#I bottle emotions like the Italians bottle oil
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Oil and Sugar - Snolidays 2021
Here's my first contribution to the Snolidays 2021 fest, officially set to start on Dec 1! Happy Snolidays! As the one who picked the themes for the first week, I might have cheated a bit, heh heh. You can also read here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/35410921
Thank you @dementedlollipop for beta-ing and helping me name Octavius!
[Imagine a picture of Sev in an apron and his adoring kid looking up, here]
"Measurements are important in baking, son," Severus said, looking down at his child. Octavius was unmistakably his son, yet if one were to compare a photo of Severus when he was Octavius’s age, one would scarcely believe them to be related. The child had a healthy glow about him, his clothes – first-hand, clean, and the right fit. Most importantly, Octavius held his head high, his chest out, his shoulders back, always confident and hopeful. Severus remembered very few moments in his childhood when he felt so free and so proud.
Free and proud, Octavius may be. But Severus was not about to raise a dunderhead.
“Before I even let you light a fire, let alone heat any oil, I want to see you measuring everything out properly. Measurements and timing!”
His son ran to the pantry and carried back two jars, one of sugar, one of flour; next, he got a bottle of oil. His father took the bottle from his outstretched hand, uncorked it, and took a long whiff. “Aaaah,” he exhaled. “Italian olives. Can't beat them.”
He thought for a moment.
“Measurements, timing, and ingredients!”
“Now what, daddy?” Octavius asked.
The kid was a wizard, yes, but not yet allowed to use magic outside of school. Severus sometimes pretended not to notice his son using a wand to cast minor spells, but he would not encourage rule-breaking (that was his mother’s job). Besides, the Muggle way was better for some things. In his experience, sloppy measurement spells produced results much inferior to sloppy measurements. Magic tended to amplify one’s innate stupidity, Severus always thought.
“Liquids are measured in volume and dry ingredients are measured in weight, typically,” he incantated. Octavius’s brows furrowed in concentration, and then his expression lit up. Severus told his son to look at the recipe and that he would be back to check soon, and then they'd light a fire, finally, and get to working on their batter. “I'll let you lick the spatula,” he promised, and left the room with quick steps. Perhaps too quick.
He didn't want Octavius to see him crying. Happy tears were tears all the same, and the child was too young to understand. Why ruin his holiday with talk of the endless days and nights in Cokeworth, in grandfather’s long-deserted house? Ever since his son had been born, Severus found himself increasingly unable to control his emotions like he used to. It was undignified, to cry in front of a child, so Severus left, always making sure to stay near enough to run back if he heard anything. He trusted Octavius not to blow up the kitchen until Severus sorted his cursed emotions out. Much more confident than Tobias, Severus’s own father, ever was of Severus. The old indignation came up, swelling bitter and tart against his throat. Everything that went bad in Cokeworth was Severus's fault.
Severus decided, leaning against the living room wall with the kitchen behind him, that even if Octavius would blow up the kitchen, he would be understanding, he would find it funny and endearing and take it in good humour. After all, the child could hardly cause damage his father or mother couldn't fix, and as for botched baked goods - they could afford more oil and more sugar, and Severus found that affluence and a child with a good head made for much more patience than he was used to.
If you looked, you could never guess Octavius was a Snape. “I got one over you, Toby,” Severus whispered and wiped his brow. He smiled - a forced smile at first, and then, as soon as he entered the kitchen, he felt the smile become real, stretching his cheeks out. The measurements were perfect, and the containers were placed right in the order in which they would need them. Flour, sugar, salt, and oil. “That's a relief. I couldn't bear having my own flesh and blood show up at Hogwarts unable to measure out potions ingredients!”
“Come on, dad! I want them to be ready in time for mommy!”
One could not help but to feel the holiday cheer while elbow-deep in dough, one’s son with his own smaller bowl kneading his own batch. Severus decided he would deliberately mix too much sugar into his batter. Octavius would be proud of having made the superior cookies.
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Thank you @takaraphoenix for reminding me to this ship! 💕
Octavian was content.
It was a strange, new concept for him, especially that this feeling came from living with somebody he hated and resented for so long.
Percy Jackson.
A pain in the ass, a sarcastic little shit, an impertinent ass - his fiance.
After the war, after the countless death and destruction, they left. Not together, not at first, but a chance meeting in Italy led to first, a friendship, then to more.
Smirking, he thought back to the time when they first fell into bed with each other after a shouting match, figuring out that they didn't have to fight against each other to manage their pent up emotions. He licked his lips, hungrily, and it was not because of the tomato sauce he poured into the pan.
"What the H- hell are you doing?!" shouted his annoyed finance, rushing into the kitchen to stop him breaking the spaghetti into little pieces. Octavian did stop, all right, but not because he realized the error in his ways - he did so because his very naked, beautiful fiance was always a sight to behold.
He didn't care about the pasta, or how to make a "real" Italian dish. He only cooked because he didn't want to disturb his beautiful lover who needed his sleep after a long night full of nightmares of the war, of Tartarus. But if he wanted to cook the pasta, boil the sauce according to Sally's recipe not as the bottle said, and do all of this naked, he wouldn't complain.
As the green-eyed beauty stretched out, balancing on his tiptoes to reach the olive oil from the top shelf, the muscles on his calves tightened. Octavian watched, looking transfixed at the body of his fiance. He looked like a- well. Like a Greek hero.
Tight muscles, delicious tan, windswept hair, shining sea-green eyes. The blonde legacy licked his lips as Percy bounced back to his heels.
He had to acknowledge, his man's ass was utterly perfect. Muscled, but soft, firm and round, begging to be pulled apart and be worshipped like the masterpiece it was.
He leaned to the open window next to the stove, not bothered that the neighbors could see into their apartment, and get an eyeful of those beautiful globes he wanted to kneel before and bite into them.
He heard a whistle from behind him, one of his neighbors showing their appreciation for the sight. He threw his head back, laughing, enjoying that even if many wanted Percy Jackson, the big Greek hero wanted nobody else other than him. Him, a lowly augur turned English teacher.
"How many minutes until it's done?" Octavian asked casually.
While stirring the sauce, his fiance glanced towards him, brows furrowed. "Around ten minutes," he answered, trying to find out what Tavy's deal was. His voice was low, rumbling, almost like-
Oh.
His smirking lover stalked forward, like a predator hunting down its prey.
A soft breeze blew through the window, caressing his body, before his blonde love pressed himself close, hiding him from the warm Italian air, and the curious, devouring eyes of their neighbors.
"I see you are hungry," he smirked. Octavian's heated look told him everything he needed to know.
Arousal ran through his body; even after two years, just one look from Octavian, and every sane thought left his brain, blood rushing towards the lower part of his body.
They had nine minutes left.
#percy jackson#octavian#octavian x percy#pertavian#wanted to write something with a rarepair#pjo#pjoverse#pjo fic#percy's harem
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La Squadra x Desi (South Asian) Reader (gender neutral)
A/N: I thought this would be cute and funny since I don’t see a lot of south asian centered content about jojo in general! I hope desi and non-desi jojo fans alike enjoy these hcs and if there’s something about desi culture you’d like to know more about I’d love to answer!
Risotto
- My first thought with him was that he starts wearing a lungi around the house as soon as he finds out what they are
- starts using gamucha for his workouts! they’re really convenient
- Loves to hear you sing in your language! Desi ballad music sounds beautiful to him especially coming from you!
- Is willing to try desi food and will not complain about the curry smell at all, won’t mind that you eat with your hands
- He loves spicy food so he most likely enjoys any curry but especially loves how spicy vindaloo
- willing to watch bollywood movies with you just to spend time together
- If you ask him to learn your language he’ll be happy to, won’t even ask you to learn his unless you really want to
- your family would probably be scared as hell of him and the aunties might talk behind your back but he pays no mind. They eventually like how polite and helpful he is.
- overall, indulges in your culture as much as you want him to! He’d also be happy to share his culture should you be interested
Prosciutto
- He probably asked you to learn Italian so he thinks it’s only fair he learns some of your language as well
- gets suuuper into the cuisine, he loves the beef curry and even though it’s a bit basic he loves biriyani lol (especially kacchi! the beef is so tender)
- gets into desi hair oils lol
- might judge you just a bit at first when you eat with your hands but not for long
- he loves classic noir films and that means in any language so he’d enjoy bengali noir but not much bollywood
- complains that curry stained his finger nails yellow lol also might complain about the house smelling like curry too so he makes sure there’s a lot of ventilation
- like to learn desi recipes with you! finds the flavors intriguing and may even help you cook your fav desi food
- fits in with you family the most out of them all, he is THE typical desi auntie already criticizing everything and everyone all the time lol so he’d get along with them fine. They’d like how good he is with house chores and how he always tells you to be responsible. Smokes with the uncles and gets into their heated political debates
- will buy you traditional clothing that you like, probs likes to see you in panjabi, saree whatever you prefer
- asks you to ask your family about skincare, especially anti aging remedies lmaooo
Pesci
- is actually quite excited to learn your language! in fact, he might bring it up first because he thinks it’s a great bonding activity and he’s intrigued
- lovesss the fish curry dishes the most and wants to learn about fishing culture from your country
- doesn’t mind you eating with your hands and gets you to teach him as well
- loves mishti!! rasgolla, rasmalai, barfi, sandesh, lassi you name it as a milk lover he’d like almost any desi sweets since they’re all made from milk
- doesn’t much understand bollywood and finds it a bit ridiculous but will watch it if you like it
- another person who likes desi ballads, if you sing to him he’ll melt and thinks your voice is the sweetest! is also into just vibing with the music on
- I hate to say it, but aunties will most likely judge him for how he looks : ( but they’ll soon realize he’s actually super sweet and might dote on him. Probably gets intimidated by uncles but it’s alright he gets along with your cousins the best!
- also uses gamucha when working out and uses it during hot days when fishing as well!
Formaggio
- only wants to learn swear words in your language LOL and only teaches you italian swear words
- desi cuisine is pretty good to him but he absolutely LOVES the street food the most
- fuchka, pani puri, chatpati, whatever it is he’ll eat it, the spicier the better. Will challenge you to fuchka eating contest lol
- also likes paneer! hey he’s gonna like cheese in every culture lol
- at last, a person who actually gets into bollywood for real. He loves the drama, comedy, ridiculous action, even the songs!
- gets into bollywood dancing too like literally will go off in the living room dancing to the Dhoom soundtrack with you
- loudly comments when watching bollywood and sometimes enjoys the cheesy romance lmfao
- Your family will know he’s the thug immediately I’m sorry, but my be able to charm them with how much spirit he has when enjoying a good desi function
- another one who smokes with the uncles and also another one who enjoyes wearing lungi at home
- may want to hear your language slip out in bed haha
Melone
- absolutely intrigued by your culture and asks you the most questions about it out of all of them!
- gets into desi astrology lol he probably didn’t know a lot of modern astrology is borrowed from a history of astrology in south asia
- another one who wants to learn how to eat with his hands! He thinks it’s fun and different and likes it better than using utensils
- another person who also likes the sweets! but he gets into desserts like pitha, patishapta, kheer the most
- Also like biriyani quite a lot when it comes to savory food
- doesn’t get into bollywood films but loves the music a whole lot! catch him dancing to saki saki in your living room lol
- another one who also loves traditional wear and thinks you look sexy in it
- gets into desi natural skincare products and remedies, he’s got a bunch of vicks vapo rub and inidian healing clay bottles lmfaoo
- at first your family might get creeped out by him but then finds out his background in biology and immediately asks why didn’t you also become a doctor KJBSDSD chats with the aunties the most!
- asks your grandma and aunties for their skincare secrets
Illuso
- Probably thinks you speaking your language is beautiful and would get into how poetic it is, probably believes it’s a language of love just as much as any European language
- Also likes the spicy food! but mostly loves paratha because of how versatile it is and because it’s like a pastry that you can eat with anything
- might need to get used to eating with hands but eventually likes it more than he realized he would
- actually appreciates bollywood for what it is, genuinely gets into the drama an might even get secretly emotional at the sad stories
- actually has favorite bollywood movies too
- immediately goes to gossip with the aunties they’re surprised at how tall he is but also how much he already knows??
- he’s also polite with your family and they really like his height and compliments him on it that boosts his ego lmfao
- another one that gets into desi hair oils, probably swears by coconut and amla oil now
- also gets into desi fashion himself along with you he genuinely thinks its stylish
Ghiaccio
- demands to know your language and also demands you learn perfect italian, if you’re looking for a linguistic debate buddy in your partner he’s right there
- actually not that partial to desi food and may think italian food is better but he indulges in lentil type dishes (probably like daal makhni a lot)
- yeah he’s another one who would look at you strange for eating with hands but doesn’t mind it eventually when you tell him your culture
- WILL scream at how ridiculous some bollywood films are and how he doesn’t get the humor it’ll get even funnier if you watch desi soap operas and he starts talking about the gfx and sound effects
- but actually loves watching whatever with you because he likes spending time like that
- will listen to you rant in your language without understanding anything but still nod along and agree, you’ll probs do it when he’s ranting in italian lolol
- likes to play desi music out loud when you’re going for a long drive he likes how it creates a serene ambiance it helps him calm down
- yet another gamucha user, he’s skeptical about using it at first but loves how it feels on his skin after a goo workout
- don’t let him hear the aunties gossip he might quip back something rude and absolutely do NOT let him debate with the uncles it’ll turn ugly fast, just try to keep him calm in a desi function lol he might get along with cousins as well!
[sorry I couldn’t add sorbet and gelato i’m not yet sure about their characteristics :( ]
#la squadra x reader#la squadra#la squadra di esecuzione#risotto x reader#prosciutto x reader#pesci x reader#melone x reader#formaggio x reader#illuso x reader#ghiaccio x reader#risotto#prosciutto#pesci#ghiacci#melone#illuso#formaggio#hcs#sid writes
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Gift Headcanons Ghiaccio x Reader
Look. I know the holidays have just passed, but I am unashamedly a SIMP for all of La Squadra and I wanna give them gifts. I just love them. So here, have some (mostly) tender gift giving and receiving for da boyz. I’m excluding Sorbet and Gelato because I know next to nothing about them, sorry!
Risotto
Prosciutto
Pesci
Illuso
Formaggio
Melone
Have a character, but no idea? Prompt list here!
Looking for more? Master post here!
WARNINGS: SFW, very light hints at NSFW at the end, but it’s totally up to interpretation.
Word Count: 1366
Giving:
This might be a hot take, but I don’t think Ghiaccio likes material gifts, especially ones that don’t last for ever, like alcohol or a gift cards. Gift cards really tick him off. He doesn’t get why you would get the money, but not the gift, you’re basically buying your own gift, why call it a gift CARD when it’s not a real GIFT.
That being said, he likes more personal things, like a day off where the two of you just kind of stay in bead, do some special baking, romantic baths, that kind of thing. You can get booze, sure, but don’t call it a gift. But, there’s one part of him that wants to try out that cheesy side a little bit with matching rings or something like that. You can bet that he’s a blushing mess whenever he looks at the jewelers online or the display cases, dismissing it as stupid multiple times before finally settling on something.
He’ll give you the gift in private because he thinks it’ll make him less nervous, but it doesn’t matter. He’s nervous regardless, constantly over thinking it, thinking it’s stupid, a waste of money, etc. Once he gets it out of the way, he’s fine, but just really isn’t sure how to do this.
Ghiaccio fidgeted with his clothes, running his hands through his hair every now and then. God, why were his nerves to wild today. He scoffed. He knew why. Because he got something for you and he was worried whether or not you’d like it. This was stupid! He didn’t need to give you a gift and he sure as hell didn’t need to be so worried about it.
Damnit, the more he thought about it, the more frustrated he got with himself. He was practically one inch away from smashing something, he just hoped it wouldn’t be the ring.
He went over imaginary conversations in his mind. No, it’s not a proposal ring, it’s just a ring! What, I can’t get my partner a ring? We’re not getting married! It’s a GIFT and only s GIFT!
“Ghiaccio?” You called his name, peeking out from around the corner. Fuck. Was he talking out loud? Did he say all of that out loud? Fuck!
“Is everything okay?”
He sighed, hand casually feeling the square imprint in his pocket. “Everything’s fine. Just... fine.”
“Oh, okay,” you said starting to walk away. You turned around at the last minute, thinking better of it. “Ghiaccio. You know you can tell me anything, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” he groaned back, acting like he was done with the conversation. “Actually-” he paused “-come here a minute.”
Ghiaccio felt his heart race again, hand slipping into his pocket to feel the box. You walked towards him, gently touching his arm to reassure him. He sighed again, pulling his hand out of his pocket to put it on yours, holding it against him. He looked at you, so warm and kind to him. You deserved something like this.
“(Y/N), you know I don’t like gifts, they’re pointless, I get showing appreciation, but-” he could feel anger slowly boiling inside of him. This wasn’t the time to get angry, this was the time to be nice and all that bullshit. He took a breath, calming himself down. “You’re patient with me. You know when I take something too far or... what I’m trying to say is-”
He pulled your arm off of him, holding it palm up so he could put the gift in your hand. As he did so, he spoke, soft and almost vulnerable.
“Thank you.”
You were confused for a minute, but then it suddenly made sense when he opened the box for you. Tears started forming at the corners of your eyes.
“Ghiaccio,” you’re voice strained and cracked. You weren’t expecting this; such a sweet gesture from someone like him, it was so beautiful.
“This isn’t a proposal or anything, just... a thank you. Something to show I care about you.” His voice cracked on the last word. Shit, now he was getting emotional.
You stared down at the ring. It was simple, just one white stone placed on sliver metal, but the way it glittered made it look so beautiful. He watched you carefully, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. Without a second thought, you launched into hugging him, nuzzling into him when he wrapped his arms around you. A sweet kiss was placed on the top of your head.
Receiving:
Alright, lets be real here, I think you could get Ghiaccio anything, just don’t call it an actual gift, you know? Get him a nice bottle of alcohol “just because” or “to pay you back for that one time” kind of thing and he’s just like: “oh! Okay, I guess.”
Like I said above, enjoys time alone with you where he can relax, so get some nice massage oils, candles, set him down on the bed and just give him some love! Get a nice bath set up, cuddle, bake him some traditional Italian things; just help him reset after being pent up with La Squadra every once and a while.
There’s really no way to present that kind of thing, but whether you guys have been planning it or it’s a surprise, welcome him home with open arms and a nice bottle of champagne to start the night off.
You wiped down the counter, cleaning up the last of the debris from baking while occasionally sipping from your glass. It wasn’t much, just some small cookies that you thought he would like. You just hoped they weren’t too sweet, but god do the Italians like things rich and sweet.
Except your Italian.
Ghiaccio eats sweet things, but he doesn’t love them, so you tried to something a little more... balanced? Even if they were too sweet, you had more than enough prepared for the night to make up for that. You had splurged on a little bit of good champagne, some nice bath salts, everything a passionate, feisty mafia member could want.
You heard the door unlock before he walked in the door. Quickly, you grabbed the glass you had ready for him, rushing into the hall to meet him. He was hanging up his coat when you met him. It was evident how exhausted he was, the bags under his eyes were significantly darker than usual.
“(Y/N).” He mumbled.
“Hey, babe. How are you feeling?” You asked, putting the glass in his hands while bringing him into a warm hug and kissing his cheek. He didn’t even reply, he just gulped down the champagne until the bubbles hurt his nose, making you chuckle. “That good?” Ghiaccio groaned, burying his face in your hair. You hummed in response, rubbing his back with your hand. You pulled back, pulling off his glasses carefully and setting them on the side table next to you, then gently rubbed under his eyes. The tiredness seemed to drift away as soon as you touched him. He could feel himself leaning in more, basking in the sweet gesture.
Then, he pulled you back into him, kissing your temple, your cheek, basically wherever he could. You knew that he probably didn’t want to talk about anything right now. Well. He could, but he felt as though he went overboard with his frustration, almost blinded by it or that you just weren’t interested in the trials and tribulations of a member of the mafia.
“Why don’t we enjoy tonight, hm?” You cooed. He mumbled into your neck something you couldn’t quite hear while pulling you closer. Despite his tired, grumpiness, he went easily when you grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the bathroom where you had set up his “spa” day.
Pleasant floral scents wafted to his nose when you got there which had an almost immediate reaction from him. A long, relaxed sigh ran through his body. A part of him didn’t think he was worth the plate of cookies sitting on a bench beside the bath or the champagne bottles on the edge. He looked to you, seeing the love in your eyes. There was no way you were going to let him escape, but for once, he didn’t have to grin and bear it. He would happily let you take care of him.
You both knew he would return the favour one way or another.
#who knew i would be weak for soft ghiaccio#ah who am i kidding#we all saw it coming#ghiaccio jojo#ghiaccio#ghiaccio x reader#ghiaccio prompts#sfw
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⌜LUCY BOYNTON, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER⌟ welcome to chatsworth academy, HELENA HARGRAVE. it says here, that you are TWENTY-ONE, in THIRD YEAR and that your parents are THE HEAD OF THE LOURVE’S ART RESTORATION TEAM & A HIGHLY REGARDED ACADEMIC? is it true high school you were voted most likely to GET INTO A FEMINIST DEBATE AT A FRAT PARTY, well, that’s interesting. ╱ DIGGING INTO A CAKE WITH YOUR HANDS AND LICKING SWEET ICING FROM YOUR FINGERS, MULBERRY COLORED LIPSTICK, HOSTING ELABORATE PARTIES THAT DESCEND INTO CHAOS ╳
hiii ! i’m rose and i’m so excited to be here and to write with u all. i’ll try to be here tonight but i’m doing a lil cookin & drinkin with my bf. i’ll def be here tomorrow to rly get onto the dash but until then i’ll be around to plot! let me luv u and ur amazing muses
AESTHETICS.
red wine spilled on white carpet, the electricity in summer air right before a storm, oil paintings, silk gowns, black velvet, dead languages, running barefoot in the cool autumn twilight while grass brushes your ankles, gardenias and dior perfume, mulberry colored lipstick, overflowing flutes of champagne, a paper lantern moon illuminating the sky, bark and berries, lines of pristine cocaine on a gold rimmed mirror, digging into a cake with your hands and licking sweet icing from your fingers, the sharp tang of pomegranate arils, sipping a dirty martini with a knowing smile, feckless hedonism, drunkenly reciting homer in greek during a dinner party
FUN FACTS.
she’s lived in london, oxford, athens, vatican city, paris, and barcelona.
she can speak, to varying degrees, italian, french, spanish, and greek.
a scorpio. turned 21 on october 26th and threw a bacchanalia-themed birthday party. the bacchanalia were roman festivals of bacchus, the god of wine, freedom, intoxication, and ecstasy. so her party had a shitload of wine and also literal ecstasy lol.
she actually loves throwing parties in general. she loves the chaos. but she also just loves doing a good dinner party.
naturally a brunette.
absolutely feral internally. she can either be cool, calm and collected quoting feminist literature or discussing art and philosophy OR just lost in the sauce of feckless hedonism, spraying bottles of champagne on the wall or swinging from a chandelier.
bisexual as fuck & hates men but unfortunately likes dick.
she’s an ex-vegan and she now regularly eats juicy steak and cheeses and whatnot. her entire fridge is just imported beer, bottles of champagne, wine and, like, a wedge of cheese.
her home decor is an eclectic collection of contrasts. modernist $10,000 leather couches paired with yard sale end tables. a shitload of crazy art and random clutter. incense burning at all times.
has a pet ball python named ophelia and a pet mini pig named hamlet.
doesn’t enjoy children. she doesn’t think babies are cute and doesn’t know how to interact with kids. believes there’s nothing inherently miraculous about a dick and vag coming together to create a soft-skulled tiny human.
BACKGROUND.
so her parents are both super well-regarded & cultured people. they both come from old money families. helena’s mom is an art historian and fine art restorer. she’s worked w/ a lot of museums and was on the vatican museum’s conservation team. that’s why the family moved around a lot. now her mom heads the restoration team at the louvre. her dad is a scholar. he’s an ancient historian, linguist, and author who focuses on greek and roman mythology and linguistics.
growing up, her mom always said that talking about money was tacky. yet she was never afraid to show the world, albeit subtly, that they had it. her parents are total snobs.
helena was held to high standards by her parents. they definitely weren’t nurturing, emotional, or loving. they were cold, carping and they put their needs/careers before her while simultaneously demanding perfection from her.
her childhood wasn’t birthday parties or playing on the playground. she was constantly being dragged along to speaking engagements, museum openings, or charity events. her parents would always host dinner parties with the crème de la crème of art and academia. and helena was expected to attend. so she was nine and stuck at a table of adults. she was forced into the arts & academia world because she was constantly surrounded by it.
she began to rebel as she got older. she’d sneak alcohol just to make those boring evenings seem more enjoyable. and she’d flirt with older men, discussing homer with some cambridge professor who was hot in an old-guy sort of way. she’d cause scenes just for fun. she got into drugs, mainly cocaine but also hallucinogens. she really enjoyed imbibing and hedonism. but she’s extremely smart.
she went to vassar for a half semester but left under...interesting circumstances. she wasn’t, like, expelled from vassar. officially, anyway. but she did get absolutely shitfaced and set fire to some streamer decorations in her dorm room leftover from a party. oops. she’s actually a bit of a firebug...she likes to light things up.
her parents essentially paid for her to attend chatsworth. but like i said, she is very smart !
she’s a double major in comparative literature and women’s studies. she’s gonna pursue her phd and already has her dissertation theme: depictions of female madness and hysteria in english and french literature. helena actually has bipolar disorder (kept hush hush by her parents) and has always related to the idea of the “mad woman” in literature.
PERSONALITY.
HEDONISTIC. helena has a real lust for life. she loves opulence and debauchery. emotionally? she is living in the 1966 movie daisies.
CULTURED. since her parents kinda forced her into the arts and history world, she’s rather cultured and knowledgable. can come off as pretentious because she does think she’s smarter than most lol
IMPULSIVE. a lot of the time she doesn’t think before she acts, especially when she’s drunk/high/just feeling wild. she definitely takes her hedonism to the extreme sometimes.
OPULENT. she’s often rather excessive and eccentric. she’s a wild card at spending money. she’ll send a dozen white roses just because a friend had a bad day. or rent a limo for the night to end up at a mcdonald’s drive thru. she loves decadence, so she’s a huge foodie. red wine, chocolate, foie gras, expensive meats and cheeses imported from france. she loves expensive drinks and can always usually be found with something in her hand, from red wine to brandy.
overall she’s very much down for a good time. a very intelligent girl raised in a pressure cooker and doused with expectations, culture, geniality, and discipline by her old money and snobby parents. but she rebelled in her own way. so she’s a fun mix of, like, feminist, academic, snob and debauchery loving, chaos seeking, party girl.
CONNECTIONS.
i’m very basic so, y’know, all the classics. exes, party friends, fwbs, enemies...i’m better with plotting up stuff tailored to how we’ll think our muses will get on. so let’s brainstorm and come up with something wild and fun !!!
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How He Loves
Let’s throw it back to one of the first Johnny-centric stories I’ve written, which was during the time I was just getting into NCT 127 and not that into Johnny yet.
Look at me now – I’m head over heels, and I try my best to obtain his merchandise if I can afford it. And of course, I live for his Bubble messages at Lysn!
This GIF gets me every time – the nerve of this flirt to do this to me, but I know I like it!
Mahal ko kayong lahat! :)
–––
Summary: This piece was written after this post. Hence, they are connected. I’ll do a master list soon of all my posts and which ones are connected. Maybe you can remind me too?
POV: 2nd here, baby.
Word count: 1,000 + words
Recommended listening: I’m an Arctic Monkeys stan, so feel free to listen to the songs I will embed here. And yes, I’m sharing my playlist of depressing songs too that shares the same title as the one Essie has.
–––
As one of the most famous poems starts, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
You love that Johnny is open to any of your interests, eventually loving them as his own.
Both of you have diverse music tastes, but you listen to more indie than pop. He has learned to love the Arctic Monkeys, your favorite band of all time. Whenever the two of you are headed to the pub, he always played their ‘AM’ album. He sings along with you to Matt’s high-pitched voice in ‘Knee Socks’ and slightly raps with you to ‘Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High.’ On sunny morning road trips, he would play their ‘Suck It and See’ album, and the two of you will poke fun of ‘Brick by Brick.’ Then, the two of you will get sentimental when ‘Love is a Laserquest’ comes on, and he would always hold your hand at the end of the song.
You have also learned to love more Korean pop because of him, and now you have a newfound appreciation for girl groups and even hip-hop artists. Both of you loved creating playlists for each other to the point that you have a lot of playlists already. You always play one of his creations whenever you’re on your commute or when you’re just chilling at home. He admitted that he listens to your ‘Of Heartbreak and Despair’ playlist when he wants to get in touch with his emotional side, and you couldn’t help but be flattered by this information.
You love that Johnny allows you to smoke when it’s just the two of you after Kibum goes off on his way. The older guy doesn’t tolerate smoking and gets into a fit when he smells cigarette smoke on you.
Once it’s just you and Johnny, he finds the nearest Starbucks he could drive to. You sit outside with him sipping an iced Americano and you a piping hot Café Mocha. You light a stick and blow the smoke away from him, but sometimes he makes fun of you by leaning closer and inhaling loudly the smoke that came from your mouth. You nudge him aside, and he just laughs at you, amused at your reaction. “Don’t do that Youngho, sitting beside me is already secondhand smoke for your pretty lungs,” you muttered, tugging the hood of your jacket to cover your face.
He lets you finish three sticks at most and slaps your hand away from the carton when you’re about to get your fourth stick. “No more,” he grunted, before squeezing your hand into his. You break away from his grip easily and immediately search for the hand sanitizer in your bag. You don’t want his hand to smell like smoke or any part of him actually. Sometimes, you would spray with him with your Victoria’s Secret perfume, so he still smells good. He loved the smell of Bombshell that he now keeps a bottle or two in his car.
You love how patient he is with you in many ways, but let’s start first when you two work out.
You admit that you are a lazy ass bitch who just wants to sleep all day, but he won’t allow that. He would invite you to exercise with him, whether that’s doing muay thai or aerial yoga. There were times you felt like covering your face in embarrassment when you couldn’t do some moves or positions, but he never made fun of you. Instead, he would assist the trainer to help you perfect the routine. He did not mind how sticky your arm was with sweat as he held it in his warm hand.
After you struggle with his exercise of choice, he would treat you to your favorite food. The two of you would eat at your favorite Italian restaurant, where you unabashedly stuff your face with focaccia bread. He will just laugh at your puffy cheeks as he mixes the balsamic vinegar and olive oil for you to dip your bread on. If you didn’t go there, you two would head out for some Persian food. You love how joyful he looks whenever he douses the basmati rice and beef chelo kebab with loads of garlic sauce, and laugh when he makes faces after eating ox brain.
Another way that you love him being patient with you is when he has no complaints waiting for you to get ready when going out.
As much as it pains you to admit it, you are a high-maintenance girl. You always want to look glamorous and make a statement whenever you went out, even if you would just grab groceries beside your apartment. You couldn’t leave the house with some makeup on and huge hoop earrings.
He would tuck the stray hairs away from your face when your curls couldn’t be pushed back by your headband. Or he would tie your hair away from your face when you were too focused on blending your eyeshadow, mumbling that he’s bored, and he likes playing with your fluffy mane. In return, you would do his eyes when he felt like adding another accessory to his look. Most of the time, he requested for a brown smoky eye, and you always delivered. “I wish you’re a part of our tour, I’ll have you as my makeup artist,” he chuckled, admiring the work you did.
“Shut up,” you muttered, packing away the makeup you used on him. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer to him, his eyes making contact with yours.
You felt your cheeks heat up as he looked at you rather intensely. It felt as if he was peering at your soul.
You know he’s handsome. If you were being honest with yourself, he looks like a prince right out of a fairy tale. All you needed him to do was wear a pristine military uniform. When he winked, you burst into laughter.
“The fuck was that,” you whispered, removing his hand on your wrist. “We both look good in smoky eyes, baby,” he replied seductively before winking again. The both of you just laughed at how silly this situation was turning, and maybe this masked how you two felt for each other.
You still couldn’t believe that he loves you more than just a friend. It has been two weeks since his confession, and your mind hasn’t grasped the idea of you two going out on dates, even if people thought your hangouts were more-than-friendly dates.
––
FIN
#nct drabbles#nct fanfic#nct fanfiction#nct scenarios#nct imagines#johnny suh#johnny fluff#johnny romance#johnny suh scenarios#johnny suh imagines#johnny suh fanfic#johnny suh fanfiction#johnny suh drabbles#nct johnny#nct 127 drabbles#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 fanfiction#nct 127 scenarios#nct 127 imagines#nct 127 johnny#johnny suh fluff#johnny suh romance#seo youngho#nct youngho
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hi gang, i’m lexi, i’m 19 and i’m in the pst! i bring to you the second in command. to read more about mr. grumpy pants pls look below the cut!!
alright. so. this is percy banks, ex fbi agent and legally dead man!!! he’s done A Lot in his thirty years of life and it’s troubling to page through it all
long story short, he became a core part of a different heist crew run by his mentor at the fbi and ran with them for a while until the rest of them all died because he had allowed his feelings to distract him from the job
since then all he’s done is repress emotions and bottle them up until they’re sure to just explode, all at once. when he was working for the fbi, he was a hotshot rookie and almost let his ego go to his head. of course, he had absolutely no morals so he switched to a life of crime and somehow learned to respect others from that. it was really just being on a solid team that changed him, and he dialed his ego down a bit. said team died, of course, so now he’s a stone cold, self-obsessed asshole because he’d rather not process his feelings like a normal person. that would be ridiculous.
he’s the workaholic of the century. period.
he’s never not looking angry and disappointed. it’s his brand. especially around the new kid on the block!!!!!
he used to think he was hot shit (and he still kind of does???) but now he’s just hellbent on putting people who think they’re hot shit in their place.
percy has a major superiority complex. he sincerely believes that he is the most important part of the team. sometimes that gets in the way of things, but for the most part he never gets that emotional. he’s very stoic. that being said, he doesn’t really do “friends.” he’s been a lone wolf his whole life.
he is definitely not afraid of killing people. during his time as an fbi agent, he had the highest body count of any rookie in his class. being very emotionally distant definitely helps with that. as you may have noticed, percy doesn’t really have a moral code. he doesn’t care who he shoots if they’re getting in the way of things.
percy is usually wearing a suit. he does it to intimidate the others. he also thinks he looks hot af in suits!
he wants to stage a coup because he doesn’t believe the mastermind is sharp enough to keep running the group. he knows what happens when you get reckless (people you care about die) and so he thinks he has to manage that himself. this is entirely regardless of whether or not the mastermind is actually that reckless; percy would think so even if they weren’t. he has incredibly high standards and a knack for criticizing leadership, so he thinks they’re sloppy regardless if it’s true or not. it’s also a matter of scope; percy thinks they can start moving on to bigger heists; he loves planning out the complexities. it’s an art, as long as everyone takes the necessary precautions. he wants to get the team working like a well-oiled machine to pull that kind of stuff off. of course, he’s also just crazy obsessed with himself and thinks that he can run the group better. he wants to be the best. period.
he also wants to be like his old dead mentor, marvin/jupiter. he misses what they had on that team. if he were to assume the mastermind’s position, he would give each of the team members a moniker belonging to a roman god. he already has this planned out.
juno - the mastermind (given that they stay on the team)
apollo - the ace in the hole
diana - the bleeding heart
minerva - the career criminal
mercury - the eye in the sky
bacchus - the getaway driver
mars - the hired gun
vulcan - the inside man
prosperpina - the new kid on the block
venus - the star of the show
ceres - the watchdog
kinda a non sequitur here but percy has a lot of bottled up sexual tension so.......he might act like he’s an angry old grandpa three-quarters of the time but the other quarter he’s kind of a flirt??? until he realizes that he’s off-task and switches back to work mode. he’s definitely not looking for love, as the last time that happened, she died right in front of him. rip.
this scene from agents of shield is literally him (ft. the new kid perhaps)
his heist skills include:
seven languages: mandarin, spanish, russian, japanese, french, italian, and german. he technically also knows a little swedish.
hand-to-hand combat: he can kick ass thanks to krav maga and the fbi training system.
weapons: he’s fairly good with a gun. not an expert,
multiple identities: he’s pretty good at pretending to be different people. most of the time he doesn’t do too much of it, though.
drunk karaoke: he can give a mean rendition of i ran (so far away)
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Buttermilk
I am the debutante’s offspring.
Streaks of marigold and straw.
My Grandmother once said to me,
“Your cadence, your tongue,
Must mimic a rosewater ellipsis.
It must linger.”
We are the modern-day courtesans.
The muses from Xanadu.
Bathing in the buttermilk,
Poured from a white porcelain pitcher.
A southern delight.
I am a figment of your imagination.
The sensation of fingertip on rose petal.
The unthreatening presence,
That lingers in your grace.
But in reality,
Or something like it,
I am just a dancer.
Living day to day,
Leotard over breast,
On the subways of New York.
I was taught quite young,
How a lady speaks,
Without saying a word.
You don’t have to tell me,
That I have broken the mold.
I already know.
The book that I learned from,
“The Language of Flowers”,
Was written by Sheila Pickles,
In 1989.
The Miss Sheila who taught me how to arabesque,
Ended her professional dance career,
In 1972.
To this day,
Nothing quite compares to the moment,
When she positioned me center stage.
My pointe shoes were colored peach,
And the rouge of my cheeks,
Matched them perfectly,
On opening day.
We performed the Tarantella,
Beginning in a V formation.
Corseted, red and green.
In the grand ballroom,
Underneath the crystal chandelier.
As we finished,
The crowds,
They threw red,
Long stem roses at our feet.
I picked one up,
And placed it between my teeth.
“Passion,”
I thought.
“They want passion.”
Months earlier,
I sat in the study,
At the estate on 108th Avenue.
“Recite to me, dear one,
The meanings,
Of the colors,
Of the rose,”
My grandmother demanded.
I began, meekly:
“Red is for passion,
Blush, for first emotions of love,
Yellow for friendship and remembrance,
And white,
For a love that is spiritual.”
Many an afternoon was dedicated,
To southern etiquette,
The symbols of beauty,
And improving my posture,
A book balanced on my blonde head.
These are the makings of a woman,
In the upper echelon.
A woman whose art,
Is found in her restraint.
The skillset of the demure woman,
Can only be taught,
By studying the most delicate of flowers.
But I had a question.
“The Marigold is oh, so sunny,
In its disposition,
And so robust,
In its form.
Why then is it a symbol for death?
Are there other symbols, Grandmother?
For death?”
Through the beginnings of my dance career,
I received two pieces of advice.
The first,
Being ‘bend so that you do not break’,
And the second,
Being ‘A hint of evil does wonders for the art form.’
I listened,
And moved from the oil money territory,
Of deep Texas,
To a salted soda cracker box,
In Brooklyn.
But my buttermilk would never go completely sour.
I would remain pure and sweet.
“A being of moonlight and cream.”
That’s what you said to me when you found me in the village.
The mink coat I wore,
I bought second hand in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.
It used to belong to someone else’s Grandmother.
The mink coat that you wore,
Belonged to yours.
We were on the naked intersection.
The two tea roses,
In the one bouquet,
Atop the front desk,
Of the Chelsea hotel.
Blooming for all the wrong reasons,
And the fairest of the seasons.
Amongst the baby’s breath,
And the folly.
We were dreaming of men tremendous in stature.
Reminiscing about the times,
When we had our own.
The marksman of the cotillion,
And the king of Buckaroo Ball.
How the Blue Waltz from their mouths,
Was on our pressure points.
And how we allowed it to decant.
But that was all before.
And so we set sail to Coney Island,
On a ship named Susie Q.
The look I gave you was telling.
Yours, in return,
Knowing.
And from your silk garter,
Underneath the petticoats of splendor,
Appeared your golden flask,
Filled with a buttermilk liqueur.
We could see the heat,
The blurred mirage on the horizon.
There was HP-5 in the film compartment,
And visions of Suavies Island on the deck.
The young bucks,
They came out of their cages.
And they asked, quite desperately,
For the directions to our hearts.
After a simultaneous drag,
From French cigarettes,
We pointed them all,
To the ocean.
You are the toast of New York.
Celebrated throughout the generations,
Via streets echoing ragtime jazz.
You were a cocktail waitress back then.
Throwing your pearls,
Not before swine,
But before the Wallstreet banshee’s,
With the most overflowing of wallets.
A fine dining hustler.
And I was the Boutonniere on your lapel,
Reminding you that traditions,
Sometimes,
Were meant to be broken.
In the back of a taxi,
On New Year’s Eve.
We carried Champagne from the wine cellar,
Underneath our mink.
We were cackling,
The witches of the Alamo,
Out of our elements.
High.
The driver asked for our destination.
We exclaimed,
“To Mercury!”
We were speaking the language,
Of the wildflowers now.
Vibrational.
Transcendent.
This really is what makes us girls.
We were suffering,
From a horrible case of root rot.
One the botanists,
Could never explain.
For you, it was,
A witnessing of the decay,
Of a love that,
Sent the Kachina’s to the rooftops,
On the night of your conception.
And for me, it was,
A witnessing of the decay,
Of the beings who had conceived me.
For I am the daughter of Rage.
He would never speak,
The language of flowers,
From his final resting place.
And neither would the perfected loveliness,
Of the Camellia’s that drove him mad.
But we knew what love was.
We were carved,
From the same block, you and I.
It is the demi plie,
The bread and butter,
The basics,
The sustenance,
Of the soul.
We fell asleep each night,
To the riverbed sirens.
The lights of Times Square,
Had replaced La Bella Luna.
We were known in the speakeasy circuit,
As a package deal.
You performed under the name Ambrosia Michaels,
And kept a bottle of Chanel No5,
On the blues piano.
It aided the alto fingering.
I kept desert poppies,
Pinned to the tulle I danced in,
And violets pinned to my furs.
We were the modern-day vaudeville,
Swimming underground.
Carrying our floral hat boxes,
Full of our accoutrements,
On the A train,
To Manhattan.
To them, we were a local favorite.
An offering that was never on the menu.
If you knew,
You just knew.
My pointe shoes were blood colored at last.
And the lacquer on my lips,
Matched them perfectly,
On our opening day.
We had become them.
Flightless in their disdain,
And their bewitching.
The quail and the kakapo,
Of the Marsh.
The lonestars were out yonder,
And I was a civilized lady,
When it was convenient.
I’m afraid I danced,
Until I turned blue.
Because I wished to embody the cornflower,
And all of her delicacy.
Through the primal act,
Of performing,
The dance of the velveteen belles,
Of New York.
And where are we now?
We’re on Eighth street.
Pounding the cobblestone,
In soft, Italian leather.
Water spotted, almost ruined.
Because freedom,
Is jumping into the puddles,
Of the holy water,
And the buttermilk,
Uncaring.
I learned that from you.
The people of our city,
Have flower mounds under tongue.
And in the blue,
Behind their eyelids.
Because we are the indigo children.
And they speak of us often.
Of our arts and our leisure.
We are forever stamped,
In the passport,
Of the history,
Of death and rebirth.
What they love about us,
Is our lingering in frivolity.
Our return to analog.
Our floral, syllabic homage,
To the divine.
Our repeating praise of Delphine.
We aren’t as crazy as sixth street,
But we’re close.
We can smell the smoke of Winter,
Before it is real.
We can feel the chest fluttering,
Soul excitement,
Of our evening show.
“Introducing,
Ambrosia Michaels,
And Violet Crawford.
But you can call her,
Buttermilk.
Please,
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Deliver them from evil.”
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FULL NAME: Anthony Edward Stark
MEANING: Highly praiseworthy, Priceless One, Flower
NICKNAME: Tonio, Tony
MEANING: Tonio was what his mom called him growing up (and she’s the ONLY one allowed to call him that thanks), and Tony’s just the shorten version of his name.
AGE APPEARANCE: 46
BIRTHDAY: May 29th, 1973
ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Gemini
SPECIES: Human
GENDER: Cis Male
ALLERGIES: None
SEXUAL PREFERENCE: Pansexual
THEME SONG(S): Back in Black by AC/DC, Because of You by Kelly Clarkson, Bastards by Kesha, I Don’t Care by Fall Out Boy
APPEARANCE
HAIR COLOR: Dark Brown with some grey peppered in because baby old.
HAIR STYLE AND LENGTH: Honestly a mess, but like a stylish mess. It’s longer on top and always in that spikey MESS.
EYES COLOR: Brown
EYESIGHT: 20/20, he paid for corrective surgery when he was younger thanks.
HEIGHT: 5′9″, don’t let HIM FOOL YOU
WEIGHT: 190 lbs
OUTFIT/CLOTHING STYLE: Tony’s probably wearing some band shirt with oil/grease stains on it and jeans. He also likes wearing tshirts, a blazer, and jeans. BUT ALWAYS THE SUNGLASSES.
ABNORMALITIES: Miniaturized arc reactor in chest.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS(SCARS,MOLES): Tony’s got a couple of scars from his father childhood, some old track marks along the crease of his elbow from his wilder days, and a giant ass scar on his chest from the one a half two heart surgeries that goes from the middle of his sternum down to almost his belly button.
SELF CARE(MAKE UP): Tony either looks like he hasn’t slept in days or put together, there’s no in between. The only thing he really keeps maintained is his goatee. Because he’s vain about it.
FIRST IMPRESSION ON PEOPLE: He’s Tony Fucking Stark okay, people either want to be his friend for his money or to hurt him so they try to impress him.
SKIN COLOR: White
BODY TYPE/BUILD: TINY BABY, he’s also fit but not like Steve level of muscle.
DEFAULT EXPRESSION: Tony always looks done with everything when in public.
POSTURE: Oooooooof, Tony pretends to take up as much space as physically possible while keeping his back protected and everyone in the room in his sight.
PIERCINGS: He has a closed up earring hole.
DESCRIBE THEIR VOICE: Steve’s voice has a subtle Brooklyn accent and takes on a softer tone than you’d expect out of him. His voice hardens and deepens when he goes in Captain mode.
RELATIONS:
MOM: Maria Stark
HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: Maria and Tony had a bond that was built off of both of them being abused by Howard. They’d stick up for each other when he got too hard on one of them and when Tony got older he started acting out more so Howard would take it out on him more rather than Maria. To this day, Maria is still one of the most important people in his life.
DAD: Howard Stark
HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: HoWARD STARK CAN FUCKING CHOKE YOU DUMB ASS BITCH. Howard was not a good father, he was not Marvel can fight me. He was abusive and cold and distant and had his son kidnapped so that he wouldn’t break when it really happened. Howard’s better off fucking dead.
SIBLINGS: Isabelle St. Martin (Half-Sister)
HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: Tony.........has no clue she’s his sister sorry.
CHILDREN: Toni Stark, Morgan Stark, Peter Parker, and the Bots
HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: Tony’s kids are hIS LIFE. His biggest fear is turning into Howard so he treats them like they’re the best thing to happen to him (which they are).
OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS: Edwin Jarvis (Father Figure), Peggy Carter (Adoptive Aunt)
PAST LOVER(S): so MANY ONE NIGHT STANDS TONY PLEASE.
CURRENT LOVER: Pepper Potts
REACTION TO MEETING SOMEONE NEW: Tony’s analyzing what they want from him and why they’re talking to him, but he’s keeping up with the conversation and probably trying to see if he can make them hate him.
ABILITY TO WORK WITH OTHERS: It depends on his mood, honestly.
HOW SOCIABLE(LONER,ETC): Tony can be sociable, when he wants to.
FRIENDS: Elise Burke, Bruce Banner, Peggy Carter, Thor, Nat, Clint, basically all of the Avengers.
PETS: Ginny, a miniature poodle (who is also a service doggo for his anxIETY)
LEAST FAVORITE TYPE OF PERSON: People who take advantage of him or use his tech for evil.
PARENTAL TYPE(PROTECTIVE,ETC): THE BEST, his kids want something and they get it.
FAVORITE PEOPLE: Pepper, Elise, Bruce, Morgan, Peter, Toni.
LEAST FAVORITE PEOPLE: Steve, Justin Hammer, most of SHIELD.
PERSONALITY:
..WHEN YOU FIRST MEET THEM: ? Distant, Sarcastic, Pushy
..AS YOU KNOW THEM BETTER(AND THEY LIKE YOU): Warm, Loyal, Giving
..AS YOU KNOW THEM BETTER(AND THEY DISLIKE YOU): Cold, Mean, Closed-Off
FAVORITE COLOR: Red
FAVORITE FOOD: One of his mom’s old dishes or a Potts family recipe.
FAVORITE ANIMAL: Cats (?)
FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: Piano
FAVORITE ELEMENT: Fire
LEAST FAVORITE COLOR: None of them???
LEAST FAVORITE FOOD: Honestly, nothing.
LEAST FAVORITE ANIMAL: Rats
LEAST FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: Maybe a kazoo? Tony’s weird.
LEAST FAVORITE ELEMENT: Earth
HOBBIES: building things he shouldn’t be, hanging out with his kids, annoying Pepper in her office, sciencing with Bruce.
USUAL MOOD: Honestly Tony’s eager to please so he wants people around, but HE ALSO DOESN’T WANNA SEEM TOO EAGER so like.......you have to come to him first.
DRINK/SMOKE/DRUGS: Not anymore. He used to do all three and stopped when he became Iron Man. Well, drinking stopped when he got together with Pepper.
DARK VERSION OF SELF: OH FUCK. AN EVIL GENIUS. The entire world is metal and humans arE GONE.
LIGHT VERSION OF SELF: hello see Tony thanks. Maybe less self-doubty and more willing to work with others.
HOW SERIOUS ARE THEY: Tony can be serious if he wants to be, he just doesn’t want to be most of the time.
BELIEVE IN GHOSTS: Nope. Science can’t explain it so they aren’t real :)
(IN)DEPENDANT: Tony likes to pretend to be independant but CANNOT REMEMBER WHAT HE HAD FOR BREAKFAST. please help him.
SOFT SPOT/VULNERABILITY: anybody hurting one of his kids or Pepper, failing the team, turning into Howard, people needing help in general.
OPINION ON SWEARING: Will say fuck in front of a child if needed. Morgan probably knows a LOt of swear words.
DAREDEVIL VS CAUTIOUS: Both??? He’s mostly just a menace to himself and lack self-preservation skills.
MUSIC TYPE: Ear-shattering rock.
MOVIE TYPE: .......Tony doesn’t watch movies he doesn’t have the attention span for them.
BOOK TYPE: ..........i don’t see Tony as much of a reader either. Maybe scientific journals???
GAME TYPE: Tony can kick your ass at poker without even trying.
COMFORTABLE TEMPERATURE: Tony likes it a little bit warmer than comfortable. The cold reminds him of the cave and being trapped in space :(
SLEEPING PATTERN: .........tony stark..........sleep???? what.
CLEANLINESS/NEATNESS: Tony is the cleanest messiest person you’ll ever meet. He never picks up after himself but IF YOU PICK UP ONE OF HIS TOOLS AND MOVE IT ANYWHERE IT THROWS OFF HIS ENTIRE SYSTEM.
DESIRED PET: who needs pets when kids keep showing up at your doorstep amiright
HOW DO THEY PASS TIME: Bothering Pepper, hanging out with a kid of his, building up suits for the team.
BIGGEST SECRET: Tony Stark has had three “suicide” attempts in his life and only one of them was intentional.
HERO/WHO THEY LOOK UP TO: Everyone because he’s short. His mom, Pepper, Steve to an extent.
WHAT ANIMAL WOULD THEY BE: A cat.
FEARS: BECOMING HOWARD, losing one of his kids or Pepper, space, failing the team.
COMFORTS: Pepper’s shampoo, Morgan’s childlike scent, the smell of motor oil, being utterly surround by someone he loves.
HOW DO THEY ACT WHEN THEY ARE:
SAD: Tony bottles it all up until it spills out and he can’t control it anymore. He’s getting better about opening up about when he’s sad, but he WASN’T ALLOWED TO BE SAD when he was younger THANKS HOWARD.
HAPPY: Talking fast and probably waving his arms around TOO MUCH, getting up in personal space, SARCASTIC JOKES
ANGRY: OOOOOFFF, the cold creeps in and Tony shuts off all other emotions. He tends to let the anger control him and doesn’t think things through.
AFRAID: Tony’s not allowed to show he’s afraid because FUCK HOWARD so he keeps it to himself. If it gets too bad he has panic attacks.
LOVE SOMEONE: Everything you’ve ever been in debt for is suddenly paid off and you have a nice vacation to look forward to and ANYTHING ELSE YOU NEED he’s giving you thanks.
HATE SOMEONE: Tony’s cold and distant and probably wishing he could blast them with a gauntlet.
WANT SOMETHING: Tony will take whatever he wants, he was raised spoiled okay.
CONFUSED: tony stark doesn’t get confused HOW DARE YOU.
HOW DO THEY REACT TO:
DANGER: If Tony’s in danger it’s no big deal, but if someone else is? He’s doing everything in his power to GET THEM OUT even if it means getting hurt in the process.
SOMEONE THEY HATE WHO HAS A CRUSH ON THEM: Bitch bye, Tony doesn’t have time for people he hates.
PROPOSAL TO MARRY: He’s already married sooooooooooo unless it’s Pepper he’s gonna say no.
DEATH OF LOVED ONE: It depends on how close they were. But he’d probably hide away until the sadness went away unless someone makes him face it.
DIFFICULT GAME/MATH/ETC: Tony will not rest until he’s solved it thanks.
INJURY: Yeah no, Tony doesn’t tell anybody when he’s injured. He was literally dying and didn’t tell anyone so.
SOMETHING IRRESISTABLY CUTE: My guess is Tony would want to make sure it’s taken care of.
LOSS OF HOURS OF WORK: .............he’s sleeping with his boss so.
KNOWLEDGE:
LANGUAGES: English, Italian, knows conversational various other langauges.
SCHOOLING LEVEL: He has 3 doctorates.
FAVORITE SUBJECT (S): Science, Science, and more Science.
INTERESTED CAREERS: An engineer or inventor.
EXPERTISE: genius level intellect, master engineer, master scientist, master buinessman, pilot of the iron man suits
PUZZLES: Puzzles take him a minute but the serum helps him figure them out rather quickly.
CHEMISTRY: Tony likes making things explode and probably has a good understanding of chemistry.
MATH: TONY LOVES MATH.
ENGLISH: Tony can speak it but has NO interest in interpreting what authors were trying to say in books thanks.
GEOGRAPHY: Who needs maps when you have an AI running everything?
POLITICS/LAW: Tony knows about them, and probably participates in them.
ECONOMY/ACCOUNTING: yOU DON’T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT MONEY WHEN YOU’RE RICH.
COOKING: Tony can cook three things: scrambled eggs, spaghetti, and cereal. That’s it.
SEWING: No.
MECHANICS: Tony rebuilds classic cars in his spare time the fucking nerd.
BOTANY (FLOWERS): lol no
MYTHOLOGY: Tony knows about the different mythologies but doesn’t really believe in them? Atheism is a thing.
DRAMATICS(ACTING,SINGING): besides the fact that tony is a DRAMA QUEEN, no.
READING LEVEL: WAY ABOVE AVERAGE HE GRADUATED CO LLEGE AT FI FTEEN.
HOW GOOD ARE THEY AT PLANNING AHEAD: no. just.......no this why he has Jarvis and Pepper.
ROMANCE:
DO THEY TAKE INITIATIVE: YES he loves bothering Pepper when she’s busy and a l w a y s gets his way.
HOW DO THEY ACT(SHY,ETC): .........he’s Tony Stark.....that’s enough right there.
GENTLEMAN/LADYLIKE VS KLUTZY: Tony can be gentleman like when he’s done something he’s not supposed to (or when he wants something) but other than that HE’S A DEMON.
GO SLOW VS JUMP INTO: he was used to going fast and doing the one night stand thing, but with Pepper it was easier to take things slow (and then go really fast once they realized how WELL they worked together).
PROTECTIVE: Yes.
ACT LIKE FRIENDS OR LOVERS: B O T H.
WHAT KIND OF PRESENTS DO THEY BUY: ......tony doesn’t buy presents because he forgets birthdays and anniversaries.
TYPE OF KISSER: It depends on his mood and what he wants :)
DO THEY WANT KIDS: He didn’t want them, but now he has a small army of them so.
DO THEY WANT TO MARRY: he’s ALREADY MARRIED.
MAKE GOOD OR BAD DECISIONS: Bad decisions are unintentionally made because Tony might be a genius but he’s a dumbass.
ARE THEY ROMANTIC: Y E S.
HOW ARE THEY IN BED: Tony Stark literally did one night stands and one night stands only. He’s A M A Z I N G in bed he knows how to treat Pepper the way she should be and how to take car eof his WIFE.
GET JEALOUS EASY: nO.
WIFE/HUBBY BEATER: nOPE.
MARRY FOR MONEY: tony IS MONEY.
FAVORITE POSITION: HOnestly? Pepper on top.
WHAT WOULD HAPPEN ON THEIR DREAM DATE: A five star hotel while someone takes care of Morgan so Pepper can just relax. They spent as much time as possible in bed or relaxing.
OPINION ON SEX: Sex was always just something Tony thought he HAD to do because people wanted it from him. And then he realized it was fun so he kept doing it because WHY NOT. But with Pepper it’s different and he could never go back to the one night stand thing. He likes the intimacy of sex with someone who cares about you beyond just getting off.
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Why We Hunger for Novels About Food
While putting imaginary meals on the page, I have thought a great deal about the central role that food plays in our lives. Food is love. Food is conviviality. Food is politics. Food is religion. Food is history. Food is consolation. Food is fuel. Food identifies us and who we are. It can even help us make sense of our world. We live in a culture where food porn is one of the hottest hashtags and seeking out the best new ramen or avocado toast trend is a more popular hobby than collecting stamps. And the “culinary enthusiasts” among us can’t get our fill of books about food.
But what about authors of food fiction? What compels them to write about what—and how—we eat?
Louise Miller, author of The Late Bloomer’s Club
“Food is the great equalizer—everyone eats—and what we eat and how we eat it can be so emotional and can carry deep meaning. Food can also be so revealing. I remember an old New Yorker cartoon that pictured a mother and her young daughter sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu. The mother responds to her daughter’s question: ‘Chocolate pudding? I think you would like it. It’s a lot like chocolate mousse.’ That one line tells us so much!”
Phillip Kazan, author of Appetite
“Food for me is very tied up with memories of my Greek grandmother, whose tiny kitchen in London was a treasure-house of tastes and smells in the grey, flavorless world of ‘60s and ‘70s England, where olive oil was something you had to buy from a pharmacist as a cure for earache. Presumably the pharmacist in our village thought our family had appalling ear problems, because my mother bought hundreds of his tiny bottles of oil for her cooking. I remember cookbooks as this wonderful escape route to exotic, warm, generous places: Greece, from where relatives would visit with huge tins of olives and bags of sugared almonds; or India, where my father was born. Writing, in a way, is an extension of my cooking, and vice versa. Cooking taught me how to create, that I needed to create.”
Randy Susan Myer, author of Waisted
“I grew up in a family where food was the comforting evil (or the evil comfort). My mother—for whom dress size was the holy grail—watched every bite I took. When in a restaurant, first she’d not order what she wanted and then she’d steal bites from my plate. If I protested, she’d say, ‘If you love me, you’ll share your food.’ Often, we barely had food in the house and meals were haphazard at best. My sister snacked on raw Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. I ate uncooked matzo meal. We lived on cold cereal—which to this day is my top comfort food. My mother hid cookies and cake inside our giant pressure cooker and then put the pot on the very top of our already high cabinets. My sister and I were under ten, but a pressure cooker was no match for us. I’m surprised we didn’t become mountain climbers for how often we scampered up the peaks leading to buried sweets.”
Ramin Ganeshram, author of The General’s Cook
“I’m from an immigrant family. My parents were from two countries that, at the time, had little representation here in the U.S.—even in New York City where I was born and raised. My dad was from Trinidad and Tobago and my mother was from Iran. I was also brought up in a time where people still really tried to assimilate so they downplayed their native culture with their kids. The one thing that remained a solid connection was the food we ate. I realized from a young age that I could get my parents to talk about their homes when we were eating the foods they had prepared from their respective cultures. My father, particularly, was a born storyteller and if you could talk with him while he was cooking you would get the best stories.”
Whitney Scharer, author of The Age of Light
“The main character in my novel is based on Lee Miller, a woman who reinvented herself multiple times in her life—first as a model, then a photographer, and finally as a gourmet chef who wrote for Vogue and other women’s magazines of the day. In all my research about her, there was never any mention of her love of food prior to her becoming a chef. This makes no sense to me. Of course, she must have loved food—and she moved to Paris in 1929, where she would have enjoyed meals quite different—and presumably more delicious—than what she ate growing up in Poughkeepsie. I wanted her love of food to be palpable throughout the novel, both to foreshadow her shift to cooking later in life, but also because I think enjoying food—enjoying the pleasures of the body—is integral to who she is as a character. I see Lee Miller as a woman of voracious appetites: she was hugely ambitious and adventurous, and very sexual. Food seemed like another way to understand her overall hungers.”
Charlie Holmberg, author of Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet
“In writing, I think food is an excellent method of transportation. If I were to detail a table setting with food you’ve never heard of, but I describe a flaky crust, the way a gelatin gives underneath a knife, and the smell of burnt sugar, you are there. You smell and taste and see that meal. It gives a story, ancient magical tales included, a sense of realness.”
David Baker, author of Vintage
“A dish is a story . . . it’s the story of the culture that created it, the person who made it, the story of the ingredients and where they’re from, the tale of the meal’s creation—successful or otherwise—and then of sharing it. The whole process is a form of narrative. The same goes for wine . . . it’s the story of millions of years of geology that created the region where the fines grow. It’s the story of the culture of the region and then a time capsule of what happened weather-wise the year in which the grapes ripened, and finally what the winemaker did during that year. There are so many layers of narrative in food and wine that it’s a rich field for exploration in writing.”
Amy Reichert, author of The Coincidence of Coconut Cake
“I didn’t realize I was a food writer until after people responded to my novels, and I’ve embraced it. One of my favorite parts of writing has become sharing my regional cuisine with them—writing about Wisconsin culinary delights like a Door County fish boil or our classic brandy old-fashioneds. It’s one of the ways I share my love of Wisconsin.”
Marjan Kamali, author of The Stationery Shop
“It happened quite organically—pardon the pun. But it’s impossible for me to write about Iran and Iranians without including a lot of food because the preparation of huge meals is an integral part of the culture, and sharing those meals at feast-like parties is common across the classes. Food takes on added significance for my characters because they are displaced from their original home. They are Iranians living in America. There is a longing for the familiar foods they know and a constant search for ingredients they love. Cooking Persian meals links my characters to their past and heritage. Sharing Persian food with Americans is a way for them to create and deepen new relationships.”
Jenna Blum, author of The Lost Family
“While I was writing The Lost Family, I cooked a lot—to meditate on the day’s writing as well as to kitchen-test all the recipes I then featured on the book’s menu. Some of my favorite lines for the book would bubble up that way, as if from a Magic 8-Ball, and one of them was ‘vegetables have no language.’ I revised this slightly for the novel, but it means that food is universal. The produce and spices will vary from country to country and cuisine to cuisine, but if you love food, you have a vast family out there. We can all communicate about how our beloved dishes are different—and how they are the same.”
*
I myself have been smitten with books about food since a friend of mine recommended that I read M.F.K. Fisher decades ago. I devoured The Art of Eating and everything else she had written. In her books I found both the exotic and the comfortable. I had never been to France or eaten escargot, but I reveled in her descriptions of food, in her use of simple phrases to evoke such specific sensations: “The air tastes like mead in our throats,” she writes in The Art of Eating. I hope to stir the same feelings and create the same sensory pleasures in others with my novels about famous culinary figures in Italian history.
Now this is a book I can really sink my teeth into, I thought as I once read the opening paragraph of The Flounder by Nobel prizewinner Gunter Grass.
Ilsebill put on more salt. Before the impregnation there was shoulder of mutton with string beans and pears, the season being early October. Still at table, still with her mouth full, she asked, “Should we go to bed right away, or do you first want to tell me how when where our story began?”
The rest of the novel, which tells the story of an immortal fish who meets an immortal man who falls in love with cooks over and over through the centuries, is just as delicious and delightful in its descriptions of food. To this day, it’s one of my favorite novels.
In reading The Flounder and other sumptuous works of culinary fiction, I’m reminded of something dramatist George Bernard Shaw once said: “There is no love sincerer than the love of food.” It’s a statement to which I think we could all gladly raise a glass.
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Girls’ Night
I wrote this drabble last night at a write-in, so it sort of tapers off rather quickly, but I had fun. This is an CR OC-only story, with canon characters only being mentioned.
!Modern AU! (Not to be mistaken with Idol AU, which is different.)
Wordcount: 1734
Pairing: (mention of) Nemonnax and Avice (yeah, they have ship names. Nice.)
Rating: PG-13, I guess?
Warnings: Language, mentions of sex toys (thanks, Alice), bad “The Godfather” jokes
Miss Irene Adler belongs to @thebluestmage and I love her so much ioi
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“Hey! Hurry up and open the door, my hands are full!”
She wasn’t supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes, and she’s kicking instead of knocking.
“Could you not kick the door, Alice?” I say, turning turning the page of my book.
“You should be grateful I brought dinner! The gnocchi will get cold if you don’t hurry, and if the gnocchi gets cold I will never forgive you because the Boss made it himself and he always makes THE BEST stuff!!”
As much as I hate to admit my own selfishness, free food does change things. I set my book aside and stand up, quickly hopping over to the door to open it.
Miss Alice Liddell comes bursting in, still in her work uniform. Even her little bow tie is still on, sparkling and white with a cleanliness that doesn’t match its owner.
“It’s hot, grab it grab it grab it!”
Alice shoves a dish into my arms and, oh, she was not kidding about it being hot. I stumble over to the kitchen counter and set it down on a towel, rubbing my hands to lessen the sting.
“So, made by the Boss himself, huh?” I look over my shoulder at Alice, who’s still poking around my door. “How many people did you have to off to get this?”
“Don’t be tacky, Polly, it doesn’t suit you. Ooooh, what’s this?” Alice picks up a rather large box and grins. “Hey, what’cha order? Wait, let me guess… a full-sized model of some nerdy-ass prehistoric fish.”
“I haven’t ordered anything,” I say, walking over to where she’s standing. “And we usually have to pick up our packages downstairs, anyway.”
Alice’s eyes light up. “Maybe it’s a bomb! Or a severed head!”
I glance slowly over at her.
“If it was a bomb, you probably would’ve set it off with all the shaking. And, uh… do severed heads get delivered often?”
“Oh, honey, don’t ask me.” Alice tilts her head. “Copying the movies is tacky, and this box isn’t big enough for a horse head, anyway.”
“You’re the one who was talking about severed heads in the first place…” I take the box from Alice and look down at it. There are stamps on it, but the label’s been changed. When I see the return address, I let out a sigh and let a small smile cross my lips.
“A bomb’s more likely than a head in this case,” I say. “But he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave one on my doorstep.”
“Oh?” Alice crosses her arms as I set the package down on the coffee table and walk back over to the gnocchi. “Hey, hold on, aren’t you going to open it?”
“Oh, probably later,” I reply, pulling the lid off the food. “God, he could make an honest living off of this stuff.”
“Yeah, but he’s so much more fun as a dangerous guy, you know?” Alice pops the cork on a bottle of wine—where had she been hiding that?—and grins. “You understand me, right? With that weird Matrix boyfriend of yours! Open the box, I wanna see what he sent you! Do you have any ideas?”
“Well, um…”
I think back to the last few e-mails I had exchanged with him. He was going to be going abroad for work and had said:
‘OH! I’ll be sending something your way too. Something that can give you lots of love while I’m gone, okay? ^o^ ^o^ ^o^ Just don’t love too much on it, or I’ll get jealous! : ( : ( : ( : ( I miss you already, please keep me updated on those saltwater filters you’ve been researching! O_O I want to hear all about the effects they’ll have on the transportation of…‘
Etcetera etcetera.
“Oh. My. God.” an awful grin splits Alice’s face when I tell her the gist of it. “Polly, honey, he totally sent you a dildo!”
“What?!” I swing my head over to glare at her.
“Oh, that’s so cute! Something to use while you think of him!” Alice dances from foot to foot, twirling like she’s talking about lollipops and rainbows instead of silicone penises. “Mr. Avido did something similar for me, once. He got me the cutest pair of panties and a remote-controlled vibrator and—”
Alice is only stopped when I fling a throw pillow her way.
Any further discussion on Alice’s part is interrupted by another knock at the door.
“Oh thank god,” I mutter. “Irene.” I quickly walk over to the door and open it up, looking at the taller woman gratefully.
“What’s the matter, kitten?” she asks. “Alice bullying you already?”
“Weirdo-Man got her a dildo!” Alice shrieks with laughter.
“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard about that…” Irene smiles sympathetically at me.
“I’m so sorry. He doesn’t talk your ear off, does he?” I murmur, but she waves it off.
“Yes, but he did that even before he met you,” she walks in and shuts the door behind her. “Nemo’s loud, but he’s a sweetheart most of the time.”
Irene walks over to the box and looks down at it with a smile. “He has talked to me about this, though. It’s not a dildo, Alice, sorry.”
“Aw, Miss Adler, don’t crush my dreams!”
“If I don’t crush your dreams you’ll get spoiled,” Irene takes a deep breath, smiling at the aroma of good food. “Your boyfriend’s going to be hard to beat, though.”
“Ew, come on,” Alice shakes her head. “He isn’t my boyfriend, he’s my Boss. He’s my ‘capo’, my ‘padrone’, my ‘signore’—”
“If I open the box, will you stop butchering Italian?” I ask.
Alice sits down cross-legged and silently hands Irene the bottle of wine.
I drum my fingers on the box before looking up at the two girls, a blush beginning to spread across my cheeks. “Look, it’s kind of embarrassing when the two of you are staring at me like that. Go grab some plates or something.”
“Go get some plates, Alice,” says Irene.
“Oh, come on!” Alice pouts up at her, but stands up without further complaint and goes to dish out her boyfriend’s, um, Boss’ cooking.
Once Alice has her back turned, Irene nods at me and I tear into the box with glee.
It opens rather easily, and there’s a ‘pop’ as a cloud of confetti bursts into the air, making me gasp.
“Cute…” Irene says with a slow smile. “He initially wanted to put fireworks in it, but I told him that probably wasn’t a good idea.”
“My face thanks you,” I reply. I move the confetti container inside and am faced with a wall of pink. “What is this…?”
It’s soft and plush, and squishes when I reach in to grab it.
“It’s a…”
“He knows how much you love them,” Irene’s looking on proudly.
I feel tears brimming at the edges of my eyes already.
“It’s so cute!” I hug the squid to my chest and hug it. It’s so large that I can wrap both my legs and arms around it as I bury my face in the soft fabric. It smells like him, too, like leather and oil and circuits and science.
“ACK I missed it!” Alice runs over, but her expression drops when she sees me nuzzling my face into a cushiony cephalopod. “What the fuck.”
“Isn’t it sweet?” Irene rests her elbow on Alice’s head. “He made it himself. He actually dragged the poor thing with him to a bunch of meetings while he was sewing it. Finis was thrilled about that…”
“He went to all that trouble?” my voice is muffled, but I don’t want them to see me crying. He hasn’t even left the country yet and I’m already getting emotional. It’s just two weeks… just two weeks. “It’s warm, too… just like he is…”
I sniff, and I feel a gentle hand on my head.
“Aw, kitten, he made it so you wouldn’t be lonely,” says Irene.
“I don’t get it,” says Alice as she pauses to shovel a spoonful of gnocchi in her mouth.
“You don’t understand making someone a present to show someone you love them?”
“Nope,” another shovelful. “Why not just buy it?”
“… Why not just buy it, indeed,” Irene stares pointedly at Alice’s plate.
I wipe my eyes and stand up to fix myself a plate of Avido’s gnocchi.
“Hey, Irene,” I say. “I know you can’t go into details, but…”
I turn around and hand her the serving spoon. “This stuff isn’t… I mean, will he be safe?”
“If he can resist pushing Finis’ buttons, he’ll be fine,” Irene replies.
“Oh no…”
‘Pushing buttons’ is a rather bad habit of Nemo’s. Despite looking, well, not innocent, but… perhaps unobservant is the better word? Despite looking unobservant, Nemo’s always noticing things about the people he talks to. His mind’s like a computer, I swear he has a mental registry of every single insecurity of every single person that he has ever interacted with, ever. And sometimes, just for the meanness of it, he’ll make the most innocuous of comments that absolutely drip with malice. And he’ll do it all with a clueless expression or sometimes even an impish smile. But if you call him out on it, he’ll just stare at you as though you have no idea what he’s talking about. He’s just making an observation, it’s just an opinion, why are you making such a big deal out of it?
As I rub my temples, I thank my luck that I haven’t been on the receiving end of one of his “observations”. My self-esteem is withered enough as it is.
No, instead I glance over at the happy-looking squid sitting on my couch and smile.
“Y’know,” Alice takes a sip of wine. “It’s kind of funny to think about, but really… Polly’s the only one with a job she can freely talk about.”
“There’s confidential stuff, too,” I say.
“What, do you have a secret stash of octopi or something?” Alice laughs.
“Octopuses, and no. It’s mostly things like donor lists and the like,” I say.
“Wow,” Alice’s voice is deadpan. “How scandalous. Donor lists.”
The exchanges go on like this as we eat, and I can’t help but think about how strange it is that the three of us are here with each other.
Strange, but nice.
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Notes On Perfumery
🌿The delicious, provocative, memorable, thrilling, seductive, romantic and captivating realms of perfumery and scent serve as distinct and alchemical reminders of the present, incomparable, attenuating and effervescent moment. But, while I long to purchase many of the perfumes that evocatively shift and heighten the pleasure quotient, such as Narcotic Venus by Nassamotto, Blanche by Byredo, or Carnal Flower by Frederic Malle, I know that I must be prudent with many luxury indulgences, and thoughtfully consider whether I would be satisfied with simpler, singular, hits emanating from the olfactory world, by being more aware of the notes that drift throughly from nature, from the structures we live in, from the material we clothe ourselves in and from the food and drink we prepare and enjoy. By seeking to read the scent scape at any moment, we transfer the energy inherent therein to bits of data into our mind, embellishing the experience, adding nuances, deepening the atmosphere and adding the denuded invisible light that accompanies the elemental notes of a perfume. Thus I greedily imbibe reality through a perfumed perspective, noting the mellow, calming notes of still warm, washed cotton blankets, the promising whiffs of steamy, morning coffee, the lingering traces of tuberose petals on a birch wood stool side table, coconut oil mixed with jasmine that I rub over my limbs, the added cinnamon and cardamom powder floating from my orange pekoe tea, the Thai basil I pull from the garden to enliven turmeric stained shrimp massaman curry, the sleepy notes of lavender from our castile soap, the marrying of shouldering palo santo and vanilla incense matches lit before meditation, the handmade rose water spray I use to pick me up at work, the earthy smell of twine that I snip to tie marigolds before placing them in a copper Moscow mule rug, the clementine skin that I peel off for my daughter, the dark chocolate and walnut bedtime snack, the fine, dusty atmosphere of leather and time marked old books, the salty smell of seashells, or the delicate song of sweet alyssum that is so sensitive, that is likely missed from most perfume concoctions that I could ever buy.
Fragrances I would Like Bottled
The perfume of feeling better immediately after an argument with your spouse.
The perfume of moonlight, fluttering moth and delicate desert breezes.
The perfume of tuberose garlands strung above the wedding bed.
The perfume of congratulatory soirées, saturated with champagne, music, dancing, mason jar cut garden flowers, candlelit lanterns, well wishes and unhindered vistas of hope.
The perfume of receiving a petite emerald green satin gift box, tied with a full cream silk ribbon.
The perfume of mornings beginning with croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice and hazelnut coffee, before walking in the city, visiting flower shops, bookstores, art museums, the yoga studio and the park.
The perfume of an afternoon at the beach with books, bespoke sunglasses, a white bikini and a large brimmed, black ribboned straw hat.
Th perfume of falling in love with a stranger among the stacks of the library.
The perfume of days filled with yoga, meditation, green juices, sound bathing, incense, candlelight, dancing and gardening.
The perfume of arranging flowers for windowsill Wednesday.
The perfume of walking into your first apartment in Paris.
The perfume of knowing that today will be a lucky day.
The perfume of of a brilliant, silver moon hanging outside your window like a dangling silver charm.
The perfume of walking into a bookstore café with two hours to spare and an earl gray tea to buy.
The perfume of sleeping in extra and allowing yourself to be lazy.
The perfume of orange cardamom soaped, Shea butter rubbed hands.
The perfume of jasmine plucked from the garden mixing with rumpled cotton sheets.
The perfume of a round the world tickets and unlimited word processing software budget.
The perfume of amnesia for painful memories and vivid remembrances of the joyous ones.
The perfume of a quiet hour by the windows with an apothecary bottle of recently cut roses, sweet alyssum and oriental lilies, a pad of watercolor paper, brushes and paint.
The perfume of lush, deep, heavy, weary slumber to remind your mind when it refuses to surrender to sleep.
The perfume of tuberose plants, mango and magnolia trees after the rain.
The perfume of a first kiss by the sea.
The perfume of mutual, unwavering regard for romance, evidenced in the subtlest occurrences, bring French presses coffee in bed or turning off the lights due to a preference for sparkling candlelight and evocative splinters of the moon.
The perfume of palm trees embracing us as we live, and their plump dates tempering the unalterable truth that we die.
The perfume of narcotic reprieve that would heal a persons sorrow, would offer a sanctuary during distress and would allow tampered hearts to move past the closely trailing anxieties and woes.
The perfume that firmly stays the swiftly passing hours.
The perfume of the poetry that lingers in the shadows and the music that is too shy to be heard.
Love Letters
I am enameled by the art of writing love letters. Love letters are like butterfly nets to transpose over the moment in order to entrap emotion into tangible form. Some allow us to express ourselves in ways that is absent in our customary interactions. For the words, embedded into parchment, or onto a digital screen, speak directly, yet also subtly, just as flushed cheeks, reveal truths about the state of your heart, when you spy a lover. For often when we say things out aloud, much is distorted by the mood of the day, perhaps the stream of dust by open French windows, or by the hazy mist falling copiously over burdened peach rose bushes, or by the movement of coffee cups over a thick cherry wood table, the cadence of slow sips, distracting us from what we are saying. Yet we transcribe these thoughts, ideas or feelings into paper we are not only clearer in expressing ourselves, we assure that our reader might also witness a bit of the inimitable cast of our soul. For love letters inspire more love, writing might manifest more healing, nurturing, palliative entreaties, or they may elucidate further on a source of conflict, providing a new way of thinking about a seemingly impenetrable block, for writing is a mode of thinking, it extracts instincts that may be faded in ordinary circumstances. Beautiful love letters hint at the pace of the writers breaths, their temperament, there vision of the world, of whether they wore a jasmine and tuberose perfume, marks of soil may denote time in the garden, or the email time stamp, the hour that the person lingered with, albeit, separated by time and space, in letters. Writing letters are forms of therapy, meditation, creativity, idea generation, contemplation an imagination. It can become a part of a lifestyle. I highly recommend you send flowers, a postcard, am email, a disarming text message or a distinctly mesmerizing photograph, to manifest more love in your hours.
Traveling to Bengal
I am returning to the country of my birth, a land veined with five major rivers that flow from the highest mountains peaks in the world, to the Bay of Bengal, down to the Indian Ocean, the rivers include Meghna, Padma, Jumuna, Bhramaputra and the Ganges river. Bengal is a rich, fertile, magnolia, tuberose, marigold and mango tree embroidered emerald terrain, whirling with possibility, imagination and chance. I dwell amidst a cloud of ripe anticipation and hopefulness as I embark on the journey. Perhaps the days ahead will enrich and concentrate my adamant search for the truth; sought by reading the signs of nature, by dwelling alertly within the dreamlike spaces structuring reality, by noting the unwavering play of light and darkness that is a constant anywhere upon our pale earth, by listening to the quiet laughter and the silent tears which is as universal, by tasting familiar wedding kacchi biriyanis at sumptuous, twinkling, fairy light wrapped palm tree, terra-cotta votive candlelit, cashmere pashmina, chiffon sari wrapped, strung jasmine garlanded soirées, by sipping tea from antique British India silver teapots, on worn Mughal era Persian carpets, lit softly with heirloom Italian, crystal chandeliers, with latticed windows open to the enchanting songs of subtropical sunbirds accompanied by the fluttering of parrot wings.🌴🌴🌴
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I smell like peppermint and coffee because I spilled a bottle of essential oil on myself last night, and I'm drinking iced coffee despite it being freezing outside.
I like to think that makes me aesthetic in a strange way..
I like to think the way I always wear a scarf, and carry headphones on me everywhere makes me beautiful in an untouchable way, in my own universe.
The way I wear two hoodies and keep the sleeves from the first one poking out makes me a little bit imperfect in my own perfect way.
I am ugly in every pretty way.
I am that pocket of bottle tabs I keep in my backpack.
I am the white girl order of iced white chocolate mocha bullshit.
I am the struggling to relearn Italian after all these years.
I am the laughter during a crying session because someone cracked a stupid joke.
I am the harder sobs after the laughter because sometimes you just have too many damn emotions.
I am perfect in every uncomfortable way.
And I wouldn't change that.
Unless you asked nicely..
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