An Equinox is the moment in which the plane of Earth’s equator passes through the center of the sun. This occurs twice a year, in March (Vernal) and in September (Autumnal). On an Equinox, the duration of night and day are equal. This post refers to the Vernal (Spring) Equinox.
Most Spring holidays that occur around this time incorporate symbols of fertility and new life into their celebrations. These symbols include, but are not limited to, eggs, seeds and flowers, rabbits and sweets.
Date: March 20th
Themes: Fertility, rebirth and renewal, balance, harmony, creativity, growth, cleansing.
- clever like a monkey : malin comme un singe (masc)
- cunning like a fox : rusé-e comme un renard
- proud like a peacock : fier / fière comme un paon
- like a fish in water (: comfortable) : comme un poisson dans l’eau
- slow like a snail : lent-e comme un escargot
- throwing _self in the wolf’s mouth : se jeter dans la gueule du loup
- mute like a carp : muet-te comme une carpe
- talkative like a magpie : bavard-e comme une pie
- having a wolf’s hunger : avoir une faim de loup
- short-sighted like a mole : myope comme une taupe
- running like a rabbit : courir comme un lapin
- calling a cat a cat : appeler un chat un chat
- “taking the fly” (: to get upset) : prendre la mouche
- “putting down a rabbit” (: to stand somebody up) : poser un lapin
- “taking fly” (: hitting the target, being right) : faire mouche
- “being a wet chicken” (: to be scared, not daring) : être une poule mouillée
- “taking the bull by the horns” (: to go for it) : prendre le taureau par les cornes
- ugly like a louse : moche comme un pou
- “having a spider at the ceiling” (: to be nuts) : avoir une araignée au plafond
- “not teaching the old monkey how to make a funny face” (: when a kid tries to explain something to an older person how obviously knows it) : ce n’est pas au vieux singe qu’on apprend à faire la grimace
- eating like a pig : manger comme un porc
- “having the cockroach” (: to feel sad/depressed) : avoir le cafard
- “drowning the fish” (: to avoid a problem) : noyer le poisson
- stubborn like a mule : têtu-e comme une mule
- deaf like a pot : sourd-e comme un pot
- having an elephant’s memory : avoir une mémoire d’éléphant
- sweet like a lamb : doux / douce comme un agneau
- sleeping like a dormouse : dormir comme un loir
- naked like a worm : nu-e comme un ver
body related :
- “having the green hand” (: to be good with plants) : avoir la main verte
- “having two left hands” (: to be clumsy) : avoir deux mains gauches
- “being at two fingers from” (: to be about to) : être à deux doigts de
- having eyes behind your head : avoir des yeux derrière la tête
- having a snake’s tongue (: to be mean / gossipy) : avoir une langue de vipère
- having a doe’s eyes (: pretty eyes) : avoir des yeux de biche
- having a peach’s skin (: soft) : avoir une peau de pêche
- having a rabbit’s teeth : avoir des dents de lapin
- having a pianist’s hands : avoir des mains de pianiste
- having a mermaid’s legs : avoir des jambes de sirène
- having a heart of stone : avoir un coeur de pierre
- having a artichoke as a heart : avoir un coeur d’artichaut
- having two left feet (: shitty balance) : avoir deux pieds gauches
- having a trumpet-shaped nose : avoir un nez en trompette
- “doing the deaf ear” (: willingly not listening) : faire la sourde oreille
- “having the heart on the hand” (: to be generous) : avoir le coeur sur la main
- “having the fangs” (: to be hungry)(familiar) : avoir les crocs
food related :
- “that’s the end of the beans” (familiar) : c’est la fin des haricots
- “taking care of one’s onions” (: mind one’s own business)(familiar) : s’occuper de ses oignons
- “falling in the apples” (: to faint)(familiar) : tomber dans les pommes
- “not having one radish anymore” (: to be v poor)(familiar) : ne plus avoir un radis
- “doing the crepe” (: to lay outside to get a tan) : faire la crêpe
- banana (friendly way to call somebody who said something dumb) : banane
- “breaking the crust” (: to eat) : casser la croûte
- “taking some seed from it” (: to learn from an experience) : en prendre de la graine
- being an asparagus (: to be v tall and slim) : être une asperge
- “pedal in semolina / sauerkraut” (: to have a hard time doing something)(familiar) : pédaler dans la semoule / la choucroute
- “not being in one’s plate” (: to feel weird)(familiar) : ne pas être dans son assiette
- “it doesn’t eat bread” (: it can’t harm) : ça ne mange pas de pain
- “having bread on the chopping board” (: to have loads to do) : avoir du pain sur la planche
nature related :
- “being frost” (: being (Moriarty) nuts) : être givré / givrée
- “only see fire in it” (: to be fooled) : n’y voir que du feu
- taking root (: not moving) : prendre racine
- it’s raining ropes (familiar) : il pleut des cordes
- it’s raining buckets / barrels : il pleut des seaux / des tonneaux
- “it’s a duck’s cold” (: it’s v cold) : il fait un froid de canard
- “it’s a dog’s weather” (shitty weather) : il fait un temps de chien
- it’s hitting (: v burning sun) : ça / le soleil tape
- a lead’s sun : un soleil de plomb
- “eating dandelions by the root” (: being dead and buried) : manger des pissenlits par la racine
- bringing someone’s thunders on _self (: to piss someone off) : s’attirer les foudres de quelqu’un
- having a grain (: to be nuts) : avoir un grain
- not being born during the last rain (: not being stupid, knowing obvious stuff) : ne pas être né / née de la dernière pluie
- happy like a king : heureux comme un roi (masc)
- mute like a grave : muet / muette comme une tombe
- being left (: clumsy) : être gauche
- “getting down someone” (: to kill someone)(familiar) : descendre quelqu’un
- “taking the door” (: to go/be sent outside, unhappy context) : prendre la porte
- “emptying one’s bag” (: to confess)(familiar) : vider son sac
- “it’s the pope” (”is that you?” “no, it’s the pope” - sarcastic) : c’est le pape
- “cuting one’s speech” (: to interrupt) : couper la parole
- “having some bowl / pot / ass” (: to be lucky) : avoir du bol / du pot / du cul
- “holding the candle” (: to be the third wheel) : tenir la chandelle
- “it’s not witchcraft” (kinda) (: it’s easy) : c’est pas sorcier
- “wiping with a sponge” (: to forgive something) : passer l’éponge
She sat on the couch, wrapped in the Fraser plaid blanket that Jenny had given her for Christmas.
She had spent the night shaking in reaction, and finally drifted off to sleep sometime in the early morning hours. Her restless mind hadn’t let her sleep long though, and she’d been awake with the sun.
Hours later she was holding the ivory handled brush, absently running it over her chin. The bristles were still soft, and smelled of shaving lotion. Uncle Lamb. Dear, sweet Uncle Lamb. When they were on a dig in India he was given an elephant tusk. Secretly horrified that a magnificent, regal animal had died for this, he decided to honour it by having the ivory made into many useful things, one of which was a shaving brush. She had found it among his belongings after he’d died. Out of all his effects, this one brought her to tears. So many memories of him on site shaving in rough conditions, flooded her mind. Later, it sat on his vanity during his years as a professor. Giving it to Jamie was only natural.
He would be so angry with her. Angry, and disappointed.
The tears welled up in her eyes. How would she explain? It was so clear now. A driver. Alec. He taken steps to protect her before she would even admit there was danger. He’d known. Secrets. But not lies.
Caught up in her thoughts, it took a minute for her to realize the door opened.
He tossed his key in the general direction of the table by the door, eyes on her. Her first thought was how tired he looked. His cinnamon and copper hair was disheveled, his handsome face covered in day old stubble. She saw Alec discreetly place the suitcase just inside the door, then close it behind him.
She was on her feet, and flying across the hardwood.
Two paces away she noticed the blood from his neck that had soaked into the collar of his dress shirt, and stopped dead in her tracks.
“Jamie!” she said, “You’re hurt!”
Without a word he closed the distance between them, and sliding his hands into her hair, kissed her. His mouth hugged her bottom lip. Nothing more, just a press of his soft lips on hers. He breathed in deeply, inhaling her scent. Claire. He lifted his mouth only to kiss her again, feeling her hands cup his jaw, her thumb caress his chin. He tasted the salt of her tears, and felt the shake of her limbs. Mo graidh.
“Jamie,” she breathed, pulling her mouth from his, “let me see.” She turned back his collar to see an ugly wound, the flesh cut deeply, skin hanging. His hands slid down to cup her shoulders and rub them softly.
“Hurts like the devil, Sassenach.”
“It needs stitches.” She looked up at him. “I’ll need to clean it properly. How did it happen?”
Without taking his eyes from hers, he pulled the sgian-dubh from his coat pocket. She gasped. Claire shot a quick glance at the bookcase across the room where the dirk should have been, her eyes widening when she realized it was gone. She’d never noticed. “Where did you get it?”
He watched the emotions play across her glass face. Surprise. Confusion. Realization. Anger. Shame.
“Shhh, Sassenach. It’s fine.” He offered her an exhausted smile. “Can ye get yer wee kit and fix me up?”
Claire unwound the plaid from around her shoulders, and laid it on the back of the sofa. As she walked away, Jamie fingered the cloth thoughtfully.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Looking at Claire, feasting his eyes on her, helped him manage the pain as the needle pierced his skin. She’d only had a light topical ointment on hand to numb the area. Watching her face while she worked took him back in time to when he first set eyes on her. She was then as she was now, with her brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed, luminescent English skin showing the smattering of freckles across her nose. He watched the sun play through the tendrils of hair that brushed her neck and cheekbones. He’d fallen for her so easily. He was still falling, if he was honest.
Images were swirling in Jamie’s head. His jaw tensed. He was so very angry with himself. To not be here. To not stop him.
She clipped off the last suture. “You’ll have a scar. A triangular scar,” she informed him. Only then did her hand start to shake. “God, Jamie,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears, “just an inch to the left and you would have hit-“
“Shhh, Sassenach. We’ll no’ borrow trouble, aye?” He slipped his hands over her hips, and under her shirt to rest on the small of her back.
She swallowed, looked him in the eye, and nodded. “I need to bandage it.” She stepped away to wash her hands quickly at the kitchen sink, and then dug through her bag for a sterile gauze. Gently, she applied the stark white cloth to her husband’s throat. She could barely see for the tears clinging to her lashes. She turned her head to blink them away. The idea of Jamie, or anyone being hurt because of her lack of judgement was too much.
She felt his hand on her face, turning her towards him. Eyes closed, she felt his thumbs brush the drops away.
“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, so softly he might not have heard.
His forehead came to rest on hers. Leaning into him their breath mingled. Hers hitched as she tried not to sob outright. His came in long calming breaths as if trying to stay in control.
“Claire.” She glanced up at him under lowered lids. “Look at me, mo neighean donn.” Swallowing hard, she met his gaze.
“When we wed, we became one. You have my name,” he gestured to the plaid draped over the sofa, “My clan. My family.” He used a finger to lift her chin higher, “and if necessary, the protection of my body, as well.”
The dam broke.
Sobs racked Claire such as he hadn’t seen since that day he found her feverish and exhausted on the stairs between their apartments. He gathered her in and held her head against his shoulder, rocking her gently while the tension of the week came pouring out of her. Her long fingers clutched at his shoulders, and naked chest trying to gain purchase, to hold on to something, anything.
Jamie’s body was responding to its own tension. Jet lag, adrenaline crash from his fight with Horrocks, and the pain from his wound were all taking its toll on him now. He needed to sleep.
“Claire.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Sassenach.”
She lifted her head, a soft hiccup escaping her as she tried to stop crying.
“Lie wi’ me?”
She nodded. Grabbing the blanket from the sofa, she took her husband’s hand and walked with him to their bed.
“It was Murtagh.”
“Hmmm?” Claire mumbled, legs tangled with Jamie’s, her head next to his on the pillow.
They had crawled into bed under twisted, and tortured sheets from Claire’s restless night. They tussled a bit as Jamie tried to get Claire to shed some clothing layers, teasing her once again about how she wore too much to bed. Then finally, they curled together with the heavy duvet thrown over both of them. The shared warmth soon lulled them to sleep.
“Alec, I expected, of course,” Jamie said. “I wasna so surprised to see Willie. I thought he just had some papers for me to sign. Business, ye ken.” Claire slowly came awake listening to the low rumble of Jamie’s voice.
“But when I saw Murtagh, weel, my knees buckled a bit. I knew. He’s the closest thing I have to a father. And I remember thinkin’, why is a man who hates crowds, hates noise, at an airport?” Jamie paused, and she felt his arm tighten around her waist. “I never want to feel that kind of fear again. Never.”
Claire moved then. She rolled toward her husband at the same time his hand slid down to cup her bottom and lift her towards him. She sprawled herself on him, finding his mouth and kissing him deeply. She gripped his hair, turned his head to the angle she wanted and fused her mouth to his.
She was wild, and a little rough. He liked it.
Even when the stitches pulled a little, and made him hiss in his breath, Jamie let her take control. He let her grab his hands and place them on her breasts, let her show him what she wanted.
She was exorcising her own fears. Fighting her own demons. They would come together on her terms. She would take her pleasure the way she wanted. She would erase the memories of what that bastard tried to offer, and may have taken had Alec not been there. If this was what Claire needed from him, then he would give it. He left himself at her mercy. It wasn’t easy. He and Claire shared the same passions in bed. They danced this dance a hundred times, giving and taking in equal measure. Yet in this moment he understood instinctively that he needed to surrender himself to her control.
When he tried to kiss her, she dodged him. If he moved his hand somewhere else, she slapped at it until he put it back. She nipped at his lips, scraped her teeth across his hip bone, and bit his thigh.
It was the sweetest torture. There was pleasure in the pain.
She made him ask permission for everything. To be kissed, to be touched.
Permission to enter her body.
As their cries echoed around the bedroom, and she collapsed onto his chest, Jamie held his wife and tenderly stroked her back. He felt the dampness on his skin from her tears. His heart broke just a little. “Shh, mo graidh, shh,” he whispered. “He’s gone, Claire. Gone for good.”
She stretched her neck to kiss the hollow of his throat, and saw the small red stain on the gauze.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked, caressing his jaw with the backs of her fingers.
“Aye. A bit.” He brushed the damp curls away from her temple.
“You should have told me to stop.”
“Nah,” Jamie said, giving her that lopsided smile she loved so much, “I was completely under yer power and happy to be there.”
(A/N: Haven’t given the ol’ Baking AU a shot in a good while! I’ve decided to combine it with those other foodie movies and came up with this idea! Hope you enjoy!)
Head Chef! Obi-Wan x Pastry Chef! Reader
Plot Summary: When Qui-Gon hires a new pastry chef for his dessert menu, Obi-Wan feels a slight sense of competition. Who do you think you are, just waltzing into his kitchen? He’s been running it for years, it doesn’t need to change. But, as time progresses, he realizes the sour beginning the two of you had is starting to turn into something sweet.
“I need the Lamb Navarin plated yesterday, hurry up! Lobster Bisque is already on the floor, I need you to move!”
“Yes chef!” The kitchen chorus rang as the chefs scrambled to get the dishes onto the waiter’s tray in time. Chef Kenobi took a split second to wipe the sweat off of his brow with his rag, before returning to the Quenelles de Brochet reserved for the food critic sat at Table 14. Every garnish needed to be set with the utmost precision. The pike was placed delicately atop the Nantua sauce before he wiped the ring of the dish and sent it off, the stress taking over his mind but not his body as he turned to continue his work.
The shaky breathing and worrisome nature continued far past closing time, the chef only managing to receive a total of three hours of sleep, complete with waking up every now and again in cold sweats and drinking half a bottle of wine at two in the morning.