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marblemoovt · 7 months

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Fever - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Fluff, A sprinkle of angst, Dad!Price

Summary:

John pounds on your door at an ungodly hour in the morning. You've never seen him so distraught.

------

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s holding it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine, and you can feel your fingertips prickle with numbness. Your eyes widen, and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.

Note:

Hello! It's been a while since my last Price fic. If I'm honest I'm sorely tempted to keep writing this universe as a series of oneshots (because I'm terrible at commitment). So expect to see more Rose and Price at some point. I've already come up with a series title lmao..

I have a few dividers I want to try out and see which one I like best. So far I like this one better than the previous one.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

Bam. Bam. Bam

You bolt upright in bed, squinting around your room until you locate the alarm clock on your bedside table. You glance out the window and notice the sky is still dark, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Not even a sliver of pink or orange to creep over the horizon. Hm. Definitely not your alarm.

BamBamBam.

The noise grows louder, and the pause between hits becomes nonexistent. Your brain refuses to process the source as you sweep your eyes across your room. The early haze that fogs over your mind when you wake up clouds your ability to think.

Until you hear John shout your name.

Snatching a coat hanging off a chair, you fly out of the room. The floorboards squeak beneath your weight as you weave between your furniture. Sliding to a stop in front of the door, your fingers fumble with the lock before you wretch it open.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.

A small groan comes from the blankets. “Daddy, you’re squishing me.”

Your shoulders sag as the tension leaves your body. The weight resting on your lungs eases. You glance up at the ceiling and say a silent prayer of thanks before beckoning the pair inside.

Heading to the kitchen, you prepare some tea to keep yourself busy. No caffeine, though. You were anxious enough as is; you didn’t need to worry faster. Fishing out the chamomile from your cupboards with three cups and saucers, you turn the kettle on to boil. While the tea steeps, you take out the honey and add a drizzle to each cup.

“Daddy, I’m cold.” Rose’s voice breaks the still silence. You run through a mental list of all the possible things that could be wrong. It can’t be life-threatening if John knocked on your door instead of taking her to the hospital. But you can’t help but think of the worst possible scenarios. The kettle whistles, pulling you out of your thoughts. You’ll ask after you bring the tea.

A quick glance reveals that John is still cradling her in his arms. The lighting unveils the redness of his eyes and the thin, tight line of his lips. “I know, my little flower. We’ll fix you up, and you’ll be as right as rain,” he says, stroking her head.

You walk over and set the drinks on the table. “Tea? It’s chamomile,” you say, sipping from your cup. The warm liquid soothes your nerves, pooling comforting heat in your stomach. John’s lips quirk up, but they fall just as quickly. He makes no move for the tea. Your cup rattles on the saucer as you place it down. “John, you look like shit,” you state. No response other than a slight flinch. You sit down beside him and hold out your arms. “Drink, you’ll feel better. I can hold Rose for you.”

John studies your face. His eyes are staring past you. It makes you wonder what he’s seeing to make that solemn expression. The movement of you tilting your head brings him back to the present. His gaze flickers between you and Rose. “Ok,” he whispers, carefully placing her in your waiting arms.

“Hi, Rosy,” you greet her, checking to see if John is drinking his tea. His shoulders aren’t as tense as he sips the drink, but his knee begins to bounce.

Rose cracks an eye open and smiles widely at you. “Hullo,” she rasps.

You observe her flushed complexion and the hair clinging to her face. “How are you doing, little one?” you ask.

She licks her chapped lips and says, “M’ sick.”

“That sounds like no fun,” you say, exaggerating the frown on your face.

Rose smiles wide and shakes her head slowly. “But Daddy says I don’t have to go to school.” Her eyes glitter at the prospect of staying home, a fantasy most children have at least once during their school years. You can imagine the chaos she could cause if she wasn’t so sick.

You mirror her grin and brush her damp hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “That’s true. You get to stay home and sleep in,” you say, and her smile nearly blinds you.

“And watch cartoons!” she adds. Ah, the quintessential stay-at-home activity for the sick. She starts squirming in your arms. “I get to watch all the shows I miss because of school.” Her lips curl into a feline-like smile, reminiscent of a cat that stole a big, juicy fish.

You laugh and nod. “That sounds amazing!”

Rose giggles, “That’s because it is!!” If she wasn’t sick, you would be squeezing her in a bear hug.

You press the back of your hand against her forehead. It’s warm. “Did your dad take your temperature?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and says, “He put a stick in my mouth and told me to hold it there.” She mimics the motion of placing a thermometer in between her lips and closing them. Your cheeks start to hurt; how can such a tiny being be so precious? She must get it from her father.

You eye the cabinet in the kitchen where you keep all your medical supplies. “Can I check again?” You trust John, but you just want to make sure.

“Why?” she asks.

“To see how warm you are,” you answer, booping her nose, which scrunches up in response.

Rose looks at you with her big blue eyes. “Why?” she asks again. You’re glad to see the fever hasn’t affected her curiosity.

You smooth down her hair, doing your best to flatten the stray cowlicks. “Because it’s dangerous if you’re too hot. You would need to go to the hospital,” you say.

Rose furrows her brows and utters an “Oh.”

You rise from your seat and head for the kitchen. “Are you comfortable?” you ask. To free up your hands, you shifted her upright, and she’s now clinging to you like a koala.

“Mm,” she mumbles a confirmation into the crook of your neck. You grab the thermometer and turn it on to see if the batteries are still working. On your way back, you fill up a mug of water to keep Rose hydrated. Once seated back on the couch, you bring the thermometer to her mouth, and she lets you take her temperature without a fuss.

You wait a few minutes until the device beeps to signal it’s finished. “38.8. Not a low fever, but you should be fine with some rest,” you say. Next, you take the mug and hand it to Rose. “Can you drink this water for me?” She drinks every last drop, smacking her dry lips together. “Wonderful! For being such a good patient, the doctor has decided to give you a little treat.” Fishing around your pocket, you pull out her reward.

Rose stares in awe at the shiny wrapper in your hand. She gently plucks it up and marvels at the strawberries dotting the colourful material. She glances at her dad, but you bring a finger to your lips when she looks back at you. Rose smiles and nods her head, clutching the candy in her fist.

“I’m sleepy,” Rose announces. You look at John and notice that he’s sunk back into the couch, staring into his empty cup.

“There’s a bed in the guest room. I can put on some cartoons for you to fall asleep to,” you suggest.

She nods her head. “Ok.”

On your way to the guest room, you fill another glass of water to leave on the bedside table. You lay down Rose on the bed, rummaging in the closet for a thin blanket. As you tuck her in, you feel her forehead with your hand. “Do you feel uncomfortable? Do you want to take any medication?” you ask, making a note to grab a damp cloth before you leave.

“You’re like Daddy. Especially when he looks like this.” Rose brings a finger up to each eyebrow and pushes them down, grimacing in a familiar fashion. She bursts into a fit of giggles, and you join in, unable to resist her charming antics. “Daddy already gave me some medicine. It tasted like bubblegum,” she remarks, sticking her tongue out as the rest of her face scrunches up.

Amusement twists your lips into a smile. “You don’t like bubblegum?” you ask.

Rose shakes her head. “Bubblegum should not be medicine,” she says with a grave tone; it’s the most serious you’ve seen her since she arrived. You head to the adjoining bathroom and run a clean cloth under room temperature water. Wringing the excess moisture, you return to her side and wipe her sweaty skin.

Rose’s eyelids droop; you take this as your cue to leave. “Alright. Your dad and I will be in the living room or in the room across if you need us.” She nods, and you go to turn on the TV, switching to a channel she likes and lowering the volume and brightness.

You tiptoe out of the room, closing the door slowly but leaving a small gap in case she calls out for anyone. When you return to the living room, John is still in the same position. Except now he’s wringing his hands as his cup sits abandoned on the table.

“John?” you call out his name softly, not wanting to startle him. He doesn’t look up at you, and you wonder if he even heard anything. You remain at a distance, observing every flex of his muscles as he fidgets.

“Is she asleep?” he asks in a whisper. His eyes dart to your figure before landing on his lap again. You walk up and gingerly take a seat beside him. John shifts some of his weight onto you, head resting against yours. You can feel the exhaustion emanating from him in waves. He looks like he could fall asleep any minute himself.

“Nearly. Rose could barely keep her eyes open when I laid her on the bed,” you say. Warmth envelopes your waist as John snakes an arm around you, pressing you closer to his side.

He kisses the side of your temple, murmuring into your hair, “I’m sorry for troubling you like this. I just… didn’t know what to do.” It’s not often you hear his words catch in his throat. You frown at the wobble in his tone and run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp in the way you know always has him purring. He hums appreciatively and leans into your touch, eyes closed in momentary bliss.

“You’re not troubling me at all. Is this the first time she’s gotten this sick?” you ask.

John mulls over your question, his brows furrowed with thought. “First time while I wasn’t deployed,” he answers. John sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “I’m a terrible father,” and his chuckle leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pick up the untouched third tea and use it to warm your hands. “What makes you think that?” you ask, fingertips tapping against the ceramic sides of the cup.

His answer is almost immediate, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Because I panicked.” As if that single sentence encompassed everything he did wrong tonight.

You frown and set the cup back down, not wanting to break it in a fit of emotions. There’s a strange disconnect between John’s confidence at work and at home. “So? Does being a good father mean knowing everything about parenting? Because in that case, there’s not a single good father in the world,” you say. But your attempts at comfort only cause him to sigh. “Panicking doesn’t always equal death.”

“You know what I mean,” he says.

You shake your head. “No. No, I don’t, John. I can’t read minds. What I can tell, though, is that you did your best to handle the situation.” If only you could extract your memories and play them for him to watch. Then maybe he would finally see what a good father he really is.

“It wasn’t enough,” he deflects.

You place a hand on his shoulder and say, “Yes, it was. Rose is sleeping peacefully down the hall. She’s fine.” You emphasize ‘fine,’ but John shakes his head. Doubt swims in his eyes, churning the blue depths into sheets of glistening glass.

“What about the next time something like this happens?” he counters. You can feel the damped vibrations through the sofa cushions, and you place a hand on John’s knee.

“Then you use what you learned from the previous times and do better,” you reply in an even tone. The two of you stare in silence. You refuse to look away. John wavers underneath your gaze. His lips remain in a thin line, stretched taut like a rubber band. And what eventually happens when you put too much strain on a rubber band?

It snaps.

“Can you hold me?” he whispers, and your heart clenches. You want nothing more than to pick up and carry him to your bed for some well-needed cuddles. But John’s a big man. You’re not sure you could do any of that without struggling.

You shuffle onto his lap and open your arms wide. “Come here.”

John buries himself in your embrace, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “Thank you,” he mumbles. His beard grazes your skin, and a giggle bubbles from your throat. The sound causes John to tighten his arms around you. Is this what stress balls feel like when they’re about to explode?

“No problem. I’ll hold you for as long as you want me to,” you say, patting his back. It’s faint, but the scent of his cologne wafts in the air. Notes of bourbon and the smoke from his favourite cigar brand. You breathe it in, wishing you could bottle it up to use when he’s away.

He chuckles, and the resulting vibrations raise the goosebumps on your arms. “I’m afraid you’ll have to surgically remove me from yourself,” he says, burrowing into you.

“Well, that doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world,” you wheeze, rubbing the burning tips of his ears between your forefinger and thumb.

His voice is small, but it reaches your ears in the serene evening. “You still want to stay?” he asks.

Your lips twist into an amused smile. “Did I ever say I wouldn’t?” You brush your fingers through his hair, fiddling with the grey streaks you find.

“I’m a mess,” he says.

You nod. “Yeah, a hot one.”

“Darling….” he drawls.

“Yes, John?” you say, batting your eyelashes, looking like the epitome of innocence. A sudden attack is launched on your vulnerable sides. “Hey!” you screech as John digs his fingers mercilessly into your waist. You attempt to squirm out of his grasp. If you don’t get away in time, your fight instincts might take over from your flight, and John will learn the hard way not to tickle you.

Although you doubt his reflexes will allow anything to happen. The cheeky bastard’s nearly impossible to catch by surprise since he reacts instantly to any objects hurtling towards him.

“I like hearing you laugh,” John admits, the lines on his face relaxing. The warmth in his eyes stirs that familiar fluttering in your chest. A shudder wracks your body when he absentmindedly rubs circles into your hips.

You peck his nose and lean your forehead on his. “Gets the happy chemicals flowing?” you ask.

John hums, “Mmm.” He teases you again with a quick skim of his fingertips, and you bite your lips to keep quiet. Rose is still sleeping, but a small laugh punches through your teeth. John relents his assault, satisfied for now.

He continues to cling to you like a koala. You think back to what you’ve learned about John since that fateful encounter at the grocery store. “John? Why do you get so insecure when the topic of parenting surfaces?” you ask.

“...Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbles. You mentally scold yourself for bringing up a sore subject.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to,” you say.

“What?” John looks at you with wide eyes.

You grin and gently close his jaw before it can reach the ground. “I won’t force you to talk about something you don’t want to,” you say with a shrug.

“Thanks.” The room falls silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock and the unintelligible murmurs of the TV.

“John, you’re really not that bad.” You trace the bags underneath his eyes, frowning at how puffy they are.

“Well, I can’t be a bad father if I’m never around,” he chuckles dryly.

You hesitate before asking, “...Is that what this is about?”

“....”

“I know your job takes you away from home often.” You pause and wrack your brain for the right words to convey what you want to say. “But I wish you could see how Rose smiles when I tell her you’ll return in a few days. Or how she hugs her teddy bear—that you gave her—close every night.” Rose’s enthusiasm for her father’s return never wavers, never changes. You’ve babysitted Rose on and off for months now, and every evening, without fail, you hear the recording in the bear play from her room. “Would we like to see more of you? Of course. But I understand, and I think Rose does to a certain degree, that you have responsibilities and duties to fulfill.”

The right side of John’s lips slant up. “Don’t you ever get tired of cheering me up?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ You stand up and hold a hand out to him. “Now let’s get you to bed, my sad little man.”

“Little?” John chuckles, placing his hand in yours.

“Yeah, 'cause you’re just a sad little guy,” you say.

John blinks slowly and raises his brows. But his expression is soon replaced with amusement. “Is this some kind of internet lingo I’m unaware of?”

“....”

John clicks his tongue. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

You huff and feel like a cat with its hackles raised. “Don’t judge me for how I spend my free time,” you say.

John nods. “Ah yes, reading literature. What were they called again? Fan books?”

“Fanfics,” you correct, tugging him from his seat. “To bed. Now.”

John's eyes crinkle at the corners, and his quiet laughter fills the room. “You don’t need to be ashamed, darling. It could be worse. You could be reading those raunchy romance novels they sell at the grocery store.” You don’t humour him with a response, too busy trying to mask your face with a neutral expression. God forbid John learns about the kinds of things you read in your sacred corner of the internet. “You read the equivalent online, don’t you?” The apples of your cheeks tingle, and your mouth dries.

You clear your throat and begin stacking the cups and saucers. “It’s still late. We need to get some more rest,” you say, setting off at a brisk pace to the kitchen sink. The thud of footsteps follows right behind you. You don’t have to turn around to see how his lips curl into a grin.

“You read those books when you have me?” he asks, mock hurt lacing his tone.

You roll your eyes and set the dishes in the sink; a problem for future you. Turning around, you cross your arms and steel your gaze. “In my defence, some of them actually have a good plot,” you say. John raises a brow, and he does a poor job covering his laugh up with a cough. “Don’t give me that look! Some of them do!” you insist. Literal masterpieces exist on the internet. And they’re free??? Clearly, John’s never binged a fanfic until three in the morning and had an epiphany, only to be left desolate and distraught now that there are no more chapters to be read.

During your internal debate to justify your reading habits, John hoists you over his shoulder and heads to your bedroom.

“Why don’t you recount your favourite one, and we can reenact it, hm?” he suggests, landing a playful smack on your bottom. You flail your limbs to no avail. The heat on your face could burn through the clothes on his back. John glances over at you with a smirk. “You can be quiet, can’t you, love? You did so well last time.” He caresses the back of your thighs, closing the door behind him with his foot.

At least you get a glorious view of his ass from this angle.

End Note:

Listen, don't ask me why I always end up writing some angst when it comes to Dad!Price. I can't help it, it's just ingrained in his DNA. I do have some ideas as to what happened with Rose's mom, and I do want to eventually write Price coming to terms with his grief. But as always, who knows when I'll get to that.

I did think about dragging this out longer. Originally, Price was also supposed to fall sick the next few days and Reader would be nursing him with the help of Rose. But that would have doubled the length and I just wanted this done so I could move on to the next fic 😅

Now it's on to the next fandom on my list! Alas, I am cursed with too many ideas and not enough willpower to write all of them at once.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Taglist: @mipitt141, @lovecats123451

#john price x reader #cod x reader #john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price #cod mwii #single dad price #gender neutral reader #no y/n #established relationship #fluff #angst #sick fic #Price calls you out #someone give him a hug #Rose is a gem as always

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c-e-d-dreamer · 1 year

Note

Ok I can focus again would you be willing to write elucien fluff where lucien runs warmer than usual and elain likes to steal his warmth whenever

Thanks so much for sending! This is absolutely adorable, and I fully support Lucien warming Elain up. Especially with that Autumn Court fire and that [redacted]. Anyways! Hope you enjoy this short and sweet and fluffy drabble :) And happy @elainweekofficial! This is perfect for Day 2: Love Languages

Elain crosses her arms tightly across her chest, rubbing her hands up and down her forearms as she sniffles quietly. She squints down at the kettle sitting above the flame, willing it to boil faster. When she was younger, her mother would always remind her that a watched pot never boils, but Elain is determined to prove that wrong now. She shifts back and forth on her feet, the movement and slide of her thighs helping slightly to relieve the goosebumps pebbling across her skin.

The sound of bubbling water finally reaches her ears, and Elain excitedly turns off the stove. She pulls the two teacups she had set aside closer to her, carefully picking up the kettle and pouring it over the loose leaves inside each. While that steeps, she grabs a small plate, piling it with the sweet blueberry pastries she made the other day.

She adds milk to both cups and a spoonful of sugar to one before setting everything on a tray, carefully walking everything into the sitting room and placing the tray on the low table in front of the sofa. She picks up the teacup with just milk first, turning and holding it out.

“Thanks, love,” Lucien murmurs, taking the offered teacup.

Elain picks up her own teacup and the plate of pastries, and then she sits down. Right in Lucien’s lap. Lucien lets out a surprised sound, spluttering into his tea, but Elain doesn’t let it deter her. Instead, she presses back even closer into his chest, letting out a contented sigh.

“Comfortable?” Lucien teases lightly, chuckling lowly.

“Very,” Elain tells him primly, taking a slow sip of her tea. “I’m cold and you’re warm.”

“Perhaps if you were wearing more clothing, you wouldn’t be so cold.”

Elain looks down pointedly at her bare legs, at the shirt that she’s wearing. Lucien’s shirt. With his tall frame, it’s too big on her, the hem hitting halfway down her thigh and the collar already sliding down her shoulder. But it’s light and comfortable, and if Elain tips her chin down, the scent of cinnamon and the forest after it’s rained floods her senses.

“I suppose I can change into one of my dresses instead,” Elain starts with faux innocence, making to stand back up, but Lucien’s free arm wraps tightly around her waist, tugging her right back down. She bites back a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Lucien hums quietly but he doesn’t say anything more. He leans forward enough that he can set his teacup back on the low table. It frees up his other hand, which he uses to brush Elain’s hair over her shoulder and out of the way, exposing where the collar and sleeve of the shirt has slipped. Lucien presses his lips against her shoulder, against the smattering of freckles that have bloomed there from her days spent in the sun tending to her garden, tracing a path of kisses along her skin until he reaches the junction with her neck.

Elain lets out a soft sigh, tilting her head to give him better access. Her pulse flutters beneath his lips when Lucien reaches her pulse point, and she can hear his own heart beating to match the melody. Elain lets her eyes fall close, melting back into his embrace, his warmth. The bond between them shimmers, a welcome weight in her chest.

“Besides,” Elain continues, her voice a quiet murmur. “Who needs clothes when I have a mate to keep me warm.”

“As my lady commands.”

Lucien wraps both his arms properly around Elain’s waist, fingers splayed wide against her. Heat blooms in his hands, radiating across Elain’s skin and settling deep in her bones, chasing away any semblance of cold until the warmth that is only Lucien remains. His hands travel to her arms next, sliding down from her shoulders to her wrists then back up again, each pass of his hands a soothing balm. Their final destination is her thighs, the touch even warmer from skin on skin contact. The shudder that Elain has to suppress has nothing to do with being cold, and if Lucien wasn’t such a firm presence at her back, Elain is confident she’d melt straight through the throw pillows and cushions.

“Better?” Lucien breathes against her ear.

Elain turns her head enough that she can meet his gaze properly. Gold and russet each glinting equally in the afternoon sun spilling through the sheer curtains on the windows. His lips are still a bit red and kiss bitten from their late morning spent in bed, and the left corner of them ticks up in a smirk as if Lucien knows exactly where her mind has wandered to.

Elain can’t say she minds. She’d happily spend the afternoon with a repeat of their morning. Even more so, she’d happily spend her afternoon right here, curled up together on the sofa, basking in Lucien’s warmth. With his smirks and his teasing comments and that smile he gets on his face when he thinks she isn’t looking but she knows is just for her. With the happiness and the love that’s taken root so deep between her ribs, threatening to bloom straight through her chest. With her and her mate and this home they’ve built for the two of them.

“Much better.”

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @cassiansbigwingspan @unlikelypersonalknight1 @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones

#elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar #elainsweekmarch2023 #elucien fanfic #elucien fic #pro elucien #my fic

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koffing-time · 1 year

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hey! do you have any tips for a good cup of tea?

-@pokemoncenterofficial

Well, this depends on what exactly you're asking for. but yes. Do you mean brewing a prepared mixture, or are you looking for tips on making your own blend of tea? For both are a few things to consider if you want to go like, high end, but it's really easy if you don't want to bother with the smallest details and can accept like, an 85% perfect tea instead of the full 100.

Brewing Tea:

First, it is important to know what kind of tea you're making. Is it herbal tea? Is it a fruit blend? Or do is it actual tea?

I'll start with some general tips:

the more tea you use, the stronger it tastes

the longer you let it steep, the more intensive it tastes

the hotter the water, the shorter you steep it

fresher tea is generally just "better" (though it won't really "turn bad" for quite a while. you can keep dried tea for years if you keep it dry)

the smaller your teapot, the easier it is to control the taste

i personally really like teapots made from glass because it lets me see the change in colour.

loose tea that you brew with a strainer is most often a better quality than the one you find in paper cartons and tea bags. (this goes for bought tea, the tea bag has no bad effect, it's simply about the industrial process)

use softer water, hard water can cause the tea to not fully develop its flavos. around 125-150ppm would be ideal. if you have something over 275 from your tap or so i would probably even go and buy water from the store.

destilled water is definitely the wrong choice as well though, it makes the tea taste bland.

Now, for some info on actual tea:

we usually distinguish between white, green and black tea

green and white teas are generally pretty similar (some snobs will hate me for this statement) while black tea is very different

black tea is fermented and dried for up to a day. Because of this it can have a quite intensive taste

black tea quite a lot caffeine compared to white and green tea, but still pales compared to coffee

green tea is not fermented and dried for a shorter time, but this varies a lot between different kinds of green tea. The taste is a bit more dry or tart than black tea

white tea is also not fermented and only select, unopened buds are used for it. because of this, it developes the name giving white fluff on the leaves. It has usually a quite mild and flowery taste.

Finally some tips on brewing this tea:

black tea should be brewed directly after boiling the water. Hot tea does not have a bad effect on it, instead it makes it steep a bit faster

green and white tea should NOT be brewed in boiling water. let it cool down a little bit, to about 195°F at least. Depending on the specific tea, you might want to go for 175°F or even 160°F instead

very delicate teas want to be brewed at no more than 140°F though, but make sure you stay above like 125°F. This goes for a few blends from Kanto and Johto specifically

As for the time, i can't quite help, you have to try a bit how you like it best. i'll give you some starting points though.

white teas should steep for around 2-3 minutes. You can reuse the leaves for multiple pots, but let it steep a bit longer each time. (Don't let them sit on the counter for a few hours or so, they become stale and can even get moldy quite quickly)

green teas should steep for around 3-4 minutes. Don't go much longer, they get bitter. (or try it and see for yourself) You can't really use them for more than 1 or 2 pots for the same reason.

black teas can be steeped for up to 5 minutes, but i think 2-3 are enough for most blends. any more and it can also get bitter

Now for fruit- and herbal tea:

i can't give a lot of advice here, since there is just such a large variety, i can't get very specific. Generally, you should use boiling hot water to brew this kind of tea. Most blends need to steep for at least 5 minutes, and up to 10 is usually a good upper boundary. For fruit teas, longer steeping means a more sour tea. This all depends on the specific ingredients of course.

Additions:

If you want to put milk or sugar or something else into your tea is entirely up to you. I personally don't like milk in my tea at all, but i would go with Miltank milk, not Gogoat or Flaaffy. I also wouldn't put sugar into my tea, a nice honey tastes way better in my opinion. A splash of lemon juice can also elevate certain herbal teas. (Not a fan of lemon juice in "real" tea)

Making Tea:

Making your own herbal or fruity tea blends is not difficult at all. Very basically, you take a few herbs or fruits that you think would taste nice, and put them together in hot water.

If you want to be a little more serious, you dry everything first. This makes the whole thing more tasty, less sugary and overall more like actual tea. (I think this part is obvious, but i wanted to make a little joke)

Drying Herbs:

The important part about drying your ingredients is to be careful. For herbs, i would just bundle them up and hang them into a dry and dark spot somewhere. The temperature has to be high enough, at least 75°F, but not much more than 100°F. Don't dry them in the sun, they can actually get burns and will taste bitter. Once you take them down, they should feel brittle and, well, dry. If your herbs take longer than 3 days to dry, you unfortunatly failed, the important substances in the leaves will have broken down by then.

You can also try and dry your herbs in the oven, but you need to be super duper careful. The oven can't be hotter than 120°F. Put them on a baking tray and just put it in for about 2-3 hours. Parts of the plant like roots or stems might be fine with temperatures of up to 150°F.

If you have an air-dryer, you can also use that, there should be instruction for different kinds of plants or whatever.

Drying Fruit:

It's a bit easier to dry your fruit than your herbs. If you don't have an air dryer, i recommend using the oven. Slice your fruit into very thing slices, ideally about 1/8 inch in thickness but up to 1/4 inch should be fine as well. Place them spaced out onto a baking tray. You should put a layer of parchment paper beneath them. Put the oven to around 120-150°F and leave the fruit in there for about 12-24 hours. With a bit of luck you're done in less time, but leaving them in a bit longer shouldn't do anything bad.

Selecting ingredients:

This is less complicated than you might think. You can easily make a good tea with just one ingredient, like chamomille, peppermint or sage.

If you want to make it more interesting, choose one main ingredient. Again, something simple and strong like peppermint, lemon verbena or lemon balm is a good start. This ingredient should make up about half to 2 thirds of your blend. Now you can just think of something that goes well with the taste, like rose petals, razz berries or apple peels. Your imagination is the limit, really. You can add other berries, pumpkin, cinnamon, cloves.

Something that would go to far even for this monster of a post, is selecting ingredients based on their effects. You can make some quite potent natural remedies in the form of tea. I would advise you to check the symptoms or ailments you want to treat and look up which herbs are good for treating this. I have made teas for anxiety, PMS or insomnia before.

That said, almost every herbal tea you drink will have certain effects on your body, but most of these will be just harmless if you're healthy and don't drink them in excess.

... hope this helps!

#tix.txt #pokeblogging #actual advice #//actual advice #//I've used all these tips before #//except i'm not using freedom units but i wanted to stay in character #//also i didn't make these teas by myself #//but i helped make a few before #//one of my friends is a very awesome witch #//judy if you see this i appreciate you #//also sorry for taking sooo long to answer #// i didn't wanna half ass this and i just couldn't find the time before #Koffing-Time-1.0

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dieticianankita · 1 year

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Matcha - Perfect for Your Everyday Health and Wellness

Perfect for your everyday Health and Wellness with matcha .Green tea powder called matcha tea is high in antioxidants. For traditional green tea, the leaves are steeped in boiling water before being discarded. The dried leaves are really ground into a powder when using matcha, which is then added to the tea and consumed.The tea is thought to be the most aromatic type of green tea because of its distinctive, non-bitter flavour and vivid green colour.

Benefits of Matcha for Health?

Many individuals are switching to matcha, a caffeinated substitute well known for its brilliant colour, as more and more people attempt to reduce their consumption of coffee. It's a form of green tea, but it's not the hot water-infused loose-leaf variety. A powder called matcha is created by grinding up green tea leaves. The advantages of matcha are much greater than those of the traditional type since it contains a larger concentration of nutrients.

It's packed with vitamins and antioxidants: Both catechins and polyphenols, another class of antioxidant found in green tea, are present. Jenna Gorham, RD, dietitian and founder of the RD Link, says that matcha powder provides a megadose of these potent antioxidants, which can help lessen cell damage and prevent chronic disease.

It might enhance the radiance on your skin:If you have skin issues, Miyashita advises switching to matcha for a week rather than coffee. According to a 2017 study that was published in the journal Nutrients, the vitamin C in matcha boosts the formation of collagen when consumed. Additionally, a study published in the journal Advances in Skin & Wound Care suggests that vitamin B may aid in the promotion of healthy skin cell turnover.

It can make your bones stronger: Most individuals don't consider actively taking steps to strengthen their bones, yet doing so is crucial for health and mobility, especially as you age. By lowering the oxidative stress that causes inflammation in the bones, polyphenols, the antioxidant-rich substances in green tea, may increase bone mineral density (i.e., how solid your bones are). According to a number of earlier research, this can subsequently reduce your risk of getting osteoporosis.

Compared to a cup of coffee or boiled tea, it may be more filling: Due to its potent, earthy flavour, matcha powder is most frequently blended and served with milk or a non-dairy substitute, such as almond or oat milk. The milk's additional calories make the beverage more filling than your typical espresso-based latte.

It might safeguard your brain: A tiny study from 2020 that was published in the journal Nutrients suggests that drinking matcha every day may help halt cognitive decline. That's because matcha contains plenty of lutein and vitamin K, both of which have been linked to enhanced cognitive abilities including attention and memory.

Matcha tea has many health advantages, excess consumption may have negative effects.

Like most things, drinking too much matcha tea can be harmful to your health. Excessive matcha use may have negative side effects such as headaches, sleeplessness, and upset stomach. Matcha also includes a lot of caffeine, so consuming too much of it may also cause jitteriness and other caffeine-related adverse effects, such as a faster heartbeat. It is usually advised to consume food and beverages in moderation.

How can Matcha be used?

Matcha has several applications, some of which are as follows:

Drinking: Matcha is typically taken as a tea, which is the most popular way to consume it. To make a frothy and tasty beverage, the powder is customarily whisked with hot water.

Cooking and baking: Matcha powder may also be used in cooking and baking to give desserts and savoury foods a distinctive green tea flavour. It's frequently used in baked products including cakes, cookies, and bread as well as smoothies, matcha ice cream, and other baked goods.

Due to its high antioxidant content, which can help shield the skin from free radical damage, matcha powder is also utilised in various cosmetics and skincare products.

Supplements: Matcha powder is also offered in capsules, pills, and powdered supplements.

Matcha is traditionally used in Japan's traditional tea ceremony, where it is regarded as a sign of deference, friendliness, and harmony.

Due to the calming effects of the L-Theanine, some people use matcha as a way to improve their yoga and meditation practices.

Does matcha have caffeine?

Yes, caffeine is present in matcha. The Camellia sinensis plant, which also yields green, black, and oolong tea, is the source of the leaves used to manufacture matcha. Matcha contains more caffeine than other types of tea because the leaves are grown and processed specifically for this purpose.

Matcha's caffeine concentration varies depending on the powder's quality, although it is typically thought to be higher than that of other kinds of tea. Matcha typically includes 35 mg of caffeine per serving, or about the same as one cup of coffee. According to some research, matcha has up to three times as much caffeine as a typical cup of green tea.

Method for making Matcha?

Here is a recipe for classic matcha tea:

Ingredients:

Matcha powder, 1 teaspoon

2 ounces (or 60 ml) of hot (between 175 and 180 °F) water

Optional: 1 to 2 teaspoons of honey or sugar (if desired)

Instructions:

To get rid of any lumps, sift the matcha powder through a fine mesh strainer.

Matcha powder, hot water, and sugar or honey (if used) should be whisked together in a small bowl until foamy.

Matcha mixture should be whisked in a "W" motion with a bamboo whisk while holding the bowl with one hand until a thick froth has formed on the tea's surface.

You can use a little electric whisk or a small metal whisk if you don't have a bamboo whisk.

The tea is ready to be served once it has frothed up and been thoroughly blended. Take some time to savour the distinct flavour and scent of your matcha tea.

#healthy eating #matcha #tea time #plantbased #diet plan #balanced diet #nutrition #recipes #dietary #diet #top dietician #dietician #healthcare #health

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dietintyphoid · 1 year

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Diet in typhoid

Typhoid is a common illness in many developing countries. It has been studied that more than twenty-one million people worldwide get infected with typhoid. The problems are, that the infections so easily pass on, there seems to be no stopping of it. A carefully planned and monitored Diet in Typhoid has a major role to play in improving your conditions with typhoid.

Dietician generally recommend the healthy Diet for typhoid below: Up the intake of carbohydrates. Porridge, soft rice, baked potatoes are all good food items to add to a typhoid patient’s diet.

Make it a point to give the patient semi-solid food since it is easy to digest. Semi-solid foods you can eat during typhoid include boiled potatoes, khichdi, porridge, boiled rice, and yoghurt.

It is also vital to provide the body with as much fluid as possible. Deadly typhoid has a tendency to cause severe dehydration, so it’s best to give the patient adequate proportions of fruit juices, lassi, glucose water, lime juice, and coconut water. Alternatively, you can also give him/her good servings of water-rich fruits.

Generally, a high-calorie diet is also suggested. This includes food items such as bananas, potatoes etc.

Up the consumption of dairy products such as milk and yogurt. Soups such as spinach soup, vegetable soup, carrot soup, chicken soup, and mushroom soup can also be given.

Ensure that the patient drinks adequate water. The drinking water should be boiled and filtered properly.

Simple boiled yellow daal can also be given. These make for healthy foods for typhoid.

Ensure that there is adequate consumption of proteins

The meals should be light, easy to digest and frequent in nature. Cooked vegetables can be consumed during typhoid so that the body receives vital nutrients to get stronger.

Well cooked or boiled vegetables like potatoes, carrots, beets, raw papaya and squash can be consumed. They are easy to digest and provide nutrients. Herbal tea such as a mix of neem, yarrow, sage, sage steeped in water can also be helpful for improving hydration while also having antimicrobial properties.

Note that while this concoction may be one of the best foods for typhoid, it cannot be used as a substitute for medication. However, it can be used as additional help for your treatment.

Honey is a healthy way to meet your sugar requirement while you are down with typhoid fever. It is both healthy and is famously antibacterial, being used in traditional medicine since ancient times. Additionally, when consumed with warm water, honey is thought to ease the digestive system. This can contribute to a faster recovery making honey one of the sweeter foods for typhoid fever.

#Diet in typhoid

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fanficwritinggirl · 3 years

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Thunder (Fred Weasley x reader)

You could say that thunderstorms scared you. I mean the loud bangs of the thunder and the heavy pour of the rain really caused you to panic. It just made you feel trapped. That there was nowhere you could go to get away from it that you were stuck. It sucked to say the least and it made you feel quite childish in all honesty. I mean you were 18 years old for god sakes. You should grow up and get over it right. But this was easier said than done.

It had been dull all day and you knew that it was at least going to rain. But you didn't realise that it was going to be a thunderstorm. And even though you were in the safety of the Weasley home you still were unsettled. The only thing about the Weasley home was that you didn't really get much privacy. There was always someone there and sometimes when you were in a state of panic you just wanted to be on your own. You just wanted to be able to curl up into a ball and forget that it is happening. This is purely due to the fact that you are ashamed of the fact that you are scared of thunder and don't want anyone to know this fact.

You had tried your best to stay downstairs with everyone as the storm grew outside. Everyone was just normal. They were fazed by the heavy rain outside and it made you feel stupid to be honest. The fact that everyone else was fine and you weren't. So that was when you decided that you were going to go to bed. It was a good reason for you to be left alone for the rest of the night. It also meant that you could crawl under the covers and hide from the storm.

So after saying goodnight to everyone and going to bed you try to go to sleep. Lying there for hours just trying to get some sort of sleep even if it was for a few minutes but the adrenaline in your body was not helping you. Everytime a crack of thunder came your heart beated faster and faster and you could feel tears at the brink of your eyes but they never fell. You turned over and looked towards Ginny and Hermione who were both fast asleep, something that you envied.You were sick of lying in bed so you decided that you should go downstairs and get something to drink to lower your nerves.

You sneak down stairs being as quiet as possible trying not to wake anyone up. If anyone saw you in the state that you were now you would never be able to live it down. You get into the kitchen and put some water in the kettle and warm up some water for the tea and you stand waiting for it to boil you look outside. You look at the rain and see that it is coming down very heavily. It makes your heart race again so you try to keep your head down and look at the kettle. When the water is finished boiling you put it into a mug that has a teabag in it and let it steep for a minute while you grab some milk from the fridge. After making your cup of tea you sit down at the table and drink it trying to engross yourself in it so that you can try to ignore the storm.

Though when a huge crack of lightning comes down and you can see the white from the window of where it came down you freaked. You felt unsafe again so without even really thinking you get under the table and curl into a ball rocking back and forth with heavy breathing trying to calm yourself down not being able to.

When Fred walked down to the kitchen in the middle of the night after hearing someone up he didn't really expect the scene that he saw when he walked in. The first thing he saw was the cup of tea on the table and the chair pulled back but when he lowered himself ever so slightly so that he could look to see who was under the table he was shocked to see you in the state that you were in. It broke his heart. "Y/N" he whispers as he circles the table so that he is closer to you and gets down on the floor next to you. He shuffles a bit so that he is right next to you. He could see that you were too frightened to even acknowledge that he was there. You just started on forward with your eyes wide in a trance. He didn't know what to do. Yes he had dealt with frightened people before. I mean he had younger siblings who used to get nightmares all the time but this wasn't just someone who was scared. This was someone who was petrified. "Hey Y/N. Hey, it's ok with me. You're ok. Im here" he says trying to get you to come out of the trance. Give you some comfort.

You could hear him talking to you. Feel him. But you were frozen with fear it was like you couldn't pull out of it. "Hey, I'm here. Im here" he kept saying over and over again and then you feel him wrap his arms around you and pull you to his chest. It was then that you could feel yourself calming down. "Listen to my heart Y/N. Listen to my heart" he says. You felt safe. The sound of his heart beating normally in rhythm calmed you down. Something you hated was when your heart started beating faster than normal making your breathing increase and you panicked thinking you could get it under control. It scared you. But the fact that Fred could keep you from thinking about your breathing and just his heart so that you would just naturally start breathing normally was comforting.

You didn't know how long you sat there for but it didn't feel that long to you if anything you just wanted it to last forever. But Fred pulls back and looks at you. He puts your hair out of your face and takes a good look at you. "How do you feel now?" he asks you. You nod your head at him. "Better" you tell him. He nods his head and you are happy with the answer. You stare at each other for a second before he speaks again.

"How long have you been scared of storms?" he asks you quietly. You knew that you were going to be asked for it. I mean of course you were. Like you couldn't just expect him to calm you down and then just not expect questions. But the thing was other times people asked you about this and this was less than a handful of times. You felt uncomfortable and just brushed it off but you felt comfortable feelling Fred.

"Umm... since I was 7 years old. Ummm... me and my family used to live in the country near some corn fields and something that I used to love to do when I was younger was to go play in them. It was pretty fun when playing hide and seek with your friends. One day it was nice and warm. Sunny. And I decided that I was going to play in the fields like I did all of the time. I must have been running around in them for an hour or so when within the course of about 15 minutes the sky went from sunny to just pure black and heavy rain was coming down. I remember trying to jump up and see where I was but it was just so dark and the rain was just coming down so hard I could see anything. I just keep trying to get home. Or to find shelter to stop the water coming down on my body. And then the thunder started and it just kept getting louder and louder. I could hear it getting closer and closer and I could go anywhere. I was in the middle of nowhere drenched. I was so cold. So cold. I was in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that didn't have sleeves and I was just so cold. I remember I was walking when all of a sudden thunder came down super close to me. Everything around me just went white and I thought that I had died. After a few seconds everything came back into view and I freaked. I ran in a random direction just hoping that it would be the right way and then I slipped and fell. I was covered in mud and I just had no energy. So I lay there until the morning. I remember waking up to the sound of dogs and voices calling my names. A dog camping running towards me and then sitting and barking its head off. The next thing I know I was in the hospital after having really bad hyperthermia and I had to stay for a few days due to me having a really bad cold. They said that I wouldn't have lasted much longer if I had stayed out any longer than I was ''I recount with tears going down my face.

Fred just pulls me closer and kisses my head. "Im sorry Y/N. I had no idea. Why didn't you say anything? '' he asked me. I shake my head. "Because I was ashamed that people would judge me. I mean it was 11 years ago. I should be over it by now. But everytime i hear the thunder and the rain I just can't forget that night. '' I cry and he sighs. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. It is ok to be scared of storms. But you most of all. Don't be ashamed of it. We all have our fears" he explains and I smile. This was why he was my favorite. I pull back and smile at him. "Thanks Fred". He nods his head at me. "No problem".

We sit for a few more minutes before he gets up. "Come on, let's get you back to bed," he says. I nod and stand up taking his hand as a help. When I stand up another crack of lightning comes down and I grab onto Freds waist and cling onto him for dear life. He wraps his arms around him and puts his chin on my head. "Why don't we sleep on the couch tonight. That way I can stay with you" he asks. I nod my head quickly. I didn't want him to leave me. When I was in his arms I felt safe.

We move towards the sitting room and Fred sits down on the couch and lies down. He pulls me towards him and I lie on top of him. He wraps his arms around me as I put my head in the crook of his neck. I smile as I finally feel sleep overcome me.

The next morning we both wake up to the smell of food in the air. I move my head a little bit and feel that I am still on top of Fred. I smile. "Well this is not what i thought i was going to see this morning. Finally found where you went to Freddie" George says smuggly. I groan. Great, now I am going to have to deal with teasing. "George why don't you shut up and go and help mum with breakfast yeah" Fred says as he slowly wakes up. George chuckles and nods his head. "Ok loverboy i will do that" he says before walking out. I sit up and get off of Fred. I look down at him and he is rubbing his eyes trying to wake up. "Umm... thanks for last night" I thank him awkwardly as I'm looking at the floor. He nods and gets up. "No problem" he says. I nod before starting to walk towards the stairs.

"Hey Y/N" he calls. I turn and look at him. He walks up to me and presses his lips to mine in a short but sweet kiss. I pull back and breathe out in shock but I have a huge grin on my face. "Umm..." I said quietly. "I'll see you at breakfast, yeah" I asked him. He nods with a smirk on his face. He kisses my cheek before I turn and run up the stairs feeling shocked but happy.

Fred stands at the bottom of the stairs with a smirk on his face. "Well took you long enough" George calls and Fred groans. "Shut up Georgie".

#fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #harry potter #fluff #cute #draco x reader #draco malfoy #george weasley #george weasley x reader

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ryuu-to-sobakasu-hime · 3 years

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Ryuu to Sobakasu no Hime (Belle) Novel | English Translation | Chapter 2

**This is a machine translation. I put it together by extracting text page-by-page from a .pdf version of the Japanese novel, and running it through Google translate. I have only minorly edited some of the more confusing lines to make it more read-able. It is still a very rough translation, but it’s good enough to understand what’s going on. If there is anyone out there who wants to properly translate the novel, I am more than happy to edit it, if you’ll contact me.**

———————————————

Chapter 2: Suzu

"Buhaa!"

I got up from a thin futon and took a big breath.

That made me almost hit my head against the low ceiling. This is a shabby attic in the countryside, with rafters supporting the roof approaching just above the bed. "Ah, ah .... ah ..."

It's morning. The sunlight is dazzling. The feeling of the glittering world up to that point remains. I close my eyelids because I want to reach for the residue. Certainly I was standing at the tip of the whale's nose and singing. Wearing gorgeous costumes, singing freely. When I open my eyelids, in front of me is a smartphone on the sheets with the display turned off. On the dark surface, you can see yourself illuminated by the sun. The faded pajamas I've been wearing since I was in junior high school. Messy hair from sleeping. Half-open eyes.

And the freckles scattered on my cheeks. It makes me very depressed. I sigh. Then, I heard my father's voice from the first floor, "Suzu? What's wrong?" I feel impatient. Of course, this isn't a soundproof room, it's just a miserable 7-year-old girl's room. The only way to prevent the sound from leaking out is to wrap it in a futon. Was my voice louder than usual? If so ... The cold sweat of regret floats on my back. "No, it’s nothing ...!"

I hurriedly reply that while crawling on all fours off the bed. What if he’s suspicious and comes upstairs? No, I don't think he’ll come. I changed into my uniform and went downstairs. I didn't see my father. He may be preparing to go to work. He opened the porch and left the window down to let in the cool morning air. He lightly cleaned the living room and dining room and cleaned up the magazines left on the table. While boiling the water, I put the flowers in the garden in a vase and placed it next to the photo frame in the kitchen. He puts a tea bag in a mug and pours hot water. Steam with the scent of black tea boils. My mother is still smiling in the picture frame today.

I'm eating rice. I was sitting on the porch, drinking tea. Dad, who wore a dark blue T-shirt on his tanned skin, came out to the garage with a backpack containing work tools on his shoulders. "Suzu, I’m leaving." I replied, keeping my mouth on the mug. "... Okay" "What about dinner?" "... I’m fine."

"... I see. Then, I'll go." Dad must have been in trouble. I could understand without looking. The engine of a four-wheel drive vehicle starts. After backing up, it turns back and goes down the slope. The sound of the tires travelling across the pebbles slowly drifts away.

I wonder how long I will not make eye contact with him. How long has it been since I stopped talking properly? I wonder how much time has passed since we stopped eating together. There was a notification sound. A balloon pops up on the screen of the smartphone. "Belle is the best beauty created by the virtual world "U." Languages around the world are translated instantly.

"Very unique and rare song" "Belle's song is full of self-confidence" "The most notable presence in 3 billion accounts"

The text balloons went up one after another, competing for the lead, and in a blink of an eye filled the area around the bell icon. But I have no joy, no sense of accomplishment, no sense of exhilaration. No matter how much attention Belle gets, it doesn't matter. With my mouth in my rimmed mug, I shut myself in my shell. The balloon with one comment swells up significantly. It is one of the functions of balloons to enlarge and display the comments that attract the most attention.

Of the tremendous number of comments, the one that attracted the most attention was "Who is she?" I don't think most people in the world know about it, but Shikoku and Kochi are proud of their rich climate, where the steep mountains that cover them, and of the beautiful blue shining clear streams that flow through the valleys. More than 150 years ago, we produced a number of people who dramatically reformed the long-standing feudal society of Japan, which is also one of our prides. The daylight hours are top class in Japan. Alcohol consumption is also top class. Perhaps because of that, my city’s personality is clear, and is said to be friendly and cheerful. But even in such a situation, some people are dark and are always looking down. One of them is me. My house is in the corner of a village with about 30 houses on the slope of a mountain.

A river called the Niyodo River runs ahead of me, and is connected to the opposite bank by a subsidence bridge. A subsidence bridge is a bridge without balustrades, and is designed so that it will not be washed away even if the river rises and the bridge sinks. I cross it every day unless this bridge sinks. The flow of the Niyodo River is still quiet and blue today. Occasionally tourists come by rental car and take a number of pictures on the subsidence bridge, saying that it's beautiful. It's a nice village, isn't it? They do not know the truth of the area. With the school bag on my side, I go down the stone steps and walk on a steep slope. A neighbor's grandmother who was sweeping and cleaning used to call out to me, "Oh, Suzu-chan, good morning," and so on. But not now. The shutters of many homes are tightly closed.

The number of people who live here gradually decreased as they died or moved to the city. There are many such settlements in the Niyodo River basin. It is said that it is near here that a sociologist coined the term "marginal village" long ago. I've been told many times since I was little that adults say that the number of people has decreased surprisingly compared to the village’s peak population. It is at the forefront of a declining population, declining birthrate and aging society, faster than anywhere else in Japan. That is an unmistakable fact. There is a stop at the end of the national highway after going up the slope. The rusty timetable at the bus stop only shows times in the morning and evening.

It's not yet time. After a while, the bus came. I sit in the usual seat at the back of the bus. No one else is in the bus. Passing through the stops one after another. No one is on board. While the bus is shaking, I dimly look at the bulletin board near the driver's seat.

"This bus route will be discontinued at the end of September.”

I live in a place where no one wants to live. It stands right next to a steep cliff approaching the rough sea. I reach the end of the bus route and transfer on to a train.

High school and junior high school students in uniforms from other schools come in little by little at each station. The closer you get to the center of the city, the less visible the floor is, and the two-car train fills up with customers. An announcement in the car tells me the name of the station I should get off at. I see many students of the same uniforms on the way to school. Together we climb a gentle slope. I am one of them. That gives me a lot of peace of mind, maybe.

The summer sunshine is dazzling. Last fall, the brass band was playing in front of the symbol tree in the courtyard. Many students surround it and listen to it. The announcement of the brass band is always popular. It's not just about playing. All players take steps as they perform. It's a lively and fun dance. All the instruments have the steps perfectly matched, yet the performance does not get twisted or shaken. I and Hiro-chan (short for Hiroka) also listened to it from the veranda on the 2nd floor of the gymnasium. When the first song ended and the second song started, a slender tall, beautiful girl was holding the alto saxophone in front of her. She came out. She shook her long, loosely waved hair and played her solo without any disturbance, taking attractive steps from side to side.

"……Cute."

I instinctively say it aloud. Luca-chan - her full name is Ruka Watanabe – I am sighingly fascinated by the lively beauty of her. I can hear the voices of other girls watching on the same balcony.

"Luka-chan is the princess of our school, isn't she?"

"She’s slim and has long legs.”

"Even if she wears a uniform, she look like a model."

They nodded together, saying, "Right~?”

Hiro-chan has a voice that only I can hear next to me, "The jealousy of kids who are neither thin nor slender...,” turning the pages of her book. The girls' voices can be heard continuously.

"Luka-chan naturally acts as a coordinator for everyone."

"I'm sure everyone will come together like Ohisama," Hiro-chan frowned at the back of her silver-rimmed glasses. "They’re annoying. In that respect, Suzu is like the opposite of Luka, so it's easy for no one to come near us."

"Hi- Hiro-chan…"

"Hmm?"

"You have a poisonous tongue, I wonder if you can be a little kinder....."

"A poisonous tongue? Who?" At that time, a loud voice that interrupted the performance echoed in the courtyard. "Why don't you join the canoe club?" Everyone looks back. "It's Kamishin!" "Kamishin has arrived!"

Kamishin – full name Shinjiro Senzu - has a canoe paddle in his hand and a banner with "CANOE" written on his back, and appears randomly.

"Oh, senpai. What about the canoe club?"

"Wow! Stop, Kamishin!"

"Don't enter, that's it." He chased the boys, and then laughed and ran away. Then, he turned around and headed for the group of girls.

"Hey, why don't you do canoeing?"

"Kya ~~~!" The girls scream seriously and run away.

"Oh, hey, let's do some canoeing!"

"Dangerous, run away~"

He is serious, but the reaction around him makes the Kamishin look like a weirdo. He’s like a beast that jumps into beautiful women and rampages.

"Hey, canoe ..."

Watching the girls run away, I feel like defending the hard work of Kamishin.

"It's amazing to start a canoe club by yourself, isn't it?"

"But he's the only one in it."

"I wonder why.”

"I wonder~”

Hiro turned her eyes to Luka, who seemed to be anxious about the hustle and bustle while playing. Luka stiffened and turned her back to Kamishin as if she didn't want to see him. Hiro-chan does not overlook the gesture. She closed her book and turned her stern eyes to Luka. “You’re being looked down on.”

We left the gymnasium and wandered around the school. Chorus club, biology club, light music club, dance club. Various club activities. The activity was appealing to each. As I crossed the glass-walled corridor, I heard the cheers and applause of the girls from somewhere.

10N1 was held at the one-on-one outdoor basketball court. It is a solicitation performance of the men's basketball club. A ball is thrown into the court for the next game. You can see a boy in a hoodie who catches it with a lean hand.

"Ah ..." The game starts. Shinobu-kun, full name Shinobu Kutake, slowly dribbles and watches the situation. The opponent's senpai is raising his right hand as a checker, being wary of the jump shot. Shinobu lowers his hips. Shinobu tries to pull out with a low dribble, but the opponent's guard is tight and he withdraws. When he thinks he has stopped Shibobu, he suddenly shoots a jump shot from a short motion.

He’s fast. The senior hurriedly reached out with his fingers spread out, but he couldn't reach Shinobu. The previous move was a feint. The ball drew a beautiful arc and passed through the goal net. The girls lined up in the corridor on the 3rd floor gave an enthusiastic applause. But Shinobu doesn't even smile. His coolness is attracting attention from girls in school. Before the applause stopped, the court had already moved on to the next game. Shinobu-kun, while measuring the timing, dribbles low to push the defense away. As if to say that you can't win even with power. If you forcibly cut in and pull out the senior in a blink of an eye, you will definitely go to the layup. There is a pleasant sound of the ball slipping through the goal net. Again, the girls' applause echoed on the walls of the school building. I told Hiro-chan,

"........ Shinobu-kun, I didn't think he would be that tall."

He’s my childhood friend.

"He was your childhood friend?"

"Ohon. Actually, I've been proposed to by Shinobu-kun."

"Seriously? What?"

"[Suzu, I'll protect you], he said.”

"When was that?"

"When we were 6 years old."

"....... Even if such an ancient story is spoken…"

Astonished, Hiro sighed. Another goal was scored. In the applause, Shinobu-kun, who finished the game, went out of the court alongside his senior without even smiling. Shinobu-kun, my childhood friend. He’s no longer within my reach.

I came back from school and crossed the subsidence bridge. I was with Shinobu from kindergarten through the lower grades of elementary school. After that, Shinobu moved to the city and we were separated. He was in my high school and we became classmates again. But it isn’t like it used to be. At that time, I didn't expect to become a child who is always looking down like I am now. There is a reason why this happened. I saw the quiet stream of the Niyodo River. Yes. That is an ancient story. A white bird passed low on the surface of the water.

-------------------

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Dcx2NedPVBEdbfQaU-WC0pJMRmn20ASn7HSC0KY9R7E/edit?usp=sharing ~ Google Doc of the English-translated novel.

ryuutosobakasuhime.wordpress.com ~ English fan-site for Ryuu to Sobakasu no Hime where translations, scans, and other content is posted.

#belle #ryuu to sobakasu no hime #ryu to sobakasu no hime #ryuu #ryu #sobakasu #hime #studio chizu #mamoru hosoda #belle movie #竜とそばかすの姫 #belle 2021

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nagasakidivision · 2 years

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Up From the Ashes

I need to stretch out my short story writing muscles a bit since basically all I've done lately (as in.....the past three months, for the love of God please help me,) is academic and technical writing. I need to get used to writing these guys in prose so I'm going to fling out a quick story into the void. o^o This does take place after the first drama track, as it's during the preliminaries but it doesn't really spoil anything involved there beyond what's been heavily implied in the preview! This primarily focuses on and is from the view point of Haruto since he's the one I'm least accustomed to writing so I need practice but all of Thirteen shows up!

Well, Haruto thought, staring up at the tarp that accounted for a roof, that was a shitshow. The nicest thing he could say about their last battle was that technically he'd been the last person standing. Even if he had to be physically carried to the medical tent (Chuouku would not deign to give a small district like Nagasaki a proper medical bay for the tournament) by the on-site EMTs and blacked out somewhere along the way, he had survived.

There was a soft rattle as a bottle of pills hit the bed. He snapped his head towards the sound. Shirou, in practice the last to fall, was already back on his feet and seemingly doing just fine. It didn't necessarily surprise Haruto, at this point he was reasonably sure the coroner had talked to Death itself so much at his job that the two of them had a deal, and now he couldn't die.

Maybe Death had taken away his ability to make sound when he moved and that was how he was so damned quiet all the time. He'd lost count of how many times the coroner had accidentally snuck up on him and scared him out of his mind. He was as silent as the grave, you could say. If Haruto were in the mood he'd have let himself laugh at his own joke.

"Here." Shirou sat down on a folding chair beside the bed. "Painkillers. I'd imagine you're not feeling particularly well right now."

"How'd you guess?" It came out more snappish than he'd wanted, and he immediately regretted it. He took a breath, trying to force some of the tension out of his body. "Yeah. It doesn't hurt, though. Feels like a bad hangover."

"It will hurt soon." The coroner pushed the bottle towards him, then put a can of soda next to it. "Your nervous system's still in shock. Honestly, I'm surprised you can talk right now after that fight."

Haruto stared at the colorful label. "I don't drink soda. Too sweet for me."

"I thought you would prefer it to the coffee I make." His tone was as distantly polite as always, but a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Drink it. Caffeine will make the medication hit your system faster. You can thank me later."

The philosopher grumbled, but popped the tab, dropped a tablet of the painkiller in his mouth, and slammed down the sugar-drenched monstrosity fast enough that he hopefully wouldn't taste it. In spite of his best efforts, the cloying flavor stuck to his mouth, intermingling with the sourness of the medication. He winced as he set the can back down. "God, that's vile."

Shirou sighed and shook his head. "Well, next time I'll make sure to bring some of that tea you'll actually drink with me."

"Appreciated," Haruto said flatly. "Remember, don't heat the water to a full boil, stop just short of it or you burn the tea. Oh, and the steep time is just four minutes. Don't go over."

Honestly, he thought, at this point he deserved it, and the second he got home he was breaking out the most expensive loose-leaf canister he had, and then the really expensive floral gin he'd been hoarding. Anything to keep himself from thinking about his performance in the local preliminaries.

It had started out well, at least when they were in the first few rounds and dealing with brand new teams in a minor district with only their mics and delusions of grandeur. Practice had paid off, and Shirou's experience was carrying them where Damien and Haruto's enthusiasm would have fallen short, and it felt for a moment like they could coast to a victory. They certainly seemed like the natural winners, and they started playing into it.

It was Damien's idea, he told himself, to try and lean into it. 'Work the audience a little,' he said. 'You'll do better if you have the crowd backing you.' Well, it did for the next few rounds. But now all his mind would fixate on was the bragging, the preening, the eyes of the crowd on him. It had come so naturally to him, too, if you wanted to get anywhere in his field, faking it until you make it was a skill you had to develop. Performing for an audience and performing for a group of more established scholars had little difference. But what had been fun in the moment when they were still winning had quickly soured.

(Ah, and he'd been overdressed for everything too. He'd stood out so much, and that whole façade of perfection had collapsed when he had. The idea of having to walk around the streets of Nagasaki after everyone had seen that shameful display made his skin crawl.)

The flap of the tent rustled. A small figure stood in the frame, then walked forward with a slightly wobbly gait. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Haruto thought. Or the "dog-saint" as the man himself would have put it. His little shadow, the dog Lucia, was at his side as always.

"Yo." Damien's voice lacked any of its usual enthusiasm. "Any news yet?"

"Nothing," Shirou said. "Sounds like they're still deliberating."

The weight of the situation crashed into Haruto all too late. He might have just cost the team their shot at getting into the capital. He knew it was a long shot, but he'd honestly thought it could happen. It had seemed even more possible early into the day that they would be walking right into the Central Ward with their heads held high, all of the higher-ups in the Party of Words confident they'd be playing their toy soldiers against each other before the soldiers fought back. Instead, their story was likely going to die here.

The tent fell quiet. Damien, who had never met a moment of silence he liked and was certainly not going get acquainted with it now, started talking again. "I mean, they have to rule in our favor, right? It was a rap ability that brought Haruto back. Probably. Not our fault we didn't know about it before now."

"Well, there's not really a precedent for one like this. We'll find out. It's out of our hands now." Shirou folded his arms and rested against a tent-pole. After too long of a pause, he added, "We did our best."

They didn't, really, or at least Haruto felt like he didn't. It was such an ugly victory, but it made his choice of a name eerily prophetic. Still, he didn't feel like he'd earned such a lofty title now. Phoenixes were beautiful and graceful. He'd spent too much time staring at hagiography for some of his other classes—you didn't specialize in philosophers like Kierkegaard or Weil or Tillich without trying to understand the manic fervor that burned in them for some divine power beyond human comprehension, inconvertibly scorched into their thoughts and actions, without at the very least trying to dip your toes into theology and religious studies—and so he knew just how powerful an image they were. Wings spread, arising again from their funeral pyre with their beak open in what would no doubt be a noble cry of defiance against death.

His experience of resurrection had been his brain sparking abruptly back to life after tumbling into the dark, whiting out with the sudden influx of sensory input, clawing his way out of the peaceful void of unconsciousness, gasping for air and struggling to stand with limbs still trying to remember how movement worked after everything in his body had simply shut down. The first thing that struck him was the absolute shocked silence of the crowd who he was reasonably sure had been cheering when he'd collapsed. That was the single moment of clarity. Everything from there on was an adrenaline-fueled blur before he was out cold again.

He had been down for the mandatory ten-count and technically Shirou had fallen before he managed to stand, and now the Party of Words referees had no idea what they were supposed to do.

He heard soft padding coming close to him, and then a scrabbling noise as Lucia managed to hoist her way onto his cot. She stared at him a few moments with too-keen eyes that had always felt a bit too intelligent. Then, she sat herself down, and shoved her nose under his hand. He sighed in defeat and began scratching behind her ears.

God, he was exhausted. Maybe the painkillers Shirou had given him were hitting harder than he thought, maybe Lucia had finally gotten him to relax just slightly, or maybe there had just been way too much going on, but he wanted to fall asleep.

He'd closed his eyes and managed to drift into an uncomfortable half-sleep when he heard someone clearing their throat. It took him a moment to process what was off. The voice was feminine. He snapped back awake. One of the referees was standing in the doorframe.

"We've settled on a decision," she said. And then, proving that everyone within the Party was terrible, she left the words hanging.

Haruto felt a twinge of irritation at the obvious manipulation, but obligingly sat up and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Congratulations," she said with a smile. "You'll be representing Nagasaki Prefecture in the regional portion of the Division Rap Battle."

Damien let out an indistinct shout of excitement and pumped his fist before finally finding his words. "Hell yeah!" Then, turning his head to the other two, "See? I told you! You got all worried for nothing."

Shirou gave him as much of a pointed look as his usual serene bearing could betray, a silent statement of were you any less worried? then turned to the Party of Words official. "Thank you. We'll do our best to make Nagasaki proud."

"I'm sure you will." Her eyes shifted, then lingered on Haruto several moments too long. "We'll be watching you with interest." She turned on her heel and left the tent.

The philosopher shifted, an uneasiness he couldn't place settling in the pit of his stomach.

Damien gave voice to Haruto's emotions before he could even place them himself. "Why did that sound like a threat?"

"Let's not jump to the worst possible conclusion," Shirou said. The obvious implication of but let's anticipate it was left hanging in the air, casting a chill over the warmth of their victory.

#hypmic oc #hypnosis mic oc #hypnosis mic #haruto hirabayashi #nagasaki division #hypmic #shirou sonozaki #damien #fan division

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olivish · 3 years

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Here it is! Part 3 of the "Who was Alex's father?" / "Melanie becomes friends with Ben" story. (I really should make a title at some point.)

Part 1 Part 2

Quick Recap: 8 years pre-Freeze, in the leadup to launching Snowpiercer's first commercial iteration, Wilford sent Melanie to oversee track completion between Jerusalem and Tehran. While she was overseas, she fell in love with a photojournalist who was covering the refugee crisis in Lebanon.

On the day Melanie was supposed to return to Chicago, there was a massive earthquake in which he was killed and she was badly hurt. We pickup the story from Ben’s point of view:

Part 3

1. When Ben found out that Melanie was alive and expected to make a full recovery, he stopped calling. He considered visiting in the hospital, but one of his coworkers tried that and ran into Wilford, who flew into a rage. He demanded to know if his engineers really had nothing better to do than deliver teddy bears.

“She’s doing more work than you are,” he said. “Now go away!”

Day and night, Wilford guarded Melanie like a gargoyle.

“That’s his guilt,” went the chatter in the breakroom. “Guilt? About what?” “He sent her over there.” “You’re nuts. Wilford doesn’t feel bad about anything.” “And yet, he won’t leave her room.” “Here’s a thought. Maybe Melanie’s really dead, but he doesn’t want us to catch on. Figures we might try and bail before the ship goes down.” “Weekend at Bernie’s?” “She’s fine! She’s fine! Melanie says get back to work!” [chuckles] “Seriously, though. Is she okay? Should we send a card?”

2. Nobody sent a card. In five years of development, Melanie had never given anyone a card, for anything. She once told Ben, cards are a pointless waste of paper. “And the glitter,” she went on, rubbing her fingers together with a grimace. “They all have glitter.”

“They make cards without glitter.”

“Doesn’t matter. They sit next to the cards that do have glitter, and it transfers. And card shops always smell like scented candles. Have you noticed that? The miasma of rose hips and vanilla?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Also, he wasn’t sure what a miasma was. Ben watched as Melanie went back to work. She seemed to have forgotten why they were talking about greeting cards in the first place.

“So, I’ll just sign your name to this one?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“There’s a party. With cake. And booze.” When she didn’t say anything, he offered, “You should come.”

“Oh. Well. Sure. Maybe. If I finish this work in time.”

Ben knew what that meant. Melanie hated staff parties. If the idle conversation weren’t enough to keep her away, Wilford had started bringing Audrey along as entertainment.

And there was nothing more glittery than Audrey.

3. When Melanie came back to work, her coworkers didn’t find it strange that she kept to herself. She’d always been like that, after all. People welcomed her back and asked how she was, but with Wilford always looming, there wasn’t much opportunity for conversation.

“It’s just a few broken ribs,” she said. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t look fine. It was obvious to anyone with eyes, she wasn’t revealing the half of her injuries. Most glaring of all was a crushed right hand, which Ben knew must be killing her. Not just in terms of pain, but Melanie was a notoriously tactile person.

“You can’t understand something unless you put your hands on it,” she once said. They were testing a new diagnostics program he’d written, and she was sure the readings were off. She could feel it. He disagreed, and when it turned out Melanie was right, she gave him a little lecture.

“Fingertips over sensors,” she said. “Get your hands dirty once in awhile, you’ll have better instincts.”

Ben chaffed at the criticism, but there was no arguing with someone who was always right. When it came to machines, Melanie had the magic touch.

Now, maybe half the magic touch.

But Ben couldn’t bring himself to be cute or ironic about it. Melanie losing her dominant hand only a year from completing her magnum opus seemed like a kind of cruel, cosmic joke.

4. Wilford pulled out all the stops as he tried to help Melanie adjust.

“You haven’t got one hand,” he said, standing close behind her, bringing his arms forward, palms up, fingers wiggling. “You’ve got three.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But really, I can manage on my own.”

“And miss your chance to command two of the devil’s finest playthings? Nonsense! It’ll be just like old times. Perfect sympatico.”

Wilford gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and while he was still behind and unable to see her reaction, Melanie seemed to slip. She was... repelled. Then, her eyes snapped up, realizing for the first time that Ben was standing there.

“Oh, bother,” Wilford sighed, still not releasing her arm. “Can we help you?”

“I have upgrades for the harmonic module,” Ben replied, presenting a thumb drive. “It’s a secondary system, designed to kick in for high volume calculations. It’s stochastic, so it should give us faster results, without-"

"-without a statistically significant impact on accuracy," Wilford finished his sentence. He smiled, impressed for once. "Well, well, Bennett. At least someone was working while the bosses were away. How about it, my dear? Are you in the mood for some nondeterministic computational theory, or is that too dull for this, the week of your triumphant return?”

Again, Ben met Melanie’s eyes. And again, every neuron in his brain screamed, something was very wrong.

Down the assembly line, a forklift dropped a pallet of supplies and Melanie flinched, though her facial expression remained unchanged. Blank. Empty. Not like she was somewhere else, but like she existed nowhere at all.

5. That night, for the first time in fifteen years, Ben dreamed about the car crash that killed his youngest brother.

Everything came back, as vividly as the day it happened. The bang-and-ring. The sickening spin. Shattering glass. Inversion. Crunching. The smell of gasoline and the taste of blood. And little Ian, just 8 years old and perfect, lying in the back seat next to him, his eyes open but unseeing. There were no final moments. He was just gone.

Ben awoke gasping and sweating. He ran to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. “Fuck!” he yelled into the towel as he dried off. What the fuck was that!?

But it didn’t take a genius to figure this one out, did it?

“Christ,” he mumbled, pulling out the bourbon. He poured a double, but stopped with the glass an inch from his lips. With another curse, he pitched the amber liquid down the sink. He filled the kettle, boiled water, and made tea.

As it steeped, he closed his eyes in meditation, counting every breath until his timer went off. 4 minutes.

When he opened his eyes again, it was snowing. Thick flakes, landing softly on the balcony. The Chicago cityscape twinkled in the background.

He thought about Melanie.

He thought about the vacant expression on her face. He’d never seen her like that before. But he recognized the look, from his own reflection, many years ago.

He remembered being numb, exhausted, white knuckling every moment, startling at the slightest sound. After the accident, his older sister, Cecelia, took care of him. She slept next to him at night. She taught him breathing exercises. She took him to a doctor when things got really bad. And then she took him to another doctor, when the first one turned out to be useless.

Cee probably saved his life.

Ben wondered if Melanie had her own Cecelia, or if it really was just Wilford. To his credit, the master engineer seemed to be doing everything in his power to put his broken protégé back together. And yet.

Ben frowned as he watched the snow come down. He just knew, something was very wrong.

There is a Part 4, it's coming soon...

#snowpiercer #fanfiction #Alexander(SP)

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rithmatistkalyna · 4 years

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Happy Republic of Two Systems Independence Day!

Guess what y’all, it’s time for tea flavored truffles. Specifically, Lavender Earl Grey, Jasmine Green, and Chai truffles. Now, I make chocolate truffles on a semi-regular basis and I’ve experimented with lots of flavors, many of which have been very good. I’ve been halfheartedly meaning to experiment with using tea as a flavoring for a while, but not getting to it because the tea flavors seem so delicate compared to the chocolate and I was sure the tea was going to be overwhelmed. Y’all. I could not have been more wrong. These came out amazing. I packed up a baggie of them and left them in the carport for one of my friends to stop by and pick up and she reported back that they were bliss. These recipes are going very solidly into my flavor rotations (and they’re also pretty simple and will be available under the cut). First though, pictures of the finished products.

It’s Ro2SID, so, naturally, we have to have eggs and chicks so that we can endlessly annoy Sphene:

peep peep peep peep!

In honor of the Athoek gardens, we have the lovely green and purple fish, and the red and yellow roses:

And, since the mold with the fish also has a turtle, a Propriety Turtle:

and now, without further ado, let’s jump under the cut for recipes and process pictures!

Ganache is the fancy word for chocolate that you’ve mixed with cream and maybe also butter and flavorings.

Tea Flavored Ganache:

~130 grams heavy cream (a little over half a cup using US measures, note that you’re going to loose some of this volume in the process)

~200 grams semisweet chocolate chips (about 1 1/4 US cups)

1 heaping tsp of your tea of choice. If you are using bagged tea, my guess is that 2 bags would be a good idea

Put the heavy cream in a tiny sauce pan and put it on the stove on low. You want it nice and warm, but you don’t want the cream to boil. Stir the tea into the cream and let it simmer and steep for a while. I didn’t time it, but I got it set and then went off and browsed tumblr for a bit, so... You want the cream to taste distinctly of your chosen tea. It’s going to take longer than it usually takes you to brew a cup of tea because we are going for low and slow brewing here. Once your cream is nice and tea flavored, get a bowl with the chocolate chips and pour the warm cream through a tea strainer over the chocolate. Use a spoon to mash the tea in the strainer to get as much of the cream as possible through. Between the water that has boiled off of the cream and the cream that the tea absorbed you should be somewhere in the ball park of 100 grams of cream. Don’t stress about getting it exactly. In the three batches I made I ended up slightly over and slightly under. It’s fine. Carefully stir the bowl of chocolate chips and warm cream. The cream should melt the chocolate so that, with patience you can get it blended to a nice homogenous mixture. If your cream is cooler than mine (or the chocolate is colder, or the ambient temperature of the room is too low, or...), the chocolate might not melt entirely. If this happens pop the bowl in the microwave for about 15 seconds, or put it over a double boiler on the stove for a bit. The resulting mixture is your truffle filling. It’s going to be fairly runny right now, but if you let it cool for a bit it will thicken up enough to pipe, and if you chill it it will solidify enough to scoop and roll.

Note:

In general, for truffle filling you want a mix of chocolate and cream that is approximately 2 parts (fairly dark) chocolate, 1 part cream by weight. This will make a nice creamy truffle filling that melts in your mouth but also sets up well if it’s reasonably cool. If you are new to candy making, it might be easier to shift that ratio a little more toward the chocolate. If you are adding an additional liquid flavoring you would want to cut back on the cream. Sometimes my goal is a firmer filling for whatever reason, but this is the ratio I used for these.

Pictures time:

The Lavender Earl Grey tea I used. It’s a Kroger brand. The lavender in it was very subtle. A traditional Earl Grey would be just as good. It’s reminiscent of orange chocolate, but so much better and far, far easier than the attempts I’ve made in the past at doing a citrusy chocolate truffle.

We’ve got a local world market that is a giant warehouse of a grocery store and that’s where I got this tub of Jasmine pearls. You wouldn’t need to use pearls, its just what I happened to have on hand.

I don’t have a good picture of the chai - one of my friends brought the tea I used back for me when she visited India and it came in a bag that I dumped into a mason jar. It’s not particularly photogenic, but it’s delicious.

You want a heaping teaspoon of the tea to go in your cream.

Once it is simmered with the tea, strain the cream into your bowl of chocolate chips. I started with 200 g of chocolate chips, so once I strained the cream here I ended up with 94 g. That’s absolutely close enough.

Stir til it’s nice and smooth. Now you have truffle filling! (or, you know, eat it with a spoon, or put it on ice cream, or spread it on a scone or toast or something).

If you want to do molded truffles like the ones in the first part of this post, set the filling aside to cool off and set up a bit and get your mold out.

I got this egg mold on clearance after Easter at Michaels a few years ago. Here you can see that I’ve melted candy melts in a tiny mason jar. It’s not strictly necessary, but if you get a tub of EZ Thin and add a bit it definitely will make this easier. I’ve used a small paint brush (that is designated only for food things) to start painting the yellow details in the depressions of the mold.

For the two tone roses, I didn’t actually fill the depressions like I did for the eggs. Instead I aimed to get the yellow down in the deepest parts of the crevices, but left it so you can see the pink mold sticking out. When adding the red (or the green I added to the eggs after the yellow) the goal becomes to make sure the mold is covered and you can’t see it peaking through.

For extra structural integrity, add a layer of melted chocolate. If you want you can absolutely skip the candy melts step and go straight to coating the molds with chocolate. You can also skip the chocolate and just use candy melts as your coating. As you can see, I have my chocolate in a larger mason jar, which can either be microwaved or set in a water bath to heat and melt the chocolate. If you want really professional chocolates you can mess with tempering. If you just want something delicious it isn’t necessary, so I’m not going to go into the details here. There are two key things to keep in mind when working with melted chocolate:

1) Chocolate actually burns pretty easily, so be careful not to get it too hot. If it’s too runny it also won’t coat the mold well - you want it liquid, but still kind of thick. If you get it too runny, you can add more solid chocolate as you stir to help it cool down faster (a very careful version of this is also, incidentially, how to temper chocolate).

2) Chocolate and water are not friends. If you are using a water bath, be very careful not to get water in the chocolate. If you do, the chocolate will seize up clumpy and not want to melt nicely again. You can use seized chocolate to make more ganache, but not for coating.

Once the chocolate hardens (either because you were patient or because you stuck it in the freezer for a few minutes to speed it up), add the filling almost-but-not-quite to the top of the mold-you want to be able to seal the filling in. You can spoon it in, but the easiest way I’ve found is to scoop the ganache into a ziplock baggie, cut a tiny triangle off one of the corners and pipe the cool but not cold filling in. If your room is warm, room temperature is fine. If it’s cold, you might want to hold the baggie of chocolate in your hands and let them warm it up a little before you try to pipe.

If your room is cool enough you can just let the filled truffles sit for a bit, or you can pop it in the fridge or freezer so that the filling firms up nicely. Once it’s firmed up, use melted chocolate to finish filling the molds and seal in the filling. Unfortunately I failed to get a picture of that step. Then you get one last round of chilling/patience and your chocolates are ready for you to carefully pop them out of the mold. Be especially careful if you are doing something like the turtle that has limbs that are easily broken off.

Hooray! Extra delicious homemade chocolate truffles!

But Kaly! What if I don’t have a chocolate mold?!

No worries! I made chocolates for a couple of years before I discovered that chocolate molds were a thing you could buy at the craft store. I’m going to use a silicone mat in the next picture, but I’ve absolutely used a cheap plastic plate or parchment paper and had it work just fine!

On the right you can see the naked truffle fillings. I chilled the bowl of filling in the fridge until it was like firm clay and then used a spoon to scoop out small bits that I rolled into balls in the palms of my hands. This ends up warming them back up a bit, so once you have a batch rolled, pop it in the freezer for a couple minutes. Then carefully dip each filling one at a time into your melted chocolate. and set it on your mat/plate/parchment paper to cool and dry. The first time you try this you will likely get chocolate everywhere. Just be aware it’s going to happen and embrace the delicious mess. With practice you can get less messy. You can also roll the truffle fillings in something like finely chopped nuts or cocoa powder instead of dipping them. The green tea ones would probably be really good rolled in matcha powder!

If you have any questions, feel free to ask!

#R2SID2020 #ro2sid 2020 #ro2sid bingo #Imperial Radch #tea flavored truffles #Kaly Cooks #fandom candy #ro2sid candy part 2 #part 1 was candy emanations

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years

Text

Rain Over The Mediterranean

Summary: Cardia and Saint-Germain considers the synonymy between them and the sea.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2800

Notes: I mean... I suppose... Well, here it is. Hope you like it.

The first, fat raindrop landed on Saint-Germain’s nose, running along the curve of his nostril before it lost momentum on his upper lip. The second splashed against Cardia’s ear, the cold startling needles beneath her skin.

By the third drop, Saint-Germain had taken her hand to guide her dextrously back to the excessive, replicant mansion by the beach near Marseille that had been their home since the previous afternoon.

The seemingly newlywed couple was in sights of their lodgings, and so the sudden rain was not much of a concern, but it was such a shame cut their walk short. The sweet smells of the lavender plantation nearby, carried by the cooler wind from the continent and easing the dry heat of the summer morning. The soft sunlight reflected on the shore estates and the ruins down the beach.

Saint-Germain looks over to the Mediterranean. Some few miles away from the beach, it was as sunny as ever, while over them hung a grey, stormy cloud, ready to release its contents over their heads. A shame, indeed, but it might be sunny again in a couple of hours.

The young woman paused for just a moment, casting a final look toward the brilliant orange of the morning sun. It was rare for it to rain in the Mediterranean Summer, but she pinned that up to a good omen. Ancient men, like her husband, usually interpreted rain as a gift from up above, and she liked that thought.

As the brunette watched, the surface of the seawater became speckled with rain, the agitation beneath suggesting that more was brewing than a simple morning shower. She turned away to follow Saint-Germain, wondering if these were the sights that had earned her husband’s love for the sea.

Their pace quickened as the skies continued to pour forth with increasing vigour. Her thin slippers, tugged back on in haste, did little to aid her in gaining traction through the loose sand beyond the shoreline. Cardia lurched forward; the shadows of the jacket Saint-Germain held over her head blocking her view of uneven path. His arm was at her side in a moment to catch her.

“I’m well, Saint-Germain.” She promised, giggling at the foolish image they would have made had anyone else been at the seaside to observe them.

“We’re nearly there.” He encouraged as they came within sight of their temporary abode.

He flung open the door and ushered her in, stopping to flick the excess water from his jacket onto the ground outside. When he had finished, he stepped back, latching the door and casting his eye around the darkening mansion.

“It looks as though we may be stuck inside for a while, unfortunately.” Cardia surmised as she brushed the wet curls from her eyes. “But I cannot fault the company.”

“Nor I.” The affection in his voice produced a shiver that had nothing to do with the inclement weather.

The dampness of her clothes finally settling against her skin, Cardia drew close to the fire Saint-Germain was stoking back from embers.

“We should dry much faster if we change out of our wet things.” He advised with a quick glance back at her. “I would not want you to become sick in our little escapade.”

She nodded at the welcome suggestion, fingers already working at the ties of her dress. Still, she watched him as he worked the coals, divided focus slowing movements that should have come easily.

He added a log to the fire, the flames crackling greedily to consume the new wood. In the glow, his eyes gleamed emerald as she stepped nearer. Three years of marriage, and her heart still raced every time she saw the way he looked at her when they were alone together. She hoped it always would.

Saint-Germain joined her in standing, his posture straight and still as he allowed her to assist in his process of undressing. Cardia’s deft fingers made short work of his shirt, tugging out the layers of fabric that had been tucked down the front of his trousers.

“You’re soaked through.” She noted quietly, wondering how many times he had been similarly drenched without a place of retreat.

How many times had he gone without someone to care for him? I will see that he lacks for nothing, she promised as her hand lingered over the well-known scars on his chest.

He covered her fingers with a large hand, dragging them gently from the puckered skin at his side. His lips skimmed the knuckles with the lightest of kisses before he returned the hand and directed his attention to the fastenings at her shoulders.

She watched his face as he worked, feeling his efforts come to fruition in the loosening neckline. Idly, she wondered whether there was anything which his hands were not skilled in doing. If there were, she had yet to discover it.

Moments later, he eased the shift over her head, leaving her bare before him.

“You are beautiful, my Cardia.” He breathed out.

With a tender smile, he extended a hand to cup her cheek. Cardia stood on her toes, offering her mouth for a kiss.

His lips tasted of wind and rain, wakening a heat deep within her that even the cool of autumn could not steal away. It was only with some effort that she pulled back to gather their clothes from the floor. While she arranged their wet things by the fireplace, Saint-Germain stepped into a dry set of trousers.

“Perhaps…” She began, wicked thoughts running through her mind while catching his movement in the corner of her eye. “Perhaps we should wait for these to dry. There is little reason for us to dress fully now. No one is here to see us, and it will be some time before we are able to return outside.”

He laid aside the shirt, but his fingers still worked to fasten the buttons of his pants. “I would not object to that.”

Task complete, Cardia crossed the room, winding her arms around her husband’s waist and pressing her cheek to his bare skin. Even out of the wet clothes, she was far from warm. A faint shiver crossed her shoulders as Saint-Germain’s arms circled them.

“You may doubt my words, repetitive as they certainly are, but tea is very good for warming up on such mornings.” He suggested, stepping aside to pull a quilt from the bed.

Returning to her, he wrapped the blanket around her petite frame.

“Indeed, it is.” She agreed, clutching at the fabric. “But I am not in the mood for tea. I suppose I would rather to keep you warm myself, instead.”

The blond man chuckled. “I would not object to that either.”

Her lips pursed slightly at the quiver of humour in his tone.

While he began boiling water, Cardia took stock of the supplies they had brought with them from his London estate. Impey and Lupin had done them a great favour, not only preparing days’ worth of food in advance, but including all of the things they might need to cook for themselves as well.

She thought that Victor, too, might have had something to do with the state of the provisions, especially when she located a little pot of the honey that they both favoured, which had fallen to the bottom of one basket. She ought to remember to thank him upon their return to London.

Setting it aside, she replaced the contents of the basket, a task that took much longer with one hand occupied in holding up her blanket. When she had finished, she sat and watched her husband’s capable form over the fire. Even as they had adjusted to the roles of their new life, moments like these reminded her just how quickly the familiar had become foreign.

“Is this what you imagined when you wished for a vacation by the sea?” She inquired softly, pulling the corners of the quilt into a knot at her breast.

He turned from the fire momentarily in order to address the question. “You already know that life with you is much more than I ever could imagine, Cardia.”

“That does not quite answer my question.” She protested, falling quiet for some moments before she attempted it again. “Do you never wish for a simpler life? A human life, with a human woman, with little business with Salvation or the British government or the European Concert?”

Saint-Germain withdrew the boiling pot and set it beside the fire to steep. Contemplative, he rocked back onto his heels.

“Cardia, when I was a human, my life was painful, miserable and short. When I met Trismegistus, when I was allowed to want for the first time, I wished for an ordinary happiness. Our life may be far from what I classify as ordinary, but I would do nothing to change our fortunes, because ordinary or otherwise, I am deliriously happy.” He urged with a thin smile. “Especially when we may rely on our friends to help arrange for such disappearances as this one. With them to assist us, I doubt that this will be the last time we escape to the sea together.”

Her legs scratched against each other as she pulled them up under the chair.

"I hope that it is not. Though I’m not sure I expected this particular excursion to be quite so dirty.” She observed, rubbing the salt and sand that had dried on her calves.

"Was it not worthwhile to walk barefoot through the waves?” Saint-Germain poured her a measure of tea and sat across the table.

She thanked him and took a small sip, mulling over the question he had posed. “It was worth seeing the sea at your side.”

He watched closely to gauge her response. “You do not like it on its own?”

She shrugged. “I’m not certain what I think of it. At the moment, I find it rather frightening, and there’s rather more sand than I imagined. I’m afraid I’ll be finding it in my shoes for months to come, and that part of life by the sea does not seem very appealing.”

He laughed gently at her complaint, green eyes shimmering with his amusement. “I am not fond of it either, but it is a necessary evil to enjoy the ocean.”

"Then tell me what it is like to be at sea.” She suddenly demands. “What is it about the water that you love?”

Even beyond the sand, her own first impression had been less favourable. She could smile as the foamy waves lapped her feet, but the thought of being stranded in the midst of the wide ocean made her shudder. It was too large, too uncertain for her to understand his great affection for it.

He chuckled once more. “That would be a very long story indeed.”

Thunder boomed, a tremor reverberating throughout the small mansion.

“This seems a good morning for long stories, dear. We won’t be anywhere until lunchtime.” Cardia tightened her hold on the fine porcelain cup and took a draught of the liquid.

“Very well.” The aristocrat concurs.

“But if I am to keep you warm, then I must join you for the telling.” She stood, barely catching the edge of the quilt before it slipped from one shoulder.

A smile flittered across his face at her brief struggle.

“I do not think this chair is large enough for both of us.” His eyes darted from her to the opposite wall. “Perhaps we should sit before the fire, where we may both be warm.”

Tea in one hand, Cardia rose to the balls of her feet and pivoted toward the place he had indicated. Her tiny steps beckoned him to follow, but he outpaced her easily. Once there, he sat a distance from the flames, legs outstretched so that she was able to easily climb into his lap.

She untied the blanket and spread it around both pairs of shoulders. Saint-Germain’s hands held her secure, arms encircling her slender waist once everything had been properly situated. She sighed with contentment as her bare skin settled against his broad chest.

“This is very pleasant.” Cardia mused, slipping one arm outside of the alcove to retrieve her tea.

The blond nods. “It is, perhaps, too pleasant. If we sit like this for very long, I may be in danger of forgetting the sea altogether.”

With a titter, Cardia slipped from his lap to the floor. “I’ll return once you’ve finished your story.”

Saint-Germain leaned down to kiss her crown, one arm stretching behind to draw her close. Heads together, he began to speak.

For nearly an hour, he told her of the great empty expanse; of the freedom of movement to anywhere in the known world; of the moonlit nights with calm, open seas; of the ceaseless rocking that enticed sleep such as no other force could bring; of the bliss of seeing land at long last after a hard voyage. Countless descriptions and tales that Cardia endeavoured to commit to memory.

She listened intently as he spoke, and while her own feelings toward the sea remained unchanged, she thought, perhaps, that she could understand his better.

By the time his words had reached their end, the roaring fire had dwindled and they had long since given up their seated positions in order to lie beside one another atop the quilt.

"Has your curiosity been satisfied?” He asked finally, voice low against the patter of rain above them. “Or is there anything else you wish to know?”

She considered the sum total of all she knew, both from his words and from her own observations. “Just this. The sea that I have observed is nothing like what your stories describe. Even between this morning and yesterday evening, it is completely altered. What is there to love about something that is so full of changes? How can there be any comfort in returning to something that is never the same?”

"Aye.” He agreed readily. “It changes often. But I think I love it more because of the changes.” His gaze dropped to the blanket beneath them as he wove his thoughts together.

Cardia gave him room to think, lazily combing through the white silk of his hair that were still damp from their previous drenching. When his eyes returned to her face, she was startled to see the depth of emotion held within.

“It is rather like the way I love you, though my love for you is much greater.” Saint-Germain swallowed, the lines in his face softening as he continued. “Cardia, you have altered a great deal since you first arrived at London. Few would recognize in you now the same unfeeling, detached doll that Lupin brought back from somewhere in Wales. Yet, I love you for many of the same reasons that I loved you then. In the months that have passed, I have seen blossom many sides of you, but there is not a single one I do not love.”

Saint-Germain looked on her meaningfully, and she felt the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. Throat thickening, Cardia rolled onto an elbow to get a better look at him. He gazed back with honesty and adoration, and she wondered what on earth she could have done to deserve such complete devotion from so generous a man.

"My love for you is constant, Saint-Germain.” She breathed, brushing her fingers along the length of his strong jaw, “even through the changes.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, the thick muscles rippling under her touch. “And it is the deepest love that I have ever known.” She traced a line of kisses to his neck, pausing at the nape tenderly.

When she pulled away, he turned to his side and drew her into his arms. She melted against him readily, every vein alight with desire to show him her promises were true.

He searched her face, though her features could hardly be discerned in the dim light. “You are the greatest change to my life, my Cardia, but the greatest constant too. I would not trade this life with you for all of the dreams and stories my mind has ever devised. I have the sun itself. How could I desire more?”

The fire before them had faded to embers, yet the flames within Cardia burned bright as she met his lips in a passionate kiss.

A shock of thunder rumbled, and rain beat heavily against the panes of the small window. But neither thought of the weather, or even the sea that lay outside. They did not even ponder the future changes which waited for them beyond the mansion walls. Instead, they found joy in one thing they knew would never waver.

*_*_*_*_*

Code: Realize Masterlist

#code realize #saint-germain

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highqueenofelfhame · 4 years

Text

if i had a soul to steal/4.21/fourteen.

WARNING: IIHASTS Contains descriptions of graphic violence and explicit sexual content. Some parts may not be suitable for readers under 18. Reader discretion is advised.

“You’re fussing,” Aelin said, one brow quirked at Rowan while he checked the wound that was mostly healed and had been for a few days. On the table, a fresh pot of tea was steeping next to a teacup, ready for her to sip as soon as he was content. He had also gone into town again for supplies. Rowan had spent the last forty-five minutes in the kitchen working on toasting a baguette and making her a delicious soup that she’d already finished a bowl of.

“I’m not fussing.”

“You’re fussing,” Fenrys agreed from across the room, not taking his eyes off the TV.

It had been a long two weeks. Fenrys had been in and out, bringing them as much information he was able to gather, but it wasn’t much. There was no new information on the case, no new information on Aelin. Nobody seemed to know where they had disappeared to, and nobody seemed to suspect Fenrys. If they did, they weren’t saying anything.

“You were shot -”

“And now I’m fine! It’s been weeks since it happened. The wound is closed, it doesn’t look or feel infected. You’re going berserk for no reason.” Rowan sighed and sat down next to her, pulling her feet into his lap. Absently, he began to rub the soles of her feet and it felt so good that she couldn’t help the moan that fell from her lips. A moan that had Rowan tensing. He hadn’t heard her make that sort of sound since the night weeks ago when he’d awoken from a nightmare and sprinted across town to feel her body against his.

Aelin sat up and crawled onto his lap, ran her fingers through his hair. Her eyes followed the silver strands as they shifted and twined through her fingers, the color like moonlight spilling over onto her skin. Rowan tilted his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing as she leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m okay,” she said softly, kissing the other corner, alternating sides until she was pressing a soft but firm kiss to the center of his lips.

“I can show you just how fine I am,” she whispered, the tension between them a string pulled taut.

“Well I’m fucking starving,” Fenrys said, eliciting a laugh from both Aelin and Rowan. Aelin’s hands fell to rest on either side of Rowan’s neck. “And as much as I’d love a threesome, one with you two isn’t on my list.” And then he was leaving, mumbling about how gross they were under his breath as he closed the door.

Rowan’s hands ran up and down her sides and he leaned forward to kiss her again. It was a teasing kiss, one where he pulled away just as she tried to melt against his hard chest.

“Rowan,” she whispered, a frown tugging her lips down. Her finger traced the shape of his mouth, ran along the sharp shape of his jaw. “You were the only thing keeping me going when I thought I was lost to the world.” Her words were barely a whisper, her lips tracing poems over his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Against her thighs, his hands tightened to grip the pajama shorts she wore.

Rowan didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t have to say anything because she was going to show him that she was fine, he was going to show her how much he loved her, missed her with his hands and his mouth all over her body.

He lifted her with ease, carrying her to the bedroom and kicking the door shut behind him. He laid her down on the bed with heartbreaking tenderness and immediately caught her mouth with his own, letting the hard press of his body against hers surround her, protect her, keep her safe.

He spent hours worshiping her. Hours with his lips and teeth and tongue tracing the shapes of every single scar that she bore. He kissed up and down those on her back, the ones around her wrists. He kissed scars from childhood trips and from her time when she was captured and tortured all the same. He spent extra time kissing around the gunshot wound he had sewed together, soft kisses all around before laying one directly on the raised skin. Everywhere that she hurt, he hurt, and he wanted to make it abundantly clear that she was never alone. Not now, not ever again.

When he finally rolled his hips against hers and pushed inside her, both of them had wet cheeks full of words neither of them needed to say. It was slow, both of them wanting to take their time together. Last time it had been rushed and quick, but this time they had all the time in the world to explore each others bodies like it was the very first time. In a lot of ways it was.

It was the first time Rowan ran his fingers down her back and felt warped, tarnished and rough skin. The first time she hadn’t felt smooth as marble while he pressed his fingers into her between gasps of pleasure. It was the first time he had half a mind to worry about hurting her, had half a mind to worry if she was more delicate than she let on. He knew her, though. Knew her body, knew her mind. Knew that every single touch was breaking and healing all at once.

With her head dropped back while she rode atop him, his rough and calloused hands leaving tiny mountains and hills over her body. Everywhere he touched, little bumps raised and followed. The sight drove him insane - that he did this to the woman in his arms. That only he drew these sounds out, that only he made her moan.

He flipped them, pushing into her harder and faster but the intimacy was not lost. Her hands held his face carefully, brushing away the tears that slipped free while he kissed her and gave her everything he had.

When they came to a final climax together, he was ruined. Every part of him belonged to her, every part of him would always be hers. There was no one else who could compare. If everyone had a great love story, she was his. If everyone had an Achilles heel, she was his. And he would spend the rest of his life showing it to her, proving it to her. That she was loved above all else, and that he would never let her go.

~*~

“Don’t go to work today,” she had murmured against his lips, doing everything in her power to seduce him back to bed like a siren luring a sailor into murky waters. He hummed against her lips, leaning over her perfect body. Rowan braced one hand on the bed beside her head, his other running down her side. Aelin’s fingers started to unbutton his shirt, and it was at that moment that he had to groan and pull away, leaving his wife with a pout on her foul, beautiful mouth.

“I wish I could stay home with you,” he sighed, dropping another kiss to her lips that was so quick she didn’t have time to suck him back down into her clutches. Aelin had been graced with an empty Saturday while Rowan had paperwork to wrap up from a case they’d closed two days ago.

“Will you at least come home early? Have dinner with me before Willow gets back from Gavriel and Aerin’s. I’ll…order takeout,” she laughed then, the sound bright and full of pure joy. It made Rowan’s heart swell and soar so much that he leaned down to kiss her again.

“I’ll be out of the office at four and back in your arms before five.” Aelin bit her lip and held up her pinky finger, the emerald on her left hand glistening in the early morning sunlight. He hooked his pinky around hers and pressed a final kiss to her lips. “I’m so godsdamn in love with you.”

“I love you the same,” she had replied, grinning widely at him as she lay her head back down on her pillows, settling to go back to sleep.

“I love you the same,” he could hear her saying it as clear as day.

When he woke up, the gasp crawling out of his throat, he felt like he was outside of his body. His limbs were heavy like someone had filled his bones with lead. There was a part of his neck that hurt, but he couldn’t pinpoint the exact feeling. With his head so fuzzy it was hard for him to focus on anything but the struggle to sit up.

One hand reached across an empty bed that was plagued with cold sheets and, despite knowing she was likely in the kitchen, his heart began to hammer in his chest at a rate that almost hurt. It shot enough adrenaline through him that he sat up and called her name.

She didn’t answer.

“Aelin!” His entire body was screaming as he thrust to his feet and stumbled through the bedroom. He knocked into the dresser so hard he let out a grunt of pain but everything so groggy and foggy, the edges of his vision still black.

In the main room, on the floor, Fenrys was laying with blood leaking from his nose. The skin over his knuckles was split like he’d been in some sort of a fight but it didn’t stop Rowan from surging at him and throwing a hit of his own straight to his unconscious face.

“What the fuck did you do with her?” He growled as soon as Fenrys’ eyes cracked open. Rowan’s teeth bared as he hovered inches from his face.

“You stupid asshole,” Fenrys hissed, trying and failing to shove Rowan off. It seemed like his limbs were made of sand, too. “I tried to stop him but someone else came up behind me and stuck a needle in my godsdamn neck. I barely got a hit in before I hit the floor.”

Rowan’s blood was boiling in his body, his body that was so heavy, so full of lead and stones that he struggling to reach the kitchen.

It was like coming home all those years ago all over again.

~*~

“Oh, come on, Laena! I was only kidding!” Archer was a few years older than she was and one of the oldest in the orphanage. He was constantly teasing her, constantly pulling at her braids. Constantly telling her that she didn’t have family anymore so she should stop hoping. It didn’t stop the stupid crush she had on him, though.

Her eyes opened, then rolled shut.

“Laena?” A soft knock at her bedroom door, a boy with brown hair and brown eyes lingering in the space and waiting for her to say he could come in.

“What do you want?” Her tone wasn’t pleasant but why would it be? He and Archer had always been so awful — teasing her until she hit them most of the time. They were the reason she ended up in trouble usually, scrubbing pans on double kitchen duty until her fingers were raw and red.

Again, her eyes rolled open but they it felt like someone was tugging them closed with strings. Taking deep breaths and trying not to let panic take over, she gripped at the coarse bed sheets that she knew were not her own as she was dragged back down into a dark abyss.

A veil was dropped over her face, Nehemia next to her straightening her dress. It was all ivory and gold with heavy beading. She never did anything half way.

Nehemia, beaming at her as she shed tears of joy for her friend. Nehemia, who had been shot on the job and not survived. This was not real.

Eyes roll shut.

A blood curdling scream while a knife carved up her back, while her skin was peeled from her body. Pain so white hot and terrible that she passed out, blood running down her sides and over her shoulders. Blood dripping onto the concrete floor.

This was not real.

This time when her eyes opened, she forced them to stay that way, will the invisible threads to hold them open versus keeping them closed. The first words that climbed out of her throat was Rowan’s name, hoarse and barely even a whisper. She tried again to no avail, no sound coming out loud enough for anyone but her to hear.

When the black, foggy veil lifted from her vision she was able to truly focus on where she was, the familiarity of it cleaving her heart in two. She had spent one year, four months, and twenty one days here before the Ashryvers tracked her down. A year where the government had so hopelessly failed her, a year where she had been beaten and abused.

She was laying on a rusty bed with a too-hard mattress that didn’t provide any comfort. It was dark out, but she could make out the vague details of the simply decorated room.

The floor was falling in some places, the ceiling caved in others. The door hung halfway off its hinges and the knob dangled from its hole. It was eerie. But she supposed it wasn’t as bad as the cabin, where she’d been tortured. Again, she tried to say his name, only for —

“Your beloved Rowan isn’t here. There’s no use in trying to to yell for him.” That voice — so familiar yet not because of how much he had grown. Archer Finn stepped out of the shadows, half of his form bathed in moonlight. Aelin's Heart was running at full throttle, working overtime to pump whatever drug out of her system but it wasn’t fast enough. She knew if she tried to fight him right now, she would lose.

And then there was the matter of her arms tied so tightly with a thick, scratchy rope that she hadn’t even registered until now. Archer opened his mouth to speak, but there was a crashing downstairs and Aelin’s eyes flew wide open.

Rowan. It had to be.

In an instant, Archer was behind Aelin, yanking her to her feet with a knife at her throat, the blade pricking her skin uncomfortably. Feet stormed through the orphanage until a body burst into the room, knocking the door from the hinges entirely.

Not Rowan, but Detective Sam Cortland.

“EVERYBODY FREEZE!”

@starseternalnighttriumphant @musicmaam @city-of-fae @kandasboi @the-regal-warrior @empire-of-wildfire @tangledraysofsunshine @nalgenewhore @lorcansalvaterree @valarian-trash @aniniop @booksstorm @shyvioletcat @standbislytherin @rowaelinforeverworld @tangledrayofsunshine @lights-of-stars @http-itsrebecca @princess-galathynius @wifeofchrishemsworth @charincharge @amren-rhyssecond @gigglinggummybears @mskaterinablack @because-i-am-lost @hey-its-grey @sleeping-and-books @thephilosophyofblank @breezyfreezey @westofmoon @tonystarksbish @mariamuses @thereaderandfangirl @silvermindedwarrior @rosesandglass @xxhopelesspeachesxx @maraadyyer @flowerspringsea @the-bookloving-girl @vartinehd @mis-lil-red @but-she-was-aelin-galathynius @dreamcatchersimss

#iihasts #iihasts14 #if i had a soul to steal #421 #rowaelin #tog #throne of glass #throne of glass au #rowaelin au

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samsexualdeancurious · 4 years

Text

Man Cold

Pairing: Implied but not explicit Bucky x Reader

Words: 1,559

Summary: Bucky has a cold.

Warnings: Fluff, Bucky being a bit of a whiny brat, sick!Bucky.

Written for @saxxxology for her December fic. Betaed by me. The soup recipe described in this fic is one I use regularly. It's from the Lion House Soups and Stews book and is simple but delicious.

---

“You look like shit,” Sam proclaims as soon as Bucky enters the common room.

Normally you would just write a comment like that off as Sam being Sam but today you have to agree. Bucky looks awful. He’s leaning against the corner of the wall, rubbing at his red nose with the back of one hand. His eyes are equally red. As you watch, he shivers and winces.

“Feel like shit,” he grumbles, stumbling to a chair. His voice is barely a whisper and you suspect immediately that he has a sore throat. His cough confirms that suspicion.

“I’ll make you some tea,” you tell him, jumping to your feet. “Peppermint, I think. With a little honey.”

“Don’t want tea,” Bucky whines.

“Too bad. I’m making tea and you’re going to drink it. It’ll be good for your throat.”

Bucky pouts but coughs again instead of arguing. You bustle around the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and putting it on the stove. It’s whistling within minutes and you’re pouring hot water over the teabag in Bucky’s favorite mug. You let is steep before adding some honey and mixing it in.

“Drink this,” you instruct, returning to the table to give Bucky the mug.

He makes a face but obeys, taking a tentative sip. He seems to find it passable because he takes a second, much larger sip.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, looking up at you with the most pathetic expression you’ve ever seen on a hundred-year-old man.

You roll your eyes and pat his head. “You have a cold.”

“How the hell does a super-soldier catch a cold?” Sam wonders out loud as he watches you chop the veggies you need for a mirepoix - onions, carrots, and celery.

You shrug, scraping the veggies into a preheated pot. “Dunno. I just figured his immune system works like ours, just faster? Maybe it’s just a strain that’s taking his body longer to clear out.”

Sam shakes his head. “When do you think the last time he had a cold was?”

“Probably before the war.” You stir the veggies with a wooden spoon, mixing them together and spreading them evenly across the bottom of the pan. You can already smell the fragrant notes you’re looking for. “I can’t imagine he caught anything during his time with Hydra. If he does, he probably doesn’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

You spin around to shake the spoon at Bucky where he’s swaying in the doorway, looking absolutely exhausted. “What are you doing up? Get back to bed.”

“I don’t want to lie in bed,” he complains.

You roll your eyes and toss the spoon to Sam. “Keep an eye on that mirepoix. Don’t let it brown.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a salute as you cross the room to grab Bucky’s wrist.

“Y/N,” Bucky whines, going easily when you tug him back down the hall to his room. “I don’t want to be in bed.”

“You need to lie down and rest,” you say, stopping in front of his door.

“Do I have to do that in bed?” he’s pouting now, doing his best to pull on your heartstrings.

“It’s that or contaminate the whole couch and get everyone else sick.”

He shakes his head. “But Nat probably already got everyone sick.”

“No, she just got you sick.” You poke his arm and he pouts harder, rubbing at the spot. “At least try and contain yourself to your room until you’re not contagious anymore.”

“How long will that be?” he asks as you open the door and nudge him inside. His bed is a mess, blankets and pillows piled up in a sort-of nest that he goes easily into when you direct him.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I’ve never seen a super-soldier with a cold before. It could be a day, it could be a week. We’ll just have to wait it out.”

Bucky groans and rolls over to bury his face in a pillow. “Then just leave me here to die.”

You roll your eyes - you seem to be doing that a lot today - and pull one of the blankets out of the tangle to cover him with. “You lay here. I’m making you chicken noodle soup.”

He turns onto his side to look up at you with hopeful eyes. “You are? Promise?”

You lean down to press a kiss to his forehead. “It’s on the stove right now being watched over by Sam.”

Bucky waves her off. “Better go rescue it then. I wouldn’t trust Sam to microwave a hotdog.”

You laugh. “I’ll have you know that Sam is a very good cook. Learned from his momma.”

Bucky grumbles and you laugh again.

“Fine, I’ll go. But you don’t get any soup unless you stay here and rest.”

He waves you off and tugs the blanket up over his head.

You shake your head and flick off the light before closing the door. When you return to the kitchen, it’s to find Sam dutifully stirring the pot of veggies.

“Smells really good,” he observes, returning the spoon to you.

It really is. One of the surefire ways to let everyone know you’re cooking is to put onions in a pot. You give the veggies a gentle stir, noting that the onions are starting to get translucent.

The rest of the soup-making process is easy - dice the chicken and add it to the pot with some seasonings, add broth once the chicken is cooked, add noodles once the broth is boiling. Simple, classic.

“That smells amazing,” Steve observes, coming into the kitchen fresh from a run.

“Bucky has first dibs,” you say before he can even ask for a bowl.

“Why Bucky?” He glances around the room looking for his friend and frowns when he doesn’t see him.

“Because he has a cold,” you explain.

Steve stares. “Bucky has a cold?”

“Sounds ridiculous, I know,” Sam pipes up from where he’s planted himself on the couch with a book. “But you should see him. He looks miserable. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.”

Steve is looking at you, clearly searching for some kind of explanation. “He’s sick?”

“Just a cold,” you assure Steve. “Runny nose, itchy eyes, sore throat, a bit of a fever, the whole works. He’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t even know we could catch colds,” Steve says, voice quiet. “Should I go check on him?”

“He’s sleeping. Plus, we don’t want you catching a cold, too.” You point your spoon at him. “One whiny, miserable, overgrown man child is more than enough for me.”

Steve winces but nods. “Can I have a little soup?” he asks, leaning over to peek into the pot and take a deep breath of the warm, homey scent. It’s a big pot and a lot of soup - Bucky and Steve have similar metabolisms - so you know there’s going to be plenty in the batch.

“After your shower,” you instruct, waving him off. “You reek.”

“I do?” He yanks you in for a one-armed hug, chuckling when you screech and shove him away.

You whack him in the chest with one hand, waving the spoon in his face. “Asshole.”

Steve just grins and heads off toward his room.

The soup is ready soon and you grab the biggest mug in the cupboard - one Clint brought from home and left. It’s a low, wide design that reads “Cup of Happy” in colorful letters. You fill it as full as you dare with soup, get a spoon from the drawer, and make your way down the hall to Bucky’s room.

“Buck?” you call, knocking softly on the door.

There’s some rustling around and then a slightly muffled “come in.”

You manage to push the door open without spilling the soup or dropping the spoon. The room is dark and you can barely make out a large lump under the blankets that you assume is Bucky.

Guiding yourself by the small slivers of light slipping through the blinds, you pick your way over to the bedside table and set the bowl down.

“Bucky,” you murmur, reaching out to rub his shoulder through the blanket. “I brought you soup.”

He makes a pathetic sound and rolls to face you. He looks truly miserable as your eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Sit up and eat,” you instruct. “C’mon, up you go.”

Somehow you manage to get him sitting upright against the headboard despite him complaining the whole way.

“If I didn’t know better I would say you were dying,” you scold lightly, handing him the soup and spoon. “I want you to eat that whole thing. You need the nutrients and the salt will soothe your throat. Everything’s cut pretty small so it should be easy to swallow. I’m going to get you a glass of water.”

“Water tastes funny,” he says sadly, poking at a noodle with his spoon.

“You still need to drink it. It’s important to stay hydrated. The broth will help but only so much. Now eat. I want that bowl empty.”

Bucky sighs but takes a little sip of broth as you head for the door. When you glance back, you see him carefully blowing on a full spoon. His eyes flick over to you, though, and he immediately deepens his frown. You smile and shake your head.

---

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @imsuperawkward @emoryhemsworth

#bucky x reader #marvel fanfic #my writing

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aurorawest · 4 years

Text

Title: the words you say hold a thousand times more weight Author: @aurorawest Rating: M (implied sexual content) Relationships: Loki/Stephen Strange Major Archive Warnings: none Word Count: 2.1k Summary: A lovely October day in New Asgard takes a turn, and Loki and Stephen get caught in the rain.

Written for @fandom‘s Hauntober, day 3: tea

read it on AO3

In some ways, Norway was the perfect climate for Loki. It rarely got uncomfortably hot—in fact, the temperature was in that pleasant zone where he was happiest, not scorching, but not too cold, either. Cold was preferable to heat, of course, but he still didn’t enjoy freezing his arse off. It snowed in the winter, but only often enough to be pretty, not enough to be annoying or inconvenient. The long, dark months weren’t his favorite, but when the darkness got to him, he went to New York and asked Stephen if he wouldn’t mind reading whatever tome he was studying somewhere brighter and sunnier for a few hours.

There were few people in the galaxy that Loki could imagine would entertain this request, let alone seem to enjoy it. But Stephen always smiled and said something like, “Feeling a little low on vitamin D?” before choosing somewhere new, and usually in Earth’s southern hemisphere, for them to spend an afternoon.

But that wasn’t climate, and there were ways to bear the darkness. The nearly endless light in the summer, for one thing. Climate was different—if it was unbearable, he couldn’t live in a place. New York’s was unbearable. Loki had told Stephen he should move the Sanctum to New Asgard, obviously knowing full well this wasn’t how it worked.

But in lieu of that, Loki was trying to get Stephen to spend more time in New Asgard. The Sanctum was their default, because it was large and privacy was easy to come by. Privacy was…occasionally an issue in New Asgard. The home that Loki shared with Thor and his sister-in-law wasn’t particularly spacious and the walls weren’t what one might call ‘soundproof.’

But mainly it was the lack of space. If Loki and Stephen were sitting in the living room, Thor and Jane would almost certainly wander by at some point. They might even sit down. It was their house too, after all. And that wasn’t taking into account the fact that their fellow New Asgardians could and would stop by any time they pleased. Korg was the worst offender but Brunnhilde was hardly better. People had questions for Thor, they had questions for Loki, questions for Jane. Stephen had joked that coming to New Asgard meant having to make small talk with half the town.

It wasn’t much of a joke, honestly.

But Loki loved New Asgard and he wanted Stephen to love it, too. Half a year into their relationship, Loki was determined to spend, if not an equal amount of time in New Asgard, at least some of their time together there. And he’d talked up the weather to convince Stephen to come to Norway on this particular day. It was nice—bright and sunny, but not hot. It was the perfect day for a walk, which was exactly what they did, setting off along the cliffs, the fjord to one side, green pasture to the other. They had been so caught up in their conversation and each other that they’d walked farther than Loki had initially planned on, all the way to the next village down the coast, which was a good six miles.

It wasn’t until halfway back to New Asgard that dark storm clouds began massing on the horizon.

Loki wrinkled his nose. “So much for the nice day,” he sighed. “We may have to cut this walk short, unless you enjoy being rained on.” But Stephen looked at him with the kind of regrettable oh shit expression that was really more Loki’s style than Stephen’s. “What?” Loki asked.

Stephen glanced at the clouds, then back to Loki. “I left my sling ring in your bedroom.”

“You what?”

“I thought I should, you know, make time for us.” There was an Infinity Stone related joke there, but Loki remained silent. “I wanted to remove the temptation to check on stuff while we’re together. Things seem to keep…” Stephen hesitated. “Coming up.”

This was true. Last week it had been demons running a money laundering operation in the Bronx, which really had seemed like a Spider-Man issue. When Loki had said so, Stephen had reminded him that Spider-Man took care of Brooklyn, not the Bronx. Loki had rolled his eyes and said they were in the same city, what was the problem? And Stephen had stared at him, his jaw hinging and unhinging as if Loki had just said something unspeakable, before replying, “It’s like three transfers. You’d have to take the bus.”

The week before that, it had been what Stephen had described as, “Like a magical sewer leak—don’t ask; trust me.” He was the Sorcerer Supreme and the Guardian of the New York Sanctum and this meant he was always, as he said, on the clock. Loki didn’t complain. After all, he’d known full well what he was signing himself up for when the two of them had gotten involved. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t responsible for his own fair share of last-minute cancellations.

There was something sweet about the fact that Stephen had taken it upon himself to try to mitigate this issue. It was just unfortunate he’d chosen to do so at a time when they were going to have to walk several miles in the rain.

Loki ran his fingers through his hair, thinning his lips. “I suppose you’d better walk faster, then,” he said. They were already walking fast. ‘Walking faster’ at this point would be running. Loki could probably jog three miles. It was doubtful that Stephen could. Anyway—he glanced to his right—a misstep could result in both of them tumbling over the edge of the cliff and onto the rocks below. Again, this was something that Loki could probably take, though he’d likely break a number of bones. Stephen…not so much. The Cloak of Levitation hadn’t been invited on their walk.

As the first fat raindrops splattered down into the grass, still bright green in October, Stephen spun his hands and called up a slowly rotating shield of magic. He pulled his hands wider and the shield grew larger, stretching thinner and thinner, like gossamer, until Loki seemed to be staring up at the sky through a pane of golden glass no thicker than a strand of hair. Rain fell on it, running down the sides and dripping off the edges, which were safely distant from them by a foot or two.

Stephen looked smug and Loki drawled, his eyebrows flat, “My hero.”

Unfortunately, Stephen had failed to account for the wind. By the time he’d realized his mistake, they were drenched.

When they trudged back through the front door of the Odinson/Foster residence, they were completely sodden. All traces of the lovely day had been well and truly drowned by the cold, pouring rain, and Loki’s good mood was almost as soggy. The house was quiet and neither Thor nor Jane were anywhere to be seen. Small blessings. Not that Loki didn’t want to see his brother and sister-in-law, but at the minute, his chief desire was to snarl at someone, and it would almost certainly be the first person who dared to speak to him.

The expression on Stephen’s face suggested he was well aware of this, and he just smiled a little before twirling a finger. A blast of warm air hit Loki and instantly, his clothes were dry. Stiff, but dry. And of course, it did nothing for the fact that he was chilled to the bone.

A smile was still twitching at Stephen’s mouth. “You know, the one problem with magic is sometimes it makes things too easy.”

With a snort, Loki asked, “Oh?”

“Yeah. Anyone else would have had to strip out of those wet clothes.” One of Stephen’s eyebrows quirked up. “And seeing as we apparently have the house to ourselves, maybe we wouldn’t have bothered getting dressed again.”

The sourness of Loki’s mood became a bit less curdled. With a faint smile, he asked, “Do you want some tea?”

“I’d love some tea.”

And the warmth in Stephen’s voice improved Loki’s mood a little more. How could he stay unhappy when Stephen was looking at him like that? His smile growing firmer, Loki went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Either of them could have done this with magic, but Stephen had a point. Magic sometimes made things too easy, when there was comfort in rituals. Boiling the water, steeping the tea. Getting undressed and curling up naked under a blanket.

The tea didn’t take long, and once it was ready, Loki carried the two steaming mugs to the porch, where there was a futon that had seen better days and, handily, a blanket bunched on one side of it. Loki set the tea down on the table in front of the futon and looked at the glass that Thor and he had recently put up over the porch’s screened windows. Rain ran in rivulets down the panes, making it impossible to see out. Or in.

With a sly smile, Loki crooked a finger at Stephen, who approached. Tossing the blanket to him, Loki said, “Here—hold this.”

“Why?” Stephen asked half a second before every stitch of clothing he was wearing vanished. He gave Loki a nonplussed look and immediately draped the blanket over his shoulders, saying, “You know, I can do that trick, too.”

“No need,” Loki said, plopping down on the futon. When Stephen followed suit, sitting down next to him, the blanket draping him like a toga, Loki pulled the blanket over himself, vanished his own clothes, and leaned into Stephen’s side. One of Stephen’s arms went around him.

As Stephen turned his face to kiss the side of Loki’s head, he pointed out, “We didn’t actually have to take the clothes off. They were already dry.”

“Drink your tea, Stephen,” Loki said, smiling slightly. One of Stephen’s hands slid across his chest, possibly en route to the mug, possibly not.

It was, as it turned out, though not without a detour or two—first up to Loki’s face, which Stephen turned towards his own so he could kiss Loki slowly, then down Loki’s body again, over his chest and stomach until it came to rest between his legs. And Loki returned the favor, holding the blanket tight around them while they kissed and took advantage of their lack of clothes, Stephen’s face buried in the crook of Loki’s neck as he mumbled his name, Loki’s eyes closed as he held Stephen close and felt his whole body turn to gold, or possibly light.

Their tea was cool enough to drink by the time they were done, in any case. The rain was pounding harder against the glass, and Loki sprawled against Stephen, warming his fingers on his mug, since they were already getting cold again without the benefit of—ahem—something else to wrap them around.

He hadn’t filled Stephen’s mug as full, so once Stephen bolted his down, Loki offered his half-drunk tea. Stephen looked at him like he knew exactly what Loki was doing, but he took a sip with a wry smile. “Is October always this nice in New Asgard?” Stephen asked.

“It was nice four hours ago,” Loki pointed out. “I’d blame Thor, to be honest, but there’s no thunder.”

“Wait, you’re not going to blame Thor for something?” Stephen asked, smiling crookedly. “Are you feeling alright?”

Wrinkling his nose, Loki replied, “No. I��ve been going soft for a long time, and this is only the latest in a long line of unfortunate nods to a terminal case of sentimentality.”

With a chuckle, Stephen said, “Yeah. It’s a killer, that one.” His hand slipped over Loki’s heart, and Loki covered it with his own palm, holding it there.

The two of them remained that way, the blanket wrapped around both of them, listening to the rain patter on the windows and the roof, long after both their mugs were empty. Darkness began to fall outside, brought on earlier by the storm. Admittedly, this wasn’t the type of weather Loki normally enjoyed. It was gloomy, it was damp, it had a depressing, dreary element to it that he could do without. But if it meant—well, this, and what he was doing now, skin on skin, limbs languidly intertwined, no need to be anywhere but exactly where they were—then he could see a certain value in it.

Loki straightened up, but only so he could lean forward, an arm sliding to rest on Stephen’s shoulder, to kiss him softly. They probably needed more tea.

Fingers tangled in his hair as their kiss grew deeper.

The tea could wait.

#hauntober #froststrange #strangefrost #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #stephen strange #stephen strange fanfiction #doctor strange #doctor strange fanfiction #mcu #mcu fanfiction #fanfiction

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riseofthecommonwoodpile · 4 years

Video

youtube

I am sorry folks but i simply must:

Down in the green hay where monkey and bear usually lay, they woke from the stable boy’s cry. Said, “Someone come quick! The horses got loose, got grass-sick! They’ll founder! Fain, they’ll die! What is now known by the sorrel and the roan, by the chestnut, and the bay, and the gelding grey? It is: stay by the gate that you are given and remain in your place for your season. And had the overfed dead but listened to the high-fence, horse-sense wisdom…” “Did you hear that, Bear?” said Monkey, “We’ll get out of here, fair and square. They've left the gate door open wide! So, my bride, here is my hand. Where is your paw? Try and understand my plan Ursula. My heart, it is a furnace full of love that’s just and earnest. Now you know that we must unlearn this allegiance to a life of service, and no longer answer to that heartless hay-monger, nor be his accomplice (the charlatan, with artless hustling!). But Ursula, we’ve got to eat something and earn our keep, while still within the borders of the land that men has girded (all double-bolted and tightfisted), until we reach the open country, a-steeped in milk and honey. Will you keep your fancy clothes on for me? Can you bear a little longer to wear that leash? My love, I swear by the air I breathe: Sooner or later, you’ll bare your teeth. But for now, just dance, darling. Come on, will you dance, my darling? Darling, there’s a place for us. Can we go, before I turn to dust? Oh, my darling, there’s a place for us. Oh, darling. Come on will you dance my darling? Oh, the hills are groaning with excess like a table ceaselessly being set. Oh my darling, we will get there yet.” They trooped past the guards, past the coops and the fields and the farmyards all night, till finally the space they gained grew much farther than the stone that Bear threw to mark where they’d stop for tea. But, “Walk a little faster and don’t look backwards. Your feast is to the east, which lies a little past the pasture, and the blackbirds hear tea whistling and then rise and clap, and their applause calls the kettle black, and we can’t have none of that. Move along, Bear, there, there, that’s that.” Though cast in plaster, our Ursala’s heart beat faster than Monkey’s ever will. But still, they had got to pay the bills, hadn’t they? That is what the monkey’d say. So, with the courage of a clown or a cur or a kite jerking tight at its tether, in her dun-brown gown of fur And a jerkin of swansdown and leather, bear would sway on her hind legs. The organ would grind dregs of song for the pleasure of the children who’d shriek, throwing coins at her feet and recoiling in terror. Sing, “Dance, darling. C'mon, will you dance, my darling? Oh, darling, there’s a place for us. Can we go, before I turn to dust? Oh, my darling there’s a place for us. Oh Darling. Come on, will you dance my darling? You keep your eyes fixed on the highest hill where you’ll ever-after eat your fill. Oh my darling, dear, mine...if you dance, dance, darling, and I’ll love you still.” Deep in the night shone a weak and miserly light where the monkey shouldered his lamp. Someone had told him that Bear'd been wandering a fair piece away from where they were camped. Someone had told him that Bear’d been sneaking away to the seaside caverns to bathe, and the thought troubled the monkey for he was afraid of spelunking down in those caves. Also afraid what the village people would say if they saw the bear in that state- Lolling and splashing obscenely. Well, it seemed irrational, really washing that face, washing that matted and flea-bit pelt in some sea-spit-shine, old kelp dripping with brine. But monkey just laughed, and he muttered, “When she comes back, Ursula will be bursting with pride, till I jump up, saying, ‘You've been rolling in muck,’ saying, ‘You smell of garbage and grime!’” But far out, far out by now, by now, far out, by now, Bear ploughed cause she would not drown: First the outside-legs of the bear up and fell down, in the water, like knobby garters, then the outside-arms of the bear fell off, as easy as if sloughed from boiled tomatoes. Low’red in a genteel curtsy, Bear shed the mantle of her Diluvian shoulders, and, with a sigh, she allowed the burden of belly to drop like an apron full of boulders. If you could hold up her threadbare coat to the light where it’s worn translucent in places, you’d see spots where almost every night of the year, Bear’d been mending, suspending that baseness. Now her coat drags through the water, bagging, with a life’s-worth of hunger, limitless minnows, in the magnetic embrace, balletic and glacial of bear’s insatiable shadow. Left there! Left there! When Bear left bear. Left there, left there! When Bear stepped clear of bear.

Sooner or later you’ll bare your teeth.

#talk about songs that just #destroy me

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