#bizarre food combination

[suchananewsblog]

Phuchka Chop: The Latest Bizarre Street Food Combination That's Dividing The Internet

If you thought you have had enough of the odd food combinations, then trust us, it’s not done yet! There’s a new recipe in the block and it is called phuchka chop. Phuchka (also referred to as panipuri, golgappa, pani-batasa and gupchup) is one of the most loved street foods across India. Fried sooji/atta balls, filled with spicy matar-aloo stuffing and khatta pani, phuchka defines comfort for…

[corpsoir]

Heritage Februabba 2023

Day 2: Food || Pining

@heritage-februabba

[im-still-watching-anime]

turns out i am NOT immune to mob mentality because i keep seeing people order stuff on our menu and convincing myself i would like it because! look how popular it is!! it HAS to be good! and then it simply is not no matter how many times i try it

[sadbeautifutragic]

everyone wants taylor to go on all these talk shows and podcasts meanwhile my dream is her guest starring on an episode of good mythical morning

[foldingfittedsheets]

Truly, one of the greatest love language is someone agreeing to eat something atrocious for your benefit.

My first experience with this was in college. My friend Charlie invited me to a jazz club. One would think he’d learned his lesson. I thought nothing of this and agreed to a fun night with a guy friend. We arrived and I saw nothing romantic in the outing.

The menu at the club was very traditional date food- steak, oysters, romancey food. But still, I didn’t catch on. This food didn’t sound like what I wanted. In fact, what I wanted was a hummus plate. Charlie took this turn of events with a slight wince but ordered one for us.

The hummus plate arrived. Sitting politely on the corner of the garlic bomb was a spicy pepper. Laughing, I teasingly dared Charlie to eat it. You see, this kind of rough humor was common among buddies. I thought we were in Buddy Rules. But Charlie was operating under Date Rules; eating the pepper would be a romantic test of his bravery.

He bit the pepper.

His skin was almost as pale as mine and he went bright red instantly, tears stood in his eyes as sweat broke out across his whole body in protest. He barely managed to swallow as he began coughing, his body reflexively trying to spew forth the poison in his mouth.

I was doubled over with laughter and didn’t feel bad until a few days later when Brendan informed me it had been a date. I scoffed initially and only slowly realized Charlie had been intending it as a date. I repented the pepper and promptly dated Brendan in self defense.

Charlies act of romantic heroism went unappreciated but the spirit was there.

Many years later when I’d given up on boys I was dating my beloved wife. Together we took a trip to Taiwan. One of the wonderful things about new places is the food. I still dream about the food in Taiwan. Even the humblest train station cream puff was several orders of magnitude better than any I’ve ever had in the states.

But one place we went was like. Italian food as interpreted by Taiwanese cooks. Some of the combos were as bizarre to me as many Italians probably feel American Italian food is. Specifics escape me, but it felt like I was dreaming some of the menu at the time. At the end we decided to get a chocolate fondue, because why not. We were on vacation.

The liquid chocolate was served with all the things one would normally expect, strawberries, sweets, the usual chocolate accompaniments. And then we saw the tomatoes. Tomatoes and chocolate. We all stared at the tomatoes in horrified fascination.

Now, I hate tomatoes. I can stand a tomato sauce but raw tomatoes and I have nothing to talk about. So I knew that if I tried it I’d find it as repugnant as I’ve always found tomatoes. But I was haunted by the idea that someone who actually liked tomatoes would like tomatoes in chocolate.

My beloved loves tomatoes. And chocolate. I turned the biggest puppy dog eyes on them and begged to know if the combination was actually somehow delicious. My wife insisted that it would be heinous. Still, they speared a tomato sacrifice and coated it in chocolate, for me. For me, they ate it.

It was so wretched that their face collapsed into instant regret. But they didn’t spit it out. They knew I got sick if people spit out half chewed food. So they soldiered on and swallowed the cursed chocolate fruit.

Their devotion utterly delighted me, and even years later I adore that they suffered that tomato to reassure me that indeed, it was bad.

[emmyrosee]

angst, you say?

Like, I am sorry to inform you, but when you and Osamu break up, he can no longer see or make or think about your favorite foods.

Your favorite Onigiri? Not on the menu anymore.

It’s a bizarre recipe too. One he made for you by accident, one you insisted on trying while he was testing new flavor combinations. It was a pain to make, hard to replicate, but for you, he’d do anything, absolutely anything to make you smile.

Now that you’re gone, he saves himself to consistent heartache in making it, taking it off the menu in hopes to combat the sight of you, pleading him to make it, jutting your lip out and clasping your fingers together while he looks you up and down in amusement. Now that you’re gone, he saves himself the trouble of tears stinging his eyes of the memories swirling in his head of you, sitting on the counter as he makes it at home, sneaking bites of rice from him when he’s turned around, only to act like you never did it.

It was on the menu for years. Only one person ordered it consistently. You.

So it’s completely normal why he bites his thumb nail as this damn seven year old, seemingly fresh out of a dance recital comes in, hands and chin hooked on the counter as her mother orders food, asking about her favorite onigiri no longer being served.

“Sorry, Miss, we haven’t had that on the menu in months-“

“But you’ve gotta make it!” She pouts. “I always get it after my dance recitals! It’s my favorite…”

“Yumei, don’t be rude!” Her mother scolds.

Osamu takes a deep breath in and rolls his shoulders, smiling softly at the young girl.

“Maybe I can whip one up. Just for you.” He leans slightly over the register, “but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She gasps excitedly and bounces on the balls of her feet, squeaking out a “thanks, mister!” as her mother pays.

It kills him as he puts the order into the system for the cooks to make. It kills him as the cooks look at him like he’s got five heads, “we uh… we don’t know how to make this, Miya.”

“That’s alright,” he chokes, swallowing thickly. “Just watch the register.

“I’ll take care of it.”

[ckret2]

Which are you personally going with for the obviously-3D pictures of Billy wearing sneakers: a) Billy in Sneakers is just a translation of one cute thing to a more 3D friendly cute thing, or b) We don't actually know how the second dimension works and it's wrapped and tangled in an incomprehensible and impossible to parse way that we limited beings shall never fully understand but which allows for sneakers? I could see you going either way tbh

God that's no contest, option A all the way. I've been working option A in every drawing I've made of Bill's dimension for well over a year. Option B's needlessly complicated for no benefit in a way that contradicts the lore we already have and that would open up a whole bunch of unnecessary cans of worms.

Bill all but says he's visually "translating" the image for our benefit. And we already know from Exwhylia in Journal 3 that Alex is well-versed in how physics & vision work in Flatland, and J3 heavily implied that Exwhylia is similar to Bill's home dimension. Sure, Bill says you'd need psychedelic food poisoning to fully understand his world, but the J3 Exwhylia page makes very clear that even if a human can see the lines that make up a world like his and understand intellectually what they represent, that doesn't mean you'd actually make sense of what you see—which accounts for Bill's claim just fine.

Combine that with all the themes Bill's universe borrows from Flatland (inability for normal people to see "up," a very conformist society, a plot based around one enlightened character futilely trying to teach the people around him about the third dimension, etc), and there's absolutely no good reason not to think his world's design is passably similar to Flatland or Exwhylia.

So, why do we all draw baby Billy and his family like this

instead of accurate to a Flatland-style 2D universe like this?

Because that ain't cute. rigid fidelity to the lore is less important than good storytelling and that means if you want to show your audience (i.e., us real people) how cute Bill was as a baby, you've gotta say "fuck it" to the lore and draw a cute triangle. Not draw a lore-accurate line and say "if you were a Euclidean that would look sooo cute to you, trust me bro." Making it actually look cute is what we all do as fanartists, and it's what the artists did in The Book of Bill.

Anyway who says his dimension needs to be some bizarre incomprehensible thing in order for him to wear sneakers? There's nothing stopping him from wearing squeaky sneakers in an accurate Flatland-style 2D universe. They'd just be built different. His shoes would look like an outline around his foot. Here, have an accurate Flatland-style 2D baby Bill (top down view) (with a squeaker in his sneaker)

I even kept the baseballs on his shoes.

[justlemmeadoreyou]

harry with a very pregnant y/n-headcanons

-> Harry is the ultimate doting husband when Y/N is pregnant. "Let me get that for you, love," he murmurs, jumping up to fetch her whatever she needs before she can even ask. Y/N tries to protest that she's perfectly capable, but Harry insists on waiting on her hand and foot.

-> He constantly showers her with thoughtful gifts - fresh flower bouquets, her favorite snacks and treats, cozy new maternity outfits. "These are for my two favorite people," Harry says softly, cupping her bump as he presents the offerings. Anything to make his wife feel cherished and appreciated.

-> Harry can't get enough of cradling Y/N's bump and talking or singing softly to their unborn baby. He lies with his head in her lap for hours, utterly enamored as he watches her belly ripple with kicks. "Strong one, just like your mum," he chuckles.

-> Harry is in a perpetual state of awe and wonder throughout y/n's pregnancy. He spends hours just watching her, mesmerized by the way her body is changing and nurturing their child. "You're so incredible, you know that?" he murmurs, reverently tracing the outline of her growing belly.

-> When Y/N is feeling achy and sore, Harry draws her a steamy bath filled with fragrant rose petals and flickering candles. "This is your night to relax, my love," he murmurs, gently massaging her feet and lower back after she soaks.

-> Since Y/N tires easily, Harry cheerfully takes over all the cooking duties. "What's my pregnant queen craving tonight?" he asks with a wink, happily whipping up even the most bizarre food combinations her hormones demand.

-> When y/n's ankles start swelling, Harry insists on giving her regular foot massages. He's gentle and attentive, working out the tension in her muscles with skilled, nimble fingers. "Just relax, love. Let me take care of you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her ankle.

-> With nesting instincts in full force, Y/N can't stop buying things for the baby. Harry comes home to find she's purchased hundreds of newborn onesies. "Erm…I may have gone a bit overboard," she admits sheepishly.

-> He sneaks out to buy an entire nursery's worth of plush stuffed animals after seeing how Y/N's face lights up around them. When she wanders into the newly-decorated room, she bursts into happy tears. "For our little one," Harry says gruffly.

-> In Y/N's final weeks, Harry refuses to leave her side, terrified of missing the birth of their child. "Please, let me just sleep on the floor tonight," he begs, not wanting to be separated for even a moment. His overprotective hovering is both endearing and exasperating.

-> The pure, unguarded adoration in Harry's eyes whenever he looks at his pregnant wife is enough to make anyone swoon. "You're the most incredible, strong, beautiful woman," he tells her often, cradling her face tenderly.

-> After the baby's arrival, Harry dotes on Y/N even more - keeping the house tidy, ensuring she's rested and well-fed, while also being the most loving, smitten new father. "I've got you both," he murmurs, pressing kisses to her temple and the baby's downy head. "Always."

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

tell me if you like this! please reblog or comment if you like, it makes my heart happy :)

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[anyca786]

Mikealson Siblings taking care of Pregnant!reader

The afternoon sun streamed through the arched windows of the Mikaelson compound, casting dappled shadows across the plush sofa where you sat. Your hand rested on your swollen belly, tracing the faint outline of a tiny foot that seemed determined to imprint itself on your skin. A sigh escaped your lips, laced with a curious mix of exhaustion and awe. Being pregnant with Klaus Mikaelson's child was an experience unlike any other.

"Penny for your thoughts, love?"

Elijah, your best friend's voice came from behind you, startling you slightly. He knelt down, his gentle eyes crinkling at the corners as he placed a cool hand on your cheek.

"Sore feet?" he asked, his gaze flickering down to your ankles where you idly rubbed them.

As if summoned, Elijah began to gently massage your feet, his touch a soothing balm against the constant ache. "The joys of motherhood," he chuckled softly. "Even before the little one arrives."

"You should see Rebekah skipping around like a mother hen," you said with a laugh.

Ever since the news, Rebekah had taken it upon herself to become your personal nutritionist. Bowls of fresh fruit seemed to magically appear by your side, and gentle reminders to stay hydrated were delivered with an endearing bossiness.

Suddenly, the library door slammed open, and Kol burst in, brandishing a book. He skidded to a halt when he saw you. "Apologies, darling," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes vanishing instantly as he took in your weary expression. "Didn't mean to startle you. Are you alright?"

You couldn't help but melt under his sudden concern. The Mikaelson siblings, notorious for their chaotic lives, were turning into a symphony of attentiveness for you. "Just a little tired, Kol," you assured him, a smile returning to your face. His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed over as he noticed a stray strand of hair clinging to your cheek. With a gesture so tender it surprised even him, he brushed it away.

A deep, booming voice resonated through the room, "Elijah, have you located the witch Davina spoke of?"

Klaus stalked into the library, his scowl fading the moment he spotted you. As he drew closer, his voice softened to a near murmur. "Have you eaten anything yet, love?"

You fought back a giggle. "Yes, Klaus, just some fruit Rebekah insisted upon."

He hovered for a moment, his gaze flitting across your face. "Did you rest well last night?"

You nodded, touched by the worry etched on his usually stoic face. Klaus wasn't known for his displays of affection, but ever since you carried his child, a tenderness he couldn't quite mask lingered in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat, the familiar Klaus returning momentarily.

"Excellent. We don't need any unnecessary fatigue while dealing with this archaic prophecy."

He turned to face Elijah, resuming their previous conversation. However, his words were punctuated by occasional glances your way, each one a silent confirmation of his concern.

The next few weeks were a blur of doctor's appointments, cravings for bizarre combinations of food, and endless debates about the nursery.

Elijah, the undisputed planner, had already sketched out several designs, each more elaborate than the last. Rebekah, however, preferred a more minimalist approach, arguing for practicality over aesthetics. Kol, surprisingly, became the voice of reason, mediating their arguments with witty commentary and unexpected insights.

Klaus, though typically absent from these discussions, always managed to appear moments before a decision was made. His vetoes, delivered with a gruffness that belied his softening heart, were invariably accepted. The nursery, a haven of soft hues and elegant simplicity, was a testament to his unspoken desire to create a safe haven for his child.

One rainy afternoon, you found yourself curled up on the chaise lounge in Rebekah's room, a book clutched limply in your hand. Fatigue weighed heavily on your eyelids, threatening to pull you under. You drowsily watched rain lash against the window, feeling a wave of contentment wash over you.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you awake. Rebekah entered, a concerned frown creasing her brow. "You shouldn't be reading in such dim light, love," she chided gently, setting a steaming cup on the side table. "And here I thought Klaus told you to take a nap."

"He did," you mumbled, reaching for the cup. The warm aroma of chamomile filled your senses, instantly calming you further.

"He's just worried sick," Rebekah said, settling beside you on the chaise lounge. "We all are."

This was so random 💀

[some-pers0n]

My favourite thing ever about LITWTC is that it sounds completely and utterly bizarre to anyone who doesn't listen to it. What do you mean that music artist I heard on TikTok has a podcast where he and his friend talk about the apocalypse.

Anyways some of my favourite bits are

Tommy Lasagna, a fully Korean man with a thick Brooklyn accent, will own a fast food combination auto repair shop, wherein he'll mix up your order and put burgers on your tires and serve you a fistful of wires instead of fires

Will getting harassed by a ghost prostitute named Mama Doo-Wop for like seven minutes

Chris and Will stopping their car (they were driving around in this episode) and laughing at a decaying house for like five minutes

Will larping as Tom Waits for an entire episode

Leopard Planet is the only band still left in the apocalypse, wherein the lead singer and rhythm guitarist and Rock God, Zap Gorgeous, will have leopard print clothes as they play on top of a leopard pyramid

Will and Chris try getting their Wendy's order and it takes 20 minutes because the Doordash driver kept circling a graveyard

Will will save Jordan Peterson from the manosphere grease pit (where any manosphere person is greased up and tossed into a pit where they have to kill everyone else to survive) and turns him into a parrot-like pet that he listens to for hours on end

Chris Dunne Won't Go To Therapy I/II

ROLL!! THEM!! BONES!!

Bobby Sugarbones dying because the recording program closed and they didn't notice because the laptop had a picture of Chester Cheetah inflation art covering it (this was because Chris was trying to get Will into the kink so they could fuck the podcast, which is a gutter clown with that kink)

"Yes! And–"

Chris and Will spending an entire episode parked in front of a school because Will's car broke down and they were waiting for the repair guy (yes there are two episodes where they're in a car)

The Bug Woman

[suchananewsblog]

Watch: Man Makes Dosa With KitKat - Want To Give It A Try?

Dosa is undoubtedly one of the vital cherished South Indian delicacies. This crispy desi crepe is usually paired with sambar and chutney and is eaten for breakfast. Be it a basic masala dosa, neer dosa, or rava dosa, all of us love dosa in all its varieties. However, many individuals are sometimes seen experimenting with this humble dish to create distinctive combos. From ice cream dosa to aamras…

[owlespresso]

the red fruit which ripens

alpha!blade/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is getting too close. tags: blackmail, mind games, nonconsensual touching, blade and luocha are just weirdos idk pt 2 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. the first part can be read here.

You have never known peace. You doubt any emanator ever has. The Mother of Harmony, of peace, bestowed upon you a fraction of her immortal grace. She cored herself, tore out a seed—jewel like and glistening, and beckoned you to feast. The taste went down so smooth and sweet.

That was the first and last time you held your blessing in awe. Xipe sentenced you, that day, to never know the peace she covets. You could catch glimpses of it, inhale the scent of it deep, but it would fade like morning mist, chased away by the winds of chaos and whatever awful business you were to tend to next.

When you strayed from The Family, tore yourself free of their clutches and hid where their millions of bulging eyes could not find you; you believed it possible to know peace. Perhaps not immediately. There was so much to take care of during your first days on the Luofu, paperwork and apartment hunting. It was all jarringly normal. You were mystified by the mundanity, delighted by it even. The world suddenly closed in for the better. There were no enemy factions to worry about corralling, no petty politics, no attempts to usurp you or take your life.

The world became the Luofu. It became your apartment. It became your favorite food stalls and your neighbors and the little birds fluttering about in the trees.

But it was not peace. Soon, you came to realize that even the average Luofu citizen did not know the concept as intimate as you hoped. They live in fear of Mara, of the Abundance, which they are so intimately intertwined with. Every pain is a life threatening risk, a potential trigger to a deadly malady. Outside of the Abundance, so many run themselves ragged, weighted by long work hours and petty squabbles with loved ones. The kindly folk by the docks find themselves cornered by the IPC.

No mortal knows peace, you have come to realize. Perfect tranquility is a ripe and red lie, birthed gold and glistening from the Goddess’s many lips, spread carelessly and listlessly across the universe. Unattainable by the emanator’s closest to her.

You believed once, and it hurt you. Not again. You will heed no honeyed words. You can only believe in what is cold, concrete, and solid.

—

“I feel like—” you begin, pushing through the rusted metal paneling of the dilapidated fence. “—you could have gotten here by yourself.” You usually don’t talk this much, but Blade’s habitual silence combined with your burgeoning irritation leaves you uncharacteristically eager to complain aloud.

The abandoned warehouse looms an eerie, empty monument of crumbling sheet metal and shattered glass. Long columns of broken machinery are gutted in pieces across the concrete yard. You make note to return later, just to make sure you’re not leaving valuable goods out to waste.

“I have never been here before. Kafka thought it wise to come with a guide.” 

“And what do you think?” you pause, shoulder buried in the outside paneling of the building itself.

“What I think… does not matter.” Blade says cooly. “A blade is meant to be wielded. It does not choose who it cuts down or where it goes.”

“Hm,” you don’t have much to say to that. You shouldn’t have opened your yap in the first place. The less you know about the bizarre relations of the Stellaron Hunters, the better. You squeeze into the building through the gap. Blade hardly two paces behind. The metal groans and squeaks as he forces his way in. It feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever fucking heard, an offensive and high pitched screech that probably rings through the yard and neighboring alleyways.

“At least try to be a little quieter,” you grumble, squinting into the dark. The main room is made a maze by haphazardly laid out storage containers, many cracked open and already emptied. Wires hang from the ceiling, which has become an amalgamation of mechanical matter and rotting parts. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Black grunts his assent.

“Well. You’re here, safe and sound.” you waste no time, doubling back towards the Blade-shaped hole in the wall. Did he just walk straight through!? What are they feeding this guy? “So I—”

The sound of thundering footsteps and approaching shouts freezes you mid-step. Momentary panic jars you still. The Cloud Knights? Here? Now?

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you turn tail, ready to haul ass in the opposite direction, only to collide face-first with Blade’s firm chest. He jostles you to the side with his shoulder, ignoring your grunt of complaint. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Your stomach jumps into your throat.

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

“To take care of the vermin,” Blade replies drolly, looking down his nose at you. His lips twitch into the beginnings of a puzzled frown.

“Absolutely not!” you say, and his frown pulls deeper. “Where there’s ten, there’s bound to be twenty waiting to back them up.”

It is unlike you to be so bold, but you seize him by the wrist, pulling him further into the jagged steel labyrinth. He allows himself to be led, surprisingly docile as you round corners and scuttle down corridors. Pale moonlight covers the room in a silvery sheen, providing just enough light for you to make out a door embedded into the outermost wall. Footsteps echo around you, calling voices made cacophonous by the echo. Blade’s grip on your hand tightens, likely annoyed and sorely tempted to begin the slaughter, but you yank open the door and jam yourself inside what seems to be a cramped server room.

A few circuit towers stand side-by-side, dark and dusty with disuse. Blade shuts the door behind you, opening his mouth to speak, but you’re already wedging yourself into the lone aisle between the wall and the towers, pulling him behind you.

A few moments later sees you crammed in the narrow space. The back wall and server towers rise on either side of you, caging you up against your troublesome accomplice. One of Blade’s thighs presses tight to your own. Warm and firm. The proximity betrays what you’ve expected since your first meeting. Blade is an alpha. Only now, brought so obscenely close, are you fully able to realize that. It’s a footnote in comparison to your agitation, which swims and simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

“How long were they following us for?” you grumble aloud. “Tell Kafka she owes an extra 20% when you see her, and that I’m not doing this ever again.”

Blade sighs out of his nose. You can’t see his face well enough to make out his expression.

“You’re wearing a mask. Your identity is safe.” he says.

“The threat of being arrested still remains,” you grumble, listening to the clamorous noise outside. Trained troops rush back and forth, kicking up dust and old grease. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, beyond a few paltry words, but no one has yet knocked on the door. Surely a good sign.

Blade squeezes your hand, and subsequently reminds you that you are holding it.

“That won’t happen. Destiny’s Slave would not risk your safety over something so simple. No harm will come to you, tonight.”

Well, isn’t that comforting. You wrest your hand away with a scowl, and clamp down on the pressing urge to let him know what you really think about his boss. He stares down at the place where your hands were once joined.

The next half-hour passes in relative silence. His eyes are all that is visible in the empty dark of the room, candlewick embers extinguished when he shuts them and leans back against the wall.

Eventually, the outside noise quiets. No more thudding boots or searching shouts, the warehouse silent as it had been when you arrived. Shimmying out from the pitch dark crevice is much more awkward without the frantic adrenaline, but you manage it, emerging in a new layer of dust.

“Alright. I’m heading out. Be careful.”

“They won’t return anytime soon,” Blade remains inside, arms crossed and impassive. Your frown deepens. You clamber through a hole in the wall. No Knights have remained behind. You feared a few would have stayed just in case, but none leap out from behind the rubble. Which means that the horrible feeling prickling up the back of your neck is just Blade’s cold, empty gaze trained on your retreating form.

Strange beast, you think to yourself, scuttling into the nearest alleyway.

—

One of your favorite things about Luocha’s home is that he is hardly ever in it. The first time you met him after helping him with his pre-heat, he pressed a silver house key into your palms, before turning and leaving. Not even allowing you to splutter a single, indignant protest. Back then, you mentally swore that you wouldn’t use it.

Now, you use it almost everyday. His neighborhood, smack dab in the middle of the Luofu, intersects with several of your regular routes. It’s just too easy so slide in between deliveries for a quick rest. It helps that he’s hardly ever home, leaving you to pilfer snacks from his fridge and take brief naps on the couch. You haven’t been bold enough to stay overnight. You’ve become far, far too intimate with the man.

No more, you decide, and stay firm to that decision even when he beseeches your company not a week later. It’s rude, but you can’t risk getting anymore attached than you already are. He’s become a bothersome burr stuck to your side, a looming presence in your thoughts even when he’s far across the stars, doing Xipe knows what.

There’s a knock at the door. You startle, because this has never happened before. You remain stock still on the couch. If you remain still, surely whoever is out there will get the message and bugger off. Another knock. You should have known that any solicitor determined to walk through the forest of a front yard would be too stubborn to give up after only seven knocks.

At the eleventh, you get up and stomp to the door. It’s mostly to preserve your own sanity. 

You throw open the door, prepared to give the nosy bastard on the other side an earful. 

It’s Blade. Blade is stood there. He blots out the afternoon sun, leaving you in the shadow he casts. It’s like seeing your clothes in the fridge. You blink several times.

“Ah. It’s you.”

“It is,” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. 

“What… why are you here?” 

“Kafka’s orders. She wanted you to have these,” he hands you the bouquet. You receive it. Fresh petunias and sprigs of rosemary curl next to daisies and tulips. It’s a nonsensical thing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing particularly artful about the presentation besides the pretty colors. 

“I see… Is this your home?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

You decide not to humor him. You tuck the bouquet underneath your arm and lean up against the doorframe. “What’s it to you?” 

He blinks, looks confused, and then responds after a moment of silent thought. “I… there is someone else who lives here. I remember it clearly, now.”

“You two know each other, huh? What a coincidence. But… how did you know where I was?”

“I asked the woman next door. She directed me here. I’ve been searching for you since the early morning.” 

“All morning?” you tut, somewhat sympathetic. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured.” Blade says, solemnly. “And I have traveled far greater distances on foot. You shouldn’t worry.”

“...Well,” you stare down at the bouquet for a moment. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you anything for the effort. You know that big, red maple by the pond? Go sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Two minutes later sees you outside, cradling two crystalline glasses filled with lemonade. You didn’t get him the fancy stuff—the strawberry-kiwi-whatever fruit stuff that you hand mixed. But it’s something.

He’s hunched beneath the red canopy. There’s a dark, inky type of handsomeness he possesses. Dark hair tumbles down his back, shaggy bangs frame that wolfish face. He looks dour almost all the time. Like the frown lines and cold apathy have permanently creased it. He’s hunched beneath the shade. Like it sits on his shoulders as a physical weight. He looks up at you as you settle next to him, accepts his glass without fuss or thanks. Which is just fine, with you. You probably shouldn’t be doing this, anyways. He’s an intergalactic criminal. The less time you spend together, the better.

But at the same time… you can’t help but be curious. Curious about the mara which buzzes underneath his skin, yet somehow never breaches it. Curious about what manner of creature he must be to withstand the final stages of Yaoshi’s curse. Curious if there’s any real, lingering emotion beyond the stoicism he treats… well, everything with. 

The two of you sit in silence and sip. You don’t feel any need for artificial conversation. It’s easy to sit down and simply exist next to him. No impulsive need for niceties. 

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

“No. The owner is a client of mine. He lets me stop by here, in between deliveries. It’s convenient.”

A few beats of silence. “How well do you know the man that lives here?”

“As well as I know any other client,” he looks at you expectantly, as though waiting for you to finish that statement. “Which isn’t very well. He’s not here most of the time.”

“You should remain cautious while in his presence,” he says, and you nearly raise a brow at the unsolicited advice. He levels you with his dull, candlewick gaze, as impassive as ever. A leaf flutters from the lowest branches onto his head. “That man draws his power from the source of the mara. He wields it under the guise of a blessing, and yet…” Blade frowns, almost a grimace, and doesn’t say anything else. 

“I know.”

“Yet you take shelter under his roof and exist willingly in his space.” Blade stares at you. There’s a faint bristling in the air. A shuddering of the atmosphere that emerges from him. Thorny tendrils of bitter gold crackle beneath his pale skin. You don’t know exactly what aggrieves him so, but you get the feeling that you should say something to appease him, quickly.

“Well. I don’t know any other rich diplomats willing to offer me a free, mostly empty house to take a break in for… around twenty minutes a day,” you shrug. “It’s convenient.”

That seems to settle him.

“Do you… not like him? The merchant?” Does he even know Luocha’s name? What kind of relationship do these two weirdos have?

“In the strange purgatory of my existence, he acts as both poison and cure.” Blade informs you, as if it tells you really anything. As if sensing your befuddlement, he deflates a little, nose scrunching. He looks like a dour cat, stuck out in the rain. “He wants something from me. I can’t tell what it is. His unseemly fascination means it can be nothing good.” His attempt at elaboration gives you somewhat of a clearer picture, but it’s still some insanity that you’ll have to unpack later.

“I see. I’ll make sure to remember that,” you’re not sure if it’s possible to forget a conversation with Blade. Especially one that lasts more than a few moments. What prompted this? Genuine concern for your well-being? You have a hard time believing that. There are many things that are better off left unsaid, in your experience, so you don’t ask. 

The rest of the visit passes in relative quiet. Blade finishes his lemonade.

You reach over. His gaze snaps to you immediately, a beaten dog evaluating a potential threat.

“You have something in your hair,” you inform him helpfully, plucking the leaf from his sable locks. You curl the stem around your fingers. 

He doesn’t say anything after that. The two of you stand. He murmurs a brief farewell, and is off through the yard, slipping through the ferns to become one with the cast shadows. You’re not sure how long you remain after he leaves. The pond water ripples with each gentle breeze. Glimmering koi bob to the surface, in search of mid-afternoon snacks. When they find none, they dive beneath, water droplets flickering off their lashing tail fins.

Well, you think after another moment, at least you learned something.

Now, it is high time that you tend to the bouquet so generously sent your way. You dump the glasses in the sink, halfheartedly vowing to deal with them later, before taking a closer look at the arrangement of flowers. As you expected, it’s more than a paltry, sentimental gift. Tucked into the plastic wrapping is a small card.

Bladie said you got in quite the mess, the other day. You have my deepest gratitude for handling it so cleanly. He’s not that good at talking things out. He seems to like you, though! I wonder what makes you so special?

P.S. Next Tuesday, please escort Bladie to the address written on the back of this note. Please? Do it for me. :)

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

Though, you don’t fancy yourself much a criminal.  Deliveries are an entirely different beast, simple points of contact which last at most for five minutes. Escorting a known, intergalactic criminal through multiple layers of the Luofu is completely different—something you would never do if anyone besides Kafka asked. You’ll dance to her tune, run her errands if it keeps you off her shitlist. But is there even a point if keeping off of hers just puts you onto someone else’s?

You’ll have some fierce thinking to do after you shake off the six Cloud Knights currently on your tail. You dive between market stalls. You leap over a counter, sending an array of fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the pavement. You ignore the enraged shout of the peddler behind you, pulse thundering in your ears as you weave between the passerby, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates.

The air stings at the corners of your eyes. The marketplace blends together to the point of featurelessness. You don’t know who you pass or what else you know over, too focused on what’s ahead to care about the wreckage left behind. At the very least, it may hamper the Knights as they shout and stomp and rush after you—and Blade, whose fault all this is.

You slide around a corner and into a red-bricked alleyway, lanterns strung between the two rooftops, gold and glittering against that fake, blue sky.

“Dead end.” Blade grunts. You hear the telltale click of his sword being unsheathed.

“No! Just follow me!” you snap, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward, all the way to the end. As you trudge forward, you tap a sequence into the walls on either side. The worn clay surfaces are coarse under your fingertips. None move after you touch them, but you feel a subtle shift in the energy as it rushes down to the focal point. The pattern ends at the back of the alley. You tap a chipped, ragged brick embedded into the dead-end wall. The slabs unfold, layer-by-layer, to form an opening.

You pull him through.

It folds shut behind you, the quiet sound of grinding stone following you through the passage. The hollering and thudding of the pursuit have been silenced. Their chaos of the market sealed away behind the otherwise impenetrable seal. You doubt the low-ranking footmen who chased you will know the way.

Yellow-green vines crawl up the pulsing walls. Luminous particles bob and float in the air like fireflies. The place is silent, leaving you with only the sound of your own panting and Blade—Blade’s rasping, spluttering wheezes.

You stop, right where you are, because you have never heard him make such a sound before. Even after a chase, or a fight. 

The passage opens to a wider tunnel up ahead. You drop Blade’s hand, and turn to look at him. The adrenaline is fading, now leaving room for fresh, common sense. 

Blades hunches up against the wall. The air enters and leaves his lungs in winded, rushed wheezes. His eyes are wide and unseeing. Those candlewick irises dart from the floor, to the place where your hands had been joined, and finally, then, to you. 

A scent, like firewood charred too long, blistering into crumbled charcoal, blooms in and clouds the thin space. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, the vicious pheromones of an alpha at the very end of their tether. Something more, too, something earthen and ancient and charged. A flavor which has graced your palate only once or twice before.

Encroaching mara. You don’t know what he’s like, when his symptoms flare. You’re not eager to find out. The capricious nature of his mara has not once posed a threat to you. But his composure is slipping, his hands curling like claws and flexing. Like he’s getting a feel for his own body. Like the joints are sore and need stretching.

“Blade,” you stumble forward, pressing your palm to the cold, pale pane of his cheek. “Blade, look at me.”

His shaky irises hover awkwardly over your shoulder, before at last meeting your gaze. 

“It approaches,” he rasps, looking as haunted as you have ever seen him.

“Blade, do not let the mara take you.” you take in a deep, steadying breath. The violent pulsing in your ears returns in full force, the unhinged mass of his disease gnawing at your physical form.

Bracing yourself, you reach within. You touch the very bottom of your long neglected wellspring. Harmonic Essence leaps to the surface, warm and loving and so eager to be put to use. It feels like an old coat slipped around your shoulders, a familiarity you wouldn’t dare indulge in under ordinary circumstances. It is a power long wasted on you, but useful this very once. It pulses from underneath your fingertips, washes underneath his pallid skin.

The acrid taste of his mara brashes against the tip of your tongue for a single, fleeting moment. It then skitters backwards. Retreats into the dark, churning void of what you assume to be his subconsciousness. It’s a temporary balancing of the scales, but his wild pulse settles.

You sigh, shoulder slumping in relief. The tension winds out of your body, hand dropping back to your side.

He still looms above you, jet black hair curtaining you in. When did he get so close? Or had it been you in your haste to soothe him? He runs hot as a hearth, the warmth which radiates from him thick enough to feel. This close, you can see his every breath, soft mounds of his chest straining the fastenings which hold his shirt together. Slender stripes of pale skin peek through his chest wrappings. You swallow and look away, up at the strong column of his neck.

“Are you with me?” you murmur. You don’t dare move, lest your retreat trigger the chase instinct which some alphas are known to possess. You don’t like making assumptions. You feel like Blade would be among that number anyways.

“Yes,” Blade’s voice is sandpaper rough. He moves before you do, shouldering past you into the wider tunnel. “You make use of these often, I take it.”

As though nothing had ever happened. Something bitter churns in your gut, but you don’t bring it up. There’s no reason to. He probably wants to distance himself from this episode as quickly as possible. You don’t blame him. The mara must be a humiliating affliction to live and cope with. 

“It’s the fastest way to get around,” you break into a brisk walk, overtaking him. You’re the one who knows your way around, here.

“The mara would rend asunder the minds of anyone not wearing the correct protective gear,” Blade observes. There’s nothing pointed in his voice, but the weight of his gaze makes your skin crawl. Its keen focus is that of an apex predator’s, a beast somehow sated enough to keep his teeth from your throat. How long will that last? Fifteen minutes? An hour? The air here swelters with abundance. His mara must sup on it like a starved prisoner, far stronger and fuller than it could ever be on the surface. 

He could easily match your pace, but he chooses to walk behind you.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I am an abomination of Yaoshi. The abundance has already taken hold of me.” Blade says, grimacing. You toy with the fraying edge of your sleeve between your forefinger and thumb. “All the saturation here does is spur on the symptoms.”

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

“I should be able to resist the pull until we surface. Provided we do not linger overlong.” Blade replies. It does remarkably little to reassure you. 

A predator stalks at your back, one whose sanity may pop like an overfilled balloon at really any moment. Against your better sense, you feel anxiety lash at the bottom of your stomach, guts churning with that primal fear.

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly. 

“It would be in your best interest to focus on finding a way out, rather than back-talking me.” Blade says, and you swallow. 

“Back-talking? I think my frustration is quite justified. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, after all.” you pointedly remind him. The words roll bitter off your tongue. Prickling discomfort coalesces with the saturation of abundance in the air, becoming a consistent buzz against the back of your skull.

Blade makes a ragged little noise, wedged between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Another do I make pay the price. I was not always like this. deathless beast borne of blind ambition and hubris…” he trails off. “I was once a man. Death walked with me as it walked with every other. It was never meant to—to become—”

A distorted warble slowly creeps into his voice. Shit, you just shouldn’t have said anything. The hovering energy coalesces, thin whispers congealing into thick, mist-like mass around him. It’s drawn to him. 

“What’s your favorite food?” you turn on your heel and ask, crossing your arms. He looks down at you, brows furrowing as he roots around for an answer. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Do the mara-struck even have to eat? Blade is a particularly unique case among them, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he even remembers to eat. He is a blade, according to his own words. And a blade doesn’t need to eat. How desolate an existence he must have lived. Must still be living if his own preferences evade him.

“Well. Try to find an answer while I get us out of here.” you command. He’s quiet for the remainder of the trek. You emerge topside and immediately feel several pounds lighter. The air is fresh and sweet, the skies blue and open. You’re two blocks from your apartment in a dark, neglected alleyway. 

“You can find your way back from here,” you sigh, chancing a glance at your companion as you stretch your arms above your head. “Right?”

He’s still quiet. You don’t sense the acrid tang of the illness. He looks thoughtful. You wish he would just give you an answer already. You’re not eager to be chanced upon again by a patrol, or by any other witnesses for that matter. 

“Your question. I don’t have an answer.” Blade says. He sounds almost regretful. 

Over your few interactions, you’ve come to realize that not much bothers him. Very little manages to budge that glacial mien. His demeanor, as you have come to understand, either sits as stoney neutrality or maniacal, giddy rage. The shades between are so very visited.

“It’s no big deal. You can just tell me next time, if you want.” If he even remembers. The idea of turning your back to him still riddles you with unease, but you do it anyway. Your steps are slow and measured. He stares you down until you disappear around the corner, meld into the crowds like just another thread in a blanket.

—

The sky above hangs a pale grey. It’s the threat of a light drizzle rather than a raging storm. You slip through the abundant foliage of Luocha’s front yard, unable but to notice that the shrubs and vibrant blooms have somehow grown in size since your last visit. The greens are hearty, fresh dewdrops glimmering off grass and unfurled leaves.

It’s not difficult to spot him. He’s lounged beneath the sole scarlet maple of the yard. He’s a spot of red himself, swathed in a richly-colored, likely richly-made, robe of it. The fabric pools on the lawn chair he lounges atop of. His eyes are shut, blonde lashes fanning against his perfect cheeks. Those eyes open as you skirt along the jagged stone edge of the pond, manilla envelope clutched in your left hand. He smiles, but does not lift his head. Sumptuous locks of golden blonde fan out behind his head like a halo. The very picture of serenity. 

“Well, well. To what do I owe this visit?” he tilts his head, smiling like a contented cat. You huff, and avoid looking below his neck, where the plush robe parts to reveal the pale soft of his chest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but any sliver of intimacy you may have granted him has long passed. The moment you look down, he’ll notice and impose upon you another outlandish favor.

“Don’t get excited.” You hand him the package, and begin to pull back, but he’s faster. He darts for you like a viper. Long fingers curl around your wrist to hold you in place. The look in his eyes is beseeching. He gently deposits the envelope on the side table next to his seat. He doesn’t look away from you for even a moment. 

“Always so busy… doesn’t it exhaust you?” he murmurs, a sympathetic coo. He’s putting just enough strain on your arm to make standing uncomfortable, in hopes that you’ll sit down beside him. 

“No. I’m used to it. I like being busy,” you bear the ache in your arm with unyielding ease. It is so small and insignificant in comparison to every other you have endured.

“Do you… like being busy, or is it that you’ve never known anything else?” Luocha tilts his head to the side, smiling. Your skin prickles. You resist the urge to swallow. 

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m not making one. You go to awfully desperate lengths to not be known, Courier.”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, and his eyes gleam. “Don’t be coy with me. Did you talk to them?” You ask. The question has lingered on your mind for weeks, leaving you restless and more unkind than usual. The persistent threat of him is always at the back of your mind, represented in the throbbing between your temples, in the harshness of your voice as you snap at someone who might not deserve it. There’s no sense in beating around the bush, anymore. Not if you want to preserve your sanity.

“How very vague, for someone who just accused me of being coy. Be at ease, I haven’t had any contact with The Family. Merely some… particularly useful informants who have heard a thing or two. Hunches based on speculation that you’ve proven by being cagey.” Luocha assures you.

“...So, what do you want from me?”

“Merely conversation. I do find our interactions so compelling, however short they may be.”

“Being blackmailed doesn’t put me in the mood for conversation. There’s not much for us to talk about.”

“I beg to differ. I know so very little about you, despite all we’ve shared. I’m curious—what set you on the path of Harmony?” 

“...” You look away, internally evaluating the pros and cons of going along with his little game. “Peace. She promised us peace. Because that’s what Harmony was supposed to be.” His eyes soften. The indignation sizzling inside of you sparks into a raw flame (he has no right to look at you like that), but you smother it. 

“Did it live up to your expectations?” he asks. His thumb rubs circles against the hollow of your wrist. His gaze sweeps from your face, down your arm, to where he’s still got you. He’s waiting for you to be vulnerable, you just know it. A shark that smells blood in the water, circling and searching for tender flesh to lay its rows of teeth into. How does he imagine it will taste? Soft and meaty, melting underneath teeth and tongue? Layers of skin peeled back and pried open, made thin by older slices?

“It didn’t work out.” you reply. sagacious enough to play along only minimally. When you elaborate no further, he releases you with a smile.

“How interesting,” he hums. He reclines further, eyes fluttering shut. You could pounce on him so easily, like this. You could fix your teeth into his jugular and make it so he never threatens you again. The blood would be so warm in your mouth. His skin would be so sweet.

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

The fluttering of wings erupts in the canopy above you, a flock of songbirds taking an afternoon flight. He cracks open his eyes, then. He tracks some sort of movement (you aren’t looking up), idle, like you aren’t even there. He tilts his head to the side, the slender column of his neck completely exposed. The robe slips off of his shoulders, curvature of his collarbones and soft expanse of his chest open for your viewing pleasure. You’re annoyed.

 “I’ve held you long enough,” he sighs. “Thank you for sharing. Though, I do hope we can manage a longer conversation next time.”

“We’ll see,” you just barely keep a sigh out of your voice as you turn to leave, speed-walking up the grassy slope.

—

“That old man’s damn cat has been coming into the yard and bothering all the birds,” you grumble, squinting into the aforementioned patch of forest. 

Blade makes a noncommittal noise, indicating that he’s heard you.

“It pisses me off.”

“You care about the birds in someone else’s yard.” Blade observes. You frown deeper.

“It’s annoying. Cats are an invasive species, here. They slaughter all of the native wildlife—and sometimes they don’t even eat what they kill,” you sigh, tampering down your rising agitation. If you’ve learned one thing in your short and storied life, it’s that being impassioned isn’t good for you. 

“So, how would you suggest the problem be solved? If the owner insists on letting it out…”

“I don’t really live here, so it’s not like I have any right to get involved,” you shrug, “It’s just… if you’re gonna be that irresponsible with an animal, you don’t deserve to have it. You know?”

Blade makes another noise. Closer to a hum, this time. You don’t know if he knows or not. But you do know that he’s listening. You stare into the yard, and in your periphery you can see him staring at you.

—

You see Blade more in the coming days. Despite your best attempts, a routine slips into being, like weeds through cracks in the cement. Silver Wolf doesn’t show up to accept her own packages nearly as much, anymore. It’s almost always Blade. You see him so often that you question if he even has a job anymore.

He glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He says, low voice almost lost amongst the bustle of the crowd. The markets are especially full today. Nestled in the crook of your elbow is a plastic shopping basket, loaded with some bread, some spices, and some vegetables. The stall you’re at rests beneath a red tarp, casts warm shadows onto his pale, bone-weary skin. “There are currently no tasks which command my presence at the moment.”

“Well. It’s good to have time off, but you don’t need to follow me around.”

“...” he doesn’t reply, but he does follow you all the way up to the counter. You can’t tell if he doesn’t understand the nuance, or if he’s just being bizarre and stubborn. Regardless, tailing you like a lost puppy seems to alleviate his boredom. To each their own.

“If you’re just going to walk behind me, can you—” you shift the basket from the crook of your arm, preparing to offer it. He snatches it from you before you can even finish speaking. 

“...Thanks.” 

He takes his newfound job as the basket carrier very seriously. His dour face doesn't budge an inch as you peruse the rest of the wares, plucking a few items from open crates and wooden shelves to add to the bundle. 

“So, see anything that piques your interest?” you’re not sure what prompts you to speak up. You should get through this as silently and as quickly as possible. The less time you spend in public with this man, the better. The presence of the Cloud Knights isn’t nearly as felt on this level, making it as safe a haven for criminals as can be. You suspect, sometimes, that it’s purposeful. In your many travels, you have come to realize that the criminal class is a valuable part of any economy, no matter how much those at the top may protest it. Those who disavow it the most fervently are usually the most involved, under the table.

Blade doesn’t respond, at first. His crimson gaze glances over the nearby shelves. He grabs a bottle of cloves and presents it to you, completely straight-faced.

You get the overwhelming sense he’s appeasing you more than anything.

“...Yeah,” you pluck it from his hand and halfheartedly eye the label. It’s hard to muster the energy to argue with him, especially when he looks so resolute. The fact that he’s continuing to tail you through the market is cause enough to ignore him. You drop the bottle into your basket and move on.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passes in peaceful silence. You can feel Blade’s gaze, unreadable, lingering on your form as you pull your wallet out of one of your many pockets. The shopkeep, a sprightly young man with a head of bouncy, brown hair beams at the sight of you. You don’t remember his name, but you’re familiar with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts his mouth tight before he can get a word out.

He glances over your shoulder. You swivel just barely to look at your stubborn shadow. Blade looms closer than you remember him being, leaving you with an up close and personal view of his chest. You tsk and look up at his face. 

“Can you get a bottle of white cardamom for me? It should be with the rest of the spices.”

Blade looks at you, and looks at the shopkeep. He is silent. The lines of his face are harsher than usual, burdened with deeper shadow. For a few, agonizing moments, you fear he may object, but he turns almost robotically and walks off. You’re not sure what’s upset him this time. You don’t particularly care. If you troubled yourself with the qualms of every pouting client, you’d be just as miserable as you were with The Family.

“Thanks. I could hardly get a word out while he was giving me those evil eyes,” the shopkeep says, shuddering.

“I guess his manners still need work,” Not that men in his line of work really needed any. 

“Alphas that smell that strong and don’t even try to put a lid on it are the worst,” he gripes, bagging your produce with nimble hands, before pausing and looking back up at you. He wrings his hands, contrite and sheepish. “—er, no offense.” 

“He smells strong?” you tilt your head to the side.

“Well, yeah. He’s all over you,” the man blinks. Some of his bangs fall over his big, brown eyes. He swipes them behind his ear thoughtlessly. “You guys just get together? He’s probably trying to flaunt it. Stake his ‘claim’, y’know?” he says with a sympathetic roll of the eyes.

You don’t particularly care what he says about Blade. A man able to lift a three-thousand pound sword doesn’t need defending.  It’s his misconceptions about your relationship that irks you, for some reason. You don’t care about the opinions of others (you try not to care about the opinions of others) but you can’t resist the sudden urge to correct him.

“We’re not together.”

“Oh,” he blinks at you. “Does he know that?”

“Ugh. Enough. It’s none of your business.” your lips twist, a sliver of teeth exposed in your displeasure.

The shopkeep nods and beams at you, all previous curiosity wiped clean off his face. “Heard loud and clear!”

He finishes ringing you up and sees you off with a “have a nice day~!”. Blade follows you to your next stop, a stall that sells fresh fruits. 

The frustration builds within you slowly. It’s a candlewick of a thing, at first. Blade is following you around. Irritating, but you can cope with it. He would leave if he was asked. Maybe Kafka told him to stick around for a while. She’s gotten into a bad habit of pawning him off on you, like he’s a child that needs watching rather than one of the universe’s most efficient killing machines. That’s fine. You’re not keen to get on her bad side.

Blade is scenting you. He’s sticking to you tight as a cobweb and giving dirty looks to people you talk to. That, you cannot abide by. It takes you at least five minutes to simmer, from the crate of apples to the lefternmost all of the stall to the bundle of leeks close to its middle. You’re not really looking at anything. Lost in thought.

“I am not an omega for you to covet. I don’t need your protection,” you tell him, letting your gaze idly roam over the prices. They’re written on fancy little labels with red accents, each one neatly stickered just below the lip of each crate. 

“I never said you did,” Blade replies after a moment of deliberating. You look over a crate of cantaloupe. Selecting a ripe one is a practiced art.

“You didn’t have to,” you pause, melon held in your hands as you give him a scathing look. “Control your pheromones. You’re not an animal.”

“No. Worse, I am a blade.” he sighs, suddenly sounding unusually surly. Your lips twitch in the barest beginnings of a frown. 

“Not an excuse,” you helpfully remind him. A shadow is cast over his face, then, dark and brooding. The space between his brows wrinkles, an uncertainty you haven’t quite seen from him before. There’s so little need to deliberate in a life like his own, so what troubles him now? It nettles something in you, makes you feel in a way that you don’t care to name and don’t want to look into. You deliberate asking, but he makes the choice for you.

“I will leave you, now.” When you turn to look at him, he’s already walked away from your side, strides longer than usual. He dissolves into the crowd like a sunset shadow, naught left in his wake but the scent you know still clings to your clothes. 

—

“My, my. You rarely ever visit at this hour,” Luocha says, giving you one of those mirthful smiles where his eyes scrunch, unabashedly delighted (and undeniably smug) to see you. He lounges on the ottoman, slender fingers parting the pages of a furniture catalogue. “To what do I owe the honor?”’ He’s already deduced that you want something from him. You take no excessive pride in your poker face but it still pains you to be so easily read. Luocha stands apart from the crowd with his soft hands and feigned delicacy, but he smells blood in the water just as easily as any other follower of the Hunt.

“I just wanted to talk,” you see no reason to dance around it.

“You came all this way for a conversation?” He rests his chin on the palm of his hand in a haughty way that pisses you off.

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?” you grouse, and he laughs.

“I’m flattered, regardless. Come, sit and tell me all that is on your mind.” he beckons to a seat at his side, which you stiffly sink into, unable to relax beneath his hunter’s gaze.

“You’re an omega—”

“Yes, quite,” his smile is now coquettish. You feel your face wrinkle in annoyance, line of your brows dipping low. 

“I wasn’t done. You know more about secondary genders than I do—and I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with, so…”

“I appreciate you confiding in me like this,” Luocha says, sweet as honey, timbre smooth as silk. There’s an ease about him here, in his own domain, that soothes and disarms you despite your best efforts. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to ask, so unused to relying on anyone else. I’m no professional, but I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

He steeples his fingers with a smile, way too delighted for you to feel good about his generosity. He just likes knowing something you don’t, doesn’t he?

“Well. I’ve been spending time with an alpha, lately. It’s a work thing, but he keeps hovering around. Even after I tell him he can leave.”

“Ah.” Luocha says. The corners of his smile grow taut with something you don’t quite recognize. 

And it’s a question you suddenly have to wonder for yourself. Is Blade bothering you? You can count on one hand the amount of times you have been genuinely upset with him. He’s quiet, most of the time. He answers your questions and attempts to appease you whenever possible. He carries your bags whenever you happen to be at the markets, together. Even if you really wish he wouldn’t, you can tell he’s trying to be kind. 

“He hardly speaks. And when I does, I don’t really mind. But he hovers and keeps grabbing my shopping bags whenever we’re at the markets. I don’t get it. Is it some sort of courting gesture?”

“He certainly sounds like a character,” Luocha muses, sounding far off for a moment. “You have the right idea. He’s carrying your things to both lessen your burden and to prove himself capable, even if he himself does not realize it.”

You grimace, face twisting up, The truth has an acerbic tang to it. Luocha laughs unabashedly at your dismay, the sound melodic and trilling. The longer you spend in his presence, the more convinced you become that the Aeons crafted him specifically to vex you. You give him a scathing look.

“Come, now,” Luocha wheedles. “My humblest apologies, Courier—it’s simply so rare for you to be so expressive. I was caught off guard. Shall I get you something to drink? Come, please, sit back down. Surely you have more to ask of me?”

Reluctantly, you drop into the armchair closest to the door, leaning back as far as you have the space for, You fold your fingers together, elbows perched on an arm rest each.

“I don’t envy you. It must be difficult to bear the attentions of such a peculiar alpha,” Luocha says.

“You know him, then.” You can’t keep the accusation from your voice, something frenetic and ugly kicking up your pulse, making your stomach go sour. How deeply do they know each other? Enough for Luocha to consider spilling your secrets? Enough for them to conspire against your purposes unknown?

No, don't be ridiculous. You're not important enough a figure to be the center of any such elaborate scheme. Weak, as far as emanators go. Painfully average, even as far as betas go. Unremarkable in status and career. All that threatens you is what you have long left behind.

“I do know him. Quite well, in fact.” Luocha muses, undisputed fondness in his voice. How close are they? The question lingers bitter on the tip of your tongue. It vibrates underneath your skin, wild and desperate and gods, you want to know so badly.  “Though he may deny it, he can be shy. You’re alike, in that way.”

“I am not shy,” you bristle. It’s your curiosity alone that keeps you in his company. 

“An argument best saved for another day. Let’s not get off track—Blade is an alpha, but he bears few of the typical mannerisms associated with his secondary gender, which makes this newfound attachment to you all the more significant.”

Progressively, throughout your conversation, you’ve been able to feel the wrinkles on your face multiplying and darkening.

“It makes sense, if you ask me. You’re quite the extraordinary individual,” Luocha says, drumming his fingers idly against the armrest.

“So how do I get him to stop?” you brush past his superfluous flattery with practiced indifference. He wants to fluster you, to see you squirm. It’s one of the ugly truths behind the chivalrous front he wears in polite company.

“Are you sure you want him to stop?” he inquires.

“What are you getting at?”

“If you truly wanted to no longer be the object of these behaviors, you would have no problem telling him yourself.”

You laugh, and it’s a cold and bitter thing. “Not all men take rejection well.”

“As I well know,” Luocha reminds you. He’s so haughty, so utterly confident that sometimes you forget he’s an omega, a demographic as subject to unwanted advances as any you are a part of. He stands up, empty glass cradled in hand. The sheer material of his robe billows around him like fine mist, treating you to the outline of his smooth, toned legs. Blade is more built, the thought comes to you unbidden. You squish it like the raspberries you juiced only a week ago on Luocha's kitchen counter. You wonder if the stains ever came out.

“Objectively speaking, you have more of a reason to hold your tongue around me than you do him. Yet, you hardly hesitate to make your displeasure known in my company,” he points out. “It’s not because of my secondary sex. You hardly ever remember that I’m an omega, unless my heat is soon.”

“And your point is?”

He seizes your chin, then tilts your head up until you’re forced to look into those grass green eyes. Cradled between his forefinger and thumb, you are left with nowhere else to go. You wonder briefly if it thrills him to do this because he is an omega. If he finds some kind of perverse pleasure in subverting the roles society espouses about his kind.

“You could have told him off on your own. Instead, you went out of your way to consult someone you deeply dislike, looking for another, less direct way of handling it. All of that implies some degree of care, whether you want to admit it or not.”

He’s right, and you hate nothing more than when he’s right.

“Thank you for your time,” you dip back into your customer service with a placid and empty drone, because you know how much he hates it. You say it to his chest, refusing to give him the eye contact. Unwilling to expend the effort. For plausible deniability, because you don’t know what you’ll find on his face. The air has grown balmy and cloying and fragrant. You stand up, and he steps backwards. “But I must be going, now.”

“How unfortunate,” Luocha coos as you awkwardly find your way around him, having been sandwiched between his body and the coffee table. “I was going to put the kettle on…”

—

The shroud of night has settled over the Luofu. A crescent moon winks down at you from the artificial sky, peering between the treetops. You’re laid on your back, on the concrete patio near the shed. 

Footsteps head in your direction. You already know who it is. There’s no one else that has that blistering, writhing aura. Blade comes to stand over you. His brows wrinkle in displeasure. You don’t know why. It’s not his patio that you’ve gotten your blood all over.

“You’re injured,” he says, frowning. He crouches over you. A pale thumb smears the drying crimson on your upper lip. Your entire face scrunches up, gnarled like a gargoyle, recoiling from the unexpected touch.

“Nosebleed,” you mutter. The space behind your eyes throbs in protest, accompanied by a fierce pressure at the bridge of your nose. All typical symptoms. The gifts bestowed upon you as Emanator unfortunately do not shield you from your allergies. To think, an Emanator could still be laid low by something as mundane as allergies. 

“Who gave it to you?” Blade looms a little closer, gaze steely.

“No one. Sometimes my allergies act up. That’s all.” you assure him, squinting irritably. You hope your judgmental flower will shame him out of your personal space, but he lingers.

“You should remain indoors, then.” he draws. He lifts his bloodied hand and looks at it, too contemplative for your liking. 

“I take medication for it. Just forgot today,” it feels wrong to justify yourself. He isn't owed an answer, but this is a rare moment. Blade showing such outright concern over something so novel is interesting (a more sentimental person might call it touching). Has his immortality rendered him incapable of distinguishing a few pesky allergies from a deadly ammonia? You can’t imagine someone so riddled with regeneration to register the difference between a gaping gash and a papercut. 

“Then remember to take them.” he advises coolly. 

“I will.”

You lay there, then, in silence unperturbed for a few moments. The hard ground is cool against your back. It’ll fix your aching spine, you’re sure. 

“Are you not going to get up?” Blade asks.

“No. It feels nice to be on the floor, sometimes.” you assure him quickly, lest he assume your nosebleed has robbed you of all mobility. He stares at you, blank-faced, but you somehow can tell he is skeptical. You pat the space next to you, a silent offering.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it. This rare creature, crackling with the energy of his divine “gift”. You don’t indulge in typical sentiments, and you spurn love and limerence for your own sanity, due to the madness you have seen both inspire. To adore is to give of yourself, to exhaust what limited energy you have left. Yet, there is no arguing the fact of his beauty. His hair pools like fresh slick pitch. Faint moonlight catches on the sable strands. His jaw cuts a sharp and handsome shape, eyelashes long and thick. He stares up at the sky, unreadable. 

“Kafka has no need of me in the coming days.” “It is… strange. The Stellaron Hunters are few in number, so our hands are always full. To be bereft of any responsibility… is rare.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“No. It will leave me restless. And the silence will only give the mara room to spread. It’s better—more manageable when there is a task at hand.” Blade admits, a shiver in his voice.

“I do. I believe you are familiar with the place,” he says. That catches your attention. And makes you just a little nervous. 

“Do you even have anywhere to stay?” The Stellaron Hunters surely have a vessel of their own where he can lodge. You’re ultimately not too concerned. You shut your eyes and listen to the midnight breeze, feel the black of the night against your skin.

You turn to look at him, almost afraid to ask. “Familiar?”

“The merchant has opened his home to me. I will remain there for the duration of my… off time.”

Again, you are sorely tempted to question the exact nature and origin of their relationship, but it’s truly none of your business. You’ve long espoused a policy of isolation, but there’s no denying how thoroughly entangled you have become in them. Elbows deep. You’re not quite sure how it happened. They’re infiltrated your monotonous life, moved in so slowly that you didn’t even notice until this very moment. 

“Well. He’s not there most of the time, so it’ll be like having your own place,” You can’t imagine Blade as a homeowner, for some reason. It just invokes the image of him mowing a lawn in khaki shorts with that same, placid face he always wears. He’s too ethereal and strange to trim the hedges or fix a leaky faucet. Sometimes, you think he’d look more in-place if he levitated instead of just walking everywhere.

“I had lemonade the other day,” he says, and this fascinates you, because it is so very rare for him to initiate conversation about something so little.

“...And? Did you like it?” Perhaps it’s petty, but you already have a feeling that he didn’t. You hate to presume, but you think you have similar palettes. 

“...It was too sweet, and burdened by a lingering, chemical taste,” he confirms your vague conjecture and you very nearly laugh. Or make some sort of short, wry noise like a horse’s snort.

“Yeah. Ones that aren’t made from scratch tend to be like that.”

“And that is why you make your own.” 

“Exactly,” you lift your gaze from him and return it to the sky. “When you make something from scratch, you can make however you like. Ones you buy pre-bottled have too much sugar.” He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing else.

The twinkling stars are no more authentic than the clouds which hover during the day. But you wonder how many far off stars he has visited across the span of his long un-life. How many civilizations he has seen toppled, how many lives have ended at his hands. What a terrifying beast Yaoshi has created. Yet, here he lay beneath a sky he has likely long tired of, humoring your purposeless requests for reasons unknown.

—

You’re tucked on the steps off the side door, head leaned back and eyes shut, drinking in the warmth of the artificial midday sun. Blade leans up against the wall next to you, arms crossed. You don’t blame him for staying in the shade, not when he’s always dressed so darkly.

You shouldn’t show your stomach to a known apex predator. Your instincts are tampered down, but you still curl your spine and lift your knees to your chest when you usually it on the stoop. You haven’t done it, today. Anxiety thrums in the space right behind your eyes. The scared animal inside of you writhes in his presence. You look at him, gaze by happenstance falling on the profile of his chest.

Breasts, you think stupidly, and laugh aloud. The noise is so sudden that you almost don’t realize it came from you. Blade looks down at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you're still too caught up in your own disbelief. Spending so much time with him has softened your skill, started to fry your remaining brain cells. He’s always been handsome. But you’ve started to too keenly note the bow curve of his lips, the narrowness of his waist.

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

“What is it that you find so amusing?” Blade speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a scared dog or a lost child.

“Nothing,” you shut your eyes and tilt your head back, letting it thump against the top step. Blade inhales sharply. “Just remembered a stupid joke I heard a few days ago.” When you open your eyes, Blade has turned away, inspecting a row of gladiolus planted next to the nearby shed. The line of his shoulders has gone tense.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

“No. I delivered the seeds. Only a week ago, I think. They wouldn’t have been able to sprout this fast.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Blade skates a finger over a bright orange petal. “That merchant utilizes his gift so shamelessly. Even while at the heart of his natural born enemy.”

“And it’ll all be for nothing if that damn cat comes and eats them,” you grunt. You’ev stumbled upon torn up patches of grass and bitten through flower patches, stems snapped and petals crushed. You briefly, in one of your pettiest and cruelest moments, nearly suggested Luocha plant lilies next. The callousness of your own thought had startled you into silence, so gladiolus it was.

“Ah. About the cat,” Blade begins. You blink, wide-eyed. A cold pit forms in your stomach, because—

“You didn’t,” you gape.

“I did not kill it,” Blade says sourly, clearly affronted by the assumption. “I brought it to Kafka. They seem to get along.”

The tension melts out of you at once. Your petty grudge isn’t worth the blood of an innocent animal. You let yourself fall back against the stoop. The edges of the stairs dig into your spine. 

“That makes sense,” you say, a touch wry.

Blade grimaces. “They send me images of the little beast every day I am not there. If Silver Wolf is to be believed, it ‘eats better’ than she does.”

Does Silver Wolf eat well to begin with? “That was kind of you,” you say instead. 

“Was it? Or was it cruel to the man who will wonder where his pet has gone?” Blade inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the possibility. 

You scoff. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

—

You are natant in the dull haze of half-sleep. The soft scent of camelias and fabric softener and linens. A cloying warmth cocoons you, keeps you mired in a state of partial sleep. Burrowed beneath the comfort exists a nagging feeling of wrongness, like a pebble in your boot. You cling to the sensation, let it pull you from the inky, peaceful depths. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to breach the surface. It feels like ages by the time you pry your weary eyes open.

There’s a body crushed into you. An unyielding, solid mass of muscle. The scent of something charred wreathes around you. Your cheek is pressed up against a heartbeat, steady and strong. It would be comforting if you knew where you were, or who you were with.

Alarm, molten hot, jots down your spine. Shaken from your stupor, you begin to writhe. Your palms slap against the chest of the man beneath you. You brace yourself against him in an effort to pry yourself free.

An arm around your midriff tightens, and the panic grows. You lash out, snarl, a hand reaching behind you to grab onto the assailant’s wrist.

The room blurs, then. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re reoriented and pinned with minimal effort. Your eyes blow wide, gaze caught by those candlewick eyes. Blade’s hair is mussed from both sleep and the struggle. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Your gut squirms at the flash of those deadly canines—sharper than you’d imagined (he’s never bared his teeth at you).

“Stop,” he commands, low and throaty. You shudder, foolish hindbrain moved to obey the order. This, you realize, is what an alpha’s command must sound like.

As you lay beneath him, chest to heaving chest, the pieces of the previous night return to you in fragments and shades.

Blade came to your door at dusk’s end. The shuttles had shut down for the night. You let him in, quickly, before anyone could witness a known fucking criminal at your door. You fed him dinner, anyways. Spoke late into the night—about what you cannot truly recall. Somewhere around three in the morning, you must have nodded off. 

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

“Yes,” you grumble, feeling thoroughly chastised despite his flat and empty tone. You attempt to dislodge yourself a second time, but Blade stops you fast. “Blade—” The beginning of a feeling you cannot quite name crawls up your spine, up the back of your skull. It’s a creeping, white hot sensation. A sudden deprivation of air. His eyes have closed. You feel your pulse spike. “Blade.” You try again. “Let me up.”

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“What is there for me to understand?” you ask, voice a tepid little thing. He laughs. The sound is manic and bitter. When he opens his eyes, they’re hot enough to burn a hole in you.

“I… remember you,” he begins slowly. There’s a creeping breathiness there, you feel it under your palms, writhing inside of his ribcage. “When you are not there. I remember how warm your hands are, the smell of your sweat—the taste of when we are… together. And I crave it every moment we are apart. It’s—maddening.”

“What.” you’re taken back, all the sudden, to the sixth time Sunday called you to his office. A servant of the Harmony, you were, still protected by your naivete, still convinced by the smiling faces and open arms which surrounded you. A child. A seed, among the older and wiser trees in Xipe’s forests. 

You remember the exact shape of his lips when he said it—you remember how it felt. You feel the same way now, pinned like a little butterfly. Lost in the reeds.

“I remember you,” Blade continues, slower and calmer, now. Burning wood to dead charcoal. “When we are apart, you are all I remember, and the emptiness that exists in your shape is too much to bear. I need—” he licks his lips, his empty pupils blown so very wide.

“The mara becomes quiet, when we are together,” he whispers, like he’s sharing a secret. His eyes close. His forehead is a wide rash of heat, pressed against yours. He takes a single, shuddering inhale, breathing your air. 

And you—you’re still frozen there, caught up in the vice of his body and the couch. You stare emptily beyond him. His face settles into the crook of your neck. 

The lamplight flickers on and off. 

[tangerinelovez]

mtl: txt asking for your meal to be remade when made incorrectly at a restaurant

pairing: txt x female-implied reader with dietary restrictions (they've been dating for six months) tw; food allergies, veganism, confrontation, uncomfortable social experience, social anxiety........ also I didn't proofread this so that's a warning itself word count: 2394 disclaimer: This is all fictional and just for entertainment purposes. This is not based on any fact and is just my own interpretations of how I think the members would act if their girlfriend's order was wrong at a restaurant and they had some kind of dietary restriction. note: I did make my decisions based on a combination of factors. I think some members would be very sympathetic about your order being wrong, but may be uncomfortable expressing your concerns to the waiter, leaving you to be the one to voice your dissatisfaction with your meal. On the other hand, some members may be more willing to speak up on your behalf, but may not fully offer the emotional support you may be looking for in this situation.

MOST

Yeonjun -> you can always count on him to speak up for you when your meal isn't right... but you will have to explain to him what's wrong with it

you have been a vegan by choice for a few years, and by this point, you had gotten pretty used to great service and creative food options when going out. Not to mention, you had been pleased to find that being vegan hadn’t deterred nearly as many guys from dating you as everyone had made it sound.

to make a long story short, it had been a while since you’d been faced with a vegan’s worst nightmare: an inedible pool of steaming hot vegan cheese falling off the edge of your pizza slice in rivulets while on a rare night out with your boyfriend. on the bright side, he would be quick to fix the issue, hating to see you so sad and disappointed with your meal while he's enjoying his own so much. he'd drop his own slice of pizza, and his brows would furrow as you explain why your vegan pizza was not made correctly, and he'd nod attentively, eyes wide as he listens. he'd reassure you that he'd handle it for you and then flag down the waiter, politely explaining why your pizza isn't correct as it appeared to be drowning in a river of non-dairy cheese instead of the typical sprinkle you'd come to expect when eating at this restaurant. when the second pizza comes out, he'd study it and your face closely, and lean in and assertively ask if he needs to go talk to the kitchen himself, or if it looks right for you this time. part of you wonders how he can't seem to fully recognize this pizza looks entirely different than the first one that had been swimming in rivulets of cheese, but he's so cute and concerned, you hold down your urge to point out just how different the two pizzas look from each other.

when you smile and reassure him the dough looks cooked thoroughly and there's an appropriate amount of vegan cheese and the correct toppings, he'd let out a big sigh of relief and pick up his own forgotten slice, saying he doesn't mind eating his pizza cold as long as it means he can share a nice meal with you and shooting you a wink as he takes a bite. a bizarre expression crosses his face suddenly, prompting you to ask what is it before he says we're getting ice cream after this right? and you nod, loving how his mind is always on food, even when eating.

let me look up the best vegan ice cream around here then... he says, pulling out his samsung as he wipes his face.

you're always eating some fruit pop at the place we normally go to, and I know you say you like it... but you deserve ice cream tonight. you laugh, finding it amusing how he seems to be more impacted by all of this than you are, but smile as you eat your well-crafted pizza, feeling lucky to have found a man who is eager to keep you fed and happy. Taehyun -> your attentive and observant boyfriend will always do what it takes to make you happy, even if he doesn't fully get the "vegan" thing as soon as your order hit the table, terry noticed that your face didn't light up as it normally does when the two of you go out for tacos. why the long face baby? he'd say, leaning in over the booth. you'd hesitate, feeling a little apprehensive about bringing up your concerns. You don't really like inconveniencing others over your dietary restrictions, and try to not make a big deal of them.

as you tell terry your order is wrong and why, he nods in understanding, but hesitates before saying baby... can't you just eat it this one time? I just don't get why you wont have the real thing sometimes... it's much healthier than that fake meat...

you sigh, shaking your head slightly, a slightly amused smile on your face. your gym bro boyfriend still maintained a slight skepticism towards your diet even after all these months of dating. you know i'm vegan for reasons other than just health reasons, terry.

he nods and reaches for your hand across the table, an earnest look in his eyes. you know I don't mind that you're vegan, (y/n). let me ask them for your fake meat and fake cheese tacos.

he raises his free hand to signal the waiter back over, and calmly explains that you need the tacos remade without dairy and with the vegan meat crumbles. he smiles widely as the waiter apologizes and offers to discount your bill, apologizing profusely for the mistake.

when the remade tacos arrive, terry inspects them heavily, even offering to take a bite to ensure it's not real meat and cheese on these, as well. you can feel yourself fall in love even more when his eyes widen in amazement after he takes a bite and says, it's definitely vegan, but wow, it's good... maybe next time you can convince him to share some vegan appetizers and entrees. Beomgyu -> he teases. a lot. but at the end of the day, he would do anything for you if you really needed him to yeah I mean they definitely have a couple options for you here, right? your boyfriend of six months had asked on the way to the ramen restaurant he had recently taken a liking to. you had bitten your lip, unsure if your dietary restrictions would really be accommodated here. due to some health reasons, you were unable to eat gluten or dairy. taking into account your other allergies, it could often make eating somewhere feel impossible. now that the steaming bowl was in front of you, it was clear that your concerns had been valid. you watch beomgyu carefully eat some of his own ramen for a few seconds before sighing softly, prompting him to look up from his bowl and to your blank expression and untouched food. Is something wrong with yours? he asks after swallowing his soup. you nod, feeling a bit embarrassed. it had been a really long day, and you had just wanted to eat something that sounded good without worrying about all of your restrictions and allergies, but now that it was in front of you, and you could see just how much gluten, soy, and sesame was in the ramen, you knew you could not eat it.

he quirks his brow. ah, is today a day you spontaneously care about your diet again?

you feel heat rush into your face, knowing he's just kidding, but feeling embarrassed and not wanting to be an inconvenience all the same. hey, i didn't realize they'd put so many huge chunks of tofu in here... It didn't list tofu as an ingredient in here... and there's so much soy sauce already in the broth... not to mention, sesame seeds randomly in here...

you move your spoon around sadly, not feeling like making a scene at the small family-owned ramen restaurant. I'm pretty sure my noodles aren't gluten-free either... you sigh. I can't eat this, gyu. he looks up from his meal to look at you and your bowl again. ok... he says, looking over to the kitchen before looking at you again. do you want a new one or something?

you look down with a slight shrug.

he looks at you blankly for a few seconds as he stirs his ramen before saying ...do you want me to tell them you need a new one?

you sheepishly nod and he scoffs. alright, i'll tell them my girlfriend decided to take her allergies seriously today, and to please take that into account when remaking the bowl.

he raises a hand and furiously waves it around to get your waiter's attention.

anything for you, you big old karen. i'll make sure you get the best gluten-free, soy-free, everything-good-free ramen they have here. and maybe even get us a discount! he loves to be dramatic... but at the end of the day, he will always step up when it really matters to you.

Soobin -> he loves making you vegan food at home, but can get a bit embarrassed in restaurants soobin loved to cook for you at home or take you to familiar restaurants, but sometimes, for special occasions, he would try to take you somewhere new and exciting that seemed to be getting good reviews as a date night spot online. normally, he would double and triple check to ensure there were vegan options, or at the very least, vegetarian options that could be made vegan, but he had told you tonight's restaurant was a bit of a gamble... and the overly cheesy burger in front of you seemed to be indicating a loss. are you sure you can't just... eat around it? soobin's wide eyes stare into yours as he makes the suggestion.

I mean, it's baked in... you take the bun off of your burger to show your boyfriend how the veggie burger appears to have real cheese and breadcrumbs baked into the patty.

both food items you could not have as a vegan. I mean... the waiter wrote down no cheese or breadcrumbs on this veggie burger. i'm sure it's just vegan cheese... he says, looking down at his own burger with a quick glance before looking back up at you.

just eat your burger, soobin. you say with a smile, not wanting him to go hungry just because you can't eat your meal. he shakes his head quickly, taking a sip of his cola. no, no... it doesn't feel right for you to just sit and watch me eat... you smile as you see his ears start to get a bit red. you look at him reassuringly with a smile. soob, come on. it's fine. i'll just ask them for a new one. you move to raise your hand, getting ready to deal with the awkward confrontation with the waiter before soobin puts his hand on top of yours.

no... we're out tonight to celebrate six months of you being my girlfriend. I... I can ask them to remake this burger but without the cheese or breadcrumbs like they said they could do for you. besides... I know how stressed you've been with your semester starting.

your heart skips a beat as soobin takes a deep breath and raises his hand, a tight-lipped smile on his face as he looks around the restaurant for your waiter. you really didn't mind speaking up for yourself, it was part of being a vegan, but it really warmed your heart to see soobin doing something for you even though it made him uncomfortable.

and when he quietly and politely explained the error to the waiter, you couldn't help but be endeared by his good manners and appreciation not only for you, but for service workers.

the waiter apologized profusely for bringing a vegetarian burger instead of vegan burger to the table, heavily discounted your meal, and even offered a complimentary dessert. to which soobin inquired, are any of your desserts dairy-free?

when the answer was no, he smiled cheekily and said the two of you were fine on desserts then, which confused you until a few hours later, when you entered his apartment and noticed a table full of intricately-decorated cookies, that he assures you are vegan.

your mouth can't help but fall open in shock over the pile of handmade cookies to which soobin cheekily says, why are you so surprised? his sudden confidence charming you even more. Kai -> he feels terribly that you can't eat your meal... but the best he can do is offer emotional support and advice when your pita comes out to the table in a tray with checkered paper, it is just filled to the brim with olives. though you're not one of those people who is super picky, you have to admit you've always had a massive aversion to olives.

though you'd normally just opt to pick the olives out of the pita, there are so many throughout it, in addition to pepperoncini and copious amounts of greek dressing... in all honesty, the whole pita just has to go. it's so soggy and poorly wrapped, you really don't know how you'd even manage to eat it. you look across the table to your boyfriend, shocked to find he is nearly done with his own pita. you watch him eat for a few seconds, amused by how absorbed he is in the flavors of the pita, before he finally fishes his and almost seems to come back to earth, looking at you with a stunned expression. (y/n), is something wrong? does your stomach hurt? you shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed over the fact you can't just suck it up and eat the soggy and overloaded-with-olives pita.

oh... it's just... this is really soggy. i'm not even sure I could pick it up without it falling apart. and it's filled with olives. he sucks his teeth, soft eyes looking at you with concern. oh no! maybe you can just use a fork and knife? you furrow your brows, knowing the flaws with the pita go beyond its structural weakness. It's also just full of olives and pepperoncini... I can't really eat this... kai looks around awkwardly, pulling on the strings of his hoodie before suddenly his face lights up and he eagerly offers a solution.

how about you order something else, and i'll just eat this one?

your eyes widen at his suggestion, and you can't help but laugh. but... you don't really like olives either? and it's so messy?

he shakes his head, already pulling your soggy pita towards himself. I don't mind eating it... and just ask the waiter for the menu again and order something else... I don't want to ask them to remake anything...

you laugh as you watch him pick up a fork and knife to eat the offending pita, and catch eyes with the waiter from across the restaurant to signal him to come back to the table. at least nights out with kai always have you laughing.

LEAST

[earthstellar]

famously, healthcare workers typically do not have time for food

this leads to bizarre things, for example: I just had "lunch" at 11 AM, which consisted of a dill herring sandwich and a chocolate pudding, both consumed simultaneously within about 5 minutes

what I'm saying is: you know Ratchet and the other medics eat the fucking weirdest energon types and additive combinations imaginable

maybe zinc is like, a tangy flavour for them, almost to the point of being sour, and most bots don't use it as a fuel additive too often

but medics want to save the more palatable, more easy-on-the-fuel-tanks blends and additives for their patients

and zinc might have some benefits for medical staff; maybe it provides a little energy boost, at the cost of requiring a shorter time in between refuellings or something --

--or perhaps the opposite and it congeals energon slightly, resulting in slower fuel processing at the cost of requiring fuel line cleaning (to prevent energon accumulation within the fuel lines) slightly more often, but that's something medics could likely carry out for each other

so medics always have the most zinc-loaded bullshit fuel imaginable, like nobody else would be able to consume it, it's so fucking sour by energon standards

but medics chug that shit back fast in between other tasks

maybe Drift is visiting Ratchet in the medbay towards the end of his shift, and Rodimus tags along because of course he does, and because they decided to race each other to the medbay, Rodimus needs a little fuel top-up

so he just grabs a cube that isn't sealed (the sealed cubes are for patients and may have medications mixed in with them, and Rodimus doesn't feel like playing accidental sedation roulette today lol), and he slams it back

only to start choking while First Aid pops in to let him know Ratchet will be ready to go in a minute (and also to laugh at the sputtering Rodimus a little, serves him right for taking a medic's energon, lol)

IDK my bizarre "lunch" just made me think about how fucked Cybertronian medic's schedules must be and how equally bizarre their refuelling habits probably are, lmao

[marlynnofmany]

It occurs to me that it's hard to think of a food item that has definitely never been put on a pizza, or another culture's equivalent.

Pizza dough is a form of flat bread, right? Everything goes with bread. Meat, plants, cheese, you name it.

Anything I think of that is too weird, too extreme ... eh, it's probably been done. I can think of worse combinations. Humans are omnivores with a wide variety of food cultures, and some of us eat bizarre things on purpose.

[judasgot-it]

MAY I PLEASE REQUEST KALDO X READER PLEASE? I DON'T SEE THIS MAN OFTEN. At first, the reader wasn't exactly interested in Kaldo's combination food taste, it tasted okay for her. Until she's pregnant? She starts having 'weird cravings' that's when she finds out how good the taste of honey or syrup with the other food combinations are

Omggg I love Kaldo sm, need to write for him tbh cause even if he's a side character, I love him...(I have a type it's so painfully obvious)

Headcanons: Enjoying Kaldo's honey sashimi...(also tw for pregnancy ig)

Headcanons:

Usually, when Kaldo offered his food, you would try it and say it's 'ok'

It wasn't a relationship ender - he was happy he found someone who at least tolerated his addiction

You mostly worried about him developing cavities, tbh

But recently, you found yourself salivating over whatever he ate - some of it was so bizarre, that you were starting to wonder if you had gotten hit on the head too hard.

For Kaldo? It was a goddamn miracle at first

Anything for you. He became a five-star chef in your eyes, and it made him so happy he felt like he was walking on air

You didn't even need to lift a finger. This man was spoiling you, really

For a while.

You had started to throw up in the mornings, which was a little more than concerning

The two of you were smart and figured it was the new diet. Kaldo was a little disappointed, but he could live

But you didn't stop. and despite eating healthier after that, you had started to gain weight for some reason

yeah. oh. oops.

Kaldo was pretty excited to be a dad. He was a calm, level-headed guy - but his thoughts were getting ahead of him

like damn...he was going to be a dad. maybe he was starting to understand Ryoh a little; because the idea of shoving a picture of you with a little kid that he made was starting to sound appealing

He had a lot of people he wanted to call and brag about being a dad too. half of them wouldn't care, but he needed to tell someone

but he tried to be cool about it

you were a little mad at him at first when you first realized.

Kaldo was making it up to you, but yeah, your vacation plans were put on hold for a long time.

Also adding a short drabble cuz there's nothing for him:

"Let me try that."

You reached over, trying to grab a taste of his honey-soaked udon. It had more honey than broth, and it moved in a slow way as he brought his chopsticks through the bowl.

"Seriously?"

Nodding, you tried to pick at it, but your annoying husband only swatted you away. He gave you an incredulous look, trying to see if he actually believed that you would even want any of his food.

You stared back, waiting. The man was too protective over his bowl, knowing that there now was someone willing to steal from him.

"Open your mouth."

Obliging to his orders, he held your chin gently against his hand, stuffing your open mouth full of honey and salty udon noodles. Instead of the expected disgust, you found yourself smiling at the burst of flavor.

"You...you like it?"

Kaldo didn't really know what to expect. You never really had liked his food this much before. At best, he got 'it's edible' from you.

Nodding, you opened your mouth for more, like some sort of shark. He huffed, indulging you.

"Shouldn't you eat your own food?"

"Yeah, but yours is good. The honey adds to it."

He smirked.

"Really now?"

You weren't ever going to live saying that down.

This is kinda short but I love Kaldo sm. what a little freak