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cmoon-rabbit4-blog · 5 years

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The Darker Side to Romance writing prompts part 1 of 2

1. The Clingy Yandere and Touch Starved Senpai*

*Note, Person B can also be a Kohai, too, if you so prefer.

Yandere A has become infatuated with B-(Senpai/Kohai)! As A goes about their eliminating rivals to be the only love in B’s life, A takes notice of their B’s behavior whenever touched. B just seems to light up whenever there’s either a hand on their shoulder or back, they’re holding hands with some person, an arm is looped around their shoulders, even when there’s a person pressed against their side, what more often than not happens accidentally though, the last of that little list, not that A cares if it was an accident! After “researching” B’s behavior, A learns that their B is “touch starved”, using to their advantage this information as to successfully gain possession of B’s heart.

Possible scenarios for how A could go about using the knowledge that B is touched starved:

Scenario 1, “B’s cursed, stay away!”: A’s eliminating those rivals that impede A from gaining possession of B’s heart, whether this means eliminating them by literally eliminating them or metaphorically by driving them away from B, can make others start believing that B is cursed, that those that associate with B are going to have something bad happen to them, thus causing people to start avoiding B. This method of using the knowledge that B is touch starved has the double-benefit of 1, keeping others from becoming new rivals for B’s hearts, and 2, drives B into A’s arms as A, if they can keep a handle on their self for long enough, can become the only constant person sticking close to B’s side.

Scenario 2, “I need you, please don’t leave me!”: A could kidnap B, and as B would be in isolation, A would be the only person that B sees up to until A decides to free B. Though it could be hard for A not to as they would have their (senpai/kohai) all to their self, keeping from touching B for days up to weeks until B’s close to snapping at the lack of physical contact, and then touching B affectionately (pats on the head, hair ruffling, cheek caressing, hugs, kisses) would cause B to depend on A to satisfy their touch starvation, as A would be the only person B would be seeing for so long until they’re at that edge.

2. The Hades and Persephone* story

*“Persephone” in this doesn’t actually have to be a deity already before marrying “Hades”.

A is the deity of the Underworld and all that means. A is lonely, tired, and just so done, done, done as they constantly have to deal with paperwork to process souls and the like, traffic jams, and then there’s the souls themselves, petty when they die and all “Boo-hoo-hoo, woe is me! I’m dead!” LORD, is it annoying! Deciding that ‘Hey, I’m the frickin’ deity of the Underworld and all that means, I can go take a walk if I so want to!’, A goes and does just that, going to the surface/realm of the living as to both get a change of scenery and some fresh air to go with, wherein they meet their “Persephone”, B.

B is already a deity scenario: B is the deity of (the seasons, life, whatever have you that has to do with, well, living). B is bored as Hades (^^) because not only is their life stagnant in anything interesting, but their parent is also rather protective over them, keeping them from being able to make their life interesting. B one day goes to gather some (herbs, flowers, whatever have you) from a meadow, where they are then kidnapped and dragged down into the Underworld by A, the deity of the Underworld! B doesn’t know whether to be scared or annoyed, but they are surprised when they find that instead of being treated like a plaything by the rumored to be cruel and cold-hearted A, they are treated more like that of a … queen**? Over a course of time, B begins to fall in love with A, helping them to direct the Underworld and absolve the traffic jams, shut whining souls up, and stem the overflow of paperwork, which while not sounding interesting, actually is! The wonders of good company. The two soon marry, much to the displeasure of the other deities, especially B’s parent who throws a tantrum in an effort to gain their beloved child back! Not wanting the mortals to die prematurely from starvation, because they just got rid of those dang traffic jams and the overflow of paperwork, too, B goes back to the realm of the living but ties their self to the Underworld by eating a pomegranate so they have to return, no matter what the other deities say!

B is a mortal before marrying A scenario: B is a humble mortal, bored with the humdrum of their life’s routine. A, disguised as a mortal, happens upon B’s selling (if herbs or herbal medicines, an apothecarist, and if bread, a baker, and if flowers, florist, so there’s some examples), and A decides why not? As A buys the (example products), A strikes up a conversation with b as they find B attractive. A and B begin talking and A finds their self fascinated by B, and when A has the time to, returns to talk with B every so often, not that the other deities know. B notices that A looks tired and asks about that, A revealing to B that they are of a position of high authority and so with some tiring duties, but not revealing that they are a deity. B surprisingly gives some good advice on the issues bothering A (“If you’ve got whiny brats annoying you, then treat them like whiny brats. They’re coming to you for a reason, aren’t they?”; “Why not delegate those that are subordinate to you to help break up the traffic flow, then?”; “Again, why not delegate your subordinates to help you in the paperwork? I mean, can’t they also help or is it a matter of qualifications? Or are they just too lazy?”). On a whim, A implements some of B’s advice and finds that things are running better in the Underworld! After some time, A realizes that they are in love with B, which brings up a new dilemma: B is a mortal, and A is a deity! While A could wait until B is dead, so that B’s soul is in their domain and so not much of a legal issue which the deities of life, A doesn’t want to wait, because they want B as their queen now! A goes in their disguise one final time to talk with B, hoping B will say yes before revealing to B who they actually are, and when “popping the question”, B asks if they actually thought they were being subtle this whole time with their disguise? A is surprised, drops their mortal disguise, revealing their self as the deity of the Underworld, asking how B knew. B tells that they figured out A wasn’t when B began talking about their life, admitting that they weren’t too sure just what A was but had realized not too long ago that they loved A, whatever A was. They were just waiting for A to realize and if not, whatever. A asks them if this means B will be their queen, B says yes, and they marry … after A gets the blessing from B’s overprotective parent, considering even though B’s parent is mortal, the worst thing ever is a p’ed-off in-law! The other deities aren’t too upset considering it’s a mortal, although the deities of life are a bit upset since technically mortals are part of their domain, but there’s not much fuss until when after B is married and becomes immortal, they become a deity of (whatever have you about life), surprisingly considering***.

**The title of “queen” doesn’t actually mean anything gender-identifying, it’s just a common that queens are female. If you ever read “Dealing with Dragons”, an amazing book, there’s an explanation in it over where female dragons can compete with male dragons to be “king of the dragons”, and that the queen of dragons they had at the time of the competition for the kingship is actually a male dragon, or was it the old queen? It’s been a while. Either way, it’s explained there that there’s just different duties with the different crowns.

***In the Greek mythology, mortals could ascend to deityhood through different means, though usually that means more often than not was through their winning some kind of favor with those “in charge”.

#writing prompts #my writing prompts #they're kind of not that dark? well 2 isn't

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pennywaltzy · 6 years

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Every English Village Has Its Secrets (2/? - An “In Our Neck Of The Woods” Story)

And this was another one I had planned on doing for WIP Big Bang that I ended up dropping today. I have two new chapters so here’s one today and you’ll get the second tomorrow!

Every English Village Has Its Secrets - When Greg and Sally get called to Midsomer County for a case, right from the start Greg knows it will be a headache when Mycroft offers him lodging (so long as he's alright with his former lover being his housemate for his time there), and it doesn't get much better when he meets DCI Tom Barnaby and immediately their Detective Sergeants take an instant dislike to each other when Sally arrives the next evening. And that isn't even getting into the actual case itself and all the secrets hidden in the village of Elverton-cum-Latterley...

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 2 | Commission Me? | Buy Me A Coffee?

He pulled up to the lodgings Mycroft had mentioned after sorting out a few things with his wife, knowing full well unless she was taking her newest lover out of town they’d probably end up in his home now, and picking out some clothing and the essentials and a book for good measure. The one he was reading now was meant for uni students but he had wanted to learn more about the sciences and see if he could ever wrap his head around the way Sherlock’s mind worked. Most of it made little to no sense, but some of it he understood, which he felt was at least a promising start.

Some things had changed a lot since uni, he thought as he got out of the car and looked at the lodgings, realizing it looked very familiar. So apparently, some things had not.

He built a place for himself that was like my mum’s place, Lestrade thought with a warm smile. Oh, he was sure inside it would be more upscale than his mother’s home, God rest her soul, could ever have hoped to be, but it brought about good memories of a time he sorely missed.

He wondered if Mycroft knew the basis of this place was in his possession now. His wife hated it because it was so far from London, but he’d loved the place she’d retired to when he went into uni. Apparently, Mycroft had too.

He went to the front door and found it unlocked and so he let himself in. To his surprise, it wasn’t nearly as posh as he had expected it to be. A little unlived in, sure, but he knew Mycroft still spent more time in his dungeon office than he did anywhere else. This place being unlived in was expected. “Hello?” he called out.

“In the kitchen, Gregory,” Mycroft called back.

If the layout was the same he knew exactly how to get there, could even count the steps, and he was pleasantly surprised to find the kitchen looked damn near the same as his mum’s. “She would have loved this, you know. She always did like you more than Maureen.”

“Your mother was a woman ahead of her time,” Mycroft said with a fond smile.

“That she was,” Greg agreed with a nod. He could smell something cooking and tilted his head as he looked at Mycroft. “Am I expected to eat all of that delicious smelling stew or are you going to simply watch?”

“We’ll share the stew, but the bread is all yours,” he said. “Fresh from the baker, among one of the last loaves made today. I figured a good crusty sourdough would pair well.”

“For a man who didn’t seem to like food you always knew a lot about what went well,” Lestrade said. Oh, he knew the truth; Mycroft wasn’t as thin and slender as he was now during their time together, having dropped a few stone as the years went by, but he remembered he had always loved to help his mum cook. “And we don’t have to continue that line of thought if you don’t want to.”

“Much appreciated,” Mycroft said quietly. He went back to the stove to stir the stew. “Don’t breathe a word to my assistant that I do actually eat real food.”

“What’s her name? Amanda? Aretha?”

“Andrea, but she is to be called Anthea in public,” he said. “Though I suppose she’s still a little green she’s an enormous asset. I may take her off her duty of monitoring Sherlock’s movements to spend more time with me in meetings. She gives invaluable advice. She picked up the secret language rather quickly.”

“Well, so did I,” he pointed out.

“I had much enjoyment teaching it to you,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade found the tiniest blush on his cheeks, remembering just how he had been rewarded when he had done well. “Are you expecting similar things to happen now? I know you know about my situation.”

Mycroft shook his head. “As much as I might enjoy it, you made a vow to...her, and even if she can’t remember the similar ones she made in return you will not break yours, no matter how much you may want to.” Mycroft was oddly quiet as he said that last part, as though he wasn’t sure there was truth to what he was saying.

Greg moved over and turned Mycroft’s face towards him. “I do still care. It didn’t end badly, or as badly as it could have, it just ended. And perhaps, in time, things will be better.”

“Between you and her?” Mycroft asked.

“Between you and I,” he replied. “I only stay with her for my daughter, and she’s old enough to understand her mother doesn’t love her father and her father has loved men and women in his past.” For a moment he cradled Mycroft’s cheek in his hand. “She’d probably like you to boot.”

Mycroft just for a moment let himself shut his eyes and stand there, a small smile on his face. “So, there may be hope?” he asked.

“There may be,” Lestrade said. “Now just isn’t the time.”

“I understand, Gregory.” He lifted his head up and moved away from Lestrade’s palm, but the smile still stayed. At least it was all out in the open now, and he found himself meaning every word he had said. His heart had never stopped loving Mycroft, and while he’d had room for more people as years passed, he knew he had made a mistake in his marriage. When there was a chance, he would leave, once he knew he stood a good chance of getting custody of Eileen.

Until then, they simply had to wait, and he knew Mycroft would, and for some reason that made him immeasurably happy.

#sherlock #midsomer murders #mystrade #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes #mycroft x lestrade #multipart: every english village has its secrets #my au: in our neck of the woods

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chibi-writings · 7 years

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Ink 3/?

Characters: Frollo, Quasimodo (Disney)

"If you love me, you will keep my commandments." - John 14:15

Obedience

Hours had passed after that, some of the longest hours he could ever remember experiencing, and the only way he was able to tell the passage of time was how the light changed around him and the color of the sky. The journey of the sun across the heavens warped the city under it; shadows lengthened in some places and disappeared entirely in others, and the strange red color that painted the sky that morning had darkened into gray. At midmorning a wind had sprung up and the smoke had fled to the skies and still hovered over the city like a grim specter of death, but without it rampaging in the streets and choking people they seemed to forget all about it.

Long after that, when the day's gruesome work was done, it seemed like a watery blue sky wished to break through the the gray curtain of smoke and ash and dust. Frollo gazed at it as he made his way down the platform at last, his legs as heavy as wood underneath him. All of that standing and shouting and the rest of the excitement of the day had deeply exhausted him like he had never felt before. The fact that he had not slept yet did not help either.

"Sir!" one of the guards saluted him, his voice too loud and ringing in the minister's ears.

Frollo winced and waved him away, reaching up with his other hand to rub his eyes. "Go back to the Palace of Justice," he ordered. "Make sure the gypsy girl does not escape again."

Confusion met his commands. "Sir?" the guard repeated uneasily.

He snapped his head up and the guards shrank back from his glare. "I said go!" he snapped, his voice cracking them into action like a whip. "Not—" he interrupted among the flurry of movement, "—you two. You stay with me."

The two of them exchanged equally puzzled looks and Frollo grit his teeth. How in the world was he supposed to replace Captain Phoebus so soon? He would rather have a score of Phoebus's (albeit loyal ones) than the whole of his city guard. Phoebus had at least been competent. He swept past them in a swirl of robes and listening to their clanking as they tried to keep up with his long strides across the now-empty courtyard to the well. A group of four women were standing around it and gossiping, but when they saw him approaching with his scowl they scattered like sparrows before a raven. They left the water bucket behind, though, and when Frollo peered in he saw that there was still an inch or so of water left at the bottom.

Thankfully the two guards he picked to follow him weren't particularly talkative. He wasn't sure how much idle chatter he could take right now. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it into the water and began to gently clean his face with it. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped him as the cool water came in contact with his hot skin and he could see black smudges appearing on the cloth. Smoke, no doubt. It was on his hands as well and his robes reeked of it, who knew how long it would take to get them to smell fine again. He had to dip his handkerchief in again and again, wringing it out each time and washing his face again, along with his neck and hands until finally the water ran more or less clear. He needed a proper wash but for now it would do.

"Where is my horse?" he asked without turning around.

"Tied off, sir," one of his soldiers answered.

"Bring him here."

He heard clanking footsteps scurrying away, and leaned against the well, waiting for the steps to come back with hooves in tow. He wondered what time it was. The growling of his stomach gnawing away in his gut told him that he had missed lunch, but it was far past afternoon. Or was it? He tried to remember when he heard the noon bells, then a cold jolt ran through him as he realized that he had not heard the bells at all that day. He stood up straight, snapping up and turning as the guard appeared with his horse. With little ceremony he grabbed the saddle and hoisted himself into it, cursing himself softly for his mistake. No, he couldn't return to the Palace, not just yet.

Without a single word to his guards he turned and trotted down the streets, not to the Palace but the stores and markets. He heard a confused muttering behind him and ignored it. He didn't even have his basket with him, he would have to buy a new one.

Frollo felt the inquisitive and slightly fearful stares all around him, but he rode with his head held high and pretended they were all as insubstantial as air. His guards had no questions for him as he bought a wicker basket from a merchant and went to the baker and the butcher, the wine shop and the fruit stand, inspecting all of their items with a critical eye. A loaf of fresh bread went into the basket, along with a side of salted beef, a hunk of cheese, a square of butter, two meat pies, plums and apples, a tiny, precious jar of honey, and finally a bottle of fine Bordeaux, all of it covered with a simple, clean white cloth.

He rode back to the cathedral hastily, squinting his eyes and trying to see if he could spot Quasimodo from the ground. No luck, the sky made everything blurred and dark. How had they actually restrained the hunchback so he couldn't leave the bell tower? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

"Stay here," he said as he dismounted.

"Yes sir," he heard the affirmative behind him. Not without grumbling, and on any other day he would have snapped at them for it but now he was simply too tired and out of patience.

He took off his hat as he passed under the shadow of the entrance of Notre Dame. As always, the beauty and grandeur of the magnificent cathedral made him stop for just a moment, overwhelmed by the size and sight before him. How man could have built such a majestic structure could only have been achieved with the help of God, he was sure of it. He reached out and dipped his fingers into the holy water of the stoup, then crossed himself. Even that small drop of cold on his forehead was a relief, bringing his senses back into sharpness once more.

There were eyes watching him. As if sensing he had been caught, the archdeacon appeared from between the shadows of two pillars, his face a most peculiar mix of a scowl and grief. "Frollo—" he began.

"If only you were aware of how much patience I don't have for one of your lectures today, archdeacon," Frollo cut him off, his voice as pleasant as ever but his eyes taking on a flinty edge as they landed on the priest.

The archdeacon paused, if only for a second. "What in the world are you doing with that gypsy, Frollo? Putting her on the stake and then taking her off at the last moment? What do you mean she has 'recanted?'"

Frollo sighed through his nose, trying to control his breathing. "Recant means exactly what it has always meant, archdeacon. And I did not come here to talk about that. Where is Quasimodo?"

"I haven't seen him since your soldiers dragged him in here. And that is another thing—"

His eye twitched, shock flooding his body at the words, only to give way to anger an instant later. "What?" he hissed over the archdeacon's words, fury blazing in his eyes. "He is a soul taking refuge under your roof and you did not even check on him?! What if he has fallen off the tower or starved? His blood would be on your hands!" He pushed past the archdeacon, his robes rippling as he started taking the stairs two at a time.

"Why, Frollo," the archdeacon's voice followed him up the stairway, the owner traveling at a more sedate pace. "I had no idea you cared so much."

For one fleeting moment, the desire to turn back and throw the archdeacon down the stairs nearly overwhelmed him. Frollo tried to quash his anger, but such a bubbling, molten thing could not be suppressed by will alone and it burst out of his throat to become his voice: "It is not about me caring, it is about you doing your job!" He reached the top of the stairs and slammed the door behind him with a bang that had to echo through the whole cathedral and locked it behind him. There, blessed silence, for now. He leaned against the door for a moment and rubbed his eyes once more, then pushed himself away and started up the rest of the steps.

At the very least he was keeping in shape by going up and down these steps all the time, he mused to himself as he climbed and climbed in a tight circle that would have made him dizzy if he wasn't so used to it by now. The space was small and silent but he liked it, the quiet was peaceful and the corridor safe, and it let him think as he walked. Even with a moment of spare time, though, his thoughts invariably turned to Esmeralda.

He remembered how she looked up at him, so terrified and yet so willingly at the same time, throwing herself at his feet for his mercy. She chose him, him! His hand tightened on the basket, his heart thumping in his chest and his steps faster. She chose him! She was all his now, a little bird that might fly away at any moment but ah, he knew how to catch birds and keep them!

A small smile was making itself know across his face, and even his fatigue could not stop his steps from nearly flying up the stairs. She was in the Palace right at this moment, what was she doing? He knew she had gone through a very suffering ordeal but now her trials had ended and she was safe again. Was she sleeping, perhaps, recovering her spirit, or was she just sitting in her room, frightened and alone? But he knew Esmeralda, whatever fright she had would not last very long. She was simply not the type of person to dwell on things and let the past haunt her.

His staff had better take care of her, she was under his protection now. A scowl passed his face at the thought, his robes flaring out as his steps increased. No, they would no what to do, they had to. They would find a room for her and feed her, find her everything she needed, but it was those guards that made his fists clench. If he came back and found that she had escaped again he would flay them all alive in the dungeons. He would make them eat hot coals and--

Well, maybe he would do that afterwards. He would have to catch her again after all and he needed men for that.

He shook his head, rubbing his temples and slowing his steps. She would not escape, he assured himself of that. No one had ever escaped from the Palace of Justice before.

He was getting close to the top, now. He could smell the change in the air. On normal days it was cleaner and more pure from being so high off the ground, yet had a certain thin quality about it, like watered-down wine. Now, though, he could smell the smoke more thickly up here.

Finally, his eyes caught sight of the top of the stairs and he stepped gratefully onto the landing, leaning against the archway as he caught his breath. Paris stretched out before him, not near as beautiful as she usually was, but it was still an awesome sight to behold. From a half-dozen places he could still see smoke rising, but most of the fires had been put out, it seemed. Good, the faster everything went back to normal the better.

He crossed the bridge between the towers swiftly, darkness enveloping him as he went through the next archway and only faint shafts of sunlight illuminated the inside. The smell of wood flooded his nostrils and his steps now clunked against the floor instead of the sharp taps stone made. No doubt Quasimodo could hear him coming up the steps but he decided to call to him anyway. "Quasimodo!"

There was no response. Frollo blinked in surprise and hastened up the last of the steps to Quasimodo's sanctuary. Everything looked exactly as he had left it the previous night, the chaos of Quasimodo's ruined Paris included. A small sigh escaped through his nose as he beheld the sight in the daylight; it seemed more tragic now than it did before. But Quasimodo had disobeyed him again, he was absolutely right in punishing Quasimodo for what he had done, the only tragedy was that his charge had such beautiful things to destroy.

"Quasimodo?" he asked again as he stepped into the room, his eyes locking on the charred piece of wood on the floor that had once been Esmeralda's figure.

Silence greeted him. Now his heart began to thunder in his ears. Where had Quasimodo gone? Or, better yet, where had his guards put him? Perhaps they had him gagged somewhere or maybe they thought to make Quasimodo's stay more permanent. No! He did not tell them to harm Quasimodo, they would never do such a thing without his explicit permission! But then where was he?

He swept away the mess on the table and placed his basket in the freed space, then bent down to pick up the plates and cups that he had knocked to the floor in his rage. He couldn't remember at all causing such a mess, just that he had been so very angry and yelling and wanting to take every bit of rage out on Quasimodo for helping Esmeralda escape him. Well, the past was the past now and it was time to fix whatever he had broken and make amends where he could. It was easy with Quasimodo, the poor child often forgave him anything and even apologized when it was not needed.

Squinting, he tried to find Quasimodo's figure among the bells. He did love them so much, but he didn't think his guards would put him up there. There was nowhere to restrain him. The bells' metal skins glowed faintly in the light, hinting at mysteries and a beautiful music to come, but when so still they seemed to be nearly sleeping. The thought made him uneasy and he cast off the thoughts with a little shake of his head, like a bird ruffling his feathers. He really did not feel like climbing another hundred stairs to hunt for Quasimodo and peering into every corner, especially not today, so he took a deep breath.

"Quasimodo!" his yell echoed across the entire bell tower, even among the bells themselves, bringing a strange, somber note with it.

When the last vestiges of his voice faded away, he heard another sound at last, so soft that he would have missed it entirely if he had not been listening so intently. It was coming from...down? Back the way he came.

Puzzled, he took off at a brisk pace, climbing down the stairs loudly and bursting out into the day again. The red ribbon from his hat swished along the corner of his vision as he turned his head this way and that, trying to pin down the position of Quasimodo with his eyes, and yet he could still see nothing. "Quasimodo?" he tried again, wondering why his charge simply did not reveal himself.

He heard the sound again, a sniffle, and a pitiful "Master," that croaked beneath him. Below again? He leaned over the railing and stiffened when he saw the multitude of chains wrapped around the supporting columns below, and right in the center of them like a fly caught in a horrid web—good heavens! They had wrapped him head to toe in chains, where did they even find so many?

Frollo took off, scowling once more as he found the steps down and began to make his way there. He couldn't help but admire his soldier's dedication to their duty, dragging all those chains up here could not have been easy after all, but did they really need to go through all the effort? And why chain him between the towers of all places, why not the bell tower like he had said? Well, no matter, be free soon enough.

Coming to the foot of the steps, he set off for Quasimodo, slowing his approach as he came closer. What a sight he made, his deformed body held down by the chains; if one was good at pretending they could imagine his twisted shape could have been produced by how tightly the chains pressed his body instead of it being his natural form. Frollo's eyes darted around, looking for a place where the chains could possibly end, a lock where they all connected to. He found it past the very first column, with the key still stuck inside, as luck would have it. He supposed his guards had moments of brilliance equal to their moments of foolishness.

He reached out and turned the key, unhooking the chains from the lock and letting them fall away before he made his way to Quasimodo. The hunchback had not moved, still kneeling like Frollo had first seen him. Automatically, out of long habit, his hand reached out to gently brush against the hump on his back, then to his hair. Quasimodo trembled under his touch, ragged, sharp breaths leaving him as Frollo stepped around to kneel in front of him.

"Quasi—" was all he managed to say before he was suddenly being crushed, Quasimodo's arms embracing him with a grip that drove out all the air from his lungs. He coughed and felt Quasimodo's face press into his robes, shaking with loud sobs that startled nearby birds into taking flight.

Frollo's first, and strongest, instinct was to push him away in disgust. But his arms were pinned to his sides and as the seconds wore on he felt his harshness subsiding gradually. Especially when he started to make out words among Quasimodo's blubbering.

"I'm sorry, M-Master, I'm so sorry for everything! P-please forgive me, I won't disobey you ever again—"

His irritation cooled as he listened, a small smile twitching to life across his face before he composed himself. "There, there, Quasimodo," he spoke gently, raising up his hand as much as he could to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Do not be so upset, it is all over now. Everything can go back to the way it used to be."

Quasimodo sobbed wetly and Frollo tried very hard to not think of the mess he could be leaving all over his robes. "I should have never left at all," Quasimodo whispered. "If I had never left then none of this would have happened."

At last he was learning. Frollo smiled wider and stroked his hair gently. However, he mused, if Quasimodo had never left his tower then Esmeralda would have never come to his attention. She would have just been another wild gypsy dancer. He certainly wasn't going to thank Quasimodo for that, though. "That's right," he whispered back, "you shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry. Please Master, I won't do it again, please forgive me." Quasimodo bent over even more, hiding deeper into his robes as he awaited his judgement.

Frollo considered the scene for a moment, mulling it over in his mind and simply enjoying the sight. This would be far easier than he had originally thought. He knew he could drill the lesson further into Quasimodo's mind, he was soft and hurting enough that this time it would sink in and stay there, as much as any barbed arrow could. But the wounds were already there, still raw and bleeding.

Wait between lashes. Otherwise the old sting will dull him to the new.

"You are forgiven," he said gently. This time he pushed Quasimodo gently, and the other understood and reluctantly loosened his grip. Frollo got to his feet and winced at the state of his robes; yes, they were wet and filthy just like he thought they would be. "You made mistakes, my boy, but that is why we confess our sins and beg for forgiveness in the first place, an honest admission is always deserving of forgiveness. God gave us free will, after all." He held out his hand to Quasimodo.

Quasimodo stared at it as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, then, tentatively, he took it. His enormous hand engulfed Frollo's frail and delicate one, yet it was Frollo who pulled him and helped him to his feet. The chains fell from his body as he rose to his feet, wincing as his muscles finally got to stretched fully after being imprisoned for so long.

"Come, my boy," Frollo said, pulling him so he could step out of the chains. "I brought us lunch. Let us pray and ask God to take away ours sins and eat. Heaven knows it is a good time to do so."

Quasimodo still looked surprised, but he nodded and shuffled after Frollo as the other led the way back. Frollo took out his handkerchief and tried to wipe away the worst of the wetness on his robes, then he passed it back to Quasimodo. The younger took the hint and accepted it, wiping his face and blowing his nose with a noise that made the rest of the birds fly away.

"Master, do you—"

"No, you can keep it."

The air was clear, the gentlest of winds ruffling their clothes and whistling between the columns and niches of Notre Dame, smelling of the Seine and the city below. All was quiet for a long minute. Frollo took the stairs first, his graceful steps climbing easily, if slowly, with Quasimodo in tow. But the bellringer's voice could not stay silent for long, but he did not so much break the silence as he cracked it.

"You...you executed them all, Master."

The horrified whisper made Frollo look back, realization dawning upon him. So that explained his location and his behavior, Frollo had been so surprised to find him there and too busy freeing him to put much thought into why his guards had chained him there in the first place. "Yes, I did," he replied, turning away again. "I executed a band of thieves, pirates, witches, and scum for their crimes against the people of Paris. Perhaps now the city will have some peace for once." His thoughts raced inside his head. Executions were held in front of the cathedral all the time, but never so many as today, and Quasimodo has seen it all. Ah, he had probably watched—

"Why did you free Esmeralda?" Quasimodo asked in a softly. He said it in a trembling voice, as if waiting for Frollo to turn and strike him for his impudence.

Of course he would want to know. Frollo knew he had an affection towards her, it was his gambling on that affection that led him to the Court of Miracles, after all. But, if that was his weakness then Frollo could use it in his favor. "She recanted," he responded. "So I spared her."

"What—what did you do to her after that?" Quasimodo asked. He seemed to be afraid of the answer.

The shadows covered them as they passed into the bell tower. Under their cover it seemed easy to tell the truth, and perhaps if Quasimodo knew that she was fine he would stop being so rebellious. "I sent her to the Palace of Justice," he said and heard a gasp at his heels. "Not to imprison her. She is my guest there."

"Guest?" Quasimodo repeated incredulously.

"Yes, guest. Now stop pestering me, boy." Quasimodo's cove opened up before him and he stepped into it, waiting for Quasimodo himself to appear. When he did, the kindling anger and hurt so plainly visible on the bellringer's face gave him pause.

Knowing he had been caught, Quasimodo looked down, but his voice spoke bitter words to his feet. "How can you have her as a guest? What is she to you after everything she has done to you?"

Frollo frowned at him severely. "I am not half as heartless as you might think, Quasimodo," he said, his voice taking on a low and dangerous tone. "Remember how I took you in."

Quasimodo winced and just like that his anger seemed to break with it. "I—yes, Master. I am sorry for speaking like that to you."

The minister nodded, picking his way over to the table and uncovering the basket with a`ceremonial air. He saw how Quasimodo's eyes widened at the feast he brought them and beckoned to him. "Do you know where your rosary is?" At Quasimodo's nod he continued, "Then bring it here and come kneel with me. Let us pray and eat. It has been a very stressful few days, hasn't it?" All he wanted, needed right now was some peace and sleep. Lunches with Quasimodo always provided him with the former, he had never in living memory ever left them in a foul mood. Irritated sometimes, but never worse than when he came in.

Quasimodo nodded and darted out of sight and Frollo could hear him rummaging through the various items he had collected over the years. While he did, Frollo took off his own rosary and stared at it in the light, admiring its cold brilliance and glittering gems under his fingers.

Yes, a small time of quiet reflection would do quite well for the both of them.

It was a little over an hour later when he finally left Notre Dame and began to head back to the Palace of Justice. His guards were still there, looking quite bored but not so much that he thought that they were doing absolutely nothing the whole time. They saluted him gratefully when he came into view and he nodded at them, mounting his horse easily.

When he turned to go, he heard the bells of Notre Dame. They clanged and sang from their tower, and Frollo looked back up with a smirk. It was not as beautiful as Quasimodo could usually make them sound, but that would change soon enough. Quasimodo was one to reflect on his past mistakes, but he loved the bells far too much to not put his heart into ringing them. "Back to the Palace," he said to his soldiers, who looked equally stunned to hear the bells pealing after an entire day of silence.

Evening was drawing upon the city as they rode back, a dark cloak wrapping around the streets like a kiss. Candlelight from the windows flared to life on occasion, and the spires of the Palace of Justice was a welcome sight to see after such a long day. It was not in Frollo's imagination that they were hurrying more than usual with Palace so close. All of the guard saluted him when they saw him riding up, and he had hardly handed away his horse and entered the Palace when his chief of staff came running up to greet him.

"Minister Frollo, we took care of the gypsy while you were away," the man said with a low bow.

Another set of good news. The day simply kept getting better and better. "Well done," he said with a curling smile. "Tell me, was she any trouble?"

The man shook his head. "Not at all, my lord, no. We gave her a room and food and she never complained, not even with the guard outside her door."

"Truly? What an unexpected change from her," Frollo mused, chuckling to himself as he listened.

"Would you like to see her, minister?"

"No, not right now," Frollo said with a wave of his hand. "Let her sit there. Take care of her needs but don't let her out."

"Sir," the man acknowledged and he brushed by him, heading for his quarters.

Now that he was back his exhaustion seemed to press on him twice as hard. His sleepless nights, chasing Esmeralda down, the whole day spent reading executions and being at the head of an enraged crowd, running up and down Notre Dame and talking with Quasimodo...even his steps seemed to stumble over one another. Once in a while his head would swim and he would have to take a deep breath to regain himself.

It couldn't have been soon enough that he made it to his own rooms, as comfortable of a place as he could possibly be. He didn't even bother to call someone to light the fireplace, he simply undressed himself and crawled under the covers of his bed. It seemed he had barely touched them before he was drifting off peacefully.

Now with the chase ended, all the cards in his hand, victory totally his, sleep claimed him easily. For once, he slept through the whole night.

#disney #fresme #hunchback of notre dame #frollo #esmeralda #quasimodo

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japanheart88-blog · 5 years

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The 9 Most Legendary Cookbooks of the Last Decade

The Piglet Tournament of Cookbooks has a long and storied past. There are illustrious judges, controversial decisions and upsets, comment squabbles galore, and really solid books. If you're with us for your very first Piglet (which starts next Tuesday, on March 5—huzzah!), you can read all about how it works here.

But seriously...about those books. Each year, the title that takes home the prized Piglet trophy (yeah, there's actually a trophy) is the best of the best, the crème de la crème, the cookbook we couldn't live without. Collectively, they're the books we turn to time and again, the ones that have changed the way we cook and bake. They're the stuff of legends.

So, to get us all in the Piglet spirit—newcomers and superfans both—I am proud to share your Piglet winners through the famed history of the tournament, so you're all caught up for this year's action. You'll also see some recipes from each winner, so you get a sense of the deliciousness that earned the book its top spot.

Seven Fires: Grilling the Argentine Way by Francis Mallmann & Peter Kaminsky

This book, at its best, will totally change the face of your outdoor cooking game. And at its worst, will teach you how to fire up some really good char-grilled meals, Argentinian-style.

According to judge Gail Simmons: "It was Seven Fires that I kept coming back to. Not only did I learn a great deal about this style of cooking, but I felt a sincere sense of familiarity with the author and his fierce passion for the foods of Argentina. I loved that Mallmann gives a realistic indoor and outdoor option for every dish and a thorough explanation of its significance. And his voice, conveyed by American food writer Peter Kaminsky (who has also co-authored books with Daniel Boulud and Gray Kunz), is commanding and dramatic, imparting a sense of romance that I doubt could be pulled off by an American. Mallmann skillfully captures the vast expanse of his country’s cuisine and leaves me wanting more.

Also, Nora Ephron nearly cut her finger off while making the Potato Dominoes. It was worth it. (Recipe below—caution, or a mandoline hand guard, is advised.)

Good to the Grain: Baking with Whole-Grain Flours by Kim Boyce

If you're gluten-free, or are just interested in learning about alternative whole-grain flours, like amaranth or teff, this book is your baking-sherpa (TBH, wish I had one of those all the time).

Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen, who knows a thing or two about baking, said the book was a "clear winner". "Cookbooks these days seem full of promises: that they will make your life easier, your jeans size smaller, your time in the kitchen shorter and the earth a better place through a blend of fresh/organic/local/free-range ingredients and I am delighted, because these things are important to me, too. But in the end, I am a glutton and if a recipe doesn’t work well and the food does not taste good, I don’t want to eat it. Whole grains or not, the recipes in Good to the Grain will go on repeat in your kitchen, not because they are chock full of ingredients we should have more of in our diets, but because they work, and they are delicious."

If you don't believe Deb, check out the recipes below. Those whole-wheat chocolate chip cookies speak for themselves.

The Art of Living According to Joe Beef: A Cookbook of Sorts by David McMillan, Frédéric Morin, and Meredith Erickson

This book is about inspiration as much as really tasty food. In the debut cookbook from the celebrated Montreal restaurant, Joe Beef, you'll find recipes (though they're anything but standard) for the requisite smoked meats and foie gras. But you'll also find "Kale for a Hangover" and "Carrots With Honey."

Per Dorie Greenspan and her son Josh, "A book like this is rare. The writing is too good to miss, the people in the book are too deeply interesting not to spend time with, and the food is too lusty not to revel in the indulgence. It's not a perfect book—the recipes work, though some of them are a little less polished than the prose used to write them—but it's an exciting book, an inspiration and a bright star for other talented cooks and writers to follow."

There's a little somethin' somethin' for everyone in Joe Beef, and the recipes below reflect that.

A Girl and Her Pig: Recipes and Stories by April Bloomfield

Critically-acclaimed chef April Bloomfield may have written this ode to her pig (clearly welcome in our world), but she celebrates so much more in this book.

Kurt Andersen liked "the way Bloomfield's plainspoken regular-girl voice comes through strong, such as her description of being a blotto English teenager, her "eyes squinty like two piss-holes in the snow." Her dishes are mostly like that as well—simple (what she calls 'rustic') but tasty, vivid, and idiosyncratic, pub food rethought with care and originality. My dinner of Carrot, Avocado and Orange Salad and Sausage-Stuffed Onions was delicious. And hereafter I will cook oatmeal with half water and half milk, and feel unwise for buying (inevitably crappy) tomatoes in winter."

See the famous oatmeal recipe below.

The New Persian Kitchen by Louisa Shafia

For your primer on the Persian cuisine of Iran—traditional recipes and more modern takes—look no further than Louisa Shafia's book.

April Bloomfield (hey, Piglet friend!) sang its praises: "When I’m looking to cook from somewhere other than my own memory, I look for clearly written recipes. I look for easy-to-follow steps. But above all, as a professional chef, I’m drawn to adventurous cookbooks, especially those that are bright and colorful and that draw me in—and away from what I normally make in the kitchen. Those are the types of books I can sit down with and read in just a day. The New Persian Kitchen is one such book—and because of that, it takes the win."

"Bright and colorful" is right! Just look at these following lively-hued dishes.

Brooks Headley's Fancy Desserts: The Recipes of Del Posto's James Beard Award Winning Dessert Maker by Brooks Headley

The brainchild of the former pastry chef of famed N.Y.C. restaurant, Del Posto, some of these kooky, quirky, utterly delicious desserts take a second to make (as well as a bit of imagination, and some special equipment). But the results are well-worth the effort.

Bill Buford raves. "It is humble. It is brave. It is extreme. It is wacky. It is by far and away the best anti-cookbook cookbook I have ever read. I will be reading it again and again. It is genius. Bravo, Brooks Headley!"

The Hot Bread Kitchen Cookbook: Artisanal Baking from Around the World by Jessamyn Waldman Rodriguez

Bread from around the world. Bread from around the world! Plus, the book's recipes come from the amazing multiethnic N.Y.C. bakery with a fantastic mission—to bring together immigrant women-bakers from across the globe.

Yotam Ottolenghi couldn't have better things to say about the book. He remarks on how "many things I wanted to try, to make, to eat at home. At the same time as having a really clear focus—the book is full of recipes from women from all over the world who have come together to work at the bakery in exchange for training and education—it is absolutely rammed with all sorts of other information. We get baking tips and tricks, in page-long instructions and little quick-fire tidbits both; we get baker profiles; we get business advice for those wanting to set up their own company, and snippets on what the author has learned about juggling her career and family life. All of these weave together to give the book such a strong identity; it’s the sort of volume you want to have in both the kitchen and in bed, simply to read for pleasure at night."

I'd like to read the book and snack on the below Persian flatbread in bed, thankyouverymuch.

My Two Souths: Blending the Flavors of India into a Southern Kitchen by Asha Gomez

Asha Gomez's cookbook connects the author's past and present, bringing together the bright flavors of Kerala, in South India, with iconic recipes from the American South.

As Talia Baiocchi puts it, beautifully, "My Two Souths is a compelling invitation into a kitchen that is singular in its perspective and striking in its ability to weave in ingredients like kodampuli and garam masala, but still read, firstly, like a cookbook about American Southern food. It is a testament to the very spirit of this country’s culinary present: American cooking is as much about mining our country’s past and indigenous flavors as it is about a cook like Gomez mining her own."

If the below Kerala Fried Chicken is the country's culinary present, I'm even more excited to learn about its future.

Kachka: A Return to Russian Cooking by Bonnie Frumkin Morales

This book, which has the same name as Bonnie Frumkin Morales' popular Portland restaurant, is a love letter to the cooking of the chef-owner's heritage. It's also so comforting, you'll want it to tuck you into bed.

Carmen Maria Machado praises the book for being part-cookbook, part-memoir, and "an exploration of the space Russian cooking occupies in Morales’ life. I was delighted that the section about infused vodkas ends with a discussion of drinking culture and a list of toasts, and spreads about Russian markets, pantry staples, and sample menus. I admire how the author approaches the thorny nature of the Russian/Soviet Union diaspora; how she tackles the multifaceted identity of her cookbook’s food in relation to a constellation of nations and peoples, cast against the width and breadth of the region’s history. The text is sharp, funny, playful, and informative, and the biographical opening is beautiful—the story of the origins of the cookbook’s name made my nose tingle like I was about to cry."

The soulful, stick-to-your-ribs meals in the book—like in the two recipes that follow—just about make me cry, too.

Made you look! We don't know this one yet, because the upcoming Piglet is going to help us find out. Will it be 2018's "Buzziest Cookbook", or the newest installment from the author of The Baking Bible? Only time will tell.

But I will tell you—now—who's going to help us decide. Without further ado, here, in alphabetical order and definitely not the order of the tournament (you'll have to tune in next week to get that info), are the 15 illustrious judges who will put this year's books to the test:

Umber Ahmad, founder & chef of N.Y.C.'s Mah Ze Dahr Bakery

Dominique Ansel, chef/owner of Dominique Ansel Bakeries

Jenni Avins, Global Lifestyle Correspondent for Quartz

Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist, Hunger & more

Vivian Howard, chef, restaurateur, author & TV personality

Andrew Knowlton, Editor-at-Large of Bon Appétit

Emeril Lagasse, chef, restaurateur, author & TV personality

Padma Lakshmi, host of Bravo's Top Chef & author

Kyle MacLachlan, actor & winemaker of Pursued by Bear wines

Tracee Chimo Pallero, actor on Netflix's Orange is the New Black

James Pomerantz, photo editor for the New York Times & photographer

Antoni Porowski, food & wine expert on Netflix's Queer Eye & author

Matt Sartwell, managing partner of Kitchen Arts & Letters

Emily Weinstein, Deputy Food Editor of the New York Times

Meg Wolitzer, author of The Interestings, The Female Persuasion & more

It's almost Piglet time! What are you most excited about for this year's tournament? Let us know in the comments!

Watch the cookies above in action!

Source: https://food52.com/blog/23857-best-cookbooks-of-the-last-decade-piglet-tournament

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