#buttery-croissant-draws
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parisian love
summary - you are a little self conscious of your feelings in the city of love
word count: ~1.5k
pairing: boyfriend!harry x reader
a/n: harry had been looking too good lately so i had to write a little blurb about him again <3
“Quit it, will you.” Harry interrupted your scary glare towards your waitress.
You humphed and crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back against the little garden chair in the quaint Parisian cafe.
It was a gorgeous day in Paris and you and Harry were enjoying it together on his day off. Touring was always u such a hectic schedule, but Harry always made sure there was time for you.
Today he has suggested going to a cafe for brunch, seeing as all you’d been showing him were the infamous hot chocolates they serve here along with buttery croissants. You’d been waiting for the opportunity to have one, so Harry was treating you.
Only, the waitress was slightly ruining the experience by flirting with your, clearly, boyfriend.
“So you be the bigger person and be the one to quit it.” He replied calmly.
“So you be the bigger person and be the one to quit it.” He replied calmly.
His sunglasses and his hat shielded much of him away from the public, but clearly not enough for the waitress not to be all over him.
She kept making subtle touches to his shoulder, obvious glances towards his open chest where his linen shirt was unbuttoned and you could’ve sworn some buttons on her shirt had been undone since you arrived.
You picked up your hot chocolate and tried to let the smooth and sweet drink override your jealousy.
It wasn’t often that you were a jealous girlfriend, since you had to deal with it day in and day out, but sometimes it all got a little too overwhelming.
Especially in Paris.
All this trip you’d had this deep and unsettling anxiety in your chest. It made your chest feel hollow and your throat really clogged up. Your stomach was constantly full of anxious butterflies and you couldn’t bring yourself to confront as to why.
Harry was reading a tourist booklet about Paris, whilst you sat and people watched.
When you feel his hand cup your exposed knee, due to you wearing a pretty pink summers dress, you turn your head away from the people and focus on him.
“Hm?” You ask.
“I said, do you want to go on a walk after this?” Harry asked again, the first time having gone amiss to you.
“Oh, um, sure.” You gave him a small smile.
“I think there might be a garden around here that we can wander around.” He pointed to a page in the small book he was holding, but you get lost in thought again.
Harry returns to his book and before long the waitress comes back over.
You watched her put her hand on your boyfriends shoulder and look away just as quickly, in case you say something that will get you in trouble.
“Can I get you anything else today?” She asked Harry.
You sip your hot chocolate until it’s gone, having had enough of this.
You stand up abruptly, rattling the table a little. You turn to face the woman and notice that her hand is no longer on Harry’s body, but she is still stood rather close to him.
“I think I’m going to go somewhere where I don’t have to see another girl flirting with my boyfriend.” You say to her and watch her face void of emotions.
You look down at Harry, who looks up at the two of you with the same blank expression. You can’t tell whether he’s angry or annoyed, but you have a feeling it’s somewhere in between.
After gulping down the stone at the back of your throat that threatens the tears, you get up and walk off slowly so not to draw any more attention to yourself.
You sniffle your way out of the café and start heading down the road back to the hotel.
After an argument with Harry, sometimes you would walk off, similar to this, but what always happened is that Harry would follow you. Always a few meters behind, but he could never leave you fully alone after an argument and he would always find the fastest way to make it up to you.
A spare bench was located on the crest of a hill, where the rest of the city could be seen below.
You sat down and held your bag in your lap, opening the zip to find a pack of tissues with shaky hands. You took one out and dabbed at the corner of your eyes lightly, so not to smudge your eye makeup.
The view was gorgeous, but it was easily forgotten about when Harry sat down next to you.
He sat with a couple feet of space between you and as much as he hated it, he respected you want for space.
“M’sorry.” You spoke first, after a couple minutes of silence.
“You don’t have anything to apologise for, baby.” Harry comforted you by reaching one his arms along the back of the bench and stroking one of his fingers, gently, over the back of your neck. It was a reminder that he was really here for you.
At the subtle gesture, you sniffled and dived over to his side of the bench to snuggle up against the side of his body. Your head found home against his shoulder and his head rested atop of yours, after he left a little kiss there. His arm snaked around the back of your body and rested his hand on your outside hip.
You sniffled again and tried to control your watery eyes.
“What’s got you so sad, hm?” He asked.
“I hate being jealous.”
“Why?”
“Makes me look childish and insecure.”
“I don’t think it does, babe. I think it shows me how much you love me. You’re willing to get upset when someone else shows interest in me. It’s weird to say, but I find it comforting that you don’t want me for anyone else. The same as I don’t want you belonging to anyone else. I like you as mine.” His arm squeezes you a bit in reassurance.
“It’s nice when you put it that way.” You smiled, even though he can’t see.
“It’s okay for you to get jealous, Y/N/N. I just don’t like the idea of you getting proper upset over me.”
“You mean so much to me, Harry, i’m just scared it’s to good to be true being with you.”
“Well, how about we take each other for each day we have together and let what feelings we have for each override any fears or insecurities. Hey?”
“That sounds good.”
You both fall silent for a little bit, people watching as the sun sets over the city of love. It’s gorgeous how the sky burns a palette of oranges and yellows, you’ll probably never get over its beauty.
When you start giggling to yourself Harry perks up conversation again.
“What?” He asked with a slight giggle himself.
“Just thinking about how if you weren’t a musician you would make a good therapist.” You relay your thoughts to him.
“Oh definitely. I’d be good at any job.” You can’t see it, but Harry smiled down at you because he is happy now that you are.
“Oh really?” You laughed.
“Yeah. Try me.”
“Umm? A chef?”
“Oui oui. I have watched Ratatouille before.”
“Why are you a French chef?” You asked, giggling away the tears.
“Because we’re in the city of love, mon ami.” He laid on a thick English accent to answer your question, making you prod him in his tummy for being so annoying.
“Okay Chef.” This time Harry tickled you in your side instead. “Stop! Okay, um, what about… A firefighter?”
“You just want to see me in my suspenders again.” Harry laughed so loud that people turned to see what was so funny. You buried your head further into his body until your blushed cheeks passed over.
“Do not.” You counter argued.
“Do too. I know you do, because Lambert showed me his texts with you the other day of you demanding he bring the suspenders back to tour.”
“Ugh. He’s such a snitch.”
“Big Brother is watching you.” He referenced.
“Don’t refer to yourself as Big Brother again, you weirdo.” You laughed at him. You go to hit him playfully on his tummy again, but instead Harry caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips to play. He didn’t let it go afterwards, instead he chose to hold it tight.
Both of you go back to silence again, going back to people watching individually.
The sun had gotten lower now and there were more people coming into the city for a night out. You and Harry were going to be cuddled up in bed watching a Disney movie by the time these people enter their first club. The life of an introvert, you, loving and extrovert, Harry, meant you did very introverted activities together.
“Harry?” You asked quietly.
“Yes, m’love.”
“Can I ask you a question? And before you answer, I don’t mean for this question to start an argument between us but I am just genuinely curious.”
“You’ve got me a little worried now, babe, but go on. I trust you.” He replied and you shift a little in your position to gauge his facial expression.
“When you’re in Paris, o-or France for that matter, do you ever think about Camille? Like, do you get sad about her or feel anything?” You breathed out, but continue just as quickly, “Again, I’m not asking to provoke you, but I’m just thinking that someone of her importance in your life must have left an impression on you. Maybe, in turn, making you think about her at times like this?”
As soon as you’d asked your question, a wave of relief rolled off your shoulders. You couldn’t explain how freeing it was to have asked that. It was like that unexplained anxiety from the past few days had come from that question alone.
“Thank you for asking for politely, baby, first of all.” Harry kissed your forehead. “And since you were honest with me, I’ll be honest with you.”
“Okay.” You nodded a bit nervously.
“I do think of her.” He answered the way you were least hoping him to, but let him continue anyways, “But not in the way you think. When I think about her now I am always thinking of you, too. I rarely do think about her, because why would I need to, but sometimes certain moments will take me back and you’ll be there to get rid of those thoughts again.”
“I-I don’t think I understand.” You say.
“It’s like when we went for a coffee run the other morning and you happened to choose the same coffee shop that I’d been to previously with Camille. In that coffee shop, in that moment, all I could think about was how much happier I was to be standing there with you than I had ever been with her ever. I thought about, and still do, how lucky I am to have found someone that loves me just as equally as I love them.” He paused briefly, “So, do I think about her? Yes, but only because I’m reminded of how much more happiness and love and life I have gained from choosing you.”
You stared at him throughout his tiny speech and a little bit afterwards too. His eyes watered at the sight of yours watering - which you could tell even through his sunglasses.
“I need another tissue.” You laughed out through a couple of tears.
Before you could go diving in your bag, Harry cupped your chin with his fingers and drew your mouth close to his. He kissed you so feverishly that you would think it was your last one ever.
He pulled away with a pout, “I love you. I’ll always choose you. It’s you, forever, baby.” He kissed you once more with force. “Always. It’s a promise.
#harry styles#harry styles x reader#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles x y/n#harry styles fanfic#ask finelinevogue#harry blurb#finelinevogue#harry styles concept#harry oneshot#harry styles blurbs#harry styles angst#finelinevogue harry styles#harry styles paris
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Rhett's family isn't super picky on their coffee, but at the diner one day they make a batch of local coffee and Rhett (who takes his coffee with two creams) notices it tastes different. The waitress explains a new shop just opened and they are switching to their brand. Rhett enters the shop, very western themed and chock full of blue collar men - only to realize that the shop owner and the sole barista is quite the stunner. Safe to say, Rhett starts taking his coffee in town each morning after that.
Oh my gosh, yes 😍
You’ve had the dream of opening your own coffee shop since you were in high school, but you’ve also grown tired of life in the big city and long for the comfort and community of a small town. So when the real estate agent you hired finds a commercial space available in Wabang, it seems like the perfect fit.
The locals are a little wary at first, but you quickly win them over with your charming, rustic decor and your delicious, no frills coffee and warm, buttery croissants. It’s not long before you have regulars, but the only one who gets your heart racing and your blood pumping is Rhett Abbott. It doesn’t take you long to learn that the local rodeo star has a reputation as a ladies’ man, but he’s never been anything but a gentleman every time you’ve interacted with him, always leaving a few dollars in your tip jar with a shy smile before tipping his hat in your direction and walking out the door.
You wish he would stay every once in a while.
After a week, you know his routine like the back of your hand. He comes into the shop every morning at 7:12 on the dot, and he always orders the same thing—a large hot coffee with two creams, no sugar. So you start to have it ready for him, a gesture that seems to startle him at first, but then draws out more of those small, tentative smiles that you’re growing to love so much.
It’s not until a month into this quiet little back and forth that Rhett walks into the shop one morning—at 7:12, just like clockwork—and you set down a ceramic mug in front of him instead of his usual to-go cup.
“All out of to-go cups and my delivery got delayed,” you lie through your teeth. “Guess you’ll just have to stay for your morning coffee. But I’ll throw in a free croissant for the inconvenience.”
Rhett’s blue eyes widen, but then a smile curves his lips. “Not an inconvenience at all,” he tells you, his voice low and raspy. “Mind if I sit right here?” he grins, hooking a thumb towards the empty stools sitting in front of the counter.
“Not at all,” you smile, butterflies swarming in your stomach.
Rhett Abbott was definitely your favorite customer.
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Shelter from the Storm
Oikawa Tooru x female reader
w.c 8k
tw: yandere, blood, murder, nsfw, smut (sorta), oikawa is awful in this, technically everything is consensual but... big yikes.
A gentle breeze blows past, a lock of loose hair fluttering in its wake. Early still, the sky is painted with buttery oranges and pinks, a perfect, picturesque sunrise. Leaning on the railing of the balcony, you gaze to the city below, lost in thought.
Behind you, the sliding door opens, a warmth enveloping you, strong, sinewy arms curling around your middle.
“Morning,” Oikawa murmurs, drawing you closer. His bare chest rumbles at your back when he speaks again, “You want some breakfast? Coffee?”
How many times can you make the same mistake – fall into bed with the same person – and still claim it to be a momentary lapse in judgement? Maybe you’ll set a new record.
“Oikawa…”
Lips press against the back of your head, strangely affectionate. For all your little indiscretions, the time you’ve spent together, this sort of affection – the casual touching, the… intimacy of it all, feels out of place in broad daylight. “Mm? We could go and get one of those croissants from you like from the place across the road? Or get something delivered if you’d rather stay in?”
“Oikawa,” you sigh again, more insistent this time. You spin in his arms, turning to face him. Hair still mussed from sleep, shirtless, smiling down at you – unfairly handsome in the morning light.
“What? Not hungry?” he asks, a faint amusement lacing his tone.
Your hands find their way to his chest, your pinky grazing the raised, puckered outline of one of his scars. While curiosity might eat away at you, you’ve never quite mustered the courage to ask him about them.
You’ve heard enough of the rumours that swirl around Oikawa; they won’t be pretty stories.
“We can’t keep doing this. You have to stop.”
He laughs, surprise flitting across his face, “Me? If I remember correctly, you were more than eager to get those lovely hands of yours on me last night.”
“That’s not–” you break off with a flustered huff, cheeks warming. “That’s not what I meant, stop twisting my words! You work for my father, I can’t keep– we can’t keep doing this.”
A little of the mirth in his expression fades at that, “You don’t think I can handle keeping you safe while we’re sleeping together, ‘s that it?”
“He’s paying you to keep me safe. I’m a job, Oikawa, that’s it. That’s all.” You bite back a sigh, shifting to put some distance between you two – as much as his grip will allow. “This is a bad idea, you know it as well as I do. In a few weeks, or months–”
“So?” he asks, cutting you off. “He can’t say I’m not doing an excellent job, keeping such a careful, close eye on his beloved daughter,” the hands the rest on your waist slide down to your ass, squeezing it appreciatively as he closes the gap between you once more. The grin he wears is nothing short of devilish – not to mention incredibly self satisfied – his mouth a hairsbreadth from your own. He continues, “I’m keeping you safe, satisfied and very, very happy. If anything, I should be getting paid extra for that.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that’s how he’ll see it.”
Oikawa leans forward, kisses the tip of your nose, and then your lips.
“I’d kill for you, how many other guys can say that, hm?” When the joke fails to garner a response, he sighs. “We’re not breaking any rules, and I’m not going anywhere. Stop overthinking it.”
—
In the days following the first threats made against your father, the idea of having a bodyguard shadowing your every step seemed laughable. Ridiculous. You weren’t some darling, young starlet with creepy, obsessive fans. Not a witness set to testify in some groundbreaking criminal case.
No, you’re simply collateral, caught up in a mess of your father’s making, one that has nothing to do with you.
That you love him in spite of it is an immutable fact. You’ve tried hard – so, so hard – to distance yourself. To separate the life you’re trying to lead and the good you’re trying to do from the shadowy reach of his legacy.
In any case, you felt perfectly comfortable brushing aside his offer of protection. You neither wanted nor needed someone monitoring your every move under the guise of keeping you safe.
And then the focus of the threats turned to you. To your step-mother. To Ryo, your little brother – a kid.
Your father, a man unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no’, introduced Oikawa the very next morning and would not budge on the issue. ‘You do not have to like him,’ he’d said. ‘But he’ll keep you out of harm’s way, and you will listen to him.’
It was – is – an adjustment.
Those closest to you, your friends, your work colleagues – the ones you interact with on a daily basis at any rate – have all been made aware of the truth behind his presence. For everyone else–
“Don’t mind him, Oikawa’s my new assistant,” you explain to the hotel’s manager, smiling sweetly at her bemused expression.
Oikawa matches it with one of his own, saccharine and glittering.
A cup of tea is set out before each of you by one of the hotel’s employees, and he thanks her quietly, swirling the cup round in its saucer to better reach the bone china handle. Lifting it to his lips, he takes a smooth, slow sip.
“I’m really just here for the free tea and cake.”
One look at the blushing manager, and you can tell she’s thoroughly charmed – which is the only reason you abstain from kicking him under the table.
“Ignore him, please. I had a thought about letting some of the kids come up and talk on stage as part of the opening speeches, but I wanted to make sure that wouldn’t push us too far behind with the entertainment.” There’s a slight nudge at your thigh, “And um, we also wanted to run through the security measures, if possible.”
Her brow wrinkles, “Security, I– well, we’ll have doormen to check the guest list, and I suppose we could have some of our security staff posted near the ballroom exits if you’d like?”
You nod, “Yes, that’ll be–”
“You should have a few dressed to blend in with the crowd, mingling throughout the room, regular security at the stairs, and we’d like some guards working the backstage area as well,” Oikawa interjects. “Considering the guest list, not to mention the A-list performers we’ve hired for the night, the least they can ask of us is to ensure we’re making their safety and security a priority, no?”
“All these extra measures are a little last minute, don’t you think? The gala’s tomorrow night!”
On the brink of exasperation, she looks to you, no doubt expecting you to rein in your employee.
You simply smile, folding your legs over one another, taking a moment to indulge in the tea you’d been so graciously provided. “We chose this hotel as our venue for a reason, I’ve heard nothing but excellent things about you and your staff. A few added security measures shouldn’t be too difficult for your staff to accommodate. As my assistant said,” your eyes slide to Oikawa’s, a faint hint of a warning there, “we simply want to ensure everyone has a safe, enjoyable evening so that the foundation can raise as much as we possibly can.”
“… Of course,” she concedes.
“Perfect! So, let’s get back to the opening speeches.”
And so it goes, the two of you discussing the final touches and small details for the event you’ve spent months bringing to fruition, the foundation’s first charity gala.
Untouched by your father’s hand, you built this foundation from the ground up, it’s yours – your baby. Your pride and joy.
You think nothing of it when Oikawa excuses himself to take a call. He doesn’t leave the room – he won’t risk straying that far – and you’re distantly aware of the quiet tones of his voice speaking into his phone. You pay it no mind, focused on closing out your meeting with all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed.
By the time the meeting’s finished, you’re thrilled.
Naturally, there’s still plenty you have left to do; one last check in with the caterers, you have to go and pick up your dress, and there’s the debrief with your team. You’ll have to come back to the hotel early tomorrow to make sure that the set up runs smoothly and nothing’s slipped through the cracks.
Regardless, promising that you’ll touch base first thing in the morning and thanking her again, you can’t quite tamp down your excitement, or the giddy little grin you wear, exiting the hotel with Oikawa.
At least, until he stops you just shy of the town car waiting out front, his hand on your arm, murmuring your name.
“What, what is it?”
He appears almost hesitant. Regretful, certainly. “There was another threat delivered to the main house today…”
Your stomach sinks.
You can see it written across his face, know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth, “Don’t, don’t you dare–”
“There’s too many variables, I am not putting you on the stage in a dark, crowded room–”
You throw your hands up in a huff. “Fine! I won’t speak then.”
“You’re not going at all. Shizuku can do your speech, the team has everything else handled. I am not risking your safety, point blank.”
“That’s not your decision!”
Oikawa’s eyes narrow, “It is. You can be pissed at me all you want–”
“We’ve been working on this for months! Oikawa, this is the most important night of our entire year – we need this funding. The kids need this funding! You can go as my date, you’ll have every excuse to spend the entire night glued to my hip. We just got them to agree to all that extra security stuff you wanted, what more do you need? Don’t ask me to sit at home because of some baseless, stupid threat, please!”
You hate that your voice sounds so desperate, so pleading – but it’s frustration, not disappointment that’s to blame for the thick lump that chokes you up. The hot tears that sting in the corner of your eyes.
“I’m not asking.”
The callousness hits you like a slap in the face.
All that anger, that mounting, seething frustration, it cools in an instant, settling like a rock in your stomach. Without another word you turn and climb into the backseat, slamming the car door behind you.
If that’s how it is, fine.
Oikawa joins you a moment later, rattling off instructions to the driver.
The two of you have argued before, more times than you care to count. As charming as he thinks he is, Oikawa’s equally capable of being obnoxious, annoying, rude, arrogant, the list goes on. This is the first time it’s truly mattered, though. Maybe that’s why the cold dismissal – his refusal to give so much as an inch – stings more than it should.
“Don’t make me the bad guy here,” he murmurs when the silence between you grows too heavy to bear. “I won’t apologise for putting your safety first.”
He reaches for your hand then; a peace offering, an olive branch. You yank it back before his pinky can so much as brush against yours, lacing them together over your lap.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s what you’re being paid for, right?”
—
Days later and the elephant in the room remains firmly lodged between you two.
It’s hard to justify anger towards someone who claims they’re only making your life difficult because there are people out there actively trying to hurt you and your family. At the same time, Oikawa’s insistence on smothering you under new ‘security measures’ isn’t doing him any favours.
Driving home from work, the twinkling lights of the city speeding past in a blur, the purring hum of the engine a comfort in the otherwise silent car, you can only wonder how much longer this’ll go on for.
How much more of it you can take.
“I have a date tomorrow night,” you admit in a quiet voice. “A friend of a friend, she’s been trying to set us up together for months now.”
You glance at Oikawa then – hesitant, searching his face. Momentary surprise flickers there, and then he simply raises an eyebrow, “Oh? And you’re telling me this because you want me to give the two of you a little privacy, right? I guess it would be slightly awkward to have the last guy you were fucking watching from the next table over.”
Though his tone is perfectly pleasant, there’s no disguising the razor sharp bite of the words themselves. Guilt stabs at your insides, twisting like a knife. “That’s not what I–”
You’re so tired of arguing with him. Tired of all of this. Your hands can’t lie still, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in your skirt, and though your attention falls to your lap, you can’t escape the weight of Oikawa’s watchful eyes, following your every move.
Waiting on the verge of impatience for you to dig yourself deeper.
You sigh, wetting your lips. “I’m not interested in him. This isn’t about that. I just… I can’t do this with you, Oikawa. I can’t handle every detail of my day – what I do and who I see – being monitored and micromanaged. I can’t handle you acting like a glorified babysitter and then still trying to get into my pants the moment we’re alone. I just– I need one night without that, that’s all.”
Maybe that’s a selfish thing, a stupid decision. You’d made it at the drop of a hat, your friend gushing over this guy over the phone for the umpteenth time. He doesn’t seem like the type to have a favourite gun, and that was good enough for you.
Oikawa snorts out a laugh, “If you’ve got an itch you need scratched, I’m more than happy to offer my services, pretty girl,” he drawls, low and lecherous, grinning so condescendingly you’re honestly tempted to slap him. “But there’s no way in hell I’m letting you run off to play date night with some asshole you know next to nothing about when there’s a target on your back and I’m the one keeping you safe, understand?”
You’d anticipated some kind of resistance – Oikawa arguing over where you’d go, wanting the names of the guy in question, the friend who set the two of you up, all of it.
The possibility he’d outright refuse hadn’t even crossed your mind.
You open your mouth to argue the point, only to close it softly a heartbeat later. Why bother? What good would arguing do when you’re perfectly aware that he has no intention of budging on the subject.
Which isn’t to say that you’re letting him off the hook entirely.
“Careful, you’re sounding awfully jealous there, Tooru.”
His eyes widen a fraction, but it’s delight, not aggravation, that gleams in those deep, brown depths. “Do you want me to deny it?” he challenges, the car pulling to a stop out the front of your apartment block. “You wanna know what I think?”
Not particularly, but that’s never stopped him before.
“You want me just as much as I want you, you know we’re good together. You accuse me of being jealous, yet you’re the one running scared, jumping at the first, half-baked opportunity presented so you can lie and tell yourself that you’re not missing me.”
“Please,” you scoff, unable to help yourself. “You’d have to be gone for me to miss you.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Rolling your eyes and biting back a huff, you nevertheless accept the hand he offers to help you out of the car, the two of you making your way inside. He greets the porter by the door, inclining his chin in a short nod, and calls the elevator with a swipe of your keycard – the one he’d snatched right out of your hand the very day he’d met you.
All in the name of doing his job and keeping you safe, of course.
‘Well what if I need to use the stupid lift and you’re not around?’
‘Unless you’re planning on ditching me, I don’t see that being a problem, do you?’
Impossible, right from the start.
While Oikawa leans against the mirrored walls, smug and all too self satisfied, you snatch your phone from your purse, angrily typing up a quick message to your friend about tomorrow night. No doubt she’ll think you’re being overdramatic, if not outright lying – she, however, doesn’t have to contend with Oikawa on a daily basis.
By the time you reach your apartment, you’re tired, grumpy and itching for a glass of wine and a nice long soak in the bathtub.
You’re only half paying attention, impatient to kick off your heels and soothe the day's stresses – you don’t notice that the door’s hanging ajar, at least not immediately. Oikawa does, his whole body tensing, eyes alert and cautious.
The second you try to move, his arm’s there, outstretched to keep you at bay while he hastily tries to shut the door and obscure your view.
Not quickly enough.
Through the crack, you see it; the crimson splashed across your living room, stark and hideous against the white tile floors.
Blood.
It’s everywhere. Dripping from the lampshade, down the walls, pooling on the tiles.
Red, red, red, spattered and sprayed like the set of a b-grade slasher flick. And the smell, coppery and pungent, sitting in the back of your throat as bile creeps up to meet it.
No one person can bleed that much, can they?
Your breath comes quick; short, heaving little gasps far too shallow to do you any good. Your limbs feel weightless, weak – a stumbling step backwards almost sends you to the ground. Nausea churns in your guts, threatening to upheave.
All that blood… Your apartment–
They– they were in your home.
And a sudden thought occurs to you, a fresh wave of horror sinking its claws in deep. Without stopping to think, you lurch forward, desperate to get inside. Arms seize your waist, yanking you back, and you let out a blood curdling shriek, thrashing against the grip.
In the haze of your blind panic, you recognise that it’s Oikawa’s voice, speaking in your ear in a low, urgent tone. You don’t care, you can’t make sense of the words anyway, not amidst the overwhelming fear, the terror and the pounding of your racing heart.
“Ryo–” you choke out, struggling to get free, “I have to– h-he might be–”
“He’s not in there. He’s not in there!” Wrangled back from the door, he all but shoves you against the wall, caging you in close as your fists beat weakly against his chest, your pleas little more than whimpers. He exhales heavily, moving in closer to press his forehead against yours. “He’s at home, with your father. They’re not in there, I promise. We have to go.”
He takes your hand, leads you one step after another, murmuring reassurances the whole way.
You’re numb to it.
You don’t remember much, the ding of the elevator, stale air of the underground parking garage and a chill nipping at your skin. An unfamiliar car you’re hastily bundled into.
Time moves strangely after that, seconds trickling by like the drip of a leaking faucet.
The car is quiet. Dark. The cityscape out the window a blur that barely registers. Your mind ticks over the same thoughts, a reel stuck playing the same loop over and over; blood splashed across the curtains, the couch. Your apartment – your home – awash with it. The stench of it, clinging to you like perfume.
No one was hurt.
They were in your home.
You’re fine, Oikawa’s fine. Ryo was never in danger.
They were in your home.
You let out a shuddering breath, shoulders curling inwards as you draw your knees up to your chest. Oikawa clocks the movement, sparing you an assessing glance from the corner of his eye.
“… Where–” you wince at the raw sound. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the main house. Your father’s been alerted, he’s expecting us.”
Ah. Where else?
Your father has ‘round the clock guards at every entrance, high tech, expensive security systems. You’d be with your family, safe and protected within the walls of the home you grew up in. The minute he’d heard what’d happened, your father would’ve demanded Oikawa bring you back without delay.
Despite that, you find yourself shaking your head, “I… I don’t want Ryo– he’ll get upset if he sees me like this,” you mumble into your knees. “He’s already scared. Please.”
He looks at you again, properly this time. There’s a muscle working in his jaw, long fingers drumming against the leather of the steering wheel.
You’ve seen him angry before, irritated. Never like this.
Every breath he draws in is tight and controlled, his features set like granite. You only catch sight of it when the yellow glow of the street lights outside wash over you both in thick swathes; the cold fury that lurks in the black pits of his irises, held back like a caged beast.
It should scare you – it does, a bit. The man sitting next to you feels like a stranger, and yet you force yourself to hold that stare, not to shy away.
Oikawa won’t hurt you.
Whatever seethes beneath the surface, it’s not directed your way – you can’t say how you know that for certain, only that you do.
But neither one of you can return home to your family tonight, not when you’re both so wound up and strung out. You’ll beg on your hands and knees if that’s what it takes to sway him. Ryo’s already afraid enough as it is.
Your heart thumps painfully against your ribs as you wait in tense silence.
Oikawa considers you for a moment longer, mutters a curse under his breath and casts a look back over his shoulder, throwing the car into a sudden – and very illegal – u turn. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I hope you realise that,” he groans, but the words lack the hard, clipped edge they’d carried before.
He takes you instead to an apartment downtown; nondescript, small, tidy. The furniture appears new, fitting in with the same clean, monochromatic colour scheme as the rest of the apartment. There’s books on the coffee table, bland art lining the walls, cushions on the couch, a knitted beige comforter tossed over the armrest. It’s… fine, if not a little soulless.
Turning to face Oikawa, you lift an eyebrow, “You… live here?” you ask.
The brunet’s lips quirk upwards, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of one of the chairs. “Not often. It’s a foxhole, one of a few I have, actually. This one just so happened to be the closest.” At your confused expression, he continues, “Think of it like a hideaway. There’s no paper trail tying me to this place and very few people who know of its existence. We can lie low here for a few days while we figure everything out.”
Somewhere that can’t be tracked, because there are men out there who want you dead. Faintly, you nod, trying your best to ignore the pool of dread sitting heavy in your gut.
There’s no pretending the threats aren’t real anymore.
But you’re safe here, with Oikawa. No one’s coming to hurt you tonight.
Exhausted, your whole body aching, you shower under a scorching spray, drying yourself off and pulling on one of Oikawa’s old shirts to sleep in (‘We’ll get you some proper clothes tomorrow,’ he’d promised). There’s only one bed in the tiny apartment, and even if you could find it within yourself to care, you’re altogether too drained to say anything when, after a quick shower of his own, Oikawa crawls in beside you.
He’s warm and solid, the scent of him familiar as his arm slides over your middle, drawing you close.
“I’m not going to let anyone touch you,” he murmurs into the dark. “I’ll kill them first. You’re safe with me.”
—
Two days later, your father summons you home.
Oikawa’s curtly dismissed at the door, left to his own devices. You, meanwhile, are taken into the study, tea is poured, and the conversation, naturally, shifts towards the break in at your apartment.
“You can always stay here with us, little one, for as long as you’d like. Ryota would be thrilled to have you back.” Your father smiles, setting the steaming cup down. “As would I.”
The childhood endearment makes your heart tug. You’ve spent too long clawing your way free of his influence to do some good in the world, to return home now, no matter how tempting the thought, would undo that in seconds.
“I know,” you reply. “And I appreciate it, dad. Oikawa’s taking me tomorrow to see a few apartments, though, so hopefully we’ll find something that works.”
He makes a dissatisfied noise, mouth tightening. “Yes, well considering this happened under Oikawa’s watch, perhaps you should rethink the weight you place in his judgement.”
“It’s because of Oikawa that they broke into my apartment. He never gave them an opening to come after me directly, so they tried to scare me instead.” Tried, and succeeded, mind you. “You’re the one who hired him,” you grumble.
“I hired him to protect you, nothing more,” he replies sternly. “If you’re put at risk again I will not hesitate to replace him with someone better suited.”
Peering down at you from behind wire frame glasses, he considers you for a moment – the same weighty, assessing stare he’d give you when, as a kid, he thought you were misbehaving. “I am not so blind that I cannot see what is happening in front of my own eyes. You’re close with him, you… trust him.”
“Am I not supposed to?” Wasn’t he the one telling you you had to listen to Oikawa?
He doesn’t answer you straight away, seemingly weighing up his response. When he does eventually speak, the words give little comfort. “Oikawa is… a necessary evil. He has the temperament and skill set which make him a natural choice in protecting you – they’re also what make him dangerous. If your life weren’t at risk I would not want you within a thousand yards of that man.”
You think back to the scars that litter Oikawa’s torso. The look in his eyes that night, the tempest raging, violent and volatile.
It’s not as though you ever believed Oikawa to be a saint – if his association with your father wasn’t proof enough, the frankly alarming number of weapons you’d stumbled across, stashed throughout the foxhole certainly did the trick.
You grew up surrounded by men like that. Your father, your uncles. Business associates invited to dinner. None of them ever frightened you.
Unease slithers down your spine.
Satisfied, perhaps, that his warning struck home, your father straightens in his chair and clears his throat. “Enough of that. Come, drink – your tea’s getting cold.”
He keeps you there for a little while longer, to indulge in another cup and talk of other, lighter subjects; your work with the children’s foundation, Ryo’s progress at school (he’s becoming quite the little scientist), to the gardens that surround the estate, the cherry blossom trees set to bloom in a matter of weeks.
On your way out, he asks for you to send in Oikawa.
It takes you less than a minute to find him – sitting cross legged on the living room floor, deep in conversation with your seven year old brother. Ryo’s the one to spot you first, his whole face lighting up. Discarding the open book he’d had splayed across his lap, your brother jumps to his feet and barrels towards you with a delighted shriek of your name, arms outstretched. You catch him with a grin, squeezing back when he hugs you firmly.
“Careful, bud” Oikawa laughs, “you’ll knock her right off her feet.”
You ruffle Ryo’s hair. His mom would say the unruly locks are desperately in need of a trim – you think it suits him, reminds you of a wild thing. “Please, this little guy? Light as a feather.”
The indignant grumble you get in response, his face still buried in your middle only makes your grin widen.
Still sprawled across the floor like a kid himself, Oikawa meets your gaze with a warm one of his own, something in your chest fluttering at the sight of it. He looks content, perfectly relaxed here with you and Ryo.
In that moment, you’re struck with the realisation that he’s not the only one.
Whatever gripped you back in your father’s study, there’s no trace of it now, it holds no bearing here with the two of them. This is the Oikawa you’ve come to know, the one you trust.
The one you like, if the warming of your cheeks is any indication to go by.
… Maybe it’s time you stopped running from that.
Saved from any further musing by your brother’s attempt to crush the life out of you in one final squeeze, Ryo reluctantly lets you go.
“I missed you,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning pink. He kicks at the carpet a little, chews at his bottom lip, hesitating just a touch. “… Dad said you’re coming home to stay this time. Are you?” And beneath the wide, puppy dog eyes that tug at your heartstrings with practiced ease (no wonder he has both his parents wrapped around his finger), there’s no hiding the hope glimmering in his tone.
“I missed you too, squirt.”
At the mention of your father, however, something else springs to mind, and you turn your attention back to Oikawa. “Oh, almost forgot – he said he wants to see you. He’s in the study, waiting.”
The brunet nods, rising. If he’s bothered by the demand at all, there’s no outward indication. From your own conversation with the man, you can’t imagine he’s about to walk into anything particularly pleasant. Then again, you doubt that whatever your father has in store for him – whether it be lecture or complete verbal evisceration – is in any way anxiety inducing to someone like Oikawa.
Sauntering past the two of you, he stops for a second, lays a hand on Ryo’s shoulder and leans down to whisper conspiratorially into his ear – just loud enough for his voice to carry. “Why don’t you show your big sister the new project you were telling me about, hm?”
Ryo lights up again with a giddy gasp, racing from the room, and Oikawa winks at you, breezing on through.
—
The moment you’re through the door back at the foxhole, he’s on you.
Ravenous, hungry, lips moving feverishly against yours, prying them apart for another taste of you. The clothes he’d bought for you are hastily discarded, thrown to the floor and kicked aside as Oikawa lifts you up, hiking your legs around his waist so he can carry you into the bedroom.
“What’s gotten into you?” you laugh, half breathless when he deposits you on the bed.
“Do I need a reason?” he retorts, yanking off his shirt and casting it aside. “I’ve been waiting to do this all afternoon.”
He climbs onto the bed then,pushing your shoulders back down the mattress as his lips find yours to kiss you senseless. Your hand meanwhile slips down between your bodies, a feather light touch grazing the bulge in his jeans.
He moans into your mouth, breath shivery and light, hips bucking ever so slightly to chase the touch. When he draws back, your stomach flips in anticipation at the positively wolfish expression you find there, “Careful, pretty girl,” he warns.
“Or what?”
He takes your hand then, pulls it back to his crotch and grinds into it slowly, shuddering, “Or you’re gonna be in for a long, long night.”
You arch up to kiss him, lips finding his throat, the two of you working together to hastily free his cock from the confines of his boxer briefs.
The moment you’re successful, the hard, flushed length bobbing against his stomach, Oikawa lets a fat glob of spit fall into his palm and takes hold of it, twisting his wrist as he slides his hand back and forth along his cock, groaning and nudging your thighs apart.
Usually, he likes to take his time prepping you, lowering his mouth to your pretty little pussy, teasing you and edging you until you’re a squirming, hot mess beneath him, all but begging him to hurry up and fuck you. Other times – when he’s in a more selfish mood – he’ll send you to your knees instead, taking his pleasure by fucking your face, fingers curling in your hair, the tight, wet warmth of your mouth too tempting to pass up.
But something feels different this time. More than hunger, or desire, beyond simple urgency. It glints and gleans in his eyes, seeps from his skin like the bead of sweat that trickles down the curve of his neck.
It crackles like electricity in the air between you.
And when he drags your hips down close, and pushes his cock deep into your warm, fluttering cunt, it robs you of all words.
True to his promise, Oikawa takes his time. Fucks you on your back, legs locked around his back at first – and then pressed back either side of you, the ache in your thighs second only to the stretch of your pussy, clenching around him with every languid roll of his hips.
He flips you over and draws your ass upwards, your face pressed down into the pillows, pounding into you from behind.
Hands on your hips, guiding you up and down his throbbing shaft, hungry eyes fixed on the way your tits bounce so enticingly for him.
And then, when your legs are shaking, pussy leaking his seed and every cell in your body is electrified and buzzing, he lays you down at the edge of the bed and feasts on your poor, sensitive, abused little hole ‘til you’re grabbing at his hair, bucking up and writhing on his tongue, screaming yourself hoarse from an overload of pleasure.
Only then does he allow you rest, kissing you sweetly as he slips from your side and exits the bedroom.
He returns moments later with a glass of water, which you gratefully accept and guzzle down. Collapsing back on the bed, you let out a groan, “I feel like I could sleep for the next thousand years.”
He chuckles. Climbing onto the mattress to flop down beside you, Oikawa rolls close, smiling with a soft look you’ve only ever seen directed at you. “So sleep. We’ve got an hour or so ‘til dinner, a nap won’t kill you.”
—
You wake to the sound of a car backfiring.
Eyes bleary, disoriented, you struggle to gather your wits as the door to the bedroom flies open. Oikawa appears in the doorway, still wearing his pajamas, gun in hand, eyes focused and alert – and it’s then, in the dim, early morning light that you realise that the sound you heard wasn’t a car at all.
With his handgun and attention trained on the front door, Oikawa spares you only the briefest of glances, “Get up, we need to go. Now.”
Your heart skips a beat, chest tightening as the reality of the situation – at least, as much as your sluggish brain can piece together – dawns upon you.
Questions, one after another, claw their way up your throat, desperate and urgent, terrified, you force yourself to swallow them down, along with the near paralysing fear that takes hold. There’s no time for that. No time to panic. Pausing only long enough to ascertain that you are in fact somewhat clothed – an old tee of his and a pair of sleep shorts you must’ve thrown on at some point last night – you scramble to Oikawa’s side.
Any reassurance you feel at the grip he takes of your hand is quickly and overwhelmingly buried, however, when you catch sight of the dark mass by the entryway.
Your stomach lurches, blood running cold. It’s a body – a man’s. The room’s not yet light enough to get a good look at his face, but the open, unblinking eyes and the sticky looking pool beneath him tell you plenty.
Dead.
“Don’t look,” Oikawa murmurs.
His fingers tighten around your hand in a reassuring squeeze, already pulling you onwards. Like a bad accident, tearing your eyes away is easier said than done.
That man, he… he’d come here for you, hadn’t he? To kill you.
You’ve never seen a dead body before, and now there’s one lying across your living room floor, riddled with bullets from Oikawa’s gun and that–
That could’ve been you. Would’ve been, if not for Oikawa.
Your chest constricts, a noose tightening at your throat. And just like that night at your apartment, the fear that takes root begins to strangle you, making it hard to breathe, harder to think.
Every uneven thump of your heart rattles your chest, your limbs feeling like they’re disconnected from the rest of you. Oikawa notices, and curses softly beneath his breath. There’s no time to coax you down, his grip turns iron, half running now down the fire door stairs with you stumbling behind him.
Somewhere above you, shouts begin to sound, and with a fresh wave of terror hammering through your veins, you force your legs to move quicker. There’s no choice but to run, to duck and cower when the creaking door to the floor above swings open and Oikawa abruptly yanks you forward to fire up the stairwell behind you.
Bare feet pounding against the floor, chest heaving with ragged breaths, you burst out into the parking garage, and still you don’t stop.
For the second time in less than a week, you’re corralled into a car, shaking and numb, on the verge of outright sobbing.
Oikawa drives for a long time.
You don’t ask where you’re going, if they’re still following you. You don’t speak.
The traffic on the streets thins out, the towering skyscrapers disappearing in the rearview mirror. Wherever he’s taking you, it’s not towards home.
And there’s a pit in your stomach, a bleak, festering emotion that grows harder and harder to ignore with every passing mile. Oikawa’s silence – tense and uncomfortable, only adds to your unease.
This isn’t like last time, when he was angry beyond words. This feels… different, somehow.
When you’re well beyond the city limits, he pulls the car to a stop on the side of a deserted stretch of road and turns it off, leaving the keys in the ignition.
“There’s a phone in the glove box, can you get it for me?”
Doing as he asks, you pop the compartment open, only to cringe when the first thing your fingers brush over isn’t a cell, but the cool metal of a handgun. Nevertheless, you keep going, eventually finding the black phone tucked away near the back and wordlessly passing it into Oikawa’s waiting palm.
He smiles at you, leans over the console to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, “Thanks. Stay here, alright? Gotta make a quick call.”
He’s already dialling, smoothly exiting the car before the words truly register.
You’re helpless to do anything but watch anxiously from the passenger’s seat, fingers worrying away at the hem of Oikawa’s shirt. Seconds tick by – nothing. No one picks up. No one answers.
A small frown graces his features. Glancing into the car to check up on you, Oikawa simply ends the call, dials another number, holds the phone to his ear, and waits for whoever’s on the other end of the call to pick up.
… But nobody does. The phone rings out.
He spares you another brief glance then, your wide, worried eyes meeting his. His brow furrows, the edges of his lips thinning into a hard line and before you can call out to ask him what’s wrong, who he’s trying to get ahold of, he’s moving away from the car and out of earshot.
This time, he seems to take longer to find the number he’s after, drawing the phone back to his ear, foot tapping away as it rings and rings and rings.
You don’t realise that you’re holding your breath, fingernails biting into the palm of your hand until you see him speaking into his cell, nodding at whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying.
Yet that reprieve, unlocking the breath trapped in your lungs, soothing over all of your tension and that awful, gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach lasts only as long as it takes for you to realise that Oikawa, staring at you from yards down the road, looks entirely too grim for the relief that you’re feeling.
He ends the call with a heavy exhale, shoulders slumping.
Your heart stops cold in your chest.
One look at his pained expression, the pity swirling in his eyes, the sympathy, and your whole world comes crashing down around you.
Fingers fumbling for the door latch, you unbuckle your seatbelt to stagger to your feet, lurching towards him. Oikawa reaches you first, letting you collide into his arms, pulling you close.
“He– he’s fine, right?” you beg in a thick, trembling voice, trying in vain to blink back hot tears. “Ryo’s fine. They both are. They’re okay. Tell me they’re okay. Please, Tooru, you have to– you have to tell me that they’re–”
As words fail you, Oikawa sighs. With a gentleness that shatters something inside of you, he cups your cheek in his palm, brushing away your tears, and presses his forehead against yours.
“I’m sorry. They… they hit the house before they came for us. No one made it out.”
No… no, no, no, no, no. That’s not true. You clutch at him, desperately shaking your head. Ryo can’t be dead, he’s only seven. He’s just a kid, an innocent, good kid. He’s your little brother.
He can’t be dead.
But Oikawa’s looking at you so brokenly, and you feel like somebody’s ripped you open from the inside out and saved your heart for last of all. You open your mouth to beg for him to tell you he’s lying, but all that comes out is a sobbing wail.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, holding you close, cradling you against him. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
—
The soft sound of leather shoes walking atop marble tiles echo throughout the empty halls of your father’s estate.
There’s no need for Oikawa to disguise his presence now – not that there was much of one to begin with.
The staff had opened the door without blinking, welcoming him inside, the guards on rotation nodding in acknowledgment when he strode past. They might not particularly enjoy his presence (no accounting for taste, he supposed) but after months working for the patriarch to keep you safe, they’d come to begrudgingly accept it.
In their eyes, he was one of them, and so no one thought to stop him and ask why he’d shown up at the estate so late in the night, seemingly without reason. Without you.
It made picking them off one by one that much easier.
Well, not all of them. He had left one alive – unconscious, possibly paralysed, but breathing all the same. Oikawa smirks.
With the guards and household staff dispatched, he’d turned his attention towards the bedrooms.
Ryota was first. Fast asleep, clutching the teddy-bear you’d bought him, your baby brother hadn’t stirred when Oikawa crept in with the shadows. He made it quick. Painless. As much of a mercy as a man like him was capable of.
The kid’s mom was next; the second wife, the replacement. The money hungry, greedy, vapid little cunt.
It was no secret that your father had been married before, that his first wife – your mother – had died after a long, tragic battle with cancer when you were sixteen. The first time he’d tried bringing it up, you’d shut him down and quickly changed the subject, but in the end, all it took was one too many glasses of wine, a few stories of his own, and those pretty lips of yours were spilling all sorts of interesting secrets.
That your step-mother was fucking him before she was even cold in the ground was one such fascinating tidbit.
While he’d felt a slight twinge of guilt over killing the boy, Oikawa had no such qualms shooting her while she slept, the silencer on his pistol ensuring it raised no alarm, just like the others.
While you’d mourn for your beloved baby brother, he knows you won’t shed any tears for that bitch. He wonders if you’d even thank him for it, if he ever decided to tell you the truth.
A pleasant shiver rolls down his spine at the thought of how sweetly you’d go about it.
Presently, he raises a fist to knock at the door of your father’s study, one final goal in mind.
“Come in,” a deep voice replies.
Oikawa has to give the older man some credit, one look at him – gun in hand, the flecks of blood spattered against his crisp, white shirt – and your father stills, the colour draining from his face. He doesn’t panic, though, doesn’t shout or cry out for help, much less for mercy.
They both know none is coming.
Instead, he sets down the papers he’d been working on and rises slowly from his chair. No doubt he has at least one gun stashed nearby, but with Oikawa’s pointed towards his chest, the brunet’s index finger poised on the trigger, and his better years behind him, the odds don’t fall in his favour.
“My wife?”
Oikawa grins, clicking his tongue, “Dead.”
He nods, taking a moment to process the information. “And… my son?”
“Dead.”
“… I see.”
Oikawa’s heard more than one person accuse your father of being a cold, heartless bastard. It’s an easy assumption to make – no one gains a reputation like his without a certain brutality and overall disregard for the lives of others. The truth is simpler; your father does have a heart, it resides in both of his children. While his voice might not shake at the news of his son’s demise, his hands, splayed out over the papers on his desk, most certainly do.
He swallows with difficulty, takes in a trembling breath, “My daughter, I assume you killed her, too?”
“God, no,” he laughs. “She’s sleeping, safe and sound, blissfully oblivious to all of this.”
And for the first time since Oikawa crossed the threshold, a look of confusion adorns your father’s face. Before he can give voice to it, however, the brunet decides to nudge the conversation along. The drugs in your system will only keep you down for so long, and there’s still plenty he has left to do before the two of you can have your fresh start.
“You seem to be under the impression that I’m working for the people who want you and your family wiped from the map. I’m not. I’m simply making the best of an opportunity." He sighs, shrugging, “We could have avoided this nastiness, you know. Maybe not indefinitely, but for a little while at least. All of this, it’s your fault; you gave me a gift, and then,” his smile turns sharp, an edge of anger bleeding through, “you threatened to take her away.”
There are worse fates than death.
“If it gives you any solace,” Oikawa murmurs, the soft, placating tone at odds with the cruel twist of his vicious grin. “I intend to keep my promise. She’ll be safe with me, no one will ever lay so much as a finger on her.”
No one, that is, except for him.
#yandere haikyuu#yandere oikawa x reader#yandere oikawa tooru#yandere oikawa tooru x reader#yandere oikawa#idk if i hate this or not but hey at least it's done#:))))
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1. why are you French
2. if it's ok could you draw oppunity (anfash) or libunity?
1. for the boulangeries, my friend.
the freaking baguettes, the flutes, the ficelles, the bâtards, the petrisanes, oh my GAHHH. and don't get me started on the crispy, buttery croissants or the warm pains au chocolat (or whatever they're called where you live in the francophony)
2. yes i can, here have both <3
TW drug use in the Libunity drawing
Thank you for the ask, Anon!
#ask#rambling#french propaganda#i'm not very cliché but FREAKING BREAD DUDE#god's work#anyways#art#centricide#centricide fanart#centricide ancap#jreg ancap#centricide ancom#jreg ancom#centricide blueman#jreg blueman#oppunity#centricide oppunity#libunity#centricide libunity#TW drugs
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If you believe the lies I tell (Snowjanus fic Chapter Six)
Ao3
Tumblr Chapter Index
Chapter Six: Croissants
Word Count: 4,583
Festus takes up Sejanus’ role in bothering Coriolanus Snow with food.
He’s much, much more terrible because he does it in public. Festus is a very open and loud person, always draws a crowd in even if there are backstabbers amongst them. To why he started sharing baked goods like they’re back in primary school, he shrugs it off with a smile. Festus is being spontaneous and goofy, always friendly to his peers. No one bats an eye because it’s clear what his intentions are.
Persephone Price.
He has been a lovesick fool for the pretty girl since their playground days. It’s easy to fall for Persephone, believing that she can do no wrong. But Coriolanus knows otherwise, he knows of a cold day where families desperately needed food.
If Festus knew, would he still pursue her? Do all of this to impress her?
Depends how lovestruck the fool is but he’s also doing this to mess with Coriolanus’ life.
“So, first Sejanus and now Festus.”
Clemensia is smarter than most to suspect something. Then again, she’s the only one to know this pattern links him in the middle.
“They’re friends now,” he explains scornfully. “Sejanus must have told Festus to annoy me.”
“By annoy, do you mean give you food?” He glares at her. “Oh come on, Coriolanus, this isn’t the worst courting an alpha can do. A little strange, definitely not traditional, but not terrible.”
“It’s not courting, it’s Sejanus putting himself on the stupid moral high ground or feeding his alpha pride or-“
“Or none of the above.”
Like the day before, Festus arrives at the school’s main lobby to deliver snacks to his classmates, starting with Coriolanus Snow.
“Good morning Festus,” Clemensia greets with fake joy, which is more platitude than Coriolanus is willing to do.
“Clemensia, Coriolanus,” Festus nods with all the manners his parents hoped he would ever use, “I see we’re talking about my baking instructor. Wanna try these croissants?”
The exaggerated accent alone would’ve made Coriolanus barf but there is nothing in his stomach to puke. Festus presents him a warm, buttery pastry where chocolate melts between the layers.
“You actually made this?” Clemensia is genuinely awed, examining it a little too closely.
Just seeing her moving in on his food has Coriolanus possessively taking the croissant and getting a bite in.
True to the smell, it’s rich and light and Coriolanus has to force himself to eat it calmly.
“It’s good,” he admits with disdain.
“Cool, I didn’t make it.” Festus winks at him.
Lowly, Coriolanus whispers, “I will smear this all over your uniform.”
Matching him, Festus whispers back, “Imagine doing that to Sejanus’ face.”
“Again, I think this is the strangest flirting I’ve seen,” Clemensia, not whispering, had to push the boys away from each other. She turns to Festus and demands, “Why are you doing all of this?”
Festus has the decency to glance around cautiously. The lobby is full of students chatting or preparing before classes start. There is this type of privacy in a crowd, everyone in their own worlds until someone else’s drama gets eye catching.
“Okay, the ones without chocolate, I did make. That one? All him, but I haven’t told him that I’ve been giving them to you. I figured I could do something nice for the both of you.”
Coriolanus does not buy into any of this, none of it makes sense. These two alphas are either too nice for their own good or they are killing him with kindness.
“How kind of you, Festus,” He said seriously with a bit of grit. “You can stop being oh so kind now.”
He hates the look Festus and Clemensia share, displeased at his attitude, as if he’s being ungrateful. That’s utterly wrong, he has never asked for anything from these people. Coriolanus never showed them any opportunity to get any sort of power over him. Only Sejanus caught him with so much bad luck.
Festus will never understand, proven by how he defends himself, “Look, Coriolanus, I’m only meddling because Sejanus promised to be gone for the week. He didn’t deserve that and he actually likes you.”
“No he doesn’t, he likes thinking he’s doing a good thing.” Coriolanus took a page out of Festus’ book and poked the alpha in the chest, “Now, it’s you thinking you’re doing something nice. None of this is actually for me.”
Much like Sejanus, Festus stares at him with big sad eyes. It's unbearable. “Is that what you really think?”
“There’s no other reason,” Coriolanus glares at him, daring him to spew more self-flatteries. “Why would he possibly like me?”
Coriolanus regrets asking that question out loud, it makes him sound so pitiful and heartbroken. More than that, it makes him genuinely curious as to why Sejanus Plinth is doing all of this.
It could be an attraction but Coriolanus denies it. No, the only conclusion he could think of is that Sejanus is doing this to feel like every other alpha in this school. Trying to date someone out of the need to feel loved.
“You’ll have to ask him that, Coriolanus,” Clemensia said. “You won’t be convinced by us.”
Us, she says, like there’s already a division between him and the closest person he calls a friend.
He shifts his glare on to her, betrayed, “You’re on his side now?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Coriolanus, I know you’re a very private person but it must be important that someone finally caught your eye. Many others would try to date you but you never gave them the time of day.”
“Oh so it’s my fault?” He snaps.
“I mean, kind of.” Festus shrugs, “I guess it’s mostly the scent blockers.”
He quickly pushes the confusion off his face and says, “I use scent blockers to contain my scent, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Seeing how Festus’ bluntness isn’t helping, Clemensia explains clearly, “That’s true but it also means you have a hard time reading scents. Coriolanus, a lot of people do like you but never gotten any signal back so they left you alone.”
His frustrations are genuinely paused at that. Anything involving their dynamics and scents, he doesn’t acknowledge it beyond his family. Ever since it became a free commodity provided by the school, he takes scent blockers on the daily. It’s just another armor piece.
The only times he gives anyone’s scent any attention is if they are abrasive, like what Arachne once did.
Yet the scent of nutmeg was always an afterthought, the signature at the end of a love letter.
Coriolanus stares at the croissant still in his hands.
“Sejanus hasn’t baked us anything since the first time we all met,” Festus gestured with his small basket of pastries. “He doesn’t like any of us. I begged him to teach me. He’s only ever been nice to you, Coriolanus.”
“No, he hasn't. He's needy and a pushover.”
“Only for you. Think about it.”
He tries. It’s not easy to recall every moment of Sejanus because he’s always blurred in the background of Coriolanus’ life. Sejanus stopped trying to make friends once he realized everyone was a pack of snakes and wolves. Yet Coriolanus’ tolerance over the District boy never passed a threshold of hostility. He’d figured that his enemies should pick fights with each other and leave himself out of the bloodshed.
So Coriolanus spared Sejanus of additional torment. Not quite a saint’s act, but surely that cannot be viewed as romantic. That would be pathetic and stupid. Yet Sejanus never actually criticized Coriolanus like their narcissistic peers, nor appeared as bothered to be around Coriolanus than the rest. Sejanus Plinth may see them all as bullies but only because they saw him as an enemy first.
He would never give them any sort of kindness, but for Coriolanus specifically, some things come to mind.
One of his many arguments with Arachne, Coriolanus can’t remember what it was over, but Coriolanus said something that made her red in the face but made their classmates laugh. Sejanus’ laughter was in his ears for hours.
A quiet day in the library. They were studying at different tables, he wasn’t even in Sejanus’ line of sight. Absent-mindedly, Sejanus started to hum. A slow melody that didn’t annoy Coriolanus at all. Instead it lulled him to sleep. He woke up alone, feeling colder than ever.
The first time Sejanus came to school after presenting. Before Coriolanus knew the smell of nutmeg belonged to Sejanus Plinth, he spent the whole day dreaming of pumpkin pies and warm coffee.
Coriolanus realizes that these are not anecdotes that prove Festus and Clemensia right. Instead it’s precious memories where he noticed Sejanus, wanting to notice him. They weren’t the type of gifts to hold but the kind to experience.
He’s so stunned by this revelation that he barely notices when Persephone Price enters their little circle.
“Hello everyone,” She greets and smiles at her friend. “Festus, I found you.”
“Hooray, you found me,” He gives Coriolanus a nervous glance before giving Persephone his complete attention, “I bought croissants today, Percy.”
“Don’t you mean croissants, hmm?”
Their wholesome joy knocks Coriolanus out of his own wholesome thoughts of Sejanus. He groaned out loud from all the mental gymnastics he put himself in.
To no one or everyone, Coriolanus begs, “Kill me. End my suffering.”
Clemensia pats his shoulder, “I think we had a breakthrough.”
He nearly jumps when Persephone smiles at him.
All he sees is a body covered in snow and a hatchet swinging down. It was her father that did it but Coriolanus cannot erase the threads of thoughts linking it all to her and her pretty face. He and Persephone are one of the skinniest in class. A certain amount of weariness clings to their bones, no matter if they manage to eat.
“Oh is that chocolate?”
Coriolanus dumbly holds it up, “Yes, it is.”
Thankfully, she turns away from him and Festus instantly has her attention with his baked goods.
“I made the buttery ones,” he says proudly.
“Croissants are all buttery ones,” she picks one of Festus’ and takes a bite. “It's really soft.” She flips it over and pokes the underside, “I think the butter melted through.”
Festus blinks, “Is that bad?”
“No, it’s still good. Hey, why don’t we go get some fruit before class?”
With a wave goodbye, Coriolanus watches them walk away, wondering how easy they make this all is. Like there’s no complications in just talking with each other.
Wealth and high status is something he can fake until it becomes real.
Trust is an entirely different concept.
Somehow this simple, mundane thing is unachievable for Coriolanus Snow, something he cannot force upon himself to give to others. Yet some unknown part of him extends to Sejanus, without his notice or guard.
“When did my life become a drama?”
“I’d say the moment you noticed Sejanus.”
How very true Clemensia’s words are as he finishes his chocolate croissant. He has to admit, what she said was an eye opener.
Scent blockers do block out his perception of scents, that’s the intended effect. No one is drowning in scents that broadcasts surface level emotions. The very things that are radioactive in the warzone. The Capitol is in a time of peace, away from the dangers of feral natures. It’s why the pills are easily accessible at the nurse’s office.
Coriolanus never saw them as a problem. He doesn’t pay attention to scents in the first place.
Yet somewhere in his head, it chose to single out Sejanus.
It’s not just some instinct from their dynamics, his laughter or sass is entirely his own.
If that is true then his decision to give Coriolanus food is also his own.
It would be so much easier to chalk it all to their natures.
An alpha is meant to defend, a beta is meant to support, and an omega is meant to protect. A cycle of shelter, of nesting into the barebones of community.
That is all a load of bull to Coriolanus Snow because he distrusts everyone he has ever known. He’s been fine without ever scent marking for any friends. Coriolanus knows the anticipating looks on his peers' faces, awaiting for any sign that he approves of them. It always bothered him, their annoying insistence that they needed a mark of their companionship. He was the omega that never initiated this type of tradition and eventually everyone stopped bothering him. They moved on with other friends who enjoyed scent marking.
Only Clemensia was the one to stick around longer than any else. She didn’t give up on him, still trying to reach out to him, even by this day.
“Why…” his hesitation is uncharacteristic, truly a sign that Coriolanus Snow is cracking. He shakes his head, determined to ask, “Clemensia, why is scenting so important to you?”
Clemensia has the gall to smile at him, almost appearing endeared.
They’re once again at the library when school ends, in one of the private study rooms where Coriolanus feels hidden enough to ask such a basic question.
“It makes me feel less lonely, like the world isn’t out to get me.”
“Oh.”
Coriolanus cannot imagine that feeling of peace. The universe is cruel and unfair, there’s no changing that unless there is absolute control. That those in power can enforce cruelty upon others to save themselves.
It’s an extreme way of thinking. If he spoke it out loud, he’d be a paranoid madman. Maybe he truly is exactly that.
Because ever since his mother died, Coriolanus Snow hasn’t known peace and comfort that lasts longer than a second.
Any of that joy is immediately swallowed by envy or rage or despair.
That is what he has learned from starvation.
It’s what he cannot unlearn.
“I know things haven’t been the same since the war ended. Most of us are pretending that we’re all back to normal, me included. Scent marking Lysistrata and my other friends just helps me feel better.”
She says it all so casually, like it’s something Coriolanus is also supposed to know. This is more proof that he’s different from his classmates,
“I always thought scenting would be,” he’s tempted to be honest, say it's all a weakness, but he decides to say, “the opposite. It appeared so territorial and I didn’t want to be claimed as someone else’s.”
“It’s not as arbitrary as that,” she reassures, “I know that Lysie doesn’t have a claim or whatever over me. We’re comfortable where we are at. It’s nothing to be territorial about. More like little reminders of each other.”
It’s similar to how Tigris described scents. Yet that was spoken with disdain, how Tigris was able to make it an emotionless transaction.
Clemensia describes it all too mundane, something as easy as breathing. That it is like exchanging love letters.
It’s all something Coriolanus would never imagine, nothing as peaceful as that is in his dictionary. He feels like a little kid again, unable to understand the world. The difference is that this era of the world is not as violent as it used to be. It could still kill him, nothing can truly starve his paranoia, but it all messes with his mind.
For once he’s not angry, he’s hopelessly envious.
Envy is starvation’s little pet, always there in the core of Coriolanus Snow. It’s a neglected tiny creature that he doesn’t want to acknowledge but it’s now here, eating up all of Clemensia’s words.
She’s always been with him at school, mostly for their grades but Coriolanus slowly accepted that they are friends, even if he can never stop anticipating her betraying him. That hasn’t ever happened yet.
She has done teasing, prodding, and disagreeing with him so far, but Coriolanus can’t imagine a motive for her to ruin him. Clemensia goes beyond his cruel thoughts. It’s starting to wear down something inside of him.
“Clemensia, I know that I’m not really being myself right now, but I really appreciate talking with you.”
This is the most brutally honest he can be with her. He hopes that she knows it because he still is unwilling to tell her any of his real thoughts.
She might leave him if she did.
“Me too, I have never seen you so worked up for anyone.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “I hate it. I hate all of this.”
“How so?”
“I feel out of control, helpless,” his throat feels dry, almost croaks out, “I’m tired from overthinking every bad thing in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped to think about anything else.”
Because the hunger pains are constant, the jealousy in every blink, and the anger in every breath.
It’s a pathetic existence.
He felt even more so when he recalled those memories of Sejanus. It wasn’t hunger taking over his body, it was depths of an emotion he doesn’t want to name.
“Coriolanus,” her voice beacons him out of his clouded thoughts, “If you want to give scenting a chance, you can always ask me, and if you don’t like it, I’ll never bother you again.” Clemensia rests a hand on his shoulder. “But I think it could really help you.”
For the first time ever, he agrees, “Alright.”
Coriolanus knows how it’s supposed to go. It doesn’t stop him from feeling a bit uneasy when Clemensia scoots closer. Her hand remains on his shoulder but from his tiny nod, it moves up.
She cups the base of his neck, warmth bleeding through his shirt collar. From his twitchiness, the hand remains there, not daring to pull the shirt down for skin contact.
For betas like her, rubbing her wrist near his neck is a sign of trust, of companionship. This close up, he can’t ignore the scent of lavenders. A calming allure that does ease the tension in his muscles.
It’s nothing powerful enough for pack bonding, just a faint wafting over his scent glands. All of it registers Clemensia Dovecote as a friend.
“How do you feel?”
“Less tired, but the same.” She pulls her hand back but he gently catches it. “I still don’t fully understand it all, but thank you Clemensia.”
Their fingers laced together, like they’re little kids on the playground. Clemensia smiles at him and he hopes he mistakes that glint in her eyes as pride. His ego wouldn’t handle one more pitiful face. Yet maybe those brown eyes from before weren’t full of pity. It’s hard for Coriolanus to recognize genuine emotions.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad you’re actually considering it. I do care about you, Coriolanus Snow.”
She says it but it’s still hard to accept. A part of him wants to will away the doubts. The best he can do is push it aside, to deflect.
“So, you and Lysistrata?”
He expects her to deny it, to be a hypocrite for all the teasing she put him through.
Instead she has a small smile, “We’re taking things slow.”
“I didn’t,” he shakes his head, a bit stunned but mostly confused, “I mean I knew you liked girls but you just never mentioned her before.”
She shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d be interested in talking about dating. You’re not the most romantic person.”
Offended, he says impulsively, “I could be.”
“Yeah but do you want to be? It shouldn't be forced or be the product of a situation.”
“I guess I never found the right person.” Coriolanus reads her barely suppressed grin, the cusps of a teasing. “No, it’s still not Sejanus, I don’t want it to be.”
“Why not him?”
“Because Sejanus is… it’s Sejanus.”
“Excellent argument, Coriolanus. You’ve won this debate.”
“Shut it. I still don’t like him.”
“You like his baking.”
“Semantics.”
“But really, Coriolanus, forget the gifts, forget the Districts and the Capitol, and think. Does Sejanus Plinth matter to you?”
He can’t answer that. Too many things spiral around his mind, from boiling wrath to caged fear, a dizzying conflict that’s been building since the moment he met the boy.
This plagues him for the day. It’s a miracle that he’s home when his scent blockers wear off and it releases his distress into the cold air.
Coriolanus never liked his own scent, it adds to the coldness, too sharp in the nose. The scent of lavenders is nearly gone, diminished by the weight of his stress. It’s no longer binding the little peace he gained from their conversation. His scent alone adds to his frustrations, all trying to answer that damning question.
Tigris finds him pacing in his room.
“Coryo, what’s wrong?”
His first instinct is to lie, to tell her that nothing is happening. Everything is normal while he is not. He’s about to build another wall in his head, lock up the thoughts that've been driving him insane.
All sense of control is lost when Tigris reaches over and cups his face. Her scent of dewy grass, of meadows freshly rained upon, it clashes with his own. It doesn’t warm him but a cold sweat builds and clings on his skin.
His thoughts are madness in his head, breaking out of his gritted teeth.
“What’s wrong?” Coriolanus claws at his shirt, digging wrinkles around his heart. “I'm not the wealthy person Clemensia thinks I am. Or the high-standard snob Festus wants to joke with. Persephone?” A wheezy laugh escapes his dry throat. “I don’t want to know what she thinks of me because I only see the worst things in her.”
Tigris sees through him, smarter than he could ever imagine.
She says the name he’s avoiding, breaking something within him, “And Sejanus?”
Coriolanus wants to pry away from her loving hands, something he doesn’t deserve. There are many things he does not deserve, certainly not gifts from the alpha.
“I hate him,” Coriolanus repeats, “I hate how he knows me. Sejanus made this stupid bet knowing that I’ll win and I did.” He can’t stand the look in Tigris’ eyes, his gaze sets onto his drawer. “I made him go away. I’m terrible to him but…”
Does Sejanus Plinth matter to him?
Yes, Sejanus does matter, but that’s not what’s running rampant in his head.
“…I don’t understand how I matter to him.”
It’s the reverse of Clemensia's question.
He couldn’t tell her the truth, that Sejanus has been feeding him small snacks. Each and every little food matters to him, it all means another day of survival.
But Coriolanus pushed Sejanus away even with the consequences that he would end his charity. Sejanus would understand the power of his money, of his kindness, and how Coriolanus cannot pay that price.
“He’s so kind that it’s pathetic but I rely on it.” Coriolanus shuts his eyes, needing to see darkness and not the reality of his world. “I couldn’t accept any more from him, Tigris. I’ll end up needing him. I won’t be able to let him go.”
The worst part is, Coriolanus thinks it’s already happening.
He kept Sejanus’ little handkerchief next to his mother’s compact.
Nutmeg and roses can lull him to rest and haunt him throughout his wake.
It feels worse than starving.
Coriolanus knows what hunger feels like. It is a familiar entity that lives in him for years.
Drained of energy and sanity, easy to lash out and be more of a mess.
Starving isn’t about helplessness, it’s proof that you are unable to live. It’s dying a little bit more each day. Then out of pure spite and sheer will, force the body to eat at itself. Food won’t instantly heal him, it will only weigh down the spiderwebs in his stomach until they snap. Every bone and tissue of flesh will break down.
The inevitability scares him.
This body isn’t meant to survive, it can only be stalled. Coriolanus’s only way of survival is to distrust everyone outside his circle. He has never learned otherwise. Kindness is hard to swallow when pride bites at the hand that feeds.
“I don’t want to depend on someone who can one day ruin me.”
It’s the loss of control of his own emotions, of owing pieces of himself to someone, of an endless debt he cannot climb out of.
“Coryo.” He feels Tigris lay her head on his collarbone, her hands sliding down to hold on his shoulders. “It’s okay to need things, to need others. I know you’re used to doing everything on your own. You had to lie to your friends about how we live, but they will still care about you. Has Sejanus ever done anything like you’ve feared?”
No.
The daunting truth is that Sejanus Plinth has shown nothing but his best qualities. Coriolanus has pushed at him numerous times and Sejanus has only been gentle and compliant in return.
Still, that can all end because of how much of a paranoid creature Coriolanus is.
There is no such thing as having faith in others.
Only an anxiety that corrupts his mind. It pins down everyone in sight as an enemy, a threat. Everyone except the woman before him.
Coriolanus opens his eyes, overwhelmed by the pure love Tigris holds for him.
“You matter to me, Coryo. Beyond money or food.” Her scent lingers over his neck, easing away the weighty sharpness of his own. “You can’t see how much you matter to Sejanus or your friends. I can’t speak for them but they gave you their scent and you kept it.”
Nutmeg and lavenders, the only scents he has ever accepted outside of his family.
“I couldn’t ask for it,” Coriolanus feels stupid to admit it but it’s what’s real for him. “I couldn’t make myself ask because I didn't want to be close with anyone.”
But he can’t let them go.
It’s a possessiveness that’s under his skin. He doesn’t know if this is innate to all dynamics or it’s unique to his own control-seeking desperation.
“I have to keep performing out there, Ti, make sure that no one hates me or likes me too much. I have to keep being at the top or else…”
It’s easy to imagine the endless starvation, how the cold invites itself into his bones. That is always his worst case scenario, thrusted back into his childhood nightmare of emptiness. With no chance of ever regaining a semblance of his former life.
He’ll end up all alone.
Tigris interprets his fears in a different light.
“Is that why you’ve never had a heat? You don’t trust anyone?”
Heats, a burning sensation akin to a fever but ultimately a phase of utter peace and serenity. Scents get stronger, they emote so much love and tenderness that desires reciprocation.
Omegas can only go into heat when they feel safe.
Coriolanus Snow has never felt safe in his life. He doesn’t know if he ever will.
The usual excuses were on the tip of his tongue. That heats are a waste of time and energy. Simple as that. Life is better off if Coriolanus never knows what that type of warmth and vulnerability feels like. Besides, he never once had any nesting tendencies or any scents to make a nest.
He thinks he has abbreviated those justifications to Tigris before, mostly to point out that they don’t have enough food to cover for it.
But here in, shedding away his armor pieces, Coriolanus is honest to the person who protects him.
“I don’t think I can.”
It’s not shame or anger that sinks into him. Speaking those words out loud made Coriolanus painfully aware of how sad and pathetic he truly is.
Arachne was right, he’s a terrible omega.
He dares not cry at this revelation, no, he’s not that devastated but there is an emptiness craving inside of him. An apathy that is really fear in disguise, telling him that he’s incapable of love and trust.
Tigris’ comfort does little to help, letting her scent overpower his own so that he can stop choking on it.
-
Thanks for reading!
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The Author doesn't have Tumblr but their fic is amazing so I'm posting for her :holds: ily and it's amazing bestie!
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To say she’s feeling electric tonight would be putting it lightly. In comparison with the rest of her life, this evening is the first time Beatrice has ever felt alive.
She quickly glances down to her hand, not for the first time tonight, as though if she’s subtle enough and fast enough with her observation, she’ll finally see that she had only ever imagined the sensation of another’s touch. But much like the first time, and all the others too, she sees her nerve endings hadn’t been deceiving her. There is, in fact, another woman’s hand held gently with interlocked fingers by her own. Soft and small, tanned skin turned yellow under the streetlights.
Ava. Her name has been loitering around the edges of Beatrice’s thoughts for the last few weeks. Ever since she walked into the new meeting location for the book club Mary and Shannon organized: a café with big, metal framed windows and exposed brick walls half-way across town. It’s situated in one of the corners of an old industrial building turned into loft apartments and expensive restaurants with menus written on a chalkboard with most things listed as Market Price. Which seems a little inconvenient, Beatrice isn’t the one hanging out meat markets and fish mongers, so it’s not like she knows the prices. Nevertheless, the café is nice and new and you can smell the baked goods from a block away.
The group of women dutifully queued to order when Beatrice noticed Ava for the first time. She was taking Camila’s order, a matcha latte with an almond croissant, with a blinding smile and untoward enthusiasm. As if Camila was ordering the treat for her. The croissants are to die for, she had said with a decadence dripping off every syllable. The tone of her voice made Beatrice’s throat go dry, and not in anticipation of flaky, buttery pastry.
Beatrice had meant to read the menu while she was waiting in line. She had meant to, but ended up only staring at Ava. Watching, as she animatedly took everyone’s orders. She talked with her hands, often even before her mouth could speak the words, she was pointing, measuring, drawing in air, painting pictures. Beatrice found the whole display rather hypnotizing. So when she stepped in front of the counter, mind devoid of something to order, instead filled with vivid new memories of the way Ava’s eyebrows knit together in condolences when she says Sorry, we’re out, she didn’t have a clue about what she wanted (besides something deep inside of her shouting ‘Ava.’)
Cont. On Ao3
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Today's #fountainpen #drawing in my #sketchbook - TWISBI Eco #pens and Noodlers Heart of Darkness #ink - a dark French roast #coffee in my cup. The buttery flakey #croissant was eaten and is now only a memory. https://sueclancy.substack.com/ (at Vancouver, Washington) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmzfF6EPUu-/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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Croissants have become an unlikely symbol of hope and perseverance for petitioners who identify as gargoyles, a fantastical creature known for its grotesque appearance and uncanny ability to ward off evil spirits.
Gargoyles have long been relegated to the realm of myth and legend, with their stone statues adorning Gothic cathedrals and other historical buildings. But for those who believe in their existence, they represent a fierce and dedicated protector against dark forces.
So what makes croissants the perfect choice for this community of supernatural beings?
For starters, the delicate and flaky pastry is said to have originated in Austria, a country known for its stunning Gothic architecture and where gargoyles have been a prevalent feature in design. This connection to their cultural heritage makes croissants an instant favorite among gargoyles.
Moreover, the shape of croissants mimics that of a gargoyle's iconic horned and winged appearance, making it a literal representation of their identity. This subtle nod to their physical attributes allows petitioners to proudly declare their presence without drawing too much attention.
But it's not just the physical appearance that makes croissants the perfect symbol for gargoyles. The pastry is also known for its buttery and indulgent taste, a stark contrast to the gargoyles' intimidating exterior. This juxtaposition reflects the multifaceted nature of the gargoyle community, who are often misunderstood for their imposing appearance.
Additionally, croissants are a symbol of transformation and resilience, much like the journey of a gargoyle petitioner. Just as the dough is rolled and folded multiple times to create the perfect croissant, so too do gargoyles undergo a transformation on their path to petitioning for their community's rights and recognition.
But perhaps most importantly, croissants symbolize the power of community and coming together. The baking process for croissants requires precision and teamwork, with each member of the community playing an essential role in creating the final product. This sense of unity and collaboration resonates deeply with the gargoyle community, who often face discrimination and struggle for acceptance.
In recent years, croissants have become popular among gargoyle petitioners, with many incorporating the pastry into their dress, art, and even official documentation. The popularity of the humble croissant among this community goes to show that even the most unlikely of symbols can hold significant meaning and representation for a community.
So the next time you see a gargoyle petitioning for their rights, don't be surprised if they are munching on a buttery croissant. For them, it's not just a pastry, but a powerful symbol of their identity and journey towards acceptance in a world that often sees them as nothing more than a decoration.
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Indulge in Sedona's Delightful Bakery Scene: A Sweet Journey through Arizona's Red Rock Country
As you wander through the picturesque streets of Sedona, the aroma of freshly baked treats fills the air, drawing you into cozy bakeries where delectable delights await. One such spot is the renowned Sedona Bakery, a beloved local establishment known for its mouthwatering pastries, artisanal bread, and decadent cakes. Whether you're in the mood for a buttery croissant to start your day or a slice of rich chocolate cake to satisfy your sweet cravings, this charming bakery has something for everyone.
For those seeking a taste of tradition, Sedona's bakeries also offer a selection of Southwestern-inspired treats that showcase the region's unique flavors. Indulge in a warm and flaky green chili and cheese scone, or savor the sweetness of a prickly pear cactus cupcake – a dessert as vibrant and colorful as the surrounding landscape.
But bakery sedona arizona scene isn't just about satisfying your sweet tooth – it's also a testament to the town's vibrant culinary culture and commitment to using locally sourced ingredients. Many bakeries in Sedona pride themselves on using fresh, organic produce from nearby farms, ensuring that each bite is not only delicious but also supports the local community.
As you explore Sedona's bakery scene, be sure to stop by some of the hidden gems that dot the outskirts of town. Take a scenic drive along Oak Creek Canyon and discover charming roadside bakeries offering freshly baked pies, cookies, and other homemade treats. These quaint establishments offer a taste of old-fashioned hospitality, inviting you to sit back, relax, and savor the simple pleasures of life.
In addition to traditional baked goods, Sedona's bakeries also cater to a variety of dietary preferences and restrictions, including gluten-free, vegan, and paleo options. Whether you're following a specific diet or simply looking for healthier alternatives, you'll find plenty of delicious options to choose from.
No visit to bakery in sedona arizona scene would be complete without sampling the town's signature dessert – the prickly pear cactus macaron. These delicate French confections are infused with the subtle sweetness of prickly pear cactus fruit, creating a unique and unforgettable flavor experience. Pair it with a cup of locally roasted coffee or herbal tea for the perfect afternoon treat.
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The heart of Mr Farouk,
ch. 59: "Lazy Saturday"
The aroma of coffee began to percolate through the house. Nathan had time to search around in the pantry, finding the croissants, butter and jam; but that was as far as he went, he knew the croissants were Youssef’s department. Meanwhile, in the corner Kit-Kat crouched down on his haunches glowering across the room. Nathan was careful to give him a wide berth, treading gingerly around him.
Soon enough, Youssef emerged. Like Nathan, he had dressed for effect this morning. All he wore was a pair of sexy black football shorts, and no shirt. What a sight he presented: the black shorts, with his black liners and carbon sockets, complemented the jet black hair of his head, beard and chest, while the flash of metal from his pylons and hooks set off the flash of his hazel eyes. Nathan was completely entranced by his sexy, topless lover, his very own bionic man.
...what a sight he presented, the black shorts, with his black liners and carbon sockets...Nathan was completely entranced by his sexy, topless lover, his very own bionic man.
“Feed the cat, I dare you,” Youssef, at the pantry, tossed a bag of treats Nathan’s way.
“Ah … okay …” Nathan answered tentatively. He shook the bag and like a shot Kit-Kat came running across to him, meowing and rubbing himself against Nathan as he circled around his legs. Nathan squatted and showed Kit-Kat the now-opened bag, which drove him absolutely wild. He took one of the treats and, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, offered it to the cat. Kit-Kat, though in a mania of hunger—really there was something in these treats that always sent him crazy—gently took it from Nathan, without biting or nipping his fingers.
“Good boy,” Nathan cooed, offering him another—and another and another and another, until the cat walked away, sated, “Good boy, good boy,” Nathan cooed again, and Kit-Kat chirruped in reply.
Observing all this, Youssef thought ‘how sweet’. He couldn’t help but take it as some kind of good omen, given that Kit-Kat was usually completely hostile to everyone bar himself.
“He likes you,” he teased Nathan, “he’s never not hissed and growled at any visitor here—you’re the first one he’s warmed to.”
“I suppose that augers well then—I hope I can spend a fair bit of time here in the future, if you’ll have me, habibi.”
“Of course, my boyfriend, it’s great having you here, I love it,” as an afterthought, he added, “but I like your place too, you know.”
They sat at the table, enjoying their breakfast. The croissants—warm and buttery and jammy—were not as good as those in Paris but still pretty good for suburban England. The coffee, rich and creamy, was heavenly. The lovers sat there, taking in the simple joy of sharing a delicious meal with each other.
“So, habibi, did you have any idea of what you want to do today?”
“Well, my boyfriend, I thought I’d enlist your help in the kitchen—I want to put dinner on soon so it can simmer away during the day.”
“Oh … okay … you want me in the kitchen? You are brave, what are you thinking of?”
“Don’t worry, just help with some of the prep, no actual cooking—I’m doing Moroccan lamb—I hope that appeals. Anyway, what about you, what do you have in mind for today?”
“I brought a heap of art stuff. I’d like to draw a bit. And I brought you some stuff—just to play around with, only if you’re interested.”
“Hmmm … maybe?” There was a time when Youssef would have automatically, categorically said ‘no’. These days, being subjected to Nathan’s constant encouragement, he felt less unsure about his capabilities, and though he was quite sure he was devoid of any kind of artistic sense, he felt so much more open—again thanks to Nathan’s influence—to new experiences, to trying new things.
“Okay, cooking and drawing,” though Nathan was in no rush to do anything except savour the fantastic coffee.
“Let’s do it,” Youssef rose and made for the fridge and the larder, and started gathering the ingredients. He wanted Nathan to chop the vegetables; onions, carrots and potatoes—that was, especially the onions, the most fiddly and time-consuming part of the process for him. However, it quickly became obvious that Nathan was clueless about all things to do with cooking. Youssef even thought it may have been quicker for him to take over, despite how long it took him to do these intricate tasks with his prosthetic hooks. It didn’t matter, it was a joy to be doing stuff together and, with some patient coaching and gentle correction, Nathan was soon making a good job of it, while Youssef trimmed and carved the lamb into nice big chunks.
Before long the rich aroma of frying onions and garlic began wafting through the house, later joined by lamb, turmeric and other spices. It gave a cosy, homely feeling to the place. Nathan watched in fascination as Youssef deftly handled the various utensils and achieved the different tasks—frying, pouring, stirring and the like—with his hooks. Nathan almost let out a warning cry as he saw him about to pick up the casserole dish without first getting a pot-holder, then he realised, of course his prosthetics don’t feel the heat.
“There, we’ll just let that quietly stew away for a bit, and that’s our dinner,” Youssef said as he transferred the casserole from the cooktop to a slow oven.
“Mmmmm,” Nathan savoured it, he was loving being here.
“How about some tea, and maybe we can sit down and relax?”
“Lovely. Like I said, I’d like to draw. Actually, I’d like to draw you, will you sit for me?”
“Draw me? What, a portrait or something? … yes, of course, but why? Why on earth would you want to draw me?”
“Well … I love you …”
“I love you too!”
“… I love you, and right now I think I would want to draw you every day. Plus, you’re a great subject: your super-handsome looks and your amazing physicality.”
“Aaaar … hmmmm …”
“I know you don’t like it but, this idea of ‘difference’ is a real thing in art these days, there’s a big movement to proudly portray people with their various differences, to make a strong statement about it being okay to be different. You can be a part of that movement too, you know.”
“Oh … I don’t know, I’m not any kind of advocate or activist, don’t want to be, either.”
“That’s alright. You can at least pose for me, nothing more.”
“Yes, yes, like I said, for you, anything—my lovely boyfriend.”
“I see I’ve gained an adjective now,” Nathan teased.
They repaired to the living room, with their cups of tea. Nathan suggested Youssef sit on the couch while he got his stuff. Returning with his favourite sketch-pad and charcoals, he sat cross-legged on the floor, facing Youssef.
“So, how about you place your feet flat on the floor—yes—now, lean forward, elbows on your knees—that’s it—and look straight at me. Wow!”
...feet flat on the floor, lean forward, elbows on your knees, now, look straight at me... wow!
It was a powerful aspect, the unambiguous metal of his leg pylons and hooks, the sexy thick hairy chest, the muscled shoulders, sort of bound by the harness-straps of his prosthetic arms, and his intense, cool gaze. All was magnified by the stark black and white of Nathan’s charcoal drawing.
“Can I see it?”
“Promise not to hate it, or freak out over your body-image issues?”
“Hmm, okay, I’ll try not to.”
Nathan got up and brought over the sketch. Youssef gasped a little, and slowly, carefully, thoughtfully perused the picture before him. He had gone completely quiet as he continued to stare at, to meditate on, Nathan’s portrait of him.
“You’re not going to go all lachrymose on me again, are you?” Nathan asked, only half-jokingly.
“Ummm … no … gosh, it’s remarkable, it’s such a strong image, I’ve never seen myself like this before—you’ve made me look so powerful.”
“Ah, well, the pose, and the medium, and the style add to it; but really all the power comes from the subject, the sitter, you—it all comes from you, Youssef.”
“Yes, but…”
“Look, habibi, honestly, this is one of my better ones, I can tell, they don’t always turn out so well. I mean to say, success as in actually being able to realise on paper what I see, to convey or transmit what I see and feel to you, the observer. It doesn’t always happen this well, in fact sometimes it doesn’t happen at all.”
“That’s interesting, I never thought about art in those terms. It’s all so subjective, isn’t it? You know, with science, we spend all our time trying to eliminate the subjective. We have to aim for complete objectivity.”
“Of course, that’s why it’s science and not art. Science and art, objective and subjective, just like yin and yang—that’s why we’re so good together, my lovely.”
“And here’s me thinking it was because you are so damned sexy,” Youssef had that glint in his eye again…
#acrotomophilia#devotees#limbless#amputee man#amputee fiction#amputation kink#quadruple amputee#fanfic#heartstopper#nathan x youssef#teachers#youssef farouk#homosexual frenzy#homosexual frenzy inspired by the stumps of a quadruple amputee
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Best Bakery & Cafe in Gurgaon- EL BROMA
Indulge your senses in a delightful symphony of flavors and aromas at El Broma Bakery & Cafe. Nestled in the heart of Gurgaon Sector 65, our charming bakery and cafe is a haven for food enthusiasts and coffee lovers alike. Step into our warm, inviting space and embark on a culinary journey that tantalizes your taste buds and soothes your soul.
Exquisite Baked Delights: At El Broma, we take pride in crafting artisanal pastries, decadent cakes, and freshly baked bread that are a testament to our passion for baking. From buttery croissants to rich, moist cakes, each creation is made with love and expertise, ensuring a heavenly experience with every bite.
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Relaxing Ambiance: Immerse yourself in the cozy ambiance of our cafe. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the scent of baking pastries, creating an atmosphere that encourages relaxation and creativity. It’s the perfect spot for catching up with friends, indulging in some alone time with a book, or brainstorming ideas over a steaming cup of coffee.
Local Ingredients, Global Flavors: We take pride in using locally sourced, high-quality ingredients to create a menu that combines classic recipes with innovative twists. Our chefs draw inspiration from global culinary traditions, ensuring a diverse menu that caters to every palate.
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Come and savor the extraordinary at El Broma the best bakery in Gurgaon where you will find A little bliss in every bite. Join us for a culinary adventure that celebrates the art of baking, the joy of great coffee, and the warmth of genuine hospitality. We look forward to welcoming you soon! Also Visit: https://www.elbroma.com/
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for the artist ask game: question 16, 21 and 35?
Artist Ask Game
16. how do you motivate yourself to draw?
It's mostly impulse, quite honestly! But not always. Sometimes I find myself thinking about something for a while, but maybe don't have time to give it the attention I feel it deserves, so it gets a hot pink sticky note on my desk to remind myself of it for another time.
21. what do you think your artstyle would taste like?
Maybe overly-caffeinated? I also think it depends on what mediums I use. When I do watercolor work I think it'd taste kind of like a flakey, buttery croissant with all the layers that go into it. (Now I'm hungry...)
35. if you had one piece of advice to give your younger artist self, what would it be?
When we create art with any part of our body, we need to take care of that part of the body.
If making art is bringing you (physical) pain to any degree, you are allowed to take all the time you need to rest and recover so the pain/s won't get worse. Take. Breaks. Stretch often. Rest your eyes. Take deep breaths. Just because you can get it done in one day, doesn't always mean you should.
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April 2023
Breaking mauna/noble silence. Hearing about other people's experiences during the silent meditation retreat. I cried, mostly laughed, related a lot. Shared my story as well.
Actually getting to know the people I had invented stories about (pure projections of course). Realising that the person who triggered me most was THE ONE I connected with most. The one person I needed to meet, who made me feel all warm inside, seen. I instantly developed a crush of course. My heart is very impressionable once it's open.
Observing my thoughts. Challenging my beliefs. Learning.
Antoaneta's cat randomly showing up in Shakti Hall after the sharing. What a beautiful animal.
Finding four-leaved clover right in front of my door when I left my room at Hridaya on the last day of the retreat.
Lunch with Mark and Tom at a shopping mall in Lyon. This precious honesty, gentleness with each other. Mirroring and cycling impressions, giving advice, sharing our experiences and issues. Talking about feelings with men still feels more special somehow. I felt seen. Mark bought me coffee. Telling Tom I liked him, just as an example for a story I was telling but he felt the need to say it too. Why does a conversation like this feel so exceptional when it should be the norm?
Effortless mindfulness. Seeing the signs everywhere. Graffiti hearts stating peur de rien. The white Madonna watching over the doors to the monastery. Looking at the city with fresh eyes.
Spending an evening in Lyon with Jessica and Aaron. Delicious pizza and amazing conversation. Learning about shamanism and plant medicine. Archetypes. The Aghori and a cannibal cult in Varanasi. Sharing insights, stories, learnings and questions. Bending my mind, expanding my horizon.
It's absolutely baffling how people reacted to me in the last few days. I suppose I must have had a much more positive energy - less protective layers necessary in a safe environment. Good vibrations after learning so many new things, a sense of wonder and disbelief. Some of the feedback I received: I'm in love with your voice. / Thank you for sharing your story, I can relate so much to you. / People genuinely grieving, feeling sorry for me. Heartfelt hugs from strangers. Compliments for my yoga pants and my CMMC pullover, handwriting, drawings, knack for languages. / Kathi just sitting down right next to me like it was no question at all, being drawn to my presence. / Genuine interest in my opinion and perception. Reassurance. Being taken seriously. / Jessica calling me an old soul - at least older than our teachers'. Said that I act younger than I am. / You seemed very open, and like a person who has a strong belief that there's more out there. Something really good waiting to be seen. A positive outlook behind all your negativity. A secret hope. //
Taking the long and winding road up the hill instead of the staircase. Accidentally kicking a snail across the path. Apologising. Carefully avoiding stepping on any of its many friends along the way.
Breakfast in the chic modern hotel lounge. Biting into a buttery, crispy croissant (such a revelation) accompanied by Amy Winehouse's You Sent me Flying (from the album FRANK - of course...) A curious dog shuffling through the hall. Treating a kiwi like a breakfast egg. Feeling glamorous. At ease. Radiating good energy. Indulging in a guilty pleasure: butter under Nutella (it's special because I never have it at home - only in hotels).
Taking the funiculaire up the hill despite having nowhere to go. Finding a new route. Walking through a park, my head in a bright white-blossomed bush. A heavy floral smell, a bee hovering in the air right next to me, waiting for her meal. Lizards basking in the sun. The first tulips of the year.
The sage leaf I plucked felt as soft as my grandma's cheek.
I keep walking around high on presence and love. Honestly, it kinda feels like microdosing.
The girl who sang opera in an empty Roman theatre.
A white cat in the middle of the footpath allowing me hold her paw and even touch the toe beans.
Aaron laughing about my body count joke.
The Fallen Star thing happens so regularly by now that I feel stupid to keep mentioning it. But today they even increased in size along the way!
A long massage after 10 days of sitting.
Playing with an etch-a-sketch and a caleidoscope in a toy store.
Selling my grandma's house - super sad on the one hand because of all the memories I made in there, but on the other it's very liberating and I made a lot of money. I went through the basement and the upper floor with my brother and found a little table I liked and an old chair I'd forgotten about.
Spending the weekend in Munich. I saw my therapist who immediately noticed that my energy had changed. Then I went grocery shopping with Frank and told him about my experience. Dinner with Becky, catching up. Then I joined Frank's DnD group playing Catan. I loved talking to Carolina and Kevin from Mexico! Cool people. I'm actually planning on doing kundalini yoga with her and we're gonna start a language tandem! The next day I made pasta bake and Manu came over. We played board games and had philosophical discussions. And on Saturday Yanic and Sash picked us up and we had very fancy lunch with Lena at Lake Starnberg. We took a walk and met Christian who's currently in a pain clinic in the area.
On Easter Sunday, I had to go to the airport in the morning and walked past the parish garden. The whole lawn was covered with chocolate eggs. The egg hunt there after Easter service is a very happy childhood memory for me! Sweet nostalgia. I actually took photos and e-mailed them to my brother.
All the gorgeous wisteria in Lyon!
Upgrading my tea from artificial-tasting spearmint to raspberry and passion fruit flavoured green tea. Holding the tea glass with both hands. Feels wholesome.
Learning more about my issues with food. My hoarding tendencies (need for safety? scarcity mindset?) and the lack of self-control around processed food (even sugar-free like peanut butter).
How nice my "simple" breakfast is. Apples, raspberries, blueberries. Oats, nuts, flaxseed, almond milk. Still my favourite.
The nice community I'm currently living in. Finding my people. Emily, Lisa, Alexandra. Regitze and Jade (I anonymously sneaked a bliss ball into her food box the other day and seeing her happy gave me so much joy). Rosanna and Ashley. Emma. Okay I could probably keep writing. Seriously, pretty much everyone here is a lovely person.
Nerding out, making tons of notes, tables and charts. Writing in my notebook (only using three colours, so neat and tidy), adding drawings.
Remote fact-checking with Frank. Inspiring him to start meditating.
Antoaneta's cat Bella allowing me to play with her. And she showed up after a chanting session one morning. Meowing along, probably complaining that she hadn't been served breakfast yet.
Malou's "Mama" energy, her warmth. Feels so cosy and comfortable to be around her. * Coincidentally wearing the exact same pants as Robert. His were black and mine green but his shirt was green and mine black. The Yang to my Yin! (Side note: he's such a gorgeous human. Perfect nose, bright blue eyes and long brown hair.)
Singing at the Bhajan/Kirtan. I felt uncomfortable in the beginning but in the end I enjoyed it a lot and got more confident. My voice seems clearer and more stable - is that a result of all the Halasana? An open Vishudda chakra?
The clear night sky, seeing so many stars out here.
Pizza with REAL cheese on Sunday (such a blessing after a week of unseasoned, ayurvedic vegan food).
My first ecstatic dance class. Estelle explained dancing together like teaching each other a language, like a conversation. And I totally got that! I generally feel so much resistance around it though. I did pretty well on my own though and even enjoyed it! But when Robert, one of the Frenchies, tried to dance WITH me I made it awkward. Needs some practice.
Talking to people I felt resistance around like Agneta, Anja or Sara. Not regretting it. And I was dancing around the two women from the French group who trigger me so much and it was okay. Maybe I can let it go.
Sharing what I have. Abundance mindset.
Compliments for my art, my shirt and accessories. People are generally lovely around here.
Sunday night in the library with Emily, Marius, Emma and Trinity. Interpreting birth charts, Oracle card readings. Joking about organising a sex party (with Trinity and me hosting it). Talking about the important and interesting things in life. So inspiring.
Lenny Kravitz - Stillness of Heart
The fact that it's getting more and more challenging to keep up with this list because I experience so much more beauty and joy every single day. Truly grateful.
My face lit up by a sunbeam from a roof window during sun salutations. Closing my eyes. Seeing wavering, pulsating sunset colours. Tangerine. It looked like a Rothko painting.
Ombar/vegan chocolate with coconut milk. Lemon and poppy seed macarons. Mousse au chocolat from the bio supermarket. Marinara with tomatoes, capers and olives. Choosing candy with code #222 on the scale.
A shopping trip with Sara's van (canary). I love that the bus is big enough for six people plus bike and bed. I kinda want one now. And I realised I could actually afford to buy one. What a privilege.
My morning meditation is getting easier again. Am I finally becoming unstuck? We're getting somewhere! Also, Sama-Vritti Pranayama often makes me feel amazing. I love breathwork.
My two roommates left our dorm (Lisa needed alone time and Alexandra feel down the stairs and had to move to a room on the ground floor) so I accidentally ended up with the room all to myself. I truly cherish the alone time. Lying in bed naked after a shower, drawing, listening to music, manicure and snacks.
Out of the blue, after months without contact, Peter from my choir texted me. The night before, I'd had a dream about him. Spooky.
Bella has chosen me! Apparently the cat is super picky about people but there we were, basking in the sun together. She was super comfortable in my arms and even accepted kisses. I feel special now.
Making life a little bit easier for people. Helping. Sharing. Wordlessly handing them something they need.
Cutting an apple with the knife I'd bought the day before. So smooth and sharp.
The view of the morning mist hanging low in the valley. Sunlit hills in the background.
Actually listening to people. Learning. I'm impressed by how naturally a few people round here are using non-violent communication. Asking if they can share something. I'd really like to adopt this kind of mindfulness and respect around verbal expression. I usually talk too much and regret it afterwards, feeling awkward.
Hugging Rosanna after her lecture on Santosha. I told her she's the perfect person because she radiates happiness. Smelled her perfume on me for a while.
Walking down to the swing chairs after dinner. Sunshine. So many flowers. I was looking for Bella and eventually gave up my search but when I walked to the evening lecture she was there, waiting for me. I'm so grateful for this cat today!
The word glitterati.
How much I'm relating with Treya, the protagonist of Ken Wilber's Grace and Grit. I've got the feeling this book will teach me a lot.
A nap in Shiva Hall. Dreaming/visualising a paint brush dipped in liquid gold, distributing the colour over paper. The bells ringing at the same time.
How incredibly affectionate Rosanna and Stephen are with each other. It made me emotional when she announced his birthday after meditation and asked us all to send him love and blessings. Relationship goals.
The smell of the yoga cushions reminds me of my mum. And warm sourdough bread. The "Easter nests" we got as children. The cushions are probably filled with spelt husks. My mum usually had a spelt pillow in her bed so this is what her bedroom faintly smelled of.
An insight after observing the effect of emotional contagion on me: I only really feel something when my mind/the senses are involved. Is that my key to unlocking my emotions? I wonder how to release something without involving thoughts. But perhaps somatic therapy will provide answers.
I might have helped Frank to start walking the Upward Spiral. He told me he felt motivated and inspired after our conversations, even tried vulnerability with his best friend and loved the outcome, and meditation seems to have a positive effect as well!
Jade said I smelled of love at the bhajan. / Sleeping in the next morning. No alarm. Blissful meditation. Reading in bed. Alone time is such a gift! Another reminder: I definitely need to find a balance between solitude and company/being social.
A lovely Sunday afternoon watching a movie together, then going on a long forest walk. Talking to Sara, collection little ferns and leaves.
Taifun Black Forest tofu.
Good-natured gossip about crushes, fantasies and projections with Emma and Jade.
I've decided to follow my intuition and go to Plum Village instead of Israel! I'm excited.
A little nature immersion with Antonio. Shamanic drums and listening to Mother Earth's messages. I just sat in a swing, taking in my surroundings. Really looking. There are so many beautiful details in even the simplest plants. I saw lizards, spread dandelion seeds. Even Bella showed up! And I realised that I'm quite detached from nature in my daily life which is something I want to change.
Dark chocolate with fleur de sel.
Spending the morning in the garden on Seva day, planting lemon balm and tomato seedlings. It felt so good to have something practical to do. Getting your hands dirty, seeing direct results, the feeling that your work has purpose. Talking to Flavia who was busy saving the earthworms. Connecting with Pieter.
Evening lecture with open windows. The smell of rain blew in and a few minutes later, the thunderstorm arrived. Soft rumbling, raindrops, fascinating light show. Cosy.
Christina, who buffered my agitated mood when I arrived at Asana lab, imploring be not to be so hard on myself. She said I was already perfect the way I am and I just don't see my light and all the work I'm doing. Then she suggested doing a transfiguration together (the tantric eye-gazing). "To see the goddesses in each other that we really are." Perhaps she should be my spiritual sponsor.
Our graduation ceremony. Antoaneta applied a red tilaka on our forehead and whispered "May the sacred tremor of the heart enlighten your entire life." All the teachers wore white and sat down in a row, holding hands, sending a blessing of the heart. I really felt it.
Afterwards I ended up moderating the second part of the evening and introduced the game and the song we'd prepared. Everyone had a lot of fun and afterwards a lot of people came to me, complimenting my charm, eloquence and humour. Which feels so strange to me because I'm usually close to dissociating during public speaking and have no idea what they're talking about.
The bhajan after the ceremony felt magical. Verena's voice is incredibly beautiful and special. I fell in love with the Adi Shakti mantra - the last line really felt like an incantation. At one point I kinda expected the Goddess to materialise over the altar. Kundalini Mata Shakti, namo namo. I even danced, freely, unconcerned. Bella showed up again, looking for her parents (Sahaja was sitting at the back of the room, meditating). I found her in the hallway on my way to the bathroom and ended up holding her like a baby for twenty minutes. She was super relaxed and pretty close to purring! Later, Antoine played the Krishna Das version of I wanna know what love is and I felt safe enough to improvise with everyone who was still there because I know that song so well. It always takes a bit of courage to sing something different than all the others.
Robert calling everyone sweetie or sweetheart. Easing into a talk with him about his spiritual practice. Picking his and Maya's brains about karma, the soul, plant medicine. Just the three of us in the dimly lit library late at night. I'm so touched by all these beautiful people and conversations that tend to arise here. Same with Alexius who happens to be on very much the same path as me career-wise and basically confirmed what I'd already found out for myself. It's good to meet people like that to see that you're not alone in this.
Lunch with teachers and karma yogis, feeling much more like a part of the sanga now that the majority of people have left.
It is so beautiful to see that I have found my direction, started walking the long and winding road. Something really opened up there for me. My daily affirmation confirmed it: "I am excited to discover what is possible in my life."
All these insights. That I really need to be more gentle and patient with myself. Slowly slowly, gently gently. The impulse to work on my commitment issues. Learn how to trust, surrender, accept a truth even when I've only had a glimpse of it. But also: training the letting-go muscle. Not holding on to what doesn't serve me any more. Beliefs, habits, people...
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I don’t drink/eat ‘n draw. It’s highly dangerous to the sketchbook papers. Let me just draw with that buttery ham and cheese croissant 🥐 just press it into the pages and make onion paper. 😆 (at High Ground Coffee House) https://www.instagram.com/p/CkGlrIDJvA6/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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This is my main account, my @buttery-croissant-draws will now be used as an art gallery just clear up clutter.
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Aruba's Tasty, Affordable Eats and Treats from around the World
New Post has been published on https://medianwire.com/arubas-tasty-affordable-eats-and-treats-from-around-the-world/
Aruba's Tasty, Affordable Eats and Treats from around the World
All You Can Eat buffets and combo meals of wildly popular fast food chains are not the only alternatives for saving money while getting the most value out of your meals. Aruba’s budget-friendly offerings include cozy a la carte restaurants, casual oceanfront eateries, modern cafes, pancake houses… Much more than one single 10Best list is able to showcase.
Focusing on the whole package deal instead of the menu prices only, creates a more diverse selection of smart eating out options. For vacationers who would love to taste as much of the island’s culture as possible, great local eateries like Zeerover serve fresh-caught seafood with authentic Aruban side dishes, everyone can afford.
Because Aruba is part of the Kingdom Of The Netherlands, its Dutch roots are not only visible, audible and tangible throughout the island. This land of tulips and cheese offers an array of delicacies to engage all the senses. At Diana’s Pancake Place, situated right next to an old and authentic windmill, guests can enjoy a real Dutch breakfast or lunch surrounded by cows, clogs and canals (painted ones, but nevertheless).
All time favorites such as Zeerover are always worth a look. Especially at sunset, while enjoying a couple of ice cold beers, fresh caught seafood and a game of dominoes.
For lunch or dinner, an old faithful that never disappoints is local Chinese restaurant Kowloon. Keep all your cravings satiated with these money-saving suggestions.
Photo courtesy of Jack’s Cafe Aruba
For some, this little Dutch cafe tucked into the storefront of Superfood Plaza, has become a daily coffee stop, a regular meeting point or a favorite lunch break spot. The bright orange design chairs, clean background and sleek decor are not the only draws here. Jack’s Cafe has its share of culinary advantages with the best Dutch bakery in Aruba plus all the freshest quality ingredients within arm’s reach. Flaky, buttery croissants and Espresso Gourmet Coffee to start the day, a bowl of split pea soup with smoked sausage to refuel for the afternoon, healthy salads, deep fried croquettes, sweet treats, all deliciously affordable. Just grab and go or pull up a chair at this fast and fabulous corner.
Recommended for Best Value because: Jack’s Cafe is ideal for a quick and tasty breakfast, lunch or dinner, before or after some grocery shopping at Superfood Plaza.
Liliana’s expert tip: Jack’s Cafe’s Weekly Lunch Menu offers half and full portions of daily lunch specials from 12pm till 3pm.
Read more about Jack’s Cafe →
Photo courtesy of Diana’s Pancakes House
What could be more Dutch than an authentic windmill from Holland? The answer: a Dutch pancake house right next to it, owned by a lovely Dutch lady called Diana. Her pancakes are the real deal; thinner than American pancakes, a little thicker than the French crepes, but as big as your dinner plate and very ‘lekker’ (tasty). Pancakes are stacked on top of each other with butter melting and a dark syrup called ‘stroop’ (pronounced stroap) dripping down the sides. For one-pancake-at-a-time, customers can opt for sweet choices like fresh fruits and powdered sugar, or soft and sinful chocolate. Hearty combinations include Dutch cheese with ham or bacon, the Norwegian pancake with seafood or a veggies-only topping. Smiling pancakes and happy bellies at Diana’s Pancakes Place.
Recommended for Best Value because: Diana’s Pancakes Place treats customers with fresh, delicious pancakes and sandwiches at a very reasonable price.
Liliana’s expert tip: Healthy sandwiches and homemade soups are also available at Diana’s Pancakes Place.
Read more about Diana’s Pancakes Place →
Zeerover means Sea Pirate, but for locals it’s synonymous with ice cold beer and seafood at reasonable prices. With fresh off-the-boat fare, a laid-back atmosphere where you order from a window and take home or eat outside, this cozy seafood shack in the heart of fishing village Savaneta is a haven for fresh catches of the day. The baskets of fried fish and jumbo shrimps are paired with local side dishes such as “pan bati” (Aruban pancakes), “funchi” (hearty cornmeal cake or fritters) and “banana hasa” (fried plantain). Grab a table on the wooden deck, play a game of domino with new friends while waiting for your order or just purchase fresh fish to go, if you want your catch grilled or steamed at home. These pirates only dig into the deep-fried.
Recommended for Best Value because: Zeerover is not just for lunch, dinner or take out, it’s a whole island experience.
Liliana’s expert tip: Shrimp is cooked head on to peel and eat, but there’s a sink, soap and towels right on the deck to wash your hands afterwards. Don’t miss out on the fun!
Read more about Zeerover →
Photo courtesy of Alyza Braamskamp
From breakfast bargain to affordable snacks, meals and many happy hours throughout the day, at Surfside Beach Bar, beach life is the best life to live while in Aruba. Imagine not having to worry about anyting except relaxing and enjoying yourself together with your dear one(s). Start early to celebrate the sun, the sea and Surfside’s shareable snacks, special dishes and drinks till the stars fill the sky. There are lounge chairs and parasols available to rent, boats sailing by, airplanes to spot all day, waiters ready to serve with a smile and beach people having a fussfree time.
Recommended for Best Value because: Surfside Beach Bar is a great hangout while enjoying Surfside Beach, airplanes arriving, the sun setting, happy hours and deliciously affordable bites and drinks.
Liliana’s expert tip: Check out Surfside Beach Bar’s Happy Hour menu.
Read more about Surfside Beach Bar →
The name Red Fish is inspired by Aruba’s world famous Pisca Cora (Red Snapper) – a favorite catch of the day on the island. Good thing is, snappers are not the only bites available at this fairly new eatery in the recently opened Orange Plaza. Red and white checkered paper with stacks of fried shrimps or fish, plantain, ‘funchi’, fries and dip sauces make simple yet delicious finger food. For lunch or dinner, Conch in Creole Sauce can be ordered, Pan-fried Lobster or Balchi Pisca (Fish Balls or Cakes) with white rice, cole slaw and pickled onion or tartar sauce.
Recommended for Best Value because: Red Fish serves fresh local fish and seafood at friendly island prices.
Liliana’s expert tip: Ask for the daily specials and just eat fresh off the boat catches without the dress up fuss.
Read more about Red Fish →
What used to be the soul of Costa Riba Restaurant is still alive and cooking in the revamped venue called Kamini’s Kitchen. There’s this colorful building on your way to or from the beaches in Sero Colorado. Legendary couple, Kamini and her husband Pete, have permanently moved to this prime location and are waiting to welcome famished guests with local specialties like their famous Curry Goat or Fried Red Snapper with Creole Sauce, among other mouthwatering Caribbean and vegetarian dishes. At Kamini’s new restaurant, locals and visitors can order the daily specials for carryout as usual, or pull up and chair to enjoy Kamini’s delicious homemade specialties – famous by word of mouth alone.
Recommended for Best Value because: Kamini’s Kitchen is more than just great local food and drinks, it’s what hospitality is all about.
Liliana’s expert tip: Contact Kamini’s Kitchen via phone or Facebook to find out more about their menu.
Read more about Kamini’s Kitchen →
The traditional German ‘Biergarten’ started out with family-style outdoor seating, plenty of fresh beer from the barrel, but no food at all. Because brewers weren’t allowed to sell anything to eat, guests would bring their own picnic baskets filled with bread, homemade ‘Obatzda’ cheese, ham, sausages, potato salad and other typical Bavarian specialties. Nowadays, this tradition has evolved and spread, – not only over Germany – but all over the world. In Aruba, it’s at Bavaria Food And Beer where connoisseurs (and curious customers) can fill up their mugs with Hefeweizen (German wheat beer) or draft beer. Order a Creamy Bavarian Potato Soup, Bratwurst or a Schnitzel, there’s much, much more than a picnic basket to fill up those empty bellies.
Recommended for Best Value because: Bavaria Food and Beer is the only German Biergarten in Aruba but above all, they serve great eats and icy cold beverages without overpricing.
Liliana’s expert tip: Ask for the beer menu; a pleasant selection of dark and lighter brews, imported directly from Germany.
Read more about Bavaria Food And Beer →
Photo courtesy of Albert Braamskamp
This spot serves elegant Chinese cuisine at affordable prices. The two red and black decorated dining rooms feature lacquered woods and lamps with paper shades. The chef is skilled at most Chinese cooking styles including Hunan, Szechwan, Cantonese and Shanghai. The house specialty is a seafood combination of fish, scallops, lobster and shrimp served in a Szechwan black bean sauce. Fried plantain, homemade fries and pickled Madame Jeanette peppers can be ordered to add a little Aruban flavor to any of the dishes. Apart from a soothing Chinese tea or delicious lychees, diners can also opt for local quesillo or the weekend special. Kowloon offers a surprisingly varied menu and the convenience to order online: [email protected].
Recommended for Best Value because: Kowloon is The Chinese Restaurant in Aruba, for more than 35 years and no matter where people come from, everyone loves Kowloon.
Liliana’s expert tip: Share a popular “rijsttafel” (rice table) with your party, all the menu choices are delicious.
Read more about Kowloon →
Photo courtesy of Albert Braamskamp
This lovely, authentic Aruban house is indeed The Sugar Garden (De Suikertuin) of downtown Oranjestad. Wherever you choose to take a seat, – inside, in the cozy, air-conditioned home-style cafe or outside, under a tropical tree or in the shady patio – a breakfast, lunch or dinner here will always delight the senses. De Suikertuin has something for everyone. Check out their menu while having your umpteenth Cappuccino or a homemade lemonade. The Pampering Breakfast is more than a promise, and if Brunch sounds tempting, know that many combinations are possible – hearty and sweet. If you still can’t decide what you want for lunch, just ask what the daily specials are.
Recommended for Best Value because: De Suikertuin has an extensive menu that includes great choices for kids, vegetarians, picky eaters… for everyone.
Liliana’s expert tip: A delicious and fun family afternoon is easy to arrange. Call and make reservations for Suikertuin’s High Tea.
Read more about De Suikertuin →
Photo courtesy of Alyza Braamskamp
A unique stop on your way to Natural Bridge or Bushiribana goldsmelter ruins that combines a one-of-a-kind glass blowing workshop, ice cold drinks, delicious meals and local glass art souvenirs. At Studio Murano Art there’s something for every member of the party, young and older. Freshly baked wood fired pizzas by an Italian chef to authentic local specialties like goat stew or the Dutch Patatje Oorlog (loaded fries), all at Aruban-friendly prices. Grab a seat on the breezy open-air terrace and take in all the beauty of Aruba’s rugged East coast.
Recommended for Best Value because: Studio Murano Art combines a fun glass blowing experience with delicious meals and drinks plus an original local souvenir shop.
Liliana’s expert tip: Studio Murano Art is a perfect place for a birthday celebration.
Read more about Studio Murano Art →
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