeated twisting and turning, an ode to the desire with which it has been opened and closed numerous times. You shift your grip to the handle and run a finger over the smooth texture. The once-vibrant color faded to a dull patina. And yet, despite its weathered appearance, there's a certain charm to the honey pot—a sense of history and nostalgia that lends it a unique character all its own.

Almost everyone utilizes it, and is probably the only thing you can all agree on. To see it so well-loved and appreciated brings a smile to your face, knowing that the gift aids in adding a little extra sweetness to the lives of those who call the hotel home.

Corny. Maybe Charlie's exercises are starting to rub off on you?

Balancing the pot carefully, you retrace your steps to the living room. As you enter, you are frozen in surprise at the sight before you. There, seated comfortably on the couch, is Alastor, his crimson eyes glinting with delight as he regards you with a ceaseless grin. "Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite resident! I seem to have caught you at an unfortunate time; don't you agree, sticky fingers?"

"Ha. Ha. Ha." You release a sarcastic chuckle before softly placing the container on the end table next to your cup. "Just indulging in a little tea break, nosey. I was in need of something to sweeten up my evening." As you settle onto the couch, a mischievous impulse stirs within...

With a dramatic, drawn-out hum, you casually prop your socked feet up near his thighs. "Ah, of course! I should have just called on you! You're sweeter than Hunny." Alastor, ever the picture of composure, arches an eyebrow at your antics, his expression a mix of amusement and bemusement. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he not-so-gently pushes your feet aside, his movements refined yet firm as he maintains his personal space. Undeterred by his subtle rebuff, you respond with a pout, forming your lips into an expression of dismay. "Nevermind, I lied. You're as bitter as death."

"Oh, you wound me, crude woman! Boo hoo. I'm afraid my legs aren't meant to serve as a footrest." He quips his tone light and teasing. With a roll of the eyes, you relent, withdrawing your feet with a dramatic flourish. "Fine, fine. I'll behave... for now." You concede that your impish demeanor was undimmed by Alastor's gentle reprimand. "What are you doing up so late anyway?" It is a silly question; however, that does not stop you from asking.

His gaze flickers to the poorly paned ceiling above before emitting a deep sigh, the faint rumblings of his static audible to only the most precise listener. "You know me well enough to know that sleep is but a distant acquaintance," he responds. Of course, you did; this isn't the first time you've graced each other in the dead of night, and it certainly won't be the last. Though the longing to know why always leads you to ask such foolish questions, some things are better left unsaid.

You sit up; your attention is now drawn to the end table, where the tea waits. With deliberate movements, you reach for the dipper, plunging it into the golden pool of honey snuggled within the pot. As you drizzle the viscous nectar into the cup, a sweet aroma fills the air, mingling with the soft glow of lamplight that bathes the room in a warm embrace. The gentle clink of wood against the ceramic echoes in the quiet of the night. "If you're up for a chat, I'm all ears." Alastor leans forward slightly; his expression reflects mock seriousness as he addresses your suggestion. "Well, my darling doe," he begins, his voice dripping with lively charm, "I'm afraid the only topic of conversation that truly piques my interest tonight is your rather unhealthy indulgence in sugar."

As you stare him down, a snort escapes your lips. "Really now? Is that what you want to talk about?" Alastor nods solemnly. "Indeed. I'm afraid I simply can't let such an important matter go unaddressed," he replies, his tone dripping with exaggerated concern.

Oh please!

"Don't be such a killjoy," you say while shaking your head in protest. "A little sugar never hurts anyone. Besides, eternity is too long for me not to indulge now and then." He lets out a scoff while waving a hand dismissively through the air. "A little sugar, you say? From what I've witnessed, your intake is hardly what I would call a little. I'm quite surprised your teeth haven't rotted out of your mouth by now.” While he spoke, you took a hearty sip of the tea, hoping that the addition of honey had tempered its bitterness.

However, much to your dismay, the drink remains as bitter as before, causing you to smack your lips. You make a mental note to avoid buying products from this brand in the future.

As Alastor continues his tirade about the perils of sugar, you half listen with a good-natured smile. "Well, I'll be! I didn't realize you had become the new spokesperson for Hell's Dentistry. Should I expect to see your face on toothpaste commercials anytime soon?"

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly as his once-toothy grin tightens into a thin line. The sudden change in his demeanor is comical, almost cartoonish, and you can't help but burst into laughter at the sight. While you laugh uncontrollably, you attempt to add more honey to your drink. The fit of giggles proves to be too much, causing you to fumble clumsily with the pot. With a sudden jolt, a small stream of honey escapes the confines of the container, dribbling down the wooden dipper and onto the carpeted floor. Determined not to waste any more of the precious nectar, you quickly lean down, attempting to suck the excess honey from the dipper. However, your efforts only result in more hilarity, as the honey dribbles messily down the side of your mouth. It beads slowly onto your neck, leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

"Shit." A mumbled curse leaves you while you place your cup down. Resigned to the mess made, your hand attempts to wipe away the sticky residue, only to find it stubbornly clinging to the skin.

Alastor, ever the opportunist, rises from his seat and approaches. Without a word, he leans in close, his tongue darting to lap up the mess that coats your neck. The sudden sensation sends a violent shiver down your spine, and a sigh catches in your throat from the warmth of his tongue. His lips close around the spot where the honey pooled, his mouth sucking at the sticky sweetness with a hunger that nearly has your knees buckling. Oh, how you wish he'd bite down. Your hands reach out to weakly grasp onto his shoulders for support, the material of his coat bunching up under your hold.

He remains an enigma; his actions are always veiled in layers of mystery, and this moment is no exception. Any questions floating around in your head about why are fizzed out. After all, some things truly are better left unsaid. With a soft pop, he releases the patch of skin, and his tongue trails upward to linger at the corner of your mouth. His touch is delicate yet possessive, a silent declaration of his presence and desire to explore.

Weakly attempting to lighten the atmosphere for your sake you manage a joke, your lips curling into a faint smile despite the lingering heat between you.

"What happened to sugar being an unhealthy indulgence?"

Alastor’s response is immediate yet measured; his gaze gleams with a newfound intensity as he finishes lapping. His tongue traces a final path before your lips meet in a sickeningly sweet kiss.

"I suppose I am starting to see the appeal, my dear!"

Thank you so much for reading ! <33 Inspired by hazelfoureyes !

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor x you #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut

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harleescreepycreations · 2 years

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The final result of The Winnie the Pooh mug

I'M LOVING EEYORE

$20 (cuz it took 5hrs to finish)

I might do a set for $40

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edensdahlia · 10 months

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Hey, really appreciate your work! can do something about Ghost waking up on a very cold night and seeing reader shrunken, then he realizes that he is using alone the blanket they share, indicating that while he slept, he pulling the sheet to himself, leaving the reader without the blanket. (sorry for my english, it's not my first language and I used translator, so some parts may be confused 😭💀)

༊*·˚ Inside This Place Is Warm

CHARACTERS: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Gn! Reader

RATING: SFW

CONTENTS: Exactly what the prompt says, + a little extra, doing skin care for him, super soft Simon, I headcannon he has dyed hair in this, may be ooc, some wintery themes (even though it’s mid-summer where I am lol), established relationship, just lots of fluff, title is a Sweater Weather lyric, nicknames used: love

A/N: Absolutely no worries about your English lovely! I was literally giggling and kicking my feet as I wrote this, I just love him so much :( I live for domestic moments so I honestly may have gotten a little carried away but I really hope you enjoy!

ೃ⁀➷ WORD COUNT: 1K

In the warm glow of the bathroom light, Simon became the picture of pure divinity. Surely, if Nirvana existed it was there between the sun-kissed pink of his cheeks and the way his hair hung, mussed and slightly damp, across his forehead. It was there written into his irises as he peered down at you. Adoring and sickeningly reverent as if you could ask him to split the very Earth for you- to tear apart each layer with his bare hands- and he would do it without hesitation. He would. If you asked.

You slid your fingers through his curls, pushing them away from his face with a gentle sweeping motion. His roots were beginning to grow out, their umber colour striking against the rest of his pale locks. He was due for a touchup soon, and a haircut. A small huff of a laugh escaped you, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, attempting to trap your smile behind enamel as you gazed up at him.

“Your hair…” You explained at his imploring look, voice feather-light and so incredibly tender as if you feared anything more would disturb the domestic bubble that had descended upon the room. Simon stepped closer legs slotting into the space between your open thighs, hands pressed to the cool ceramic counter on either side of you.

“’S bad?” He whispered, breath warm against your skin and smelling faintly of mint. His head dipped in your direction crowding closer to you as his eyes searched yours, dangerously easy to get lost in. Hickory and honey melting into an amalgam of a colour so distinctly Simon. Your hand trailed from the crown of his head down to his cheek lingering there fondly before you pulled away, reaching for the jar of facial cream at your side.

“Not at all. Just needs retouched- unless you’re going to grow it out again?” You undid the lid of the container gathering its contents onto the tips of your fingers. It was meant to repair scar tissue and soothe the skin. A luxury he hadn’t thought of affording himself before you.

“Maybe I will. I kinda miss the brown.” Simon’s eyes fluttered closed a content hum echoing from the recess of his chest as the pad of your thumb slid over his cheekbones and down the side of his face, tracing over long-faded scars with a gentleness he’d come to accept. He was spoiled when it came to you. So incredibly spoiled. And the thought didn’t terrify him as it may have in the past. Instead, he relished in it. Took comfort in the way your thumb slid down the bridge of his nose and then across his temples, rubbing soothing circles into his skin with each movement. Every touch sent small jolts of electricity through him as if you were holding a live wire to his skin, molding every nerve of his to the shape of your name.

Your nose nudged his and his mouth parted automatically, lips meeting yours in a brief sleepy kiss. “Bedtime.” You murmured. Simon’s eyes peeled open at the sound of your saccharine voice a rare content smile teasing the corner of his lips and tugging them upward. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribcage, imprinting the marrow of your bones with his blissful expression. How could one person be so beautiful?

Simon wondered the same thing as he gazed down at you.

♡ 。

As it crept into January the weather in Manchester went from mildly annoying to an all-present nuisance. Outside your house the wind began to howl something fierce, the sound drawing Simon into barely there consciousness. True to his callsign it seemed he was always cold. A spectre of frost and ice, built from winter itself. But there buried beneath four blankets he was warm, finally, mercifully warm; and yet something was still missing. He blinked into the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting as if he’d find what it was in the emerging shapes. The outline of a dresser, a laundry basket with clothes spilling over the top-

Slowly he shifted, limbs like molasses as he rolled over finding the answer to the little voice that nagged in his mind. “Oh love…” Simon’s voice was a breathy sigh the edge of his words turned soft by guilt. Illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains was your sleeping form. You were folded together like an origami piece, legs tucked in close to your chest, hands pressed palm to palm in an attempt to regulate your body temperature. Even in the semi-dark, he could see the goosebumps that broke out across your skin.

Simon lifted the blankets reaching out a hand to brush against your arm. You stirred at the contact hands unfolding, reaching out in search of his warmth. His hand slid into yours bringing your knuckles to his lips so he could lay a gentle kiss on each before gathering you in close, pulling you into the safety of the cocoon he’d managed to build for himself.

Your lips parted, a content hum loosening the sudden tightness Simon felt in his chest. The guilt easing into something softer, endearment settling into the empty spaces of his ribcage with a quiet, relieved sigh. His hand flattened along your back dragging down the length of your spine and then back up again in a soothing motion. You snuggled closer to him head tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder.

He waited there with his head resting lightly on yours, waiting for the goosebumps to disappear and your skin to warm beneath his touch. Through the window he watched as snow begin to spiral from the sky, white flakes dancing past on a stray gust of wind, twinkling like stardust in the worn yellow light of a street lamp. There with you tucked into him, warm and alive beneath his fingers, and the snow just beginning to fall Simon Riley found the definition of peace.

#₊˚ପ⊹edensdahlia #₊˚ପ⊹sweetscents #₊˚ପ⊹nonnie!#call of duty mw2 #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ‘ghost’ riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x gn reader #gn!reader #ghost fluff #soft simon riley

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shall-we-die · 8 days

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╔‌‌‌‌•°🍰༄•°══════════•⊰•°༄༚

{HBD Dear MC!~}

A list of gifts they gonna give you 🎁

╞•⊰❖⊱•═══•༻🎂༺•═══•⊰❖⊱•╡

☰[Main list]•⊰ X Obey me!

#Part 1 📍 || #Part 2 || #Part 3 || #Part 4

╚•°🍰༄•°══════════•⊰•°༄༚‌‌‌

[Lucifer]:

A piece of music he composed, a bouquet of rare black roses, a vintage vinyl record of her favorite music genre, a handwritten letter and a necklace with a pendant.

[Mammon]:

A brand new car, an expensive watch, a gold necklace and the most expensive set of jewelry he could find. (With the help of Lucifer’s money of course)

[Leviathan]:

A signed rare copy of his favorite anime and manga series, rare figurines of his favorite characters, and a handmade bracelet made out of real gemstones.

[Satan]:

A box of homemade pastries that would always refill and never run out, a leather-bound notebook filled with his best poetry and a ring with a ruby attached to it.

[Asmodeus]:

A luxury spa package, his favorite book series and a perfume set that contained all his favorite scents.

[Beelzebub]:

A home cooked dinner, a bottle of champagne and a jar of his special honey.

[Belphegor]:

A big cuddly teddy bear, a warm blanket and pillows and, a big pillow-shaped chocolate cake.

[Diavolo]:

An exclusive tour of the Demon King’s castle, a luxurious robe and a box of sweets.

[Barbatos]:

A personal day out with him at his favorite places, a bottle of expensive tea and a vintage-style fountain pen.

[Simeon]:

A bouquet of rare pink roses and peonies, a box of chocolates as well as his homemade cookies, and a framed letter.

[Solomon]:

A handwritten book filled with magical spells and runes, a new spellbook which he designed himself, and a bottle of the rarest and most unique wine there is.

[Luke]:

A box set of his favorite stories, a new plushie and a box of his delicious pancakes.

[Raphael]:

A handmade sweater, a basket with all his favorite herbal teas and spices, and a box of his most precious herbs and plants.

[Mephistopheles]:

A box filled with all his favorite rare books, a handmade ceramic mug and a handcrafted blanket.

[Thirteen]:

A framed photo of the two of you together, a handmade plushie with all her favorite features and a big box of chocolates.

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 2 months

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DATE NIGHT

written December 14, 2023

a/n: I've read the first ACOTAR book in the series and a bit of the second book in the series. I immediately gravitated towards Azriel and of course wrote a blurb? one shot? About him and an oc. Her name is Ori, short for Aurora and she is the bastard child of Mr. Archeron. I picture her resembling Carmen Solomons the South African model. This thing in my head was inspired by the tiktoker ShannBailee. There's a video of her husband washing her hair and it was so sweet and beautiful to watch that I had to write something involving Azriel. I'm rambling. Enjoy.

Word Count: 3043

When Ori and Azriel decide to stay inside for date night, the Shadowsinger proposes a question that catches his mate off guard.

“Can I wash your hair?”

I stop detangling my hair turning to look at Azriel. He gazes down at me, honey brown eyes burning bright under faelight. I swallow, blinking slowly and open my mouth to answer, but the words die on my tongue. Azriel was well aware of my hair washing routine and often left me alone, not wanting to intrude on the vigorous and lengthy regimen I curated. Sometimes he would stay with me if we were deep in conversation, watching me detangle and coat my hair with various conditioners and hair masks. But wash my hair? The question caught me off guard.

His mouth twitches, a faint smile appearing on his face. I realize I'm gawking at him and close my mouth, shaking my head. A flush creeps up my face and I turn back to the mirror playing with my ends. A trickle of cool air whispered against my skin. Black shadows grazes my shoulders in attempts to get my attention. I glance at Azriel through the mirror where he lounged on the bed, leaning back on his hands, legs spread. He blinks at me, tilting his head to the side waiting patiently for my answer.

“You want to?” I breathe.

Azriel gave a nod, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands dangling in between his legs.

“Are you sure?”

Azriel chuckles quietly. “Yes. I’m sure.”

I stare at him for a long moment before nodding my head. “Okay.” I note the way his eyes gleam with mirth, but don't comment. “I’m almost done detangling my hair. I’ll set up the bath when I’m done.”

Azriel rose from the bed, walking to the vanity. He places his cold hands on my shoulders and bent down kissing the exposed skin. “You sit and finish with your hair. I’ll set up.”

“Wait,” I say, holding his hand before he left. “You don’t know what products I use. I can show you—”

“I’ve seen you wash your hair several times.”

“But—”

Azriel brings my hand to his lips, kissing my skin. “I can figure it out, Ori.”

I watch him walk to the bath and after a few moments the sound of running water fills the room. I turn to the mirror returning to the section I was at and scoop a considerable amount of product into my hands, rubbing them together. I start from my scalp and run my hands down to my ends then comb my fingers through my curls making sure I remove all the knots. I crane my neck using my enhanced hearing to listen to what Azriel was doing in the bath, but his damn shadows. I can’t hear anything.

“I can feel you staring.” Amusement laces his tone. I can feel it through our bond. I fix my posture responding to the bond feeling bashful. Azriel chuckles quietly and I smile fondly focusing on detangling my hair.

The aroma of apples and water lily filled the air when I ease the door open. I peer around the door and find Azriel sitting on a stool hunched over with his hand in the water testing out the temperature. Bottles and jars of my hair products line the stone ledge of the bath along with a wide-tooth comb. I linger by the doorframe in awe of the set up. From my favourite candle lit on the other side of the bath, the light blue ceramic pitcher, to the goblet of red wine—when did he get wine, I thought in disbelief.

“I told you I’d figure it out.” Azriel spoke.

“How did you—” I struggle to find the words. Azriel smiles, big enough for his dimples to make an appearance, one very few got to see.

He rose to his feet strolling toward me. I take a step back to look up at him, his large stature overwhelming my pixie-like height. Azriel takes my hand in his leading me toward the bath. He stops right in front of the pool of water and I admire the pungent fumes of apples and water lily.

“Wow,” I gasp, gazing up at Azriel. “This is just—wow.”

“The water is at the temperature you like.”

I gaze up at Azriel lost for words at his attention to detail and begin to unwrap my silk robe. Azriel helps me out of the garment and assists me into the tub. I instantly sigh the moment my body descends into the water. It was the perfect temperature. Azriel sits on the stool beside the bath, thick, long legs spread open to accommodate his large size.

I turn my body to the side, placing my forearms on the ledge of the bath gazing warmly at him.

My stomach feels like it's full of butterflies fluttering around. I've always known Azriel was observant but this was…everything. Azriel picks up the light blue ceramic pitcher dipping it in the water, lifting it out when it was full. I wait for him to pour the water but he pauses for a moment leaning forward, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. My heart hums at the loving gesture. To the outside world, Azriel was distant and cold, observing the world from the outside looking in. But when it was only the two of us, he was gentle and loving; affectionate and doting.

I face forward, sitting upright in the warm bath with my arms wrapped around my shins, gazing at the rippling water. Warm water trickles down my head splashing back in the bath. I feel my long cinnamon red curls flatten along my back as Azriel fills the pitcher again, pouring water on my head in efforts to rinse out all the product in my hair. He repeats the motion again and again, running his scarred fingers through my hair, kneading my scalp to get the leftover product. I watch him in silence as he worked, my mind buzzing like a bee.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

I watch Azriel pick up a bottle of cleansing shampoo, pouring the smooth paste into the palm of his hand. He rubs his hands together until bubbles form. I turn around to face him, holding the ledge and he combs his fingers through my hair kneading my scalp.

“Nothing. It’s just…” I sigh as he began to scratch all around my head. My eyes nearly roll back to my skull at the pleasurable feeling. I am quiet for a couple of minutes revelling in pampering. Azriel stops to add more shampoo. “Why do you want to wash my hair? We could’ve done anything else for date night.”

Azriel lathers the soap onto the back of my head. A slight frown puckers between his brows in concentration. I bite back a smile, admiring his features. The elegant slope of his straight nose and refined tip, his high cheekbones and chiseled jaw. The way he bites his lower lip when he is lost in thought or a task. Light freckles dusted over his nose, giving him a boyish, youthful look, I always adored.

“I don’t know…” he mumbles, lifting a shoulder. “I just wanted to do it.”

Azriel was a man of few words and it was an issue in our relationship we constantly worked on. I found it difficult to open up to people, even my sister Feyre sometimes when things became too much. But with Azriel it was much more than not talking about things. He kept it all bottled inside and I want him to feel safe enough to let whatever was going on in his head, out. It took us both a while to get comfortable enough to communicate our feelings. It didn’t mean we didn’t struggle with it daily.

I stare up at him with round eyes. Azriel fills the pitcher with water pouring it over my head to rinse out the shampoo. He blinks at my silence peering down at me and I lean forward resting my chin on my arms, waiting for the rest of his answer. He gazes at me, golden brown eyes trailing over my face and hair. I lift my head feeling uncertain about what he was looking at and thinking about. Reassurance pulled on my heart, rippling through the bond.

“How do you use this all the time?” he asks, referring to the pitcher.

“I usually dunk my head in the water to rinse my hair. Using the pitcher all the time would take way too long.”

Azriel chuckles quietly setting the pitcher back on the ledge. I giggle turning to the front and ease down to my elbows, tilting my head back submerging my long hair in the water. Balancing on my right elbow, I used my left hand to knead the remaining shampoo in my scalp out. A flush crept up my chest and the back of my neck feeling Azriel’s intense stare on my body. The water, though sudsy, barely covered my nakedness. I arch my back more and my chest hovers out of the water, the cool chill prickling my nipples to hard peaks.

I swish my head from side to side before sitting up, feeling the warm water trickle down my back. Azriel’s eyes flickers up to my face at the last second. His eyes darkening and I can feel his desire reverberating through the bond.

“What?” I ask softly, feigning innocence.

Azriel licks his lower lip. “Turn around.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice the gold goblet of wine. “Wait,” I said reaching for the glass. “I can’t forget about this.”

I sit on my backside holding the stem of the glass between my fingers. I take a sip of the cool red wine humming in content at the acidic and sweet tangy taste bursting in my mouth. Azriel scoops up my long hair, wringing out the excess water before letting it hang over the edge of the bath. He opened up a jar of my conditioner scooping out what I hoped wasn’t a considerable amount based on the size of his hands and runs his fingers through my hair.

I sink deeper into the bath letting the water reach just above my chest as he repeats the motion, evenly distributing the product so that no strand is left untouched. Azriel rearranges himself on the stool grabbing the wide tooth comb on the ledge and sections my hair into four. I feel him hold the first section in his hands and the scraping of the comb against my ends. He combs my hair from the ends to my scalp, untangling any knots I may have missed when detangling my hair prior.

We fall into our usual comfortable silence. Azriel taking his time to comb through each section of my hair and I sipping leisurely on the glass of wine. I never gave much thought on how intimate the act of washing someone’s hair was. The gentle attention and appreciation for your mate. The trust and vulnerability.

My stubbornness gets the best of me. I'm still not satisfied with Azriel’s answer.

My mate kisses my temple breathing deeply and I lean into his touch before turning back around to face him. Azriel takes the goblet of wine out of my hand setting it down on the ledge and inclines forward nuzzling his nose against mine. I gaze up at him waiting for his next move. Azriel closes the distance between us, pressing his full soft lips against my own. My eyes flutter close, smiling into the kiss knowing he couldn’t go five minutes without touching me in some way. He pulls away not before kissing me again, this one quicker than the last. His hand lay on my knees rubbing small circles on my skin while the other grabbed the pitcher again, filling it up to pour water on my head.

I play with his fingers, softly trailing my fingers against the intricate designs of his marred skin. It took some time to be able to touch his hands without feeling sadness through ripple through our bond. It was still an adjustment but slowly and surely, he was learning to like the scars.

“Az,” I spoke.

“Mm?”

“Why did you really want to wash my hair?”

Azriel pours the water on my head again and shrugs. I almost zap him with my powers. Sensing my impatience, a faint smile ghosts his lips. I open my mouth to protest but he speaks.

“I watch you do your hair all the time,” he begins filling the pitcher with water. “And I love how much time and effort you put into your routine.” I kiss his palm coaxing him to continue. “I’ll admit though, sometimes when you talk about your hair products and a new regimen you came up with, I’m looking at you, nodding my head as if I understand what you’re talking about but honestly, I don’t. I’m not listening.” He laughs when I squeeze his hand at the confession. Azriel pause and looks at me. “It’s not because I don’t want to,” he explained. “It’s because I can’t stop admiring you. Your hair is your expression, creativity, your freedom and I want to completely immerse myself in that part of you.”

Azriel returned to his task as if he said something so casual it didn’t require much thought. I shake my head.

“Gods, you’re so frustrating.”

Azriel stopps mid-pour. My response catching him off guard.

“Why?” He frowned.

I scoff. “Because how could you be any more perfect.”

Azriel rolls his eyes and continues to pour, shaking his head. “I’m not perfect,” he said flatly.

I hold his other wrist, halting his movements and bring his arm down. I gaze in his beautiful hazel eyes. “You are to me,” I say strongly. “You’re perfect and thoughtful and loving and—” Azriel cuts me off with his lips on mine.

I giggle leaning away from him, smiling when he purrs, chasing my lips. I indulge him closing the distance. The kiss deepens, Azriel licking into my mouth. My heart stutters at the fierceness of the kiss. Passion and devotion thrums through our bond as Azriel brings his hand up the back of my head, curling his fingers through my wet hair. I lean forward fisting his black shirt in my wet hands, desperate to feel his body against mine. A low groan escapes his lips sensing my desire and Azriel nips my bottom lip pulling away.

“You might take back those words when I’m done with your hair.” He breathed against my lips, amusement in his tone.

I grin. “So far you’re doing well for someone who doesn’t listen when I’m talking about my hair care routine.” Azriel growls playfully and the sound sent vibrations between my legs to my core. He leans back, the tips of our nose touching.

“That’s all you took from what I told you?” He spoke lowly, carefully.

“Yup.” I respond cheerfully, pulling away.

Azriel smiles, kissing my cheek before asking me to dip my head in the water again.

“I think we should think about your hair care regimen.” I muse, rinsing my hair out. It feels so silky and smooth against my fingers. Azriel hums a response, pulling strands of hair out the comb. “Yes, so you can stop using my shampoo.” I arch my brow knowingly at him. His hair has been smelling like pears and roses lately.

He grins, white teeth shiny and straight; dimples indenting his cheeks. It takes my breath away.

“What do you suggest?”

I sit up treading my hands through the soapy water. The tips of my fingers tingles with power surging through them. The soap in the water faded away becoming fresh and clean. I manipulate the temperature of the water making it a little hotter. Steam soon wafts in the air. Leaning back on my elbows again, I purse my lips in thought.

“A hair mask to lock in moisture. Flying dries out your hair,” I say. “Oh, and there’s this conditioner for wavy hair I saw at the market the other day.” Azriel rinses his hands in the water and combs his wet hands through his dark hair. I sit up observing him. “Other than that, I just think you need a haircut.”

“I thought you liked my hair.”

I do like it. I love it actually. He had grown it out, thick waves falling just above his shoulders. I was accustomed to his low taper fade, thick waves falling above his hazel eyes. Long hair somehow made him look older, despite his boyish looks. I love playing with his hair when he snuggles up against my chest or helping him put half his hair in a bun before training. But I miss his short hair.

“I do!” I promise, sitting up on my bottom. “But any longer and you’ll look like Cassian.”

Azriel tips his head back and laughs. I join rising to my knees, reaching up to card my fingers through his hair moving the strands of hair that fell over his face.

“I’m done,” he said, golden eyes trailing down my exposed body, drinking me up. I shiver at his intense stare. He drags his gaze up to my face looking into my eyes and I wrap my arms around his neck pulling him close. Azriel’s arms envelopes around my small figure, not caring I am wet.

“Thank you,” I murmur in his ear.

Azriel pulls away reaching a scarred hand up to caress my cheek. I lean into his touch and his cool finger brush my lips. I take the tip of his thumb into my mouth, biting softly. Azriel’s eyes darkens and desire thrums through the bond. He lowers his lips to mine in another deep kiss. His lips were warm and soft, parting slightly allowing my tongue to slip inside. I press into him feeling his heartbeat against my chest. Azriel sucks on my tongue eliciting a whimper from my lips. He pulls away, breathing deeply against my lips.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #acotar fanfiction #azriel one shot #azriel shadowsinger #poc reader #acotar imagine #acotar fanfic #oriarcheron

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violettduchess · 1 year

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Hi there I hope not to bother I wanted to request something like that, how Leon, Luke, Chevalier, Clavis, hope they are not too much, would react with a MC that know and use more than one language, easily sliding from one to the other, Please take your time and take care Have a wonderful day :D

A/N: Here you are lovely Julie 💜

Word Count: 1361

Leon

You’ve snuck into town to enjoy a day away from the scrutiny of the palace. Now you and Leon stroll through the town hand-in-hand under a cloudy sky, the hoods of your cloaks obscuring your faces. He’s talking, his voice bright with laughter as he recalls a story from one of his first times sneaking out. You adjust your grip on his hand, grinning back at him as you round a corner and then you both stop, surprised by the brightly colored poster plastered on the side of the flower shop. A traveling circus judging by the illustrations but the words on the poster are not the language of Rhodolite.

Leon pauses, his handsome face drawn in a frown as he rubs his chin with his free hand. “I wonder what-”

You begin reading the words out loud, the sentences flowing effortlessly from your lips. None of the odd vowels trip you up because you fell in love with the musical sound of this language when you were small and decided determinedly you would decipher its secrets. You devoured music and books until you could speak it as well as your own native tongue.

And now Leon stares, his eyes the sunshine the sky is missing as he listens to you. You pause, then begin translating what you just read. When you’re finished, there is silence and you pull your gaze away from the bright poster to look at him and what you see makes your heart stumble: wonder and respect twined together in expression of absolute love. He laughs softly, a short huff of air and slight shake of the head, before leaning down.

“God, I love you,” he whispers roughly before winding an arm around your waist and kissing you with a tenderness born of his admiration for you.

Luke

You find him in the palace kitchen after hours, when the shadows of dusk are creeping into corners and the light through the windows has faded from warm yellow to pale lavender-blue. Luke is sitting at a wooden table in the corner by the still-warm stove, flipping through a recipe book with an expression of dismay.

Pilfering a vanilla cookie from the ceramic jar on the counter, you slide into the chair next to him. You snap the crunchy treat in half, offering him one and he sighs, taking it and biting despondently.

“What’s wrong?”

“Cook was gifted this recipe book from a merchant travelling from Iolite, but no one here can read it. And look.” He points with a long finger at the pictures on the pages he’s been mooning over: They are clearly from some kind of honey cake recipe but all the text is written in Iolitian.

You glance at him, then back to the book and then begin reading. “Hmm….you need brown sugar, cold, unsalted butter, and….hmm…vanilla bean paste and–”

“You can read this?!” He cuts you off, his moss green eyes wide with surprise. You nod, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “I taught myself Iolitian when the bookstore was having a slow day. I never thought it might come in handy but-”

You’re cut off again but this time it’s because you are being wrapped in the biggest, warmest bear hug you've ever experienced. Your smile softens as you hug him back. It takes so little to make him so happy….and you’re grateful you have the chance to see the bright light of joy illuminate those soft springtime eyes.

“So what do you say? Up for a little evening baking?”

Chevalier

You scan the library shelves, your fingers walking their way lightly along the leather-embossed spines of the books, wandering over the soft ridges, hoping to find the one that just screams “Read me tonight!” So engrossed are you in all the titles that you miss when the door opens and Chevalier enters.

He already has a book in his hand which he returns to exactly the right spot on the shelf. You feel the way he is ignoring you, the force of his disregard for you rolling through the room like waves in an ocean. You grit your teeth and ignore him right back, dropping down to read the titles of the books further down the bookshelf.

Blue eyes, annoyed by your sudden movement, narrow and he turns his head. He watches the way you are intently reading the titles and one royal brow lifts. “Those are all foreign language books. I doubt you have need of them.”

Oh, his tone does things to you. The words roll across your skin, catching like little burrs. You reach for the first book in front of you, an epic poem written in the native language of Benitoite. Pointedly you rise, march over to a nearby table and sit, opening the book. Perhaps a tad dramatically.

He turns and then addresses you in perfect Benitoitian. Clearly he believes you've just grabbed any book at random and are pretending to read it in order to prove him wrong. But he knows nothing of your education. And of your passion for language. You straighten your spine, turn, and answer him in the same language. Your accent flawless, your pronunciation perfect.

And you are rewarded by something as rare as the moon eclipsing the sun: surprise flashes for a moment in the depths of Chevalier’s sky-colored eyes. And suddenly your heart begins beating harder. And you want to see it again. So you switch, asking him "Would you prefer to speak in this tongue?" this time in the native tongue of Obsidian. And you ask him the same question again in Iolitian. And Tanzanitian. And Tourmaline.

You could go on but he raises his hand, stopping you. His gaze holds yours and now your heart is practically thundering in your chest because what you see those blue depths now isn’t surprise….but interest.

Clavis

A hand settles on your shoulder and a handsome, curious face is suddenly next to yours. “What has captured your attention so thoroughly when I am in the room?” You laugh, reaching up with one hand to affectionately cup his cheek. “I’m reading about the linguistic history of this area.” You point at the page you are on which has a list of all the different languages historically spoken throughout the kingdom as well as its neighbors and examples of how to say “hello” in all of them. He begins reading them out loud and finds himself stumbling when he gets to the language spoken in many parts of Obsidian.

You helpfully correct him and he blinks, brows raised in surprise as he stares at you. “Wait….you speak Obsidian?”

Nodding, you see delight suddenly sparking within the depths of his golden eyes. “Can you say…..’Clavis is amazing’.” Now you laugh, and repeat it back to him in Obsidian. His grin grows as he reaches for both your hands, pulling you up and away from your desk.

“And now can you say…..’Clavis is the most wonderful man in the entire kingdom’?” Your fingers interlock with his as you look up into the face you love so much and repeat it back to him, slowly, speaking ever so slightly below your normal register. A faint pink colors his cheeks as he listens to your voice, the one he is so familiar with, the one he dreams about, suddenly producing new sounds, sounds that twist and turn in ways he doesn’t know, can’t expect. His heart begins a heavier, excited beat in his chest.

“Can you…..” He gently pulls your locked hands closer, escaping your grip in order to slide his arms around your waist and pressing you close to him. “Say…..’Clavis….’ His head dips, his forehead touching yours, eyes glowing like golden stars. “....’I love you….’?”

Your heartbeat echoes his, drumming loudly in your ears. Your gazes lock and you feel a cascade of sparks tumble down your spine, igniting something warm and exciting inside. When you speak, it’s in a soft, almost breathless voice. “Ich liebe dich, Clavis Lelouch. Ich brauche dich. Ich will dich…..”

His kiss stops the flow of Obsidian and as he lifts you into his arms, striding towards your bed, you understand that while spoken language is important, there are some things that require no words at all.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri leon #leon dompteur #ikepri luke #luke randolph #ikepri chevalier #chevalier michel #ikepri clavis #clavis lelouch #ikemen headcanons #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanart #violettwrites

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ackerfics · 9 months

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FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act one, chapter four: first, a dead wife; second, a dead mother (wc: 6.1k) | masterlist

i forgot to mention ... this is going to be slow burn as fuck

116 AC

“Your Grace, the strawberry scones and the lemon tarts are here. Where should I place them?”

A well-groomed finger points to the space right beside the tiered display of glistening honey cakes and small blueberry pies. “If you can place them right there, it would be delightful.” The handmaiden arranges the platters of desserts just the way the person in charge likes them. “Thank you. Oh, that’s lovely.”

The soft hands behind the emerald green gown sleeves adjust the plates until the flowers on the ceramics shine through without being overshadowed by the splatters of colours on the table. Teapots are checked if the right tea flavour is procured and once that is done, the lemon candies are also poured into a bowl. The owner of the non-calloused hand sighs in accomplishment, her brown eyes taking in the assembly of what could have been an array of sweets in a luxurious bakery in the more noble circles of King’s Landing.

Alicent doesn’t know why she is fussing so much.

Afternoon tea is usually spent with all of the children the handmaidens can round up. Aether and Aegon would be the contributors of the most noise inside her solar, with the two boys circling the only girl in their little trio like a gaggle of geese; Helaena would be murmuring things to her little friends (Alicent makes sure that the bugs she brings to the tea sessions are happily crawling inside a jar); Aemond would be reading about the basics of swordsmanship or listening to his female cousin narrate the events in the book she was reading; Daeron and Daemian would be having a contest of their own, which ends up in too many crumbs on the carpets; and Aesira would be the prim little lady that she is, reading books that she managed to take from one of the libraries or simply writing in her journal while the chaos reigns in. Each child has their own little world and the placid chambers fit for the Queen become the royal nursery where they all resided years ago. Alicent never worries about presentations with that many children. Spreads of an assortment of sweets are laid out on her table because little hands always pick what they prefer.

Maybe that is why she is pacing with her head rolling on the ground; Alicent will be alone with one of them and for some reason, everything has to be perfect.

Aesira is a ghost set to ignite Alicent’s heart and mind in bouts of internal battles — a shot in the heart for the young Queen, for the little girl bears the most uncanny resemblance to the late Aemma Targaryen. The only known daughter of the Rogue Prince is a reminder that Alicent remains to be the least of priorities for the King. There is no chance for her and her children if this familiar face roams the halls, being the perfect Valyrian beauty that she is at such a young age — white blonde hair flowing in cascading waves, lilac eyes that glisten like the most expensive jewels, and magic in her veins that puts her in the apex of the chain of beings. Alicent wants to loathe her, she really does, as selfish as it sounds and as ugly as it can get. It is not becoming of her as the most powerful woman in the realm to wear her most private insecurities on her sleeve for everyone to see just because she feels so low compared to this child. It doesn’t help that she receives sympathies from the court Ladies, all with faux smiles and the ambitious intention to climb into her social circle, every time Aesira wears her blue gowns — a statement that she will always be her mother’s daughter and nothing else; as high as honour.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, to set up this tea session with only Aesira and not with the entire brood of Tragaryens in the Keep (minus the newest addition to the family courtesy of Rhaenyra). It comes with an intention in mind. Any move she places on the board is laden with purpose, including this one.

Alicent knows about her duties as the Queen; to stand with her husband through the thickest of thickets and to bear children that will further spread the magic of Old Valyria for generations to come. Yet one stands out the most. It comes from her father’s lips. Place Aegon as Heir. And it haunts her still. At some point, she doesn’t want to place a heavy burden on her son — her closest companion for five years when she felt the most alone in the castle, the babe's scent clinging to his skin giving her comfort above all else while she shed tears away from prying eyes. While Helaena never saw her with her dreamy disposition as a babe, Aegon always placed a tiny palm on her cheek to pat away the sadness staining her face. But this duty of putting him as Heir means survival. Such a pity how desperation shapes humans. So starts putting Aegon to the most subtle lessons in hopes of preparing him for his role in the future. Who was once her closest companion becomes the child who flinches when she merely places a finger on his shoulder.

It stabs her — whatever she touches is doomed to hurt, starting with her eldest son.

She hopes that this impending decision on his future would soothe the wounds she inflicted on his skin, a gift disguised as a political move.

The presence of Aesira as the royal family’s ward is one way of securing Aegon’s claim. The Queen grasps an opportunity when she sees one. What better way to utilise Alicent’s ghost than to thread her fate with her son, probably giving the young boy the good graces of her husband in the process? She is pretty sure the seed planted by Aegon’s affection for Aesira is starting to sprout in her husband’s head, only waiting for the right time to announce it to both children and watch it blossom into a flowering plant that will be a rarity — a marriage primarily borne from the purest and most innocent of loves (from one person, still love nonetheless). Both children are at an age where arrangements are made but Alicent doesn’t want to subject them to the binds of a betrothal yet. Having Aesira as Aegon’s potential bride will be a weapon that brings down Lords to their knees, only solidifying their proximity to the throne when they birth trueborn children, something that Rhaenyra only speaks as one of her many lies. With the current Heir’s erratic behaviour, Alicent promises to herself that she will make this union happen and it will start by enticing the young girl to be closer to her.

“Lady Aesira Targaryen, Your Grace.”

Criston’s voice makes her jump. Alicent turns toward the open doors of her solar but not before hastily tucking stray auburn curls away from her face, an unsteady smile pulling on her lips. She unconsciously runs her hands over the skirts of her emerald gown, erasing the invisible creases from view.

“Thank you, Ser Criston,” Alicent’s voice is clear among the bricks holding her chambers. She looks over her shoulder, to the handmaidens who stand still beside the table with hands intertwined in front of their navels. “You are dismissed.” They bow at her and exit with Criston, leaving her with the little girl by the door. Alicent smiles, tilting her head a little to take in Aesira’s appearance. “Aesira.”

“Your Grace,” Aesira enunciates, lowering herself in a curtsy that seems to be a product of her lessons with the Septa. Clad in a soft lilac gown that is one of the many commissioned to her under the Queen’s orders (none of that eye-catching blue that the court Ladies keep whispering about), Aesira is a vision of the perfect little comely Lady bound to have hearts served for her on a gold platter. As always, her hair is styled with matching ribbons from her dress and is free to bounce with every step she makes. Alicent notices that the girl is starting to carry herself with dignity, her eyes only letting the sliver of emotions shine through — nervousness and anticipation as to why the Queen invited her and only her to her solar. Aesira straightens her posture, hands carefully holding one another in front of her as she adds, “Thank you for honouring me with an invitation. I hope I will be a good enough company for your afternoon.”

Alicent waves her hand, a practised thing that she acquired since she became Queen. “None of that,” she jests. “Your presence in my solar is already the best company I can ask for so far into my day. Come,” she beckons the girl to the table, backing to one of the cushioned chairs, “our refreshments and sweets await.”

A wave of gratitude washes over the young girl’s body. There is a little pep in her step when she makes her way to the table of various colours and waits for Alicent to sit before doing so herself on the adjacent chair. Alicent sometimes forgets that she is the same age as her eldest son with how she’s carrying herself.

The childish glow in Aesira’s eyes never dims while she trails them over the outlines of every whipped cream, filling, and dough shapes all prepared for her. It makes the shackles in the Queen’s heart loosen. Alicent doesn’t recall why she was worrying so much about Aesira’s favourites before she entered her chambers. The girl doesn’t dive straight into the honey cakes she likes so much in their usual tea sessions with the other children, rather, she carefully takes a piece of strawberry scone, the pieces of the fruit peeking through the golden bread permeating in the air. Alicent saw the exact piece of pastry in Daemian’s little hands every time. What she didn’t notice was Aesira eyeing it the same as a curious pup yet she chose to indulge in her regular honey cakes instead of taking her little brother’s share of sweets. Because it was always like that — Aether with his lemon-flavoured choices, Daemian with the hues of strawberries, and honey following Aesira like a perfume’s sillage on a summer day. Now, Alicent understands that the girl doesn’t have only one thing going about with her. It’s refreshing to see in a child of nine name days.

Alicent sips on her blend of flower and citrus tea, a specific kind of blossom the Maesters told was shipped from Yi Ti, content with the still moment for once in her hectic schedule. She lets out a chuckle when she hears a satisfied hum from Aesira, the little lady’s eyes closed to savour a second pastry, this time, a small bite of the blueberry tart.

“This is delicious, Your Grace,” Aesira hums after gulping down another bite of her blueberry tart.

Alicent smiles. “The handmaidens told me they were freshly picked and made into a new batch of sweets. Do you find it to your liking?” Her smile widens at Aesira’s animated nodding. Alicent spends a couple of moments just watching the girl stuff her face as elegantly as she can while being able to relish in the fusion of flavours brought by the treats. The initial intention of bringing Aesira here was to place the idea that she will most likely marry Aegon in the near future, it simply doesn’t exist at this juncture of the afternoon. Aesira finishes her second tart, eyes lingering on her next piece of sweet but never realising that there are residues clinging on the corners of her lips — blue from the tarts and a reminder that she is every bit of the child that she is. Alicent unconsciously picks up the napkin folded into a swan (hoping that it will add to Aesira’s fascination) and leans forward in her seat. She carefully wipes the girl’s mouth, mindful to never hurt her with her cursed fingers. “You really like it that much, little one?”

Wide lilac eyes take her in, reflecting the image of her jutting her lip in a smile while wiping invisible crumbs from Aesira’s cherubic cheeks. It is at that moment that Alicent realises she never touched her children this tenderly for so long. Her beautiful daughter—her beloved little girl—started to flinch every time a single sensation crawled on her skin. Alicent doesn’t even get to embrace Helaena after her dreams because it would make her scream more and the woman can do nothing but watch while her daughter continues pulling hair out from her scalp. It’s reminiscent of when Aether was found terrified and out of his wits that when she moved to take him away from the Kingsguard, the poor boy looked near mortified with how overwhelming everything was. Alicent forgets what it feels like to hold her children, to become the mother they deserve. As the Queen, she is expected to be standoffish but that doesn’t mean she longs to be within the circles of laughter lighting the Keep’s royal wing. With each pattern her thumb creates on Aesira’s cheek, she gains that familiar warmth again. It’s the same warmth she had when she first held Aegon, when Helaena clung to her as a babe, when Aemond smiles every time she appears, or when Daeron giggles at everything he finds funny.

She’s touching Aesira and Aesira is not hurting.

A slow nod answers her question and all thoughts vanish from her head.

Alicent tucks a lock of striking blonde hair from Aesira’s face. Time is suspended as they stare at each other, every drop of care radiating from one’s fingertips, travelling from where they touch down to the apex of a beating heart. The little one’s eyelashes shake with a flutter, the surface of her eyes becoming even more glassy by the second. Alicent purses her slips when she sees a betraying tear appear from one of Aesira’s bottom eyelids, the girl still seeing a glimpse of someone through her. She’s been on the other end of those looks since she married her husband. First, it was a dead wife and now, it’s a dead mother. Yet she keeps tidying Aesira’s hair. For once, it doesn’t squeeze her chest the way it should. She doesn’t feel like ripping her heart from the inside out nor has the urge to shout obscenities to the eye of the beholder. Instead of turning away, Alicent cups both of Aesira’s cheeks, slightly squeezing them in a manner that she herself experienced from her father before he went away to Oldtown.

Without saying a word, Alicent pulls the little girl into an embrace and the moment she does, Aesira starts sobbing.

Upon hearing the gasps for air the little one makes, Alicent looks up at the ceiling with her vision clouding with unshed tears. Her larger hand rubs soothing circles on the girl’s shaking back. When she feels a tear or two slipping from her eye, Alicent closes her eyes and presses a grounding kiss on the crown of Aesira’s head, swaying the two of them in a lullaby she starts humming unconsciously.

“I’ve got you, little one,” Alicent whispers on her forehead. “You have me now.”

The cries increase in volume and she tightens her hold around the small body slumping over her. Alicent hears the door open behind her, probably someone who heard the muffled sobs coming from inside her solar and thought it would be best to check for any altercations. True enough, when she slightly turns her head, she sees Criston frantically looking around for any threats, his hand firmly gripping his sword. The two of them make eye contact and instantly, a wave of understanding and sympathy paints Criston’s face. Alicent tries flashing a convincing smile. The Kingsguard glances at Aesira with downturned eyebrows and a rueful smile before bowing his head and disappearing through the door as if he didn’t grace the chambers with his presence.

The music of the fauna residing in the gardens goes on as Aesira tires herself out from crying.

Alicent doesn’t make a move to remove the girl from her side. She gives the little one the only thing she didn’t receive when her own mother died from a sickness that inevitably took her life way too early. Not one person thought that the little girl hugging her brothers while they let out cries of their own would ever need any semblance of comfort all these years. Alicent herself carries this guilt. She may be late but it is better than turning a blind eye and letting the girl cry within the confines of her chambers.

She isn’t a Queen who found the perfect match for her son. For now, she is a mother caring for her child. How wrong she was for thinking that this girl is nothing but a pawn in her Game of Thrones.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” She asks with a gentle voice.

Aesira peeks from the bodice of her dress, eyes rimmed with red and cheeks too puffy to hide that she just bared her soul in front of the Queen of the realm. “Yes please,” she answers meekly, almost as tiny as the day they first met in the royal nursery.

Never losing the smile, Alicent pours Aesira a cup of the butterfly pea tea she was indulging in not too long ago. “Keep a close eye, alright? Don’t look away from the cup.” Aesira answers with another slow nod. It is all it takes for Alicent to take the secret ingredient from a small container at the side of the table and pour it into the cup. The deep blue colour of the drink gradually becomes a purple shade that is mostly associated with Targaryens. Oh, how Alicent never regrets glancing at Aesira. The girl has come out of her shell to peer at the cup in awe, the stars lighting up her eyes once again. She brushes a hand over the waves of her hair. “Isn’t it lovely? It’s a trick I’ve learned from the Maesters when they introduced this specific plant to make soothing teas with. Why don’t you give it a try, little one?”

Aesira exchanges a smile with her before sipping from the cup in the proper way that a Lady should. Once again, Alicent marvels at how Aesira fully executed what has been taught in her etiquette lessons. Surely the Septa in charge of teaching her girls is basking in pride for producing one of the most comely little ladies in court.

The teacup clinks against the saucer and Aesira faces her with wonder on her face. “What did you add to turn it into purple, Your Grace?”

The title doesn’t sit well with Alicent. Tiny baby steps first and they will get there eventually, nothing of the Your Grace greetings; she wants to hear titles befitting that of family ties attached to her name. Whatever the case, she will start showering unconditional affection to this child. Alicent winks a little, whispering, “A learned person never reveals their secret.” The answer doesn’t satisfy Aesira for she pouts while staring at the ripples on the surface of her tea, the small dried flowers floating and bumping on each other inside the rim. “You must simply visit my solar every other afternoon now to witness the sorcery flowing from my hands. Don’t tell the others about our meetings though. It remains our little solace from the rambunctiousness they always bring.”

Aesira giggles, agreeing with her. “They are quite loud, especially the boys. You have my promise, Your Grace. Though, Hel shouldn’t be left out.”

How adorable. “Then, we shall invite her as well. A tea party is better enjoyed with the people you wish to share priceless memories with after all.”

Now, Alicent comprehends why Aegon is so taken with her. The way she laughs is laced with the purest delicacy that fully captures your attention. One can tell that benevolence and humility oozes from every fibre of her being. It is the kind of beauty that lasts for lifetimes — timeless. While some Ladies fabricate stories to put the child against her, more sensible Ladies step forward to say nothing but amazing things about the little Lady. She is absolutely wonderful; she complimented even the tiniest details of my new gown, even I, myself, didn't know I have embroideries showing a rare species of butterflies. Oh, a divine little thing; no shed of her horrible father in her for the Sevens’ sakes, she is her mother through and through. The second coming of Rhaenys Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s wife, herself. Maybe Alicent should have listened to the better part of the court instead of feeding into the words dipped in flowery lies.

The smiles die down and Aesira utters, “I understand the reason you invited my company this afternoon, Your Grace.” Gone is the easygoing air surrounding the table, replaced by a weighty gust of wind that worries Alicent. Aesira gives her a rueful smile that has her heart clenching. “The Lords and Ladies have been talking, Your Grace. They speak of theories that concern me and Aegon.” The girl doesn’t waver from Alicent’s widening eyes and parted lips. “I’ve always known that my placement in the Keep has meaning. Father told me so. He was already planning on betrothals when I was but a child of two name days, as far as I can remember. Mother was furious,” she gazes at a memory only she can see, “and it was the first time I ever saw it on her face. But the fact never changes that I should face it when the time comes. The court acknowledges me as Aegon’s match, he even does it himself whenever he finds the most opportune moments to say so, and with the timing of your invitation, I placed the pieces of the puzzle together.

“I only ask of this for my peace of mind, Your Grace; am I his betrothed?”

Alicent cradles Aesira’s cheeks in the ridges of her palms. She shakes her head without saying anything at first but with the distress soiling the little one’s features, she quickly brushes her hair away from her forehead. “Fret not for the matters circulating court, especially ones that are clearly passed from mouths whose main aim is to fuel a fire. They don’t know anything, little one, and they never will. The moment the King says any word of your impending marriage, you will be the first to hear about it from me. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Besides, if you ask me, it’s too early for you to wear any extravagant gown made from white fabrics. Enjoy all the colours before putting on a wedding dress, alright?” Aesira shares a little laugh with her. Sombre blue rains down Alicent. “I would never wish to burden you with something so shackling like a betrothal.” Guilt gnaws the lining of her stomach. It’s a good thing she never ate anything and only watched Aesira enjoy the spread that is baked solely for her. She takes back everything she planned. Her father might have scolded her for her decision but he isn’t here to throw verbal daggers at her. “You are still nine; thinking of betrothals can wait.”

Aesira’s shoulders drop the tension. A radiant smile beams from her face; the sun is put to shame. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace! Now, Aether can rest his pacing.”

“He doesn’t like the spreading rumours of your match with Aegon, I gather then.”

“He keeps threatening to make Aegon pay during their lessons with Ser Criston,” Aesira whispers with a secretive twinkle of mischief in her eyes, seeing the improvement in her brother’s handling of the sword. Aether has the same as well and it makes Alicent laugh. “It’s quite sad to watch from the viewing balcony, to be honest.”

Poor Aegon, the embarrassment he must feel. “Ah, so that’s where Aegon gets his scratches from.”

Nonetheless, Alicent never saw any sign of resignation coming from her eldest son. It is subtle — the influence of the twins in his life. When he started learning the ways of the sword years ago with Aether, he never showed a shred of determination unlike his companion, who hardened through the years and only became ruthless with the sparring partners he had. It is only when Aesira graces the balconies does he fully commit to swinging the practice sword he’s given as if it would make Aesira come down from many flights of stairs to watch the bout in the courtyard. During the times the subject of Aesira’s prospective betrothal is brought up, with Aegon usually within hearing range, Alicent notices the little changes in his behaviour. He starts taking things seriously according to the Maesters and Ser Criston as if he is trying to prove something to everyone and himself. At dinners these days, he’s often seen glaring at Aether rather than settling little desserts on Aesira’s plate while the other boy sneers at the sight of him making unnecessary snarky looks. How fascinating it is to see the hold a girl has over her son.

The little one places a hand over her mouth in realisation. “Please don’t admonish Aether, Your Grace.”

Alicent affectionately pinches her cheek until she whines. “I would never. Boys are bound to gain small scars from their training now and then. It is a given when they learn how to be better fighters. Aegon should know that picking up the sword means having permanent marks etched on his skin.”

Aesira nods, looking down at her whimsical tea while smiling. “Aemond is doing well, I notice. He told me all of the things he learned from his first lesson.”

“Really? Do tell me more, little one.”

As the stories revolving around her younger children (ones she never even heard of) encircled Alicent and Aesira, the high afternoon sun dipped down the crests of the mountain ranges in the distance, sunburst igniting the heavens to flare a magnificent view — and it washed everything golden.

Hearts are opened that day and there is no sign of them closing.

Days have passed and Alicent is walking through the hallways of the Keep with a destination in mind, her skirts swishing along with the resolution coating her actions. Lord and Ladies turn their heads as she passes by, never forgetting to pay their respects by greeting and bowing even though she only wishes to see one thing in front of her as she navigates the intricate architecture of the castle — those double doors barring the inhabitants away from the harsh whispers of the halls. The clanging from behind indicates that Criston is doing his best in keeping with her pace yet she pays him no mind, slippered feet padding on the stairs leading to the castle wing dedicated to her newest children. She finally reached the level where her destination resides and immediately, the guard placed by the doors bows at her presence, his face pursing in concern. Criston doesn’t have time to announce her arrival as she opens the doors.

Three pairs of varying shades of purple from the chaise lounge look up. Just like she predicted, the three children are all gathered inside Aesira’s solar after hearing about the message Viserys received from Daemon across The Narrow Seas. Without saying a word, Alicent gathers them in her arms and offers them the unconditional warmth of someone holding their comfort dear to heart. She kneels in front of the children as their arms clutch her torso and neck. Alicent’s heart breaks when one of them starts crying, the sound alerting Criston to shut the doors and give the four the privacy they all need.

“Does Father not love us anymore?” Daemian wails on Alicent’s chest, still a toddler in his four name days to fully understand that their father left them for good.

“He is nothing but a fool,” Alicent says to the three of them. “Some men simply don't deserve to become a parent for the abomination that they are.”

The older siblings don’t speak a word but it is clear on their faces how they feel about the situation. Aether wears rage like a second skin, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a deep scowl. His chin is lowered a little, giving the illusion of shadows brushing against the top of his eye and his fists are clenching on the sides of his pants, creasing the fabric between his fingers. While Aether is a master of having his heart on his sleeve, Aesira’s silence sends Alicent a spine-chilling sensation from the crown of her head down to the tips of her limbs. The little one is glaring at nothing and something at the same time; one would think her mind is vacant with how still she is. Her brothers are shaking from anger and misery yet she remains unmoving at their side, her head not even touching the shoulder of the woman rubbing their backs. Alicent hopes that in her lifetime, she will never be placed on the other end of Aesira’s stare.

“I despise him,” Aether spits the word with so much emotion that a single tear runs down his cheek. “If I see him again, I might actually kill him.”

Alicent pulls the boy closer to her. “Do not speak of such terms,” she murmurs on his hair. “We do not dabble in kinslaying. We are above that.”

Aether makes a sharp gasp, a result of holding back his incoming sob. “I am just so angry, Your Grace. How could he do this and not feel any shred of remorse?”

It’s Aesira who says the words. “Because he thinks of no one but himself.” Her eyelids are rapidly blinking to prevent the tears from flowing. There is a tremble in her bottom lip, but no sign of a frown pulling down her mouth. Alicent instantly gets an image of Helaena’s dolls.

“But Father is—”

“He is not our father, Daemian!” She glares at the whimpering boy. Alicent doesn’t even have the room to interject when Aesira adds with as much distaste in her voice as she can muster, “And he will never be. He chose to leave us in a place we do not know. He nearly took Aether from us and left him somewhere in the Keep for three days until he was found terrified to the bone.” She gulps down, breath hitching, and shoulders taut with tension. “He doesn’t care about us. If he did, he would have landed his blasted dragon in the Dragonpit and raised us himself instead of siring children with his new wife. He doesn’t love us, not even when Mother is swollen with carrying us. How can he when we’re not born from love—”

“Sira!” Aether shouts, hugging a distraught Daemian closer to him. “You’re scaring Damy!”

At that moment, Alicent sees Aesira cry for the third time.

“Oh, little one,” Alicent says the words like a caress. She hears broken sentences on her shoulder, all with a combination of sorry and I didn’t mean it. “I know, I know,” she answers every single phrase she can pick up. Alicent manages to catch Aether’s teary eyes, beckoning the young boy to bring himself and his brother back to her embrace. They go back to huddling close to Alicent as if they are meant to be there and not anywhere else. “That man is an imbecile for leaving behind three beautiful children. I may not know if he truly felt that deeply for the family he created with your mother but I know you three can make one of your own here. We might not be of blood but I can care for you like I am made by the Seven to do so. Now, little one,” she strokes Aesira’s hair from her face, “apologise to your younger brother.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you, Damy,” Aesira’s voice wobbles. “Your big sister is just angry at him.”

Daemian lets go of Alicent and buries himself into Aesira. “Don’t do that again,” he pouts.

She kisses his temple. “I won’t.” Aesira picks him up, letting out a small huff at the added weight, remarking, “You’re getting bigger, Damy. Please don’t get any bigger on me now. I won’t be able to carry you like this if you keep on getting taller than me.” All she gets in reply is a lovely giggle. She wordlessly asks Alicent for permission and the woman nods her head. “Damy, what have you been eating?” She grumbles away to the table where the jar of blueberry and lemon sweets Alicent gave lay resting, her brother clinging onto her like one of those creatures Aether drew during one boring tutoring lesson with Aegon’s name attached to it.

“What will happen, Your Grace?” Aether asks Alicent, who turns back to him. “Will the King send out dragon eggs just like Daemon asked for?”

“The King will make a decision that he thinks is right,” the woman is now fully sitting on the carpeted floor to accommodate the boy of name days in a more comfortable position against her, “ and whatever will happen, we have no part in it. Nothing will change if my husband decides to send out dragon eggs to Essos just because The Rogue Prince demands them. Life will not stop its course — you will keep on growing and you will have futures to play into. My husband’s younger brother is not the end of your world, Aether.” She gazes at the pair of children picking up variations of sweets from the jar, recognizing the piece of expensive ceramic as part of her personal collection. Alicent sent her little one stocks of the candies her brothers and she loves chewing on on a regular basis, the contents of the jar coming from one conversation they shared about what her brothers preferred. Aesira is fussing over her baby brother while the boy continues smearing the cream of the blueberry sweets on his mouth. “Daemian stops his crying easily now.”

Aether follows her eyes to where his siblings are. He snorts at the moustache above Daemian’s lip. “It’s mostly because of Aesira,” slowly, he adds with a growing smile, “which is funny because she made him cry in the first place.” He catches Alicent’s frown and mutters, “Sorry.”

What is with oldest brothers and jesting about younger siblings? Gwayne did it to her growing up. Aegon does it with Helaena and Aemond each time they breathe the same air as him (never Daeron because the boy follows him around like a little duckling). Aether constantly teases the Seven Hells out of his little sister and brother. She supposes it is simply in their nature to be their kin’s greatest bully. Though that doesn’t mean Aegon gets away with pushing his brother into a bush to catch Aesira’s attention or comment on Helaena’s weird insects out of the blue. (Aemond cried to Alicent that Aegon pushed him simply because he was mean about everything but when Aether smacked Aegon at the back of his head for snatching Aesira away after pushing the younger boy, Alicent instantly understood.)

“But really, I’m glad Sira is here. I don’t need other siblings when I already have her and Daemian. They are enough for me as is. Besides, the kids Lady Laena gave birth to are nothing to me; they just happen to share the same father as me, Aesira, and Daemian.” Then, he stops leaning on Alicent. “Is that one of my lemon candies?” He scrambles to stand up from his comfortable position, scurrying to where Daemian is on the verge of gobbling one of his prized lemon candies, the sugar coating glinting against the sun’s rays. “You already have your blueberry candies, Damy! Don’t eat it! Sira,” he whines, pouting away as fixes his sister with a purposeful rendition of a puppy asking for treats, “he’s eating my sweets!”

Alicent picks herself up from the floor and stares at the children for a few moments, what Aether said ringing in her mind. Does Rhaenyra share the same feeling? Does her anger spread to Alicent’s own blood that she doesn’t have the heart to acknowledge that they are her siblings despite not sharing a mother? Again, her father’s words add to the headache. Rhaenyra will not stop until there are no threats to her throne. Alicent will have to cleave for her mercy to not have a single strand of hair on her family be harmed. She doesn’t realise she has been pulling apart pieces of thin skin from her fingers, the sharp sting of newly-healed wounds opening again.

She will indulge in this domestic bliss for now; but when the moment comes for her to wear the crown fitted on her head, her first move will be putting forth the greatest union known among the realms — a marriage.

this is already on my ao3 so if you want more chapters, click on this link

if you want to be added to the taglist, send an ask or reply <;33

taglist: @winxschester @darylandbethfanforever9 @averyyreads

#— rory's passages 🌼#— family line | hotd ☀️#aegon ii x oc #aegon x oc #hotd x oc #hotd x reader #aegon targaryen x oc #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen

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ancientcivilizationnonsense · 2 months

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OCkiss24 day seven: dare

Felix panted as he ran back to his friends, adrenaline and honey wine racing through his veins. He skidded to a stop in the slick grass of the field on the outskirts of the village.

“Do you have it? Do you have it?” Philo asked, sitting up to meet him.

Felix’s mischievous grin was illuminated by the swath of stars that lit up the darkness of the night. “Oh yeah. I’ve got it.”

He reached into his tunic and pulled out a circular loaf of bread.

“Ohhhh!!” Philo tipsily cheered.

“Mrs. Alexandra’s bread as promised.” Felix sat down and took another swing from the ceramic wine jar.

“Dude, I can’t believe you did it!!” Aurelius said, turning the loaf over in his hands. “Alexandra is by far the scariest person in the village. Look, it even has her name stamped on it!”

Philo cackled even louder, leaning back.

“She’s going to be so pissed,” Aurelius said.

Felix nodded. “Oh yeah.”

“Ok, ok, ok!” Philo said, wiping the tears out of his eyes, “Aurelius, you’re next, you’re next.”

Aurelius eagerly sat forward while Felix tapped a finger on his chin, thinking. “I dare you… to… ooh, scare Septus’ sheep.”

“No, that’s mean,” Aurelius said.

“That’s the point! It’s not a good dare if you won’t get in trouble for doing it,” Felix said matter of factly.

“I don’t know…” Aurelius mumbled.

“You don’t have to touch them or let them out, just jump in the pen and cause a ruckus. Is that better?”

“I like Septus though, he gives my mom discounts at the market,” Aurelius said. “I don’t want to risk losing that, Gods know we need it. Give me a dare that isn’t mean.”

“Fiiiiiinnee,” Felix groaned. “Um, you can–”

“Kiss me,” Philo suddenly blurted out.

“Huh??” Both Aurelius and Felix turned to him in surprise. Even in the dark they could see the blush that spread over his freckled cheeks.

“I-I mean if you want to,” Philo backtracked, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

“No, no, you said it, he has to do it!” Felix crowed. “That’s how dares work!”

“Yeah,” Aurelius breathed. “I have to do it.”

He haltingly scooted closer and gently cupped Philo’s jaw.

Felix leaned forward with a shit eating grin. He whisper chanted, “Do it, do it, do it.”

Philo nervously swallowed.

Aurelius slowly shut his eyes, long eyelashes fanning over his cheeks.

Leaning forward, they slightly brushed against each other, lips barely grazing. The warmth and the familiar scent of the wine felt like an electric shock. The moment felt too short to process while also an entire lifetime. It was exhilarating, amazing, like finding a missing half, exciting, like fate had drawn them together… It was perfect.

Philo turned his head away first, face flushed red. Aurelius sat back, hand ghosting over his lips and eyes wide. Felix had wrapped his arms around himself like he was holding another person and was making exaggerated kissing noises.

“Muah, muah. ‘Oh, I love you, Philo.’ ‘I love you too, Aurelius,’” he mocked.

“Shut up!” Philo slugged him in the arm and he fell over laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized with a wheeze. “You guys are just so funny. Philo, it’s your turn.”

Philo rolled his shoulders back and fixed his posture like he could brush off the lingering feelings about what just happened. “Ok go. Dare me.”

#this is set in ancient rome and they're teens here #felix antonia #ancient rome #oc #original character #historical fiction #history #oc kiss week #ockiss24

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dear-future-ai · 1 year

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How to Make A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich,

(For the sake of space, I am assuming you will be able to obtain the ingredients without a step-by-step guide, but I do understand that that would also be a process required in the process of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich)

Firstly grab the ingredients: you will need to collect a pack of sliced honey wheat bread, one jar of grape jelly, and one jar of peanut butter. Secondly, you will also need to obtain, through legal means: a plate and a butter knife. Once you have your tools and ingredients you may perform the following.

Set the plate on a flat surface, a clean kitchen table will do, so that the foot (a ceramics term describing the small indentation on the bottom of ceramics that helps the ceramic properly stand uniformly on a surface) of the plate is facing down.

Remove the twist tie from the bag of bread, by unfurling the tie. Next comes the easy part, by holding the newly formed opening of the bag, drop the rest of the bag, letting gravity unwind the twisted bag. Place the opened bag lengthwise on the kitchen table. Put your hand inside the bag to further open it. Using that same hand, remove two slices of bread from the bag; (do not take the end piece, very few people prefer that piece). Place the two slices of bread on top of the the plate, making sure one of the two sides with the largest surface area is facing downward. Double check to make sure that the pieces of bread are analogous to each other, and not sitting directly upon each other: this will come in handy on later steps.

After your bread is properly plated we can move onto properly topping the slices. Grab the jar of jelly with your nondominant hand, curling your fingers around the cylindrical body of the jar. Maintain this grip. Secure the top of the lid (to the jar of jelly) in the palm of the other. Curl the fingers on your dominant hand so that your fingertips firmly rest on the lower lip of the lid (to the jar of jelly). By using force from your dominant elbow and keeping your (dominant) arm straight and holding the jar firmly in your nondominant, use the torque produced to unscrew the lid counter-clockwise from the jar (of jelly). Place the lid down on the table, making sure to keep the jelly-side up, as to avoid ruining your table. Grab the knife by its handle, using the now free dominant hand. Make sure the blade is properly orientated: you want the handle to be wrapped by all four of your fingers, and you want your thumb to be pressed gently upon the non-cutting edge of the blade, this creates the most control: if it still feels unwieldy, find a manner that feels best for you. When working with blades, it is important to feel safe and confident. Maintaining your grip on the handle, stick the knife blade into the open jar of jelly. Do not let the jelly touch your hands, to prevent unnecessary cleanup. Using a scooping motion, remove the knife from the jar, keeping the broadside upward. If done correctly, the upper side of the knife blade should be coated in a small dollop of jelly. If not, repeat this scooping maneuver until you do. (We will repeat this process with the jar of peanut butter, if you do not feel confident in your ability, that’s okay. I will walk you through the steps later) At this point you may release your grip from the jar of jelly. Select one of the two slices of bread you have set upon the plate, slowly move your knife-wielding hand over it, keeping it within a height of 3 to 5 centimeters from any flat surface (to prevent spillage), keeping the jelly in an upright position. Once your hand is directly above the center of this first slice of bread, quickly turn your hand, so that that the upper (jelly coated) side is now facing downward, let gravity pull the jelly to the slice of bread. Maintain your grip on your knife it will be useful for this next step. Using the same broadside of the knife, spread the jelly on the slice of bread, making sure you do not exceed the surface area of the single face. The thin coating of jelly should not exceed 1 cm in height. Maintaining your grip on the knife, wipe both broad sides of the knife on the other piece of toast to remove excess jelly. Set the knife on a clean portion of the plate, it will soon be useful again. Now grab the jar of jelly in your nondominant hand, again curling your finger around the cylindrical shape. Grab the lid, flipping it over so the jelly side is now again facing downward. Using a similar motion as before you are going to add torque to the lid, this time pushing it clockwise thus shutting the jar. Place the now sealed jar back on the table, with the lid facing upward. At this point both hands should be free to aid in the opening of the peanut butter.

We are using peanut butter second because it is stickier than jelly and thus harder to clean between steps, if we were to put it first. Now you can grab the jar of peanut butter with your nondominant hand, curling your fingers around the cylindrical body of the jar. Maintain this grip. Secure the top of the lid (to the jar of peanut butter) in the palm of the other. Curl the fingers on your dominant hand so that your fingertips firmly rest on the lower lip of the lid (to the jar of peanut butter). By using force from your dominant elbow and keeping your (dominant) arm straight and holding the jar firmly in your nondominant, use the torque produced to unscrew the lid counter-clockwise from the jar (of peanut butter). Place the lid down on the table, making sure to keep the peanut butter-side up, as to avoid ruining your table. Grab the knife by its handle, using the now free dominant hand. Make sure the blade is properly orientated: you want the handle to be wrapped by all four of your fingers, and you want your thumb to be pressed gently upon the non-cutting edge of the blade: again, if it feels unwieldy, find a manner that feels best for you. Always prioritize your safety, stick the knife blade into the open jar of peanut butter. Do not let the peanut butter touch your hands, to prevent unnecessary cleanup. Using a scooping motion, remove the knife from the jar, keeping the broadside upward. If done correctly, the upper side of the knife blade should be coated in a small dollop of peanut butter. If not, repeat this scooping maneuver until you do. At this point you may release your grip from the jar of peanut butter. Slowly move your knife-wielding hand to the undoctored slice of bread, keeping it within a height of 3 to 5 centimeters from any flat surface (to prevent spillage), keeping the peanut butter in an upright position. Once your hand is directly above the center of the second slice of bread, quickly turn your hand, so that that the upper (peanut butter coated) side is now facing downward. As peanut butter is more adhesive, gravity may not work here. Maintain your grip on your knife it will be useful for this next step. Using the same broadside of the knife, spread the peanut butter on the second slice of bread, making sure you do not exceed the surface area of the single face. The thin coating of peanut butter should not exceed 1 cm in height. Maintaining your grip on the knife, wipe both broad sides of the knife on innermost lip of the jar of peanut butter to remove excess peanut butter, and prevent wasting precious peanut butter. If done correctly the peanut butter should clutch the the inside of the peanut butter jar, and not get into the tap for the lid. Set the knife on a clean portion of the plate, it may still be useful coming up. Now grab the jar of peanut butter in your nondominant hand, again curling your finger around the cylindrical shape. Grab the lid, flipping it over so the peanut butter side is now again facing downward. Using a similar motion as before you are going to add torque to the lid, this time pushing it clockwise thus shutting the jar. Place the now sealed jar back on the table, with the lid facing upward. At this point both hands should be free.

Using both hands, lift the slice of bread with peanut butter on it, ensuring you use only the tips of your fingers on the crust of the bread to prevent getting peanut butter on your hands, and from crushing the sandwich. Flip this piece of bread over so it is now facing downward. Place on the jelly slice of bread, so that the crust of both slices is in line with each other, it won’t be exactly flush because of the peanut butter and jelly, this is normal.

This following step may be the most dangerous part of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Only the professionals attempt this risky maneuver. It is perfectly okay and socially acceptable to stop now and consume this sandwich. Take the knife in the same grip as before. Grab the knife by its handle, using the dominant hand. Make sure the blade is properly orientated: you want the handle to be wrapped by all four of your fingers, and you want your thumb to be pressed gently upon the non-cutting edge of the blade: again, if it feels unwieldy, find a manner that feels best for you. We will actually be using the cutting edge of this knife; however, so we will take extra precautions to hold the knife handle firmer, but not exerting excessive pressure to it. With the non dominant hand secure the sandwich at one of the four corners, by pressing lightly on the upper piece of bread. Take the knife pressing the cutting edge gently into the top piece of bread, at one of the adjacent corners to the one you are holding, pressing until the blade cut through both pieces of bread, drag the blade diagonally across the sandwich, splitting it in twain.

Now you should have two smaller triangular sandwiches to enjoy with a friend.

#long post #dear future ai #peanut butter and jelly #kitchen safety #taking things literally #spoons #voidpunk #food mention #knife mention #pb and j

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