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[airybcby]

જ⁀✦ I Envy You Now

( isagi yoichi x fem! reader )

✩ a/n — wrote this on a whim and idk if it makes sense :)

✩ word count — 5.3k

✩ content — isagi yoichi x reader, pregant! reader (okay i'll stop with the pregnancy stuff ik yall are tired of it), emotionally distant! isagi, soccers literally devoured him i fear, angst, fluff, isagi still plays with BM, all characters are 18+ (22 in this fic), established relationship, not proofread

✩ synopsis — Soccer has become Isagi Yoichi's number one. You weren't even sure you were a close second anymore.

── .✦ you owe me a debt, you stole him from me.

You always loved airports at night.

Maybe it was the glow of terminal lights against the glass, how everything blurred when rain kissed the windows, how strangers moved in slow choreography—some chasing arrivals, some dragging the weight of goodbyes.

It felt poetic. Like life paused in limbo.

You liked that space between here and there.

The last time you stood at a gate like this, you were eighteen and crying into the fabric of his old high school track jacket.

It still smelled like the detergent his mother used—floral and cheap and comforting.

His hair had been a little too long, curling awkwardly around his ears, and he was so nervous he kept squeezing your hand like he was trying to memorize it.

You’d whispered, “Don’t forget me,” into his collar.

And he’d pulled back just enough to look at you—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, the kind of serious only Yoichi could be.

“I couldn’t if I tried,” he promised. You kissed him like you believed him.

That was the night soccer took him away once again.

And now, four years later, you stood beside him again in another terminal halfway across the world, married, older, quieter.

His hand was no longer in yours.

It hovered beside you, clenched around his phone, thumb tapping mindlessly as the screen replayed the last match. Again and again.

You glanced at the image. You recognized it instantly—his team had lost.

You could tell by the way he blinked slower than usual. The way his jaw clicked every now and then, like he was chewing his own frustration.

You didn’t speak. You’d learned not to on days like this.

When you landed, he didn’t offer to carry your bag. He didn’t even notice you struggled with the heavy zipper as you adjusted the handle.

It wasn’t on purpose. That was the cruelest part.

None of it ever was.

You moved across the world for him. Left your family, your hometown, your college friends. All of it, without regret.

That was your choice.

But loving someone like Yoichi came with unspoken terms.

You’d grown to understand that every time he stepped onto the pitch, he gave a piece of himself away.

The problem was…he never brought all of himself back.

The apartment in Germany was too quiet for a game day.

Muted walls, blinds drawn halfway, city lights bleeding through in dim gold slivers. The couch had a permanent dip on his side now, molded by long nights of post-game reflection.

You always sat on the other end. Close enough to be near him. Far enough not to interrupt.

You cooked anyway. You weren’t sure why anymore.

Maybe because he needed routine. Or maybe because you did. Maybe it was one of the only things you could control.

The timer on the rice cooker dinged softly. You stirred the soup twice clockwise, the way his mom taught you, and poured it into the bowl with a practiced hand.

Your fingers moved on autopilot, mind elsewhere—on the way he hadn’t said a full sentence to you since yesterday, on the two lines that had appeared on the pregnancy test this morning, on the ache in your chest that didn’t seem to go away lately.

You placed the tray on the table. He was already seated, eyes locked on the TV.

He’d changed into his sweatpants and that faded FC Bastard München hoodie—the one you used to steal to sleep in before it stopped smelling like him and started smelling like his stress.

“Dinner,” you said gently, the word slipping out like a question.

He didn’t respond. Not because he was upset. Because he was watching. Studying. Dissecting every angle of his mistake.

You could hear the commentator's voice describing the play in German, but Yoichi didn’t need words. He already knew what he did wrong.

He was reliving it. Frame by frame. Thought by thought.

You sat across from him and ate in silence.

When you were eighteen, he would’ve teased you for using too much soy sauce.

He would’ve touched your ankle under the table.

He would’ve told you his dumb post-match jokes in that awkward way of his, hoping to make you laugh even when he lost.

Now, he barely remembered you were there.

You kept your eyes on your food. The chopsticks shook slightly in your hand. Not from fear. From restraint.

You weren’t afraid of him. Not Yoichi. Never.

But you were afraid of this... version of him.

The one who had slowly, unrelentingly, replaced the boy you loved.

He hadn’t always been like this.

Back in high school, he used to skip his cooldown jog to walk you home.

He carried your books in his soccer bag and bought you taiyaki after every match.

He used to call you at 1 AM just to say, "I can't sleep if I don't hear your voice."

He kissed you like he had time.

Like he didn’t know the world was coming for him, teeth bared, ready to chew him up and spit him back out as a star.

Now, he kissed you in fragments—when he was euphoric from victory or desperate after a loss.

He kissed you like he was trying to remember something he used to be.

There were good days. Of course, there were.

When he scored, when his team won, when the crowd chanted his name and he walked off the field beaming—you saw him again.

The boy you married. He'd hold you in the locker room hallway, sweaty and breathless, whispering, “Did you see that?” like you weren’t watching every second of him with your whole heart.

He'd bury his face in your neck that night, voice cracking as he thanked you for waiting. For believing. For being here.

Those days, you let yourself forget.

But wins were getting fewer now. The game was changing. So was he.

And now, he lost more than he won.

Which meant you lost him more often than not.

He didn’t eat much that night. Just picked at the food while the replay looped again. When it ended, the room went still.

He leaned back and exhaled, frustrated.

“I should’ve passed earlier.”

His voice was hoarse. You could tell he hadn’t spoken in hours.

You nodded, gentle. “Maybe. But you’re still him, you know?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

For the first time all day, you saw him behind his eyes. Your husband.

Not the striker. Not the man the world expected him to be. Just Yoichi.

He reached across the table and took your hand. His touch was warm and grounding.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was apologizing for forgetting how to be tender.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know I haven’t been…”

“You don’t have to say it,” you replied. “I know.”

You did. You always had.

But it still stung to know love didn’t always protect you from being invisible.

Later, when he was asleep beside you, one arm slung across your waist and his head buried against your shoulder, you stared up at the ceiling and pressed a hand to your stomach.

Eight weeks. That tiny baby was already growing.

Already real. Already yours.

And you didn’t know how to tell him.

Because this man—the one who fell asleep still frowning even in his dreams—he wasn’t ready to hear it.

You could wait. You always waited. Through every loss, every silence, every ache.

So maybe you’d wait just a little longer.

Maybe after the next win, you thought. Maybe then you’ll tell him.

The morning of his next match, you woke to the familiar rustle of his pre-game routine.

The clink of his water bottle against the counter.

The zip of his duffel.

The quiet hum of him pacing the living room while reviewing formations in his head. Y

ou lay there in bed, unmoving, listening to him breathe like you used to when you were kids sharing late-night calls and falling asleep mid-conversation.

He always moved differently on game days — like he was already sprinting, even when standing still. Like the world couldn’t keep up with the storm inside him.

You rolled onto your back, your hand automatically brushing over your stomach.

Eight weeks and three days. Still just a secret between you and the slow, turning universe.

You had a plan this time.

If he won, you'd tell him.

You met him at the stadium entrance, as always. He jogged up to the gate, earbuds in, face focused but softer when he saw you.

“Morning,” he said, barely out of breath.

You held out his good luck charm — a braided bracelet you'd made in high school, black and navy.

It was frayed now, but he still tied it to his water bottle every match.

“You forgot,” you said, gently scolding.

His expression flickered—guilt, then affection. “Didn’t forget. Just wanted to see you hold it again.”

He kissed your cheek. Quick. Thoughtless. Rushed.

But it was something.

You watched him walk into the stadium, duffel slung over his shoulder, shoulders squared. You watched until the last trace of him disappeared into the tunnel.

And you whispered to yourself, Please win.

The match wasn’t perfect. But he played with fire in his veins. And this time — this time — it worked.

He scored.

One clean, brilliant strike. Just outside the box. You saw it leave his foot and knew before the net even rippled.

The crowd screamed. His name echoed, thick and powerful, like a storm had broken over the field.

He stood there, fists clenched, head tilted back toward the sky.

And for one beautiful second, he looked like the boy who used to practice free kicks in the park with you after school, sweaty and sunburned and beaming.

He won.

And for once, he smiled like it meant everything.

That night, you cooked again — something heavier. Celebration food.

You even played the playlist he made you once during your first year in Germany, the one with old Japanese love songs and soft instrumental tracks.

You set the table with two candles, flickering gently in the low light. The whole apartment smelled like home — miso and garlic and sweet soy.

When he walked in, it felt like he brought a different kind of energy with him. Lighter. Looser.

“You did it,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. “That goal was—Yoichi, it was beautiful.”

He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, still wearing his team hoodie and sweat-slick hair.

“It felt good,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was happy but didn’t know how to say it.

You crossed the space between you and wrapped your arms around his waist.

And this time, he held you back.

Tight.

He smelled like grass and victory and warmth. You wanted to stay there forever.

He kissed your temple. “Thank you for always being here.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed against his chest.

Now, you told yourself. Tell him now.

You pulled back enough to look at him.

Your hand hovered over your stomach — your body ready to speak even before your mouth could catch up.

“Yoichi,” you whispered. “I have to tell you something.”

His eyes searched yours. The room felt heavy with possibility.

“I—”

But then he moved.

Still smiling, still gentle, but already reaching for his phone.

“Sorry—just real quick. They uploaded the post-match footage already. I wanna review the press angle of the goal.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

He didn’t mean to interrupt. He didn’t realize.

But the look in your eyes dimmed. Your hand dropped back to your side.

You watched him walk over to the couch, already immersed in another game, another analysis, another version of himself.

Dinner was warm. The candles flickered. Your plate was full.

But you ate alone again.

Later that night, he curled around you in bed like nothing had changed.

And maybe it hadn’t.

He whispered something sleepy into your shoulder. “Did good today, right?”

“You did amazing,” you said, lips brushing his knuckles as you held his hand against your stomach. You wanted to say it again — to try.

But he was already asleep.

And your voice caught in your throat like it wasn’t ready to fight the silence a second time.

You didn’t cry. Not really.

You just lay there, eyes open, thinking of how long it had been since he looked at you and really saw you. Not as someone who supported him. Not as his anchor or his comfort.

But as his person.

The girl he fell in love with in the empty gym after school.

The one he used to text poetry to, shy and anonymous.

The one he swore he’d never forget.

You turned your head and whispered into the dark, “I miss you.”

Yoichi stirred slightly, tightening his hold around your waist.

But he didn’t wake.

There was something strange about the days before a game.

He always moved through them like a shadow — present, but only in shape. You would speak to him in the morning and realize hours later he never answered.

You’d make dinner, and he’d eat on autopilot.

You’d sit beside him on the couch, trying to rest your head against his shoulder, only for him to lean forward and scroll through clips on his phone instead.

It wasn’t unkind. Just…empty.

And you were getting used to being second to the game. You’d started counting things in silences — like the number of days it had been since he asked you how you were.

Or the number of times you’d caught him glancing at his phone during your conversations.

You weren’t bitter. Just tired.

Pregnancy had been a lonely experience so far.

The quiet kind of lonely, where even though you lived in the same apartment and shared the same bed, it felt like you were always reaching for someone just a few steps ahead.

You wanted to believe he’d be excited. That maybe if you could just get the timing right, he’d stop the world long enough to really hear you.

So you waited again.

One more game.

He played poorly. You saw it from the first fifteen minutes.

His body was off. His passes weren’t connecting. He was late to the press. You could see it in his face — every step weighed down with frustration.

Every mistake making him spiral tighter into himself.

And then they lost.

Badly.

You watched the scoreboard blink red.

You watched him walk off the field with his head down, ignoring his teammates, jaw locked tight.

The post-game press didn’t call for him. He was too keyed up to speak clearly anyway.

You knew he’d just want to go home.

So that’s what you did.

The silence in the car was unbearable.

You sat beside him, hands clasped over your stomach, while he gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him together.

The streetlights passed over his face in quick intervals — light, shadow, light — but he didn’t say a word.

Not even a sigh.

When you reached your building, he parked and got out without waiting for you.

Didn’t open the door. Didn’t glance back.

Just went ahead and disappeared into the elevator.

You followed him upstairs with a quiet, mounting ache in your chest.

He didn’t take off his shoes when he came in. He dropped his duffel at the door and headed straight to the living room.

The TV was already on. The game was queued up.

You stood in the hallway, watching him fast forward to the 42nd minute.

You hadn’t even taken off your coat.

“Yoichi,” you said softly, stepping forward. “Hey, can we just—”

“Leave me alone.”

It was sharp. Immediate. Not yelled, not cruel — but final.

You froze.

Something in you broke.

“God,” you whispered, voice suddenly rising, chest aching. “If you can’t take the losses, why don’t you quit, huh?”

He turned to look at you for the first time all evening — stunned.

Caught off guard.

You didn’t stop.

“Do you think I like walking on eggshells every time your team loses? Do you think I enjoy watching you become a stranger after every mistake?”

His eyes narrowed, the same look he got when someone fouled him hard and the ref didn’t call it.

You kept going.

“You don’t talk. You don’t touch me. You come home and shut me out like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one who missed the pass—”

“I need to focus—”

“I need you,” you snapped.

And then it came.

The words spilled out before you could stop them.

“If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

He just stared at you.

And you stared back.

No rewind button. No replay. No edits.

You felt your throat go dry. Your eyes stung. But you didn’t cry.

Not this time.

He sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, as if the strength left his body all at once.

“...What did you say?”

You didn’t move.

“I’m pregnant,” you said, the words solid, heavy, trembling. “Ten weeks.”

Still, he said nothing.

You stepped forward, voice lower now. Sadder.

“I wanted to tell you. I kept waiting for the right moment. After a win. After a smile. After something that felt like… you were still in this with me.”

His hands dropped to his lap. Fingers clenched together. His breathing was uneven.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered. “I didn’t want the first time you heard it to be in the middle of a fight.”

He looked up slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you just tell me sooner?”

You shook your head. “Because you’ve been gone. You come home every night, but you’re still gone. I thought if I waited long enough, maybe you’d come back.”

That night, you slept in the spare room. Not because he told you to. Not because he raised his voice.

But because when he finally stood and walked past you, heading for the bathroom, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a single word.

You sat on the edge of the bed in the cold dark, your hands on your belly, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” even though you didn’t know who it was meant for.

You were so tired of being the one who waited.

The next morning.

You woke up to the sound of the front door closing.

He was already gone.

No note. No text. No promise to come back.

Just you and the sound of the heating kicking on. The silence stretched long, unforgiving, across the whole apartment.

You didn’t eat breakfast.

You just sat at the table, turning your wedding ring around your finger, wondering if he’d even worn his today.

You remembered the first time he told you he loved you.

It was after a loss.

He missed the penalty that would’ve sent them to nationals. He was quiet, more than usual.

Everyone else had gone home, but you stayed, pacing the field alone until you found him sitting against the fence, knees to his chest.

You sat beside him without saying a word. Let the silence hold you both.

After a long pause, he said, “I’m not good enough.”

You shook your head. “Not true.”

He turned, eyes glossy, voice raw. “But you still love me anyway?”

You smiled through the ache. “Yeah. I always will.”

He kissed you, trembling, teeth knocking against yours. And he said, “Then I think I’m gonna be okay.”

You looked down at your stomach now.

Ten weeks. And counting.

You wanted that boy back. The one who found hope in your love.

But right now… you didn’t know if he remembered how.

The silence in the apartment was almost reverent, like even the walls were mourning the words that had been said.

You hadn’t meant to say them—not like that.

Not in a scream, not with your hands trembling at your sides and your throat burning from the effort it took to say what had lived at the back of your heart for weeks now.

But Isagi hadn’t even flinched when you said it.

He just stood there in the living room after the match—shoulders slumped, hair still damp from the shower, his duffel bag half-unzipped at his feet—and said nothing.

He didn't fight back. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t cry.

He just said, “I said leave me alone.”

And so you did.

You packed a bag the next day.

You couldn’t even remember what you brought with you, only that the quiet of the hallway outside your front door felt louder than anything he’d said in the past two weeks.

You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t text him after. There wasn’t a dramatic exit. Just silence.

You stayed with a friend the first night.

Then two.

Then it was five.

No messages from him.

Not even a read receipt.

And you hated how your phone still lit up in your hand every time the screen buzzed—even if it was just your bank or a weather alert.

You hated the way your chest clenched when you saw a soccer related headline in your feed, and even more the way your eyes scanned every photo, every blurry zoom-in shot of the match, hoping for a glimpse of his face.

You saw him on a sports interview two days later. He looked tired. His smile was forced.

When the reporter asked about the loss, his jaw twitched.

They asked him if anything had changed in his routine.

He said no.

Isagi didn’t change anything in the apartment.

Your slippers still sat by the door, your toothbrush was still tucked beside his, your half-read book was still on the nightstand, your cardigan still draped over the kitchen chair. He didn’t move any of it.

But he didn’t touch it either.

He walked around your presence like it was a ghost—afraid to disturb it, and too stubborn to let himself miss you.

He didn’t sleep well.

The bed was too cold. Too quiet.

His dreams always hovered on the edge of something—your voice, your warmth, the way you used to curl into his side with a sigh that made the world feel small and safe.

Now it all felt vast and hollow.

And that night—three days after you left—he stood in the doorway of what would’ve been the baby’s room.

The same one you painted together.

The same one where you’d sat on the floor with catalogues, talking names and middle names and whose nose you hoped they’d inherit.

He stared at the room in silence, eyes glassy.

Then he shut the door.

Meanwhile, You…

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when you said it.

The line that echoed, again and again.

"If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?"

You didn’t even cry that first night away from him. You just laid in bed, your friend asleep in the other room, and stared at the ceiling with guilt blooming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

Because you didn’t mean it like that.

You weren’t trying to say he wouldn’t be a good father.

You were trying to say—he couldn’t shut down. Not with you. Not with a child.

You wanted him to fight for more than just the game.

You wanted him to fight for you.

Day Five

It was raining.

Of course it was raining.

You’d left work late, shoes soaked from stepping in a deep puddle, and your umbrella had snapped back in the wind, rendering it useless.

The walk home was wet and cold and miserable—and when you finally reached the door to the apartment you weren’t even staying in, you saw him.

Isagi.

Sitting on the steps like a drenched ghost.

Hood pulled over his head. Face downcast. Knees to his chest.

You froze under the awning, staring at him.

He didn’t look up right away. Not until you stepped closer and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

He slowly raised his head.

His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. He looked exhausted.

“…I didn’t know where else to go.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

The rain dripped from his sleeves. His fingers twitched once, like he wanted to reach for you, but wasn’t sure if he should.

“Yoichi,” you breathed, “you shouldn’t be out here. You’re soaked—”

“I deserve it.”

It came out rough. Hoarse.

And then finally—his voice cracked.

“I deserved every word you said.”

You didn’t speak.

He wiped at his face with his sleeve like it could undo the past week. “I didn’t know how to handle it. The loss. The pressure. I—I kept thinking if I could just make it work, if I could just keep winning, I could fix everything. I thought I could carry it all. I thought I had to.”

You took a step closer.

He looked up at you like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” he said, his voice barely above the rain. “I didn’t mean to make you feel alone. I was scared. And I took it out on you.”

Your throat closed up.

“I still want this,” he whispered. “You. Our family. I want it so badly it hurts.”

Silence fell again.

And then, softly—

“I don’t know how to be a dad yet. But I want to learn.”

You knelt beside him, rain soaking into your jeans, and reached out to cup his face in your hands.

His skin was cold, wet from more than just the storm.

He leaned into your touch like it was the first warmth he’d felt in days.

“You could’ve just said you were scared,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be perfect, Yoichi. You just have to be here.”

“I’m here,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m here now.”

And for the first time in days, you believed him.

The apartment was quiet again, but not the kind of silence that crushed your chest the way it had before.

Not like the nights he’d shut himself in the spare room, not like when you'd lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if love was enough to weather a storm like him.

This time, it was peaceful.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, the soft echo of your baby’s heartbeat still thudding in your ears from the appointment earlier.

You’d gone alone to many of the appointments. Been so used to being alone.

Except this time…he showed up.

Isagi Yoichi had missed three matches. The news had said “minor injury,” but everyone knew he’d played through worse.

A sprain, a sore knee, even a bruised rib once.

He never let it sideline him.

But this time—he chose to sit out.

He walked into that exam room timidly, like a guest in a stranger’s house, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie.

His eyes flicked nervously from the walls to the monitor to you. Then to your belly. Then away.

You hadn’t spoken much since the fight.

Just a few words here and there.

Texts about groceries. A quiet nod in passing.

You weren’t sure what it meant—if he was retreating again or simply trying not to mess it up more than he already had.

The doctor greeted you both kindly.

She placed the gel on your stomach with gloved fingers and angled the wand over the curve of your belly.

You flinched slightly at the cold, but your eyes remained on the screen.

And then, there it was.

A grainy silhouette, a heartbeat strong and steady, fluttering across the screen like a drum.

Isagi froze beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, his gaze fixated on the monitor, his lips parted like he was trying to speak but couldn’t quite breathe.

His hand slowly, slowly reached out and wrapped around your wrist, holding on as if anchoring himself.

“…That’s… ours?” His voice broke. Completely cracked down the middle.

The doctor smiled kindly. “That’s your baby, Mr. Isagi. Looks healthy.”

“Do we… do we know—?”

“No sir, not for another few weeks,” she chuckled gently. “But everything’s progressing right on schedule.”

Isagi didn’t respond. His hand tightened around your wrist just slightly, his shoulders shaking.

And then—he cried.

You’d seen him angry. You’d seen him gutted from losses, curled over himself with rage and shame.

But you had never seen this.

Not tears of failure.

Not tears of frustration.

These were quiet.

These were soft, genuine tears falling down his face as he watched the smallest proof that he still had time to be someone good.

To be someone better. To be a father.

When you left the clinic, he insisted on holding the ultrasound photo, cradling it with a strange reverence you hadn’t seen in months.

He even smiled—just a little—while walking with you to the car.

That was when the flash went off.

The moment the light burst across your face, your gut dropped. Then came the sound of snapping shutters.

At least five photographers, you guessed, hiding behind parked cars.

"Isagi! Isagi! Is it true you’re going to be a father?!"

"Who's she to you? Is this your wife?!"

You turned your face away on instinct, but Isagi didn’t flinch. He didn’t shove past or let you walk alone.

Instead, he looked at you with this sort of soft question in his eyes—asking permission—and when you didn’t say no, he leaned in and kissed you. Right there on the sidewalk.

His hand around your waist, the ultrasound photo held up beside your joined faces.

And twenty minutes later, the internet exploded.

Rumors. Speculation. Headlines.

Your inbox filled up with friends asking if it was true, if you were really having a baby, if he really walked away from three games just to be with you.

He didn't wait to control the narrative.

Instead, he posted the picture himself.

📸 @ isagi_yoichi

the rumors are true.

The comments poured in instantly.

Some were cruel, but most were warm. Supportive. Overwhelming, even.

You saw your name trending, saw pictures of you from high school being shared and reposted.

You didn’t expect the news to spread like this. But strangely—you weren’t afraid.

Because for once, he wasn’t hiding.

Later that night, you sat at the kitchen table together in that same apartment where it had all started—the laughter, the fights, the cold walls and broken promises.

He reached across the table and held your hand.

“I know I hurt you,” he said softly. “I’ve been hurting you for a long time.”

You swallowed, your fingers lacing with his slowly.

“I thought I had to be perfect. Or else I’d lose everything. But I ended up pushing you away every time I failed… I was trying to protect you from the worst parts of me.”

“But Yoichi… I didn’t need perfect,” you said. “I just needed you to stay.”

He nodded, eyes glossy but steady. “I’m going to leave it all on the field from now on. My anger, my frustration, my self-hate. I won’t bring that home to you anymore. I won’t punish you because I couldn’t win.”

You squeezed his hand. “You’re not just a player. You’re going to be a dad.”

His eyes softened. “I want to be the kind of father they’ll be proud of. And I want to be a partner you can count on.”

He paused, then added, “I talked to my coach. I told him I’m not playing unless I’m ready. Not just physically, but here too.” He pointed to his head, then his chest. “I need to be whole—for all of us.”

The weeks that followed weren’t perfect. But they were better.

You cooked dinner together again. He came to every appointment. He fell asleep once with your head on his chest and his hand resting on your stomach, murmuring promises into the dark.

When he returned to the field, he scored—but didn’t watch the replays.

He walked straight past the film room and into the car where you waited for him, and drove home humming to the playlist you'd made together long ago.

The storm hadn’t passed completely. There were still bad nights, off days, hard conversations.

But he was trying.

And you were trying.

And that, more than anything, was enough.

જ⁀✦ ©airybcby ✩ masterlists

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[dilucs-princess]

@ficsforgaza 's kinktober!

Pairing: Nagi Seishiro x reader

Kink: facesitting

Warnings: Sub!Nagi, fem anatomy, hairpulling. Lmk if there's more.

Words: 1,199

Reblogs > likes

Edited and beta read by: @sunset-snowfall

Nagi Seishiro was a boring man. Anyone who knew Nagi knew that, anyone who knew you knew that. And yet somehow, you had no problems with his laziness.

If Reo wasn't around, he would ask you to carry him, to feed him, to bathe him. All in all, you didn't mind, you quite enjoyed it! He looked so cute when he just opened his mouth and whined that chewing was such a hassle, and he would prefer to just live without eating at all.

You just shook your head and let him talk. He was content with laying his head on your chest and playing games until he fell asleep.

--

Nagi Seishiro was a boring man, even when it came to your 'bedtime activities'.

He would sit on the end of the bed, soft whines and whimpers as you sucked and deepthroated his cock, his gaze still trained on his phone.

Nagi would lie still, his hands on your hips as you bounced up and down on his dick, his eyes rolling back with pleasure he couldn't comprehend.

You didn't mind putting in the effort, you like seeing him fall apart beneath your skillful hands, watching him tremble as he whispers out 'cum- I'm cumming!' You did! You just wished he would put in some effort from time to time.

But Nagi Seishiro was a lazy man. You didn't think that would happen unless you ensured it.

--

"Sei? Baby, I'm home!" You called out, looking around for your lazy sloth of a boyfriend. Your face softened when you saw him asleep on the couch. He was curled up in a little ball, you couldn't wake him up.

"Alright," you murmured, placing your bag down on the kitchen counter before deciding to start dinner. He would be awake in a few hours, he could always warm it up.

You hummed lightly, chopping vegetables and setting the cooker on, stopping every now and again to check on your sleeping boyfriend. He was adorable. Curled up in a little ball, thumb resting between his lips, his other hand gripping his phone as though his life depended on it.

You could only shake your head and drape a blanket over him, going back to the kitchen when you heard the timer go off.

Just as you were serving up the rice, two large arms encircled your waist, a face burying into the side of your neck. You just smiled, a soft "good morning, baby.." leaving your lips before turning around. Nagi just smiled, leaning over to kiss your lips gently. "Mornin'..." he mumbled sleepily.

He was awake. You could enact your plan tonight. But first..

"Dinner?"

--

Dinner was done quickly and the washing up forgotten as you pinned Nagi against the kitchen counter, aggressively pressing kisses to his neck and lips. He was surprised, his hands finding your hips as he tilted his head back.

Frenzied hands and kisses travelled across bodies, moans and whines between lips and begs and pleads were whispered in ears before you finally pulled away from your addicting boyfriend. 

"Upstairs?" You asked and he nodded quickly, but you had to take a moment to adore his face. His cheeks and ears were flushed pink, his chest rising and falling rapidly with drool peeking out from the corner of his lips. His eyes were half shut and eyebrows knitted together. You couldn't help when your eyes travelled lower to the very noticeable bulge in your boyfriend's underwear. But tonight was about you.

You took his hands as you led him upstairs, excitement fuelling you. He allowed you to take the lead, a soft look on his face that stayed, even as you shoved him on the bed. "Lie down," you instructed, and he complied with no argument.

You just chuckled as you watched his hands twitch, you knew how desperately he wanted to touch you but you were too far away and his position wouldn't allow it; you could only laugh. His hips bucked ever so slightly into nothing and you shook his head. He was just like a virgin.

You made a show of undressing yourself, throwing your shirt on the floor and unclasping your bra, squeezing your breasts together as Nagi whimpered. You laughed, stepping out of your jeans, bending down to show off your ass before pulling your panties off too.

Nagi whined from the bed, such a good boy for not moving. "Baby.. please, you look so pretty.. I'll do anything, fuck, please-" he begged, a hand reached out and you tutted, slapping his hand away gently.

"You know, Seishiro... I'm always the one sucking your cock, or riding you, not once do you ever really take part," you said in mock disappointment, tapping your chin. "So, tonight. I'm going to sit on your face and you better eat me out like your life fucking depends on it. And it does. I'm not getting off until you make me cum, you get it?" You hissed, tugging on his hair and he nodded, eyes wide in shock, breaths heavy.

Nagi's eyes never left your body, his tongue lolling out as soon as you hovered above his face. His body jolted as soon as you sat down, pussy on his tongue.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as his mouth got to work immediately. His tongue circled around your hole before he pushed the tip in teasingly, nose brushing against your clit as he did. 

You threw your head back, grinding your hips down on his tongue, laughing at his small gulps and gasps. Your hands found his hair and tugged at it, grinning at his muffled whines and moans against your cunt.

"Fuck, Seishiro... who thought you'd be this good, huh?" You murmured with a soft laugh, gritting your teeth as you held his head in place, forcing him to suckle and lick desperately at your clit. Your knees were shaking and you allowed your moans and a string of curses to leave you. 

Nagi was having the best time. His eyes were shut tight as he held your hips, eating you out like you were the last meal on earth. Having you sit on his face made him so happy, he could see exactly how he was making you feel, and could feel it all too.

Like how your knees closed around his face when you were close.

Your eyes widened and hands tightened in his hair once again. "Don't you dare fucking stop.." you groaned, desperately moving your hips against his face, insistent on forcing him to pay attention to your swollen clit as you pulled aggressively at his locks.

Nagi's whines and cries were lost as you came, forcing him to take the juices that came gushing out from your pussy. You called out his name with a whimper, your body trembling as he continued to suckle on your clit until you moved away from sensitivity.

You both just stared at each other before you laughed. "That was amazing... we have to do that again." Before he could answer, you continued. "Your turn now.." your hand moved across his chest and he shook his head with a whimper.

"Already came…”

[kxsagi]

hello! I know I’m asking this on ur glorious main character goatsagi’s bday but w the recent manga leaks (IF U HAVENT READ THEM YET PLS STOP HERE) I have a request (SPOILERS BELOW)

Could you write abt Househusband!Nagi like in an AU where bro doesn’t become a pro footballer after his Blue Lock elimination 😞 and what you think he would be like? For example: he’s unhelpful post u guys moving in together until reader lwk crashes out from the strain of carrying their household on their back (poor reader) and then nagi locks in 😈 and they r happy!! Or they aren’t I feed off of angst so either is ok 😊

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝! 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢”

a/n: this request is exposing how behind i am on requests 💀 BUT MY GLORIOUS GOATSAGI LMAOSJKSGJS

i’m all caught up to the manga so don’t worry! can’t spoil me 😼

i decided to not write angst for this one because nagi deserves to be happy after all the “burger king” jokes 

(i wish i knew art credits bc the art is so cute ☹️)

at first, living with house husband! nagi is like adopting a really pretty cat who doesn’t know what a vacuum is and keeps eating your leftovers. not out of malice, he just… forgets. or assumes you won’t mind. 

you do mind. 

"sei, did you wash the dishes?" 

"huh? no, i thought you were gonna do it after your class." 

cue the twitch in your eye. 

he’s not mean or messy. actually, house husband! nagi’s pretty neat. he wipes down the counters after he makes instant ramen and always folds his socks into perfect pairs. but helpful? not exactly. not unless you're standing there, giving him a step-by-step tutorial on how to do it. 

you didn’t expect it to be this hard. being the one who works, cooks, cleans, keeps track of bills, makes the appointments. he lounges around in oversized hoodies and his soft, soft hair, watching you buzz around the apartment like a stressed-out bee. 

and you love him, you really do, but love doesn’t clean the bathroom. 

so it happens. you burn out. 

it starts with you skipping breakfast. then forgetting to charge your phone. then breaking down in the laundry room because the dryer ate one of your socks and you’ve been on your feet for 12 hours and there’s no more clean towels. 

you come home and just. crash. 

no fanfare. no dramatic monologue. you face-plant into bed and sleep through dinner, still in your shoes. 

when you wake up, everything’s… quiet. 

no game noises. no crumbs on the floor. you blink blearily and shuffle into the kitchen, expecting chaos. 

instead, there’s house husband! nagi. hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a pot like he’s reenacting a cooking show tutorial. 

you just stare. 

"oh. you're up," he says, looking over his shoulder. there’s an apron tied crookedly around his waist. you don’t even own that apron. where did it come from? 

“did you… did you cook?” 

"mhm. made curry. didn’t know how spicy you liked it, so i made it mild and left the chili flakes on the side." 

you blink again. 

he glances at you, then at the floor. “also cleaned. and made a list of stuff we need. you look tired, so… i figured.” 

turns out, house husband! nagi just needed a wake-up call. he doesn’t like seeing you worn down. he doesn’t like knowing he was part of the reason. 

after that day, it’s like he flips a switch. he’s still the same laid-back, sleepy house husband! nagi, but now he folds your laundry with yours on top so you don’t have to bend down. he sets timers for the rice cooker and writes "don't forget lunch ♡" on post-its he sticks to your keys. he learns your favorite shampoo and stocks it before you run out. 

he even starts meal-prepping. you catch him slicing vegetables with alarming precision while watching cooking videos on 2x speed. when you ask him if he’s okay, he shrugs. 

“it’s kinda like a puzzle game,” he says, sticking a cut carrot slice to your forehead. 

he still doesn’t like vacuuming, but he does it anyway. with noise-canceling headphones and a sour face. 

"i miss football sometimes," he admits one night, curled into your side on the couch. "but this isn't bad, y'know? taking care of you. feels like i'm good at something again." 

your fingers slide through his hair. "you’re amazing at it." 

he hums, sleepy, a little smug. “yeah? then let me spoil you, okay? house husband! nagi’s locked in.” 

and you let him. because for all the lazy afternoons and pajama days and burnt toast attempts, he really is locked in. 

and the two of you? you’re happy. 

finally. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[gurggggleburgle]

The most believable reason for why shizun can't so much as make rice is not just being a rich baby boy who never needed to cook but because that's a wood stove, there is no timer, and how many logs is a deep subject that he boils down to Yes?

The fish sauce is not in a plastic bottle, the spices are not labeled, there is no metal tin full of tea leaves. The recipes do not have measurements that make, and wtf is a cup of rice in this world? Is he really supposed to just eyeball it??!! TV dramas just skip to the chopping vegetables and eating food bit there are too many logistics here. I give up!

Anyway what I'm saying is that Luo Binghe should be confused by rice cookers. Man should deeply question what the point of rice cookers, insta pots, and all this modern shit is. Like are you telling me in the future people can't make rice without a machine? You can't just watch a pot? What even is sous vide? It sounds like bullshit. Why own this crap? Wtf is going on with cheese and are white people ok? Why is European wine like that? I'm all for preground anise but this is nonsense. Like a knob to control heat is cool but how do you get smoke???? There's no flame on this bullshit electric stove. I'm being bullied

[asidian]

Set breakdown time! Next up: Niko's room.

As before, I've circled the points of interest and numbered them to make them easier to talk about. Cool? Cool. Let's do this!

1: Niko's mom's name! This part is her and Niko's surname. The kanji are 佐々木.

佐 – sa, meaning help or aid

々 – an iteration mark. When you see this, basically it means "exactly what the last one said, one more time." So another sa meaning help or aid

木 – ki, meaning tree

It's really neat that they picked a last name for her that doubles down on her role in the narrative. Just like Niko is there to support and help other characters in whatever way they seem to need, her surname hammers it home by including 佐 not once but twice.

2: Riza (リザ) Niko's mother's given name. Somewhat odd here is that it's written in katakana and not kanji. Without getting sidetracked too much (you can pop over here to read more if you're interested) most Japanese people write their names in kanji.

Katakana seems like a bit of a strange choice here, unless a) Niko for some reason doesn't know the kanji for her own mother's name (weird, given that she's in high school) b) her mother is a foreigner (a possibility; foreigners usually write their names in katakana) c) the set designer/whoever prepped the letters didn't know the appropriate kanji for "Riza" (seems unlikely, given how accurate all the rest of this is) or d) some sort of personal habit. An interesting side note is that her letter to Niko also puts Niko's name in katakana.

3: Cutesy stationery, used for marking your place in a document or book

4: A cute blue purse!

5: Watermelon! Judging by the shiny material and placement near the other bag, I'm going to guess this is another purse

6: Niko's clothes :>

7: Pink luggage

8: Lots of instant noodles

9: A rice cooker

10: Rice vinegar

11: This girl LOVES her some plants

12: Probably food items…? The one on the right looks like it might be a five-pound bag of rice, but I don't recognize the brand

13: Lots of unwashed dishes

14: A toaster oven

15: Chopsticks

16: A cute octopus pillow. I think I saw someone mention that it's from Ikea :>

17: She often leaves dirty dishes sitting on the bedside table

18: A painting of what seems to be a skyscape

19: Brightly colored pillows

20: Metal art in the shape of a moon

21: A decorative window hanging

22: More plants :)

23: Candles

24: Her tv

25: Cute pens with pompoms on the end

26: Regular tape

27: A cute cat statue

28: Marble Pop Ramune, strawberry flavor. Ramune is a type of soda that's a popular festival drink in Japan. It's sealed with a  glass marble and you have to pop the marble down into the little catch basin before you can drink it.

29: Anime wall décor

30: Fruit jelly cups. In Japan, small gelatin based snacks like this are popular. They're tiny, about an inch tall, and you eat them in just one or two bites.

31: Niko's laptop. She has stickers on it

32: Washi tape! It's decorative Japanese tape, often with bright colors and patterns, used for crafting.

33: A lot of cute magnets, including the bunny one, which serves double-duty as a kitchen timer

34: Niko's grocery list. The only thing on here that's here because she wants it is strawberry ice cream. The rest of the items, licorice tea, manuka honey, and Epsom salts, are all natural remedies. She's been trouble-shooting how to get rid of the effects of the sprites. She knows she's sick, but not why

35: Cutesy craft supplies! Sequins, glitter, and pompoms

36: More washi tape!

37: Niko's manga collection. She is that particular brand of organizational mess that does not put her numbered volumes in order. She has made an exception for the series that makes a complete picture when you line them up, though

38: More plants :)

39: Manga posters! Issho is one of the series that she has on her shelf

40: A decorative jar

41: Little metal bird sculptures

42: What seems to be the only framed picture in her room. The angle is wrong to see what the photo is, but it's interesting that they added just one in here. Maybe it's her family…?

[blindbeta]

So, I've been writing a blind character who cooks. So far, I've written him as being someone who relies a lot on routine and habit, who navigates the kitchen by touch and by memory. He's a bit rigid, and insists on using his own tools, which are color coded (he can see them up close with what residual vision he has) and marked with braille, but I was wondering what other tools a blind person might use when cooking.

A Bunch of Stuff For Blind People Who Want to Cook

I don’t know where and when your story takes place, so what is used might change depending on the character. Here are some options to get you started. There are many tools and techniques devoted to making cooking easier. I don’t know as much about the subject, so I’ll do my best. Please add any other ideas in the notes.

First, the creator @canseecantsee on YouTube and TikTok is an excellent resource. She has lots of videos showcasing how she cooks and does various daily tasks. She demonstrates the use of many tools, such as heat resistant gloves and high contrast items. Here is a video in which she demonstrates chopping vegetables.

Notice the high contrast items such as the yellow chopping board and purple knife. In the video, she demonstrates use of the towel or a place mat beneath the cutting board to prevent slipping. As she cuts a cucumber, tomatoes, and onions, she also uses a technique that allows her to feel the edge of the item so that she knows where she wants to cut and how thick the slices will be.

Here is a video by TheBlindLife showcasing his accessible kitchen. He has excellent points on the importance of contrast, from color contrast to shape contrast. The video includes

bump dots

labels

high contrast colors of tools

high contrast plates and bowls

talking scale and thermometer

heat resistant gloves

and alternatives for glass cups

High contrast is important and can be created by being mindful of the kind of countertops or tables used. For example, in the video, there is a triangular plate that is decorated like a pizza slice. Eating on this plate might cause food to get lost visually, especially food that has the same colors as the plate. Much like the plate, counters or tablecloths with busy patterns might cause items to be harder to see due to lack of contrast. Plain counters, tables, or tablecloths make items stand out more.

Additionally, creating contrast between surfaces and the items on them is helpful. The table is a dark wood? Light plates, bowls, and cups it is. The counter is plain white? The plates and bowls are a dark color.

For glass cups, the video offers solid, colorful plastic cups that offer better contrast. The fact that glasses are clear makes them even more of a challenge and colorful plastic alleviates that concern. However, if someone wants to use glass cups, they can use some that are either made with colorful glass or have color somewhere on them. This might help depending on the contrast and lighting.

In addition to memory, your character can also use labels and various markers. Sharpie, different colors and shapes, textural elements like bump dots, actual Braille or large print labels, tape, stickers, string, or ribbon. Label makers are great, but plenty of other options exist, particularly considering the aesthetic the kitchen has. He may also enjoy decorating this way since he has residual vision. Ribbons tied around containers of sugar, salt, and flour can be cute and functional.

A few other ideas after searching cooking stuff:

talking items, such as a blender, rice cooker, or microwave oven

marking speed on electric mixers or other devices

talking, high contrast, or large print timers

funnel or liquid level indicator

Braille or large print labeled measuring cups

individual bowls for portions, such as soup, rice, sauces, proteins, etc. Different shapes, sizes, or color could also indicate what food item typically goes in what bowl.

You can also come up with other ideas by thinking about what your character would use and how that might be done more easily. While I prefer characters use blindness techniques and assistive devices, people also naturally make things easier for themselves through organization and creating their own labels. A person who cooks might also be able to distinguish certain ingredients by smell or texture.

Another tip I have is to watch blind content creators on social media. Chances are, some of them show themselves cooking or discuss how they do it.

Lighting is also going to be a big deal. The kitchen will need good lighting, both overhead and under cabinets. Natural lighting is also great, although this is not as reliable or constant.

What he uses might also depend on various factors such as income; how often a character cooks; amount of available space; time period and setting; cultural practices around cooking, eating, and utensils used; access to the blind community; willingness to use assistive devices for blind people; any internalized ableism or ableism from family; and level of vision.

Hope that helps.

[bitchfitch]

After years and years of having a schedule that was more a halfhearted shrug than a neat itinerary, there was a certain peace to finally having a dinner time routine.

Rice in the cooker, wild game cuts in the oven with whatever vegetables hadn't gone off since his last trip into town. The timer set for ten minutes longer than the meal ever actually needed. His stomach couldn't handle meat still pink with a memory of life anymore.

While it cooked he'd place a tarp before the back door. The blue plastic wrinkled along the lines by which he always found it folded.

Then he'd step out into the cool evening to where his freshest trophy would be hanging just beyond the edge of the creaky porch. It a was a deer today, it's back hooves tied to the rafter so it's blood could drain from the dainty gash across it's throat. This wasn't a necessity, it just lessened the mess he would eventually have to deal with.

He untied it, and carried it to rest it in the center of the tarp before pulling the corners up to encase it in crinkly darkness. The bright green climbing rope being used to bind the package closed while he made a note to himself to dig out the hank of rope again so he could cut a new, less gnawed on, piece for tomorrow's meal time.

He could hear the thing coming up the staircase from the basement. Stairs were difficult for it, always had to crawl up them on its hands and knees. Stopping every few steps to gather itself against vertigo.

"What's cooking?" it called in a chipper voice, its bruise darkened fingers scrabling at the lower edge of the door. Its cracked nails adding to the deep gouges in the old wood. "What's cooking?" it repeated like a scratched record. Its clawing growing more frenzied as it got more and more excited at the prospect of meal time.

"Deer." he responded, dragging the bundle to the locked door.

"Einer!" it said, its voice being stolen from a long gone day at the lake, "Home," it whined with defeat borrowed from a day it never saw, then a garbled growl as it's limited repertoire of echos ran up against a concept it didn't have the words to express.

"You know that's not how it works," Einer sighs with some glimmer of fondness. "Who am I?"

"Einer!" a perfect echo of what it had said before.

"Where are we?"

"Home."

"Who are you?"

The growl came on its cue, exactly as it had every miserable day since Einer managed to trap it and establish this little test of whether or not it might be able to be reasoned with today.

"Good, good. To your spot please."

It scrambled back down the stairs, heavy thunks sounding as its excited crawling turned into more of a controlled series of falls.

Then a loud metallic racket bounded forth from the vent slats in the floor as it slapped at the ancient pipe that connected the furnace to the rest of the cabin's mostly defunct air ducts. Their way of signaling when it was well and clear away from the stairs where it might damn them both by attacking its caretaker.

He undid the bolts on the door quickly yanking it open before kicking the plastic wrapped deer down the stairs and slamming the door shut again. The unspoken race between them commencing as he rushed to get the bolts and locks latched once more before it could get up the stairs in an opportunity fueled bout of blood frenzy.

Einer won today. He's won every day so far.

Its fingers appear under the edge of the door again, its breath ragged and sounding wet with too much spit as it uselessly dug into the steel toe of his boot.

"You know where your dinner is," he took a step and waited to see if he'd be granted one moment of clarity as it came down from it's frenzy.

It churred, a soft animal sound he didn't think something so human looking should be able to make. Its fingers stilled, then disappeared back into the darkness beyond the door before returning. Its hand palm side up this time.

He was quick to crouch, carefully curling his fingers against it's. Its skin porcelain, smooth and cold against the callouses he had earned in his time caring for it.

"Einer," it said, this echo being taken from a gentle memory of two lovers in their wedding bed, before its touch disappeared and it began its clumzy trek back down the stairs.

He always stayed knelt there a little too long, wondering if it knew he lingered there. If it cared. Before standing and checking to see if his meal was over done to his liking.

[demonslayedher]

The "Umai" Bentou: Gyunabe

A very special edition of Kimetsu Kitchen, recreating the most iconic meal of Kimetsu no Yaiba, one fit to power a Hashira through a night of battle! Good enough to be one's last meal!

As a quick forward, the first official fanbook makes it official that what Rengoku was eating on the train was a gyunabe (beef hot pot) boxed lunch, which is pretty close to a sukiyaki recipe for how it simmers beef in sweetened soy sauce brine. However, sukiyaki is typically eaten with the freshly cooked beef dipped in raw egg, for eggs were also a luxury food back in the Taisho Period commonly associated with Western style restaurant food (they were not commonly used at home until later in the period). Putting some egg in the bentou is part of what elevates it to be especially fancy. Speaking of time period differences, although it is not common now, Taisho Period gyunabe recipes included miso as part of the sweet soy sauce brine.

Thankfully searching in Japanese for keywords like "gyunabe bentou rengoku recipe" yields many results from Japanese fans who were mindful of this difference, so I more or less followed the following recipe. Unlike my usual Kimetsu Kitchen experiments, I'm going to try to write this one in a way you can follow. You can see the visuals in gif form on this post. That being said, I hate cooking, and I may not be a good person to take advice from.

Umai!! Gyunabe Bentou

2 servings, based on a Mizunoto-ranked Corp member's typical serving size

Ingredients:

200g of sliced beef short rib*

1 egg**

1/4 white or yellow onion

1/2 package grilled tofu***

1/4 leek

🔥2 tablespoons sugar

🔥1 tablespoon red miso paste

🔥3 tablespoons soy sauce

🔥3 tablespoons sake

🔥4 tablespoons mirin****

🔥2 tablespoons water

Beni-shoga (pickled ginger), to taste*****

Whatever serving size of white rice your heart desires (Japanese rice recommended, but I am not the rice police)

*Short rib is a fatty cut with lots of cartilage that turns to gelatin when slowly cooked. I prefer lean cuts, so even though it comes out tougher, I used sliced beef round and it turned out just fine.

**I prepared two eggs in case one wouldn't be very photogenic. That turned out to be a good call.

***Grilled tofu, like firm (momen) or silken (kinu), is water-packed and likely available at Asian grocers. However, the vegetarian section of a Western style grocer might only have firm & silken, in which case, go with firm.

****This can be substituted if you can't find it

*****Or totally omitted if you dislike it, can't find it, or otherwise don't mind not totally recreating the bentou

Step 1.

Get your egg(s) boiling. The internet will tell you wiser things than I can about this, but what I did is bring my water to a boil first, and then put in the eggs, submerged by about an inch. I added a splash of vinegar to make them easier to peel later. I set the timer for 10 minutes, but you can pull them sooner for runnier yolks. After that, put the eggs in cold water to stop the cooking. You could also steep the eggs in mentsuyu for half a day if you want, but I didn't bother and just peeled and added them to my brine later.

Step 2.

Get your rice cooking. I added nice clean bamboo charcoal to mine for good luck. I am not the rice police, but I did make sure to wash my rice first and gave it about 15 minutes to soak before I turned on the rice cooker. Because that is what old ladies in Japan tell you to do.

Step 3.

Cut and drain your tofu. To drain it, fold up a bunch of paper towels and set the slices on top, then put more folded paper towels on top of them. If you have flat surfaces like cutting boards to work with, you can put something heavy on top to squeeze out more water and make the tofu slices firmer and easier to work with. Do expect the surrounding area to get very wet--this is why I like to place mine on the bottom of a pan so there is somewhere for the water to flow away from the tofu, but it's not a big deal if your tofu is wet. Since you're only using half a block, you can save the rest of the tofu in water for later use; it's very versatile and packed with protein. Oh, you don't like tofu? I don't think tofu likes you much either.

Step 4.

Cut your onions. For the leeks, give them diagonal cuts, for the yellow or white onion, slicing with the grain will make them milder in flavor because you rupture fewer of of the cell membranes. Speaking of, you know what happens when you rupture those?

Step 5.

Cry. Because you miss Rengoku-san, because you hate cooking, because you are cutting onions. You must press on.

Step 6.

Mix all the ingredients marked with an 🔥. The miso might be a little clumpy, but don't worry about it. Just try to dissolve the sugar. It's a little late to say it, but I don't know if calling this a "brine" is correct. Don't at me. Do you think I cook?

Step 7.

Fry the yellow/white onion slices until almost translucent. Set aside, and clean the pan if you plan on reusing it for the rest of the dish.

Step 8.

Give the 🔥mixture a stir for good measure, and then heat it up over medium heat. Add the beef slices, simmer until heated through. Remove the beef slices, set aside.

Step 9.

Add the onions, leeks, tofu, and eggs to simmer. I just listened to my heart on the timing and wish I would have given the leeks more time and the onions less time, and I can't remember how much time I gave them. I peeled the eggs and put them in whole to give them some color and heat them back up, but maybe that wasn't necessary if you had them soaking in mentsuyu half the day. My tofu behaved. I like tofu and tofu likes me.

Step 10.

Your rice is probably done. Spread it across the bottom of your bentou.

Step 11.

Carefully slice a boiled egg in half. If you fail, try the other one. Select the prettiest half-egg to place in one corner of the bentou. Next to that, place your two prettiest leeks. Next to that, your two prettiest slices of tofu. There should a little space remaining to add your pickled ginger. You probably want to taste this first to decide how much you like it.

Step 12.

Stir back in the meat with the onions, then layer this mixture on top of the rest of the rice. The bentou is complete!

You know the final step to take once you take a bite.

Say it.

[kengan-daddies]

The Boy Next Door Baki Hanma X Motherly! Older Female Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4

Anime : Baki: Son of Ogre Character : Baki Hanam Warning : Mention of child abuse, child neglect, possessiveness, possessive love

The Boy Next Door Baki Hanma x Motherly! Older Female Reader

The Boy Next Door Baki Hanma x Motherly! Older Female Reader

The rice cooker beeped, the smell of grilled fish hummed throughout the apartment, and the ingredients for miso soup laid out on the countertop everything was already chopped and ready, and the water was just now starting to boil. The sound of the TV playing in the background was a constant noise, the male news reporter speaking about the weather and anything else that may be of importance as of late. You sighed tiredly as you dumped the vegetables for the miso soup into the boiling water, placing the lid over it so that it could cook properly. You opened the grill on the stove, seeing the fish was just starting to brown. You closed it, looking over at the rice cooker and checking the timer.

It had a good few minutes left in it, you huffed as you walked over to the dining table, pulling a chair out you sat down, propping your chin up in your palm as you rested. 'As soon as this food is done and we eat, I'm taking my tired ass to bed.' You thought as you yawned. You looked over towards the living area, seeing Baki sitting at the small table, his back to you as he sat hunched over, papers scattered over the table as he worked on his homework. He was still in his school pants, he got comfortable, taking off his school top and folding it neatly he placed it on the couch, leaving him in his muscle shirt. You smiled at the sight, happy to see him living the life of a teen.

'He deserves to live a normal life, coming home and doing homework while mom cooks and cleans.' You thought as you watched him scratch his head in confusion and irritation at whatever he was struggling with on his homework. Your smile slightly faded as your gaze trailed along his muscular arms, seeing the scars that littered his skin. 'All those scars, all those years, trying to beat his father, gain his mother's love, to gain their affection... It's so unfair, it's so wrong.' You thought, still bitter with the bitch that was his unfortunate mother. You hated her so much, just thinking about her made your blood boil.

'That stupid bitch had the audacity to tell me, not to interfere with her son's life. "I'm his mother, so it's my job to oversee him how I see fit." ... That bitch... Poor Baki, that sad look on his face as he stared at me, the poor boy felt so bad about getting me in trouble with his mother. But he had no reason to feel bad, I would've faced his mother down a million times if it meant seeing him smile.' You thought your gaze downcast at the table surface, your other hand drew lazy circles with the pad of your pointer finger, you did it for so long till the tip of your finger felt numb. A large scared hand gently weighed on top of yours, stopping your hand. You blinked in surprise at the sudden hand, looking up you saw Baki standing behind you, a small smile on his face but worry could be seen in his eyes.

"You shouldn't do that, you'll wear down your skin." He said his hands scooping yours up in between his palms as he held your hand. "Your wrist will wither earlier with age, causing arthritis." He explained as he held your hand in one palm while the other rubbed your wrist gently. "You need to take care of your hands, Mom, you only got two, and they're beautiful." He said gently, his voice soft yet firm. "They're strong with pride, they're tough with resilience, yet they're still so soft with tenderness, still beautiful with love. Take care of your hands, Mom." He said. You stared up at him, your brain processing what he said, you looked down at his hand and you placed your other hand over his, stopping the rubbing on your wrist. "What about your hands, Baki, they're covered in scars and hard before their time."

You said, your fingers rubbing over his knuckles and the scars on his hand. He smiled. "These are the hands of a warrior who fights to protect, who fights to get stronger, who fights for others... My hands are supposed to be hard so that I can help you." He said. Your eyes softened and your rubbing stopped. "The strength, yes, the scars, no... Your hands are supposed to be still delicate yet strong, that wasn't a choice you were given." You said. Your hand tightens around his. He chuckled as he leaned down, his nose nuzzling into your hair. "It may not be, but it was a choice I chose to carry." He said. It was silent for a while, the both of you just enjoying each other's company, the sounds of the TV, the rice cooker, the water boiling, the sound of sizzling... All of that was the sound of home. This is what home was supposed to sound like.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

The house was quiet, the kitchen was clean, everyone was in their beds asleep... Except for one... Baki was up in his room, sitting on the floor deep in meditation, his ears open to everything around him. The crickets outside, the buzzing of the street lamps, the fluttering of the moth's wings, the sound of your even breaths as you slept... All these noises surrounded him, calming him. He opened his eyes and he stood up, a calming aura surrounding him. He stood there, staring at a pencil on his dresser, then in the blink of an eye he threw a sharp kick, he stood there for a moment, his eyes trained on the pencil on his dresser, watching, listening... He lowered his leg he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the sound of wood splitting sounded out, and he exhaled. He opened his eyes, looking at the pencil that was cut clean in half from the lead to the eraser.

He walked over to it silently, staring down at it. 'Soon, soon I'll be strong enough to protect you mom... I'll keep you safe, I won't let him learn of you, and even if he does, I'll be more than ready to protect you.' He thought, a determined glare in his eyes, the thoughts of the demon back flashing across his mind. He broke from his thoughts when he heard your breathing change, he looked over at his room door, listening intensely at the sound of you leaving your bed and tiredly shuffling over to your bathroom. He looked out the window when he heard a tap, his eyes sharp and on the defensive, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.

'Ah, master... It's good to see you... Sadly, I can't let you in... Mom would freak.' He thought in amusement as he bowed his head in respect at the roach outside on his window. He stood up straight once he heard it take flight, he sighed tiredly as he walked over to his bed, he laid down in it, his arms crossed behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. 'Tomorrow, I should start moving my clothes over here... I like it here better than 'home', this is an actual 'home' and not some cheap imitation. It's real... And I intend to soak it up to the fullest.' He thought. He looked over at his room door for a moment, before he rolled over on his side, his back facing the door, his body relaxing and his breathing evening out.

His door cracked open, and you looked in seeing him in bed asleep, you smiled as you walked over towards him. 'She's coming in... Why?' He thought as he lay there. You stopped by his bed, a smile on your face as you reached out to stroke his hair. 'She's stroking me?... I mean I'm not complaining, it feels really good... Damn, that's actually a really nice thing to feel... It's real relaxing... I could...' His thoughts trailed off abruptly, as the sound of light snoring took its place, you giggled softly. You just had a feeling that he was having a hard time sleeping, this seemed to prove it. 'A woman's intuition is never wrong.' You thought.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

You were in your bathroom, doing your hair, you were already dressed, makeup already on. You were deep in concentration making sure that your hair looked nice. You nearly jumped when Baki poked his head. "OOH!! You scared me." You said as you placed your hand over your heart, you stared at him in the mirror. He smiled sheepishly at your reflection. "Sorry about that." He said. You sighed as you went back to doing your hair a small smile on your face. "Good morning, Baki." You said, he smiled. "Good morning, mom." He said. He sounded so happy, just saying those few words and it made your heart flutter. You checked over your hair one last time nodding in acceptance as you turned towards the door.

He shuffled backwards as you walked out and he followed you like a curious child. You smiled sweetly as you walked down the stairs. "Did you sleep well?" You asked him as you walked towards the kitchen, he followed close behind. "Yeah, I did actually, I slept like a baby" he said in a pleased tone, he really did. It was probably the best sleep he ever gotten actually. You chuckled as you opened the fridge getting out eggs, green onions, and sausages. "That's good, I'm glad to hear that, Baki. I want you to always try and get a good night's sleep." You said, balancing all the objects in your hands as you closed the fridge with your hip. He watched you walk over to the counter as you placed everything down.

You reached up, and pulled the square-shaped frying pan down from its hook, putting it on the stove, and turning the heat up to 8. "Baki?" You asked. He perked up. "Yeah?" He questioned. "Can you get me the oil? It's over in the pantry, top shelf on the left." You said as you washed your hands, getting out knives, forks, and bowls. He nodded his head as he walked over to the door, opening it his eyes scanned the food that was inside. It was all sorts of foods, from easy prep to homemade. Seasonings and additives, condiments, and sugary coatings. His eyes soaked in everything as he looked up, seeing the oil. 'Damn, it's right where she said it was too.' He said as he reached up, his eyes widened when he realized that he nearly had to get on his toes to reach it.

'Wait, she reaches up here every day? She must get a chair or something to help her, why placed it so high though?' He thought as he pulled the bottle down. He closed the door and stepped over to you. He watched as you cracked the eggs into a large bowl, he saw 4 yolks in the bowl and you were reaching for another. "Here you go." He said holding the bottle. You looked over your shoulder and you smiled. "Yes, you can put some in the frying pan, the eye is already on." You said as you went back to cracking eggs. He walked to the stove taking the top off before he poured enough into the pan, watching as the oil slowly coated the bottom of the skillet.

'She's making breakfast for us... Should I ask her now?... I'm not sure why I'm hesitant on asking... Why am I so nervous?... I'm just gonna ask a simple question, and hopefully, she'll say yes.' He thought. He was pulled from his thoughts when he felt your hand touch his arm, gently pushing him to the side, he stepped over looking at you in question. "You wouldn't move when I asked you to, so I just decided to push on in, sorry about that." You said with a sheepish but teasing smile. He relaxed against the counter, his elbow resting on the top as he leaned into it. "Sorry, I was just thinking." He said in a soft voice. You looked over at him, the sound of sizzling loud as you poured in some of the yolk into the frying pan.

"Thinking about what?" You asked him. He seemed nervous, his other hand picking at the underside of the counter's edge. "Would it be an issue... If I moved in?" He asked tentatively. You stared at him for a moment before you looked over at the egg, you scooped your spatula under the omelet, rolling it up carefully, you left it at the end of the fryingpan as you poured in more yolk, the sizzling growing loud once more. You looked over at him, an excited gleam in your eyes. "No, Baki... It wouldn't be an issue at all. You can start the process now if you want. I'll just call in sick and you can take the day off school to complete it." You said. His eyes lit up and a bright smile graced his face. "Really!?" He said. You nodded and chuckled at his excitement. "Yes, really!! We can start as soon as we finish breakfast." You said.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

After breakfast, you and Baki got busy right away, he didn't live far so it made going to his place easy. You both went to the nearest storage unit, you bought a few nicely sized boxes, the both of you went to his place, folded the boxes, and got to work. He didn't have a lot of things, but it was enough to fill up five boxes. Two of his boxes contained his clothes, neatly folded and organized by you. One box had shirts and pants, and the other had socks and underwear. In another box, you placed all of his school supplies at the bottom and his hygienic products on top in a grocery bag. In the fourth box, you had somehow squeezed in a folded blanket, and his pillows, and even placed his shoes in a nice bag in the same box. In the fifth box, you placed all his dog's stuff in it. Dog food, bowls, leash, and bed.

He looked at all the boxes in wonder and amazement. "Wow... She was able to squeeze everything in, nice and neat... and even kept it clean and reasonable... I guess, this is what they call 'A Mother's Touch.' ... The ability to make the impossible possible." He mumbled to himself as he looked at the boxes, he looked up at you when he heard you sigh tiredly. Your back facing him as you whipped your arm over your forehead. Before you both left your home to come to his, you took off your makeup and put on a casual outfit. A large baggy shirt and some comfortable sweats. "Woo!! Finally done." You said tiredly, you looked down at the box with the dog things in it. You bent down to pick it up, but Baki's hand on your shoulder stopped you. You looked back at him in question.

"You can rest, I'll take it from here." He said. You stared at him in wonder as he gently pushed you aside, he picked up the box, placed it on another box, and then he picked those two boxes up and placed them on another box. He did that till all five boxes were stacked and then he picked them up with a little grunt. "Alright... I'm all packed." He said, a happy gleam in his eyes as he stared down at you happily. You chuckled and you shook your head putting all your weight on one leg and one hand on your hip. "You're something different Baki, you really are." You said fondly. He giggled boyishly. You turned away from him, rubbing his dog's head gently before you continued on to the doors. "Well come on then, we gotta get you settled in." You said as you slipped your shoes on, and slid the door open. He followed suit his dog not far behind. Once outside, he looked back at the place he once called home.

'For 7 years, I lived here for about 7 years... so many things happened while I lived here... both good and bad... it's been one hell of an adventure... and now, it's nothing more but a place to train at... maybe I'll turn it into a personal gym... I mean, I might as well... It'll be like a man cave in a way... Yeah, a man cave.' He thought as he stared at the building, the sound of you walking away caught his attention and he followed after you. He, his dog, and his mom all walked to their new home and life. A happy smile on his face, a pep in his step as he walked, his hair bounced and his eyes gleamed. 'When was the last time I was this happy?... When I met Kouze?... When I kissed her?... When I fight a new strong opponent?... When I win?...No... It was about 5 years ago now... when my mother died... I was sad but I was also happy... Happy that she was free from her torment, happy that he was free from her constant abuse and neglect... he felt relief for both him and for her... It sounded wrong but it also felt so right... That was the last time, I felt this happy.' He thought.

As he followed after you, your home... No... Their home could be seen ahead of them. 'Home... with a family... My dog, my mom, my own room, my own bed... it feels different now... I've always had my own, but it was my home... Now it's under someone else's roof, but it was still mine... it's so different, it's so domestic... I love it.' He thought as he followed you inside, he kicked his shoes off before he went in further, placing the boxes down on the floor. You smiled as you patted his back gently, the dog went to the couch and he flopped down with a yawn. You both looked at him for a while. "Well, glad to know you're already settled in." Baki said, you chuckled at his silliness as you walked past him and into the kitchen. "I'll fix you a snack, until then get your things settled in, the dog things can go on the balcony." You said pulling down a plate and a cup. He nodded his head as he picked up the first box, and he placed it next to the balcony door.

'I'll get his stuff settled in once I'm done with my own things.' He thought as he picked up the other four boxes before he walked upstairs with them.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

Baki flopped back on his back, his hair falling back from his face and forehead, a relaxed and pleased look on his face as he stared up at the ceiling. His room was finally officially his room... He's slept in this room many times throughout his younger teen years, finding refuge in your home, his make-believe life with you. Many times he's passed up on his training to spend many days with you. You were his ideal mother, his ideal home... You were his escape from reality. He'd leave his training behind for some time, never coming to his assigned weight training his mother gave him, never going home to that half-ass excuse of a home that his mother gave him. He'd seemingly vanish for days then he'd just reappear like nothing, expecting a lashing from his mother but he'd never care. He'd skip out on training, he'd miss out on getting stronger, just to be with you.

Just to get your affection, your hugs, your kisses, your comfort, your love. Everything he wanted his mother to give him, you would spoil him with. He grew reliant on you, he'd run to come see you after a training session, and he'd hug you, his head buried in your breasts, listening to your heartbeat, your arms wrapped around him tightly, fingers combing this hair gently. He'd lay there for hours in your arms, even falling asleep sometimes, he'd wake up on the couch, the smell of food wafting into his nose, seeing you in the kitchen, cooking up a meal for you both. You'd just happen to look around, seeing him up on the couch and you flash him your beautiful smile. 'I love that smile... It's so full of love, understanding, and acceptance. I love that smile, so much.' He thought, inhaling through his nostrils as he closed his eyes, relaxing on the mattress. 'I don't think... I'd never fall out of love with that woman... The woman who took the place and love of my birth mother... I love her so much.' He thought his eyes opening, a possessive gleam in his eyes.

"I love my mother... And I won't let anything happen to her... I'd kill anyone who'd even try and separate us... No matter who they are." He said.

[phaeton-flier]

So my rice cooker has a porridge setting which does a good job with oatmeal, and additionally has an inbuilt clock and timer setting.

I'd like to set it up so that it's finished cooking the oatmeal right when I wake up, but I'm afraid if I use milk it'll go bad if left out at room temperature over night. Does anyone know if it'll be fine?

(overnight oats haven't worked out)

[thegenderdruid]

something I absolutely hate is when appliances give me time to completion when I start then and just lie about it for some reason, both my new washer and dryer and my rice cooker do this, they'll give a time and I'll set a timer for that time and I'll check and somehow they'll still be going and have another 30 or 10 minutes left it's the worst why even bother with the timer if it's meaningless and always wrong

[changbinqueencard]

Cooking Contest>>Hyunjin

It started with spaghetti.

Literally: sugar spaghetti.

Hyunjin had spent the night at home alone and half-heartedly motivated after seeing a five-minute cooking video. He styled his hair up like a pro chef, listened to classical music for ambiance (aka fake Gordon Ramsay energy), and whispered things like "Yes, chef," in the mirror.

He boiled water, added way too many noodles, and sprinkled what he thought was salt confidently.

Spoiler alert: It was sugar.

By the time Y/N got home, the apartment smelled… sweet?

Hyunjin spun around dramatically, ladle in hand, apron on backwards, and a proud smile on his face. “You’re just in time for my debut dish.”

Y/N blinked at the plate he slid across the table. “…Is that dessert?”

“Spaghetti,” he said proudly. “Hyunjin-style.”

They chomped down, expecting death. But somehow… it wasn't awful. It was like someone tried to make dinner but accidentally invented a new food style. It was sweet and salty and… confusing. Like spaghetti in a fever dream.

Y/N laughed so hard they nearly choked. "Alright, alright, I'm signing you up for the neighborhood cooking competition."

"What?!"

"Just for the laughs. Come on, imagine this. You and your sugar noodles on national television."

"Absolutely not—"

He made it through round one.

No one understood how. The judges called his dish "an abstract deconstruction of a childhood memory" and gave him a standing ovation. One of them cried. It was probably the raw onion garnish, but still. He advanced to the next round.

Hyunjin lost it.

He begged Y/N to pull him out, but they just cheered him on, fully invested in the chaos. “You’ve already committed culinary crimes. Finish the job.”

So now—somehow—he was in the finals.

And he still didn’t know how to make rice.

---

Hyunjin stared at the timer ticking down on the big LED screen. Fifteen minutes left.

Around him, the other competitors were moving like a pro—flipping, slicing, searing. He was holding a spoon like a bizarre utensil. 

"Chef Hyunjin, what is it that you're making today?" the host said, bursting forth like a kitchen demon. 

Hyunjin plastered on a grin. "Oh, yes. A dish from my family. Very mysterious. Much. uh. emotion."

He spun around to his station, which looked like a tornado of food had swept through it. There were three pans on the stove, crackling. He had no clue what was in any of them.

Y/N sat in the audience, trying not to allow out shouts of laughter. Hyunjin shot them a look.

Then came the curse of all quizzes:

"And what kind of rice will be served with your dish?"

Hyunjin flabbergasted. "Rice?

The host nodded. "Yes. We understand you're doing a fusion dish based on rice."

".Right," Hyunjin answered slowly. "Of course. I love rice. Massive fan. Eat it daily.".

He turned to the rice cooker like it had personally wronged him. He’d watched *exactly* one rice tutorial on YouTube and remembered *none* of it. So he pressed random buttons, added some broth (was it beef? who knows), a questionable amount of soy sauce, and—for flair—a slab of butter.

The rice cooker beeped angrily.

Hyunjin pretended it was applause.

“Smoked rice,” he muttered. “We’re getting fancy today.”

---

Ten minutes left.

His rice cooker steamed like a dragon, but he did not care. He added sauce to his unknown meat, sprinkled on a garnish from someone else's table, and used a "rustic" plating style, which literally consisted of making it look somewhat sloppy on purpose. 

Time was up.

He stepped back, wiping away simulated sweat and executing a theatrical bow to the judges as if on Broadway. The audience politely clapped. Y/N double-thumbed him up with a "you're doing great sweetie" look.

The judges hesitantly bit down.

Silence.

And then the head judge: "This is… bold."

Another judge nodded. "I don't know what I was expecting. But I wasn't expecting this. And for some reason, I'm alright with that."

"The rice," said the third judge slowly, "is an emotional journey."

Hyunjin blinked. "Wait… do you like it?"

The head judge smiled. "We don't just like it. We love it."

Hyunjin looked like he'd just passed out. "I—what?"

"You've won," the host exclaimed dramatically. "Chef Hyunjin, you are this season's Cooking Champion!"

Y/N screamed.

Hyunjin dropped his ladle.

"…I need to lie down."

[davidlowery5964]

Effortless Meals, Exquisite Taste: The Toshiba Rice Cooker

Introduction to the Toshiba Rice Cooker

The Toshiba Rice Cooker is a remarkable kitchen appliance designed to simplify your cooking experience while delivering delicious meals. With its innovative features and user-friendly design, this rice cooker is perfect for families, individuals, and cooking enthusiasts alike. But what makes this appliance stand out in the crowded market of home appliances? Let's delve deeper into its features and benefits.

Key Features of the Toshiba Rice Cooker

"Toshiba's Small Rice Cooker is designed for individuals or families seeking a versatile cooking solution. It features 8 cooking functions including White Rice, Quick Cook, Brown Rice, Mixed Grain, Slow Cook, Porridge, Cake, and Egg, making it more than just a rice cooker."

The Fuzzy Logic Technology is a standout feature of the Toshiba Rice Cooker. This technology automatically adjusts cooking parameters to ensure perfectly cooked rice every time. Additionally, the cooker boasts an intuitive LCD display, making it easy to select from its 8 cooking functions. These functions include options for white rice, brown rice, mixed grain, quick cook, slow cook, porridge, cake, and egg, offering a diverse range of meal possibilities.

Why Choose the Toshiba Rice Cooker?

Versatility: The Toshiba Rice Cooker is not limited to cooking rice. Its multiple functions allow you to prepare a variety of dishes, making it a versatile addition to any kitchen.

User-Friendly: With a simple interface and easy-to-clean non-stick inner pot, the cooker is designed for convenience.

Safety Features: It includes a detachable power cord and automatic shut-off for enhanced safety.

If you're looking for a reliable rice cooker that offers more than just basic cooking, the Toshiba Rice Cooker is an excellent choice. Its compact design makes it ideal for small families or individuals, and the 24-hour delay timer ensures your meal is ready when you are.

Product Details and Specifications

Customer Reviews and Feedback

While we don't have specific customer reviews to share, the general consensus among users is that the Toshiba Rice Cooker delivers on its promises of convenience and versatility. Its ability to produce perfectly cooked rice consistently is a highlight for many users.

For more information about the Toshiba Rice Cooker and to make a purchase, visit the product page.

[lorimay2862]

Twin-Cuisine Technology: Mastering the Art of Dual-Basket Air Frying

In the realm of modern kitchen appliances, the dual air fryer stands out as a revolutionary tool. With its unique twin-basket design, this appliance offers unparalleled convenience and versatility, making it a must-have for any home chef.

What is a Dual Air Fryer?

A dual air fryer is an advanced version of the traditional air fryer, featuring two separate cooking baskets. This allows users to cook two different dishes simultaneously, saving time and energy. Imagine preparing crispy chicken wings in one basket while roasting vegetables in the other—without any flavor crossover.

Key Features of Dual Air Fryers

"The dual air fryer is designed to enhance your cooking experience by providing flexibility and efficiency."

Separate Cooking Zones: Each basket operates independently, allowing for different cooking times and temperatures.

Large Capacity: Ideal for families, dual air fryers can handle larger quantities of food.

Energy Efficiency: Cook multiple dishes at once, reducing overall cooking time and energy consumption.

Versatility: From frying and roasting to baking and grilling, the dual air fryer can do it all.

Benefits of Using a Dual Air Fryer

Why should you consider adding a dual air fryer to your kitchen arsenal? Here are some compelling reasons:

Time-Saving: Cook two dishes simultaneously, cutting your meal preparation time in half.Healthier Meals: Enjoy your favorite fried foods with up to 75% less fat.

Convenience: With pre-set cooking functions, making a variety of dishes is a breeze.

Easy Cleanup: Most dual air fryers come with dishwasher-safe baskets and accessories.

Popular Dual Air Fryer Models

Several brands offer high-quality dual air fryers. One notable example is the Toshiba Small Rice Cooker, known for its versatility and user-friendly features.

How to Use a Dual Air Fryer

Using a dual air fryer is straightforward, but here are some tips to get the most out of your appliance:

Preheat: Preheating ensures even cooking and optimal results.

Use the Right Temperature: Different foods require different temperatures. Refer to the user manual for guidelines.

Shake the Basket: For even cooking, shake the basket halfway through the cooking process.

Experiment: Don't be afraid to try new recipes and cooking techniques.

Maintaining Your Dual Air Fryer

Proper maintenance can extend the life of your dual air fryer. Here are some tips:

Regular Cleaning: Clean the baskets and accessories after each use to prevent buildup.

Check for Wear and Tear: Inspect the appliance regularly for any signs of damage.

Store Properly: When not in use, store your dual air fryer in a cool, dry place.

Conclusion

The dual air fryer is more than just a kitchen gadget; it's a game-changer. Whether you're a busy parent, a health-conscious individual, or someone who loves to cook, this appliance offers something for everyone. With its twin-basket design, versatile cooking options, and user-friendly features, the dual air fryer is set to become a staple in modern kitchens worldwide.

For more information on dual air fryers, check out this highly-rated model.

About Toshiba

Toshiba is a well-known brand in the home appliances industry, offering innovative and versatile products designed to make your life easier. One of their popular products is the Toshiba Small Rice Cooker, which features 8 cooking functions, Fuzzy Logic Technology, and a 24-hour delay timer.

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Toshiba Small Rice Cooker

[theanoninyourinbox]

TIINGILAR CHICKEN CURRY RECIPE!

WHAT YOU WILL NEED

TOOLS - Slow cooker, large pan, measuring cups, measuring spoons, willingness to measure with the heart

INGREDIENTS (optional ingredients marked with a *)

1 medium to large sweet potato (to be peeled and diced into roughly 1/2in pieces)

2 Red bell peppers (core and thinly slice these sweeties)

*Mushrooms (sliced lengthwise, less than the amount of potatoes)

*Spinach (three handfuls, they cook down so if you want more I physically can't stop you)

1/4cup water

1/4 cup lime juice (store bought is fine, you don't need to juice them yourself if it's hard)

1 1/2lbs chicken thighs (chicken breasts could be healthier but the flavor may be different)

1 tablespoon Olive oil or oil of your choice (for the chicken)

1 can (14oz) coconut milk (I used light, but regular may make the sauce thicker)

2 tablespoons cornstarch mixed with 3 tablespoons water

*Naan bread and rice (to dip in the sauce and to serve the Tiingilar onto if you want)

SEASONINGS

2 tablespoons curry powder (you heard right, TABLESPOONS)

2 teaspoons paprika (smoked paprika if you want to be fancier)

1 teaspoon ground cumin (it's pronounced cue-min)

1 teaspoon ground chili powder

1 teaspoon salt

*Dash of garlic powder

*Dash of Turmeric

STEPS

FIRST put those chopped veggies (not the spinach if you're using it) into the slow cooker. Pour the water and lime juice in there

SECOND combine the spices, mix em up all nice, then coat the chicken with 2/3 of the spices - you will need the rest of the spices shortly

THIRD heat your oil in a pan over medium-highish. Get it shiny but not bubbling, then get your chicken searing. First side for 2 minutes, then the other for 1 minute. Then get those tasty boys into the slow cooker.

FOURTH Put the chicken on top of the veggies, then the remaining spices, then set that timer for EITHER 2-3 hours on high OR 4-5 hours on low. Don't do both you will break the space-time continuum and no one wants that.

This is a great time to clean up your kitchen right here, and prepare and side dishes you want. I had grapes, naan bread, and brown rice with it this time!

FIFTH when the chicken is at 165 degrees, pull it out! Then let it cool off enough to chop or shred it up!

SIXTH Get your can of coconut milk and your cornstarch-water mix, and pour them in! After this (and additional spinach goes in now) set your slow cooker on high for 30 minutes - and a second timer for 15 minutes.

SEVENTH when the 15 minute timer goes off, put the chicken chunks in, and stir it in really nice - get it coated in the sauce, then put that lid back on and WAIT

EIGHTH when the 30 minute timer goes of SERVE AND EAT YOU DID IT!!!!!!!!!

(Imagine that's a Mythosaur, they're very proud of you)