The only acceptable use for chopped/powdered tea leaves (+bonus)
Q wakes, sore in the most gorgeous way. His ear feels bent from resting on Bond’s shoulder all night; the fingerprint-shaped bruises on his hips call the press of his own against their shape. Bond is snoring, and that in itself is flattering: Bond–James–sprawled like a starfish in the bed, so unconcerned for his own safety. There are weapons within a hand’s range of the bed, he’s sure, but Bond’s palms lay curled where Q’s head had been, draped over the dent left by Q’s hip in the feather coverlet. Q staggers on coltish legs just this side of achy–they burn in the pleasant memory of stretching just a bit past their limit as Bond held him open and–a delicious shiver works its way through him.
Bond’s kitchen is spartan. There’s not a lot beyond the staples in the fridge–a little cream for coffee, cocktail onions–and the cabinets are nearly bare, as well. A sad box of Twinings and sugar, some flour and the usual spices; there’s butter and eggs on the counter, and Q’s not surprised to find takeaway menus in the drawer by the fridge. A thought occurs–grabbing the necessaries, it’s a matter of moments to whip up a treat, and scarcely ten minutes later he’s sneaking back into bed. Cooking can happen later.
4 tea bags or 2T tea, any flavour (Earl Grey is good, as are chais and other strongly-flavoured black teas)
250g or 2 c plain flour
large pinch of salt
60g or 1/3 c sugar
225g or 1 c butter
orange zest, vanilla, or other flavourings to complement your tea, if desired
Mix tea, flour, and salt with a whisk or sift together.
Mix butter, sugar, and flavoring with a whisk or electric mixer until light and airy
Add dry ingredients to wet and fold until just combined
Portion dough into logs and wrap with baking paper or wax paper. Freeze until firm.
Preheat oven to 176 C or 350 F
Slice into disks .5 cm or ¼ in.
Bake until just barely golden at the edges (about 12-15 minutes)
Let cool completely before removing from the pan or they will crumble
The bed is still warm when Bond wakes, for all that he’s alone in it. In the other room–probably the kitchen, Bond presumes–he can hear Q pottering about, humming tunelessly, and yes, the kettle Bond has more because he’s British than out of any particularly keen like for tea is burbling away. There’s a rich, nutty smell in the air, and when he finally manages to get his pants on and wander out, the Waitrose bag on the counter belies the cheeky nymph wearing nothing but an apron. There are tomatoes on the cutting board and sausages waiting patiently for frying, corners of toast standing dripping golden butter, and a veritable mountain of little biscuit coins that smell rich and buttery and sharp with bergamot.
“You’ve been busy this morning,” Bond says, and Q’s laugh is bright.
“Your cabinets looked like a uni student’s. I was surprised not to find curry beanz and cup noodle,” Q scolds with sparkling eyes.
“Are you looking to fatten me up?” Bond grins, snagging a tomato slice and popping it into his mouth before Q can threaten him with his paring knife. Q snorts.
“Who says you’re getting any of it, you lieabed? I’ve already been to the shops and back and you’re only now getting up at the crack of ten!”
Bond’s laugh stirs the curls at the nape of Q’s neck as he wraps himself around him. Q is a lithe furnace against Bond’s front; he goes for another tomato and Q sighs, put upon. “Let me spoil you, then–I’ll take it from here.”
It’s a favourite, something he always has at hand. It’s after-mission food for when he’s looking for familiar, for cozy. He’s never had someone over in the morning to make it for–a frission of something that hasn’t shaped itself yet dances up his spine and Bond coughs, fetching out the saucepan and turning on the hob before he can do something ridiculous like asking Q to stay for breakfast tomorrow, too.
He could do this in his sleep: a knob of butter, chilled from the fridge, and Bond casts a gimlet eye at Q for using the whole dish from the counter, though honestly it doesn’t matter whether it’s soft or not. He drops the butter into the saucepan to melt and checks again the heat is set to low. Then eggs: two for each of them, whole in the pot. He beats them into the butter and when they’re starting to thicken, he pulls the pot from the stove to even out the lumps. Back onto the hob, he stirs until it curdles, lumps of scrambled egg forming beneath his spatula. Off the heat again, then when it’s even and creamy again, back on. He does this again until the egg is cooked through, then just a splash of cream–back on the hob until the chill is off–and salt, pepper. He dishes it up with a flair.
He ends up watching with bated breath as Q takes his first bite, grinning helplessly at the groan that follows. It’s breakfast. Just breakfast: eggs and tomatoes and toast and tea.
It’s still somehow more than breakfast. Bond wipes a stray smear of egg from Q’s lip and Q smiles.
The kind where nothing was truly bad but everything was annoying. It was raining and she couldn’t find her umbrella. The coffee maker in the break room was broken and the vending machine was out of crisps. The restroom closest to her was closed so she had to take the stairs up a flight on a full bladder. Then she dripped mustard on her blouse and had to spend the rest of the day in a stained top.
All of that, however, fell away when she arrived at her building. Even from the street, seeing that the light in her sitting room was on filled her with warmth. It meant Sherlock was there, waiting for her. After years of living alone, having someone waiting for her to come home was a good feeling. The fact that it was her boyfriend was an even better feeling. As soon as she walked into her flat, she could smell biscuits baking.
Sherlock, as it turned out, loved to bake when he had a big kitchen like Molly’s to bake in. He came out with a plate of chocolate biscuits, a cuppa, and a grin. “Hello, sweetheart. I had a feeling you’d need this today.”
She gave him a grateful smile as she took the plate and cup from him. “You’re the best boyfriend ever.”
He rolled his eyes at the b-word then he grinned at her. “What do you say to making me the best husband ever?”
OKAY SO a lot of you know that I tend to be a Very Vocal Shill for companies I actually like, especially media and small businesses. I really believe that the other side of criticizing shitty business/creative practices is praising the people who do things right. So with that in mind, let me tell you a little story about Paintbox Soapworks.
I first came into contact with the owner of PBSW back in my BPAL days, and I was given some of her soap to sample. Her soaps are lovely, and as the years went on, she started making other products that smell nice (such as sugar scrubs, lotions, wax melts, bath streusel, etc.) and moved from Etsy to her own site. I’ve been a customer of hers for several years, and I’ve always been pleased with her customer service and the quality of her products. She’s a generous person (she includes free samples with every order and often creates products that benefit charity) and has a lot of fun with her stuff.
That’s the backstory. Onto what just happened.
Now, PBSW has general catalogue scents and limited seasonal ones, and one of my absolute favorite scents of hers is only available in the spring. It’s called Lemony Biscuit and it basically smells just like a lemon girl scout cookie. It is my JAM. Because of my chronic illness, I like to use citrus smells in my house. They help a lot with the fatigue, nausea, and brain fog. That said, this is such a gentle, calming scent that it also helps with my anxiety. One-two punch! Every spring I buy stacks of the wax melts along with some lotion and bath streusel because I know I gotta make it last.
This spring, I made my order a bit later than usual. I knew I’d be getting some money as a gift for my birthday, so I decided to wait a bit and make a big order near the end of May. YOU CAN PROBABLY SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING. I got a very apologetic message from PBSW telling me they only had enough of the wax melts left to send me two packs. She asked me if I’d prefer a refund or a different scent. I told her I’d prefer the refund (so I could get some of the summer scents when they came out) and said I was pretty disappointed because it was my favorite scent so I’d be sure to order earlier the next year.
She emails me back and get this: she felt bad about disappointing me, so she made an entire extra batch of Lemony Biscuit wax melts just so she could fill my order. (I had to wait a lil bit for her to get the supplies, but she combined it with my summer order so I’d only have to pay shipping once.) AND MAN, I WAS SO HAPPY. That’s definitely going above and beyond. I told her that I was super relieved to hear it because I love that scent and use those melts to help with my chronic illness and anxiety.
And that’s when she offered to make that scent specifically for me year-round. She told me she’d make custom orders for me so I could get more product whenever I ran low so I wouldn’t have to worry about running out of the aromatherapy products I use to help with my illness.
I am touched and emotional!! These are definitely not things she had to do for me, but they’re going to make a world of difference for my mental well-being. And not that I was planning on switching companies or anything, but that’s definitely how you get a customer for life. All this happened a couple weeks ago, but I waited and asked to make sure she wouldn’t mind me telling friends about the nice thing she’d done (like I didn’t want her to suddenly get swamped with requests for custom orders or something) and she just gave me the go ahead. So! Now you know.
tl;dr, Paintbox Soapworks is an A+ company with affordable products that are good quality. ALSO the owner is a super nice lady who goes above and beyond for her customers and I’m honestly grateful. So here I am shilling, haha.
I know this is probly a bit obscure, but I was talking about it with a friend and this is what we agreed on what the characters smell like.
Edit because of Sombra and Orisa:
Lucio- he probably smells like bananas or somethin fruity. A good smel
Reinhardt- Smells like roses, probably a bakery or some little old lady perfume. He smells nice. Like your favorite grampa
Zarya- probly smells either like bubble gums or that cheap generic floor cleaner that’s a bit too strong.
Genji- doesn’t really smell like anything. Probably a nice light cologne tho
McCree- okay, you know those little tourist attractions that are modeled like the old timey cowboy towns?? Like Bonnie Springs? Yeah he smells like that. In short he smells like those cheap rose scented bar soaps and whiskey and horse poop.
Pharah- smells just like home after a nice cooked meal
Reaper- smells like Fabuloso and the Mexican rose candles mixed with decaying flesh.
Soldier 76- smells like Freedom and corn dogs.
Ana- same as Reinhardt, she’s the little old lady perfume. Also smells like fresh baked cookies and soap.
Mercy- smells like antibiotics and heavy iron.
Zenyatta- a nice incense. He smells calm uvu
Roadhog- smells like dirt and heavy sweat mixed with oil.
Junkrat- smells like heavy sulfur and sewer. He’s a dirty little man.
Hanzo- even though he’s my favorite shimada, I gotta be honest with myself.
He smells like armpits and farts.
Torbjorn- smells like an autoshop mixed with oil and fig newtons.
Widowmaker- also probably smells like farts.
Tracer- smells like biscuits and failure. Also known as not freedom and not corn dogs.
Symmetra- smells like some expensive perfume that would take me years to pay off. She’s too good.
D.va- smells super dirty. A mixture of probably sweat and armpit with Dorito dust and sticky old Mountain Dew.
Winston- smells like peanut butter at the zoo.
Bastion- smells like a friend.
Sombra- smells like one of those generic Mexican metro pcs stores. The ones that are no longer actually metro pcs but they sell like phone cases and they fix your phone for you.
Orisa- smells like a bouncy house and multiple traffic cone plastics. Maybe tarp idek she smells like tarp there you go. Her shield and boost smell like berries.
pressed his head back into the pillow, stretching his neck as the sweat cooled
on his body. He
was near limbless, a state only Will could coax out of him after hours of deep
kisses, soft bites and languid writhing. He could still smell Will on his skin. He
could still taste Will if he pressed his tongue to his teeth. He could still
hear Will, because the empath was currently beating out a frenetic staccato
rhythm on the carved wood directly over Hannibal’s head.
applaud any musical endeavor you attempt, may I ask what is prompting a timpani
performance at this hour?”
faltered for a moment, then redoubled.
“What? Is this annoying?” His smile
was half hidden, pressed into a pillow.
you know about being a child?”
narrowed his eyes.
was second in my class in child psychology, I have 5 years of clinical training
with children,” Hannibal listed his accomplishments as though he were stating
facts everyone in the world should know. With a sigh, he looked at Will. “Also,
I was a child for several years.”
said, mirth lacing through his voice. “You sprang fully formed from a casket in
Lithuania, in a tuxedo clutching a glass of Montrachet. You lost the cape at
some point, I grant you, but you can’t fool me.”
leveled a glare at Will, who met his eyes and smiled wider.
“You’re in a
charming mood tonight.”
“I’m in a playful mood, which you
would know if you weren’t born 40 with a trick hip.”
huffed and rolled on his side to scowl at the wall. His hip gave out one time while they
were carrying a body,
he was hardly infirm.
A stubbled chin scratched over
Hannibal’s neck as warm flesh molded to his back.
“Pssssst. Hannibal.” A laugh was in
Will’s voice, Hannibal closed his eyes and tried to remember all the reasons he
wanted Will to live. “Did you ever play games? You know, when you were
allegedly a kid.”
“I was always
quite fond of chess.”
Will’s outburst left Hannibal’s ear ringing. “That my cuddly cannibal is an old
man game. I’m talking kiddie games.”
Summary: After a tragic accident, Lydia suffers from short term memory loss. She wakes up each morning with no memories from the day before. It’s like her life is a broken up puzzle. But Stiles is there to help her put together the pieces.
Author’s Note: Sort of like a Stydia take on 50 first dates I guess. Enjoy!
i have too many.. have a search on my tagged/text for more. but i guess here is just a few of my favourites (i could go on forever i am in love with words, but i have to get ready 2 go to the doctors):
To be alive: not just the carcass
But the spark.
That’s crudely put, but…If we’re not supposed to dance, Why all this music?’ —Gregory Orr
2) She’s never where she is. She’s only inside her head.—White Oleander by Janet Fitch (i love this book)
‘To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as a camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a subliminal murder - a soft murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time’.—Susan Sontag, On Photography
‘Cover me with soft Earth.. jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they grow above me.. they will breathe the fragrance of my Heart into space.’—Kahlil Gibran
Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet.’—Alain de Botton
I speak rain, I spin you a night and you hide in it.’—Margaret Atwood
I am cherry-stained teeth. You are the absence of yes.’—Emily O’Neill
8) ‘I’m… having one of those honeyed afternoons when I don’t know who I am.’—Catie Rosemurgy
The whole universe melting and falling down, the skies all jumbled and soft, all blurred and transcendental with milky light, all immortal, all sacrificial and sighing, all too impossible to keep and bear, so beautiful and so sad.’—Jack Kerouac
Imagine, I might really become somebody. Someday.’—Maya Angelou
Lie down and look up at the ceiling and breathe with those curiously fragile lungs of yours and remind yourself: Don’t worry. Don’t worry. All is as it was meant to be. It was meant to be lonely and terrifying and unfair and heaving. Don’t worry.’—Welcome to Night Vale
To my daughter I will say, ‘See your beauty without a compliment or a mirror.’—‘Blind’ by Della Hicks-Wilson
I see you in colors that don’t exist.’—Paul Matsumoto
14) ‘Love him,’ said Jacques with vehemence, ‘love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?’”— Giovanni’s Room, James Baldwin
(this is my fave book)
15) ‘You are my homecoming. When I’m with you and we’re well together, there is nothing more I want. You make me like who I am, who I become when you’re with me. If there is any truth in the world, it lies when I’m with you, and if I find the courage to speak my truth to you one day, remind me to light a candle in thanksgiving at every altar in Rome.’— André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name (another of my fave books)
I think of how, in Czech, “to paint” and “to love” are only one vowel away: malovat; milovat. The salutation alone is written. I paint you, I paint you, I paint you.’—Emily Wilson