#drowning in buttercream

[fitnessgeekandcoffeefreak]

S.O.S. need coffee, stat!

[dduane]

Status report, Home Baking dep't.

Okay, we've reached the Stop Eating The Frosting Out Of The Bowl Or It Won't Cover The Whole Cake stage.

...It's from this recipe over here. The site's presiding genius claims it's the best yellow cake she's had: so we'll find out how it (ahem) stacks up shortly.

ETA: The photography here isn't the best, but I suspect the general gist of how this came out will be plain enough.

The immediate verdict: the cake is really good. A light crumb; tender; not overly sweet.

A secondary thought: the frosting's a little too much for it. It's not that it's a bad effect or anything... but the cake's relative delicacy gets drowned out by the intensity and sweetness of the chocolate buttercream. Which is kind of a shame.

If I was going to make this again—which seems likely, at some point—I'd pair it with a less assertive frosting. Caramel? Lemon? Something along those lines. Even something simply vanilla-based, assuming whatever else also got involved in the combination was interesting.

(Meanwhille, just as a logistical side note: I didn't have the prescribed two nine-inch pans to bake this in, so I divided the batter among the three eight-and-a-half inch pans I did have. Seems to have worked out perfectly well.)

[myckicade]

Frenchie doesn’t mean to return to the Inn exhausted and battle-hardened and caked in dried blood. It shouldn’t take the last of his strength to rap his knuckles against the fresh coat of paint on the front door, wet from the sideways-falling sheets of rain that just won’t stop. It shouldn’t be all he can do to keep himself standing while he waits for Stede. For Ed. For some-fucking-one to open the door. It shouldn’t, but it does. 

Fuck it. He shouldn’t have had to go back to slitting throats and spilling guts, either, but. Vengeance will do that to you. Love will do that to you. 

There’s some banging about inside. Some shouting to follow. Frenchie would rub his eyes, but he’s not terribly keen to get someone else’s blood in them. He’d had enough of that before he’d taken his new place aboard the Revenge. When... 

FUCK. 

Fighting to toss the thought aside, Frenchie knocks again. Louder. Harder. Why isn’t someone coming to the fucking door, already? He’s going to drop where he stands, so help him, and his two ex-Captains can clean up whatever remains in the light of day. Once the buzzards, or the gulls, or whatever the fuck wild beasts live out this way have had the chance to pick him clean. They can bury his bones – or whatever’s left – next to... 

Jesus Christ. When did it become so hard to even think the man’s name? Saying it, nah, the word hasn’t left his mouth in months. Hearing it from the tongues of others? Still a hard pass. He’s managed to find himself anywhere others weren’t talking about the man, and quickly. But his thoughts. His own inner sanctum of peace and love has taken someone he still holds so dear, and shoved him into the deepest, darkest corner of The Box. He'd rather poke holes in one of his enemies and find them leaking delicious buttercream frosting than to ever look in that corner again. 

And why? 

Well. Frenchie isn’t stupid enough to think his reasons any more noble than the basic truth. It’s a blame game, and he's losing to himself. If he’d been closer. If he’d stayed next to him like he’d always intended. Maybe he could have saved him. Maybe he would have survived. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

“Open the fuck up!” he shouts, the words swallowed by a roll of thunder. 

He doesn’t want to think about this. He’s going to go inside and drink himself to death. He’d going to pay for a room until he starves to death, or his body gives out from exhaustion, or he drowns in bad rum. He doesn’t care. He just wants to do it, but first, somebody has to- 

“Open the fucking door, guys!” 

He hasn't cried. Not once has he shed a tear. He’s been waiting. Waiting for the right time. Waiting until he could afford to split at the seams and fall well and truly apart. The crew needed him, and they needed him to keep it together. They needed him to support them and see them all out in one piece. 

They needed Frenchie to be him. 

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t and he isn’t and he’s tired of pretending. He’s tired of pretending that the one thing, the one and true good thing that he managed to find in the darkest days of his life was gone. Just fucking ripped out of existence. They’d had so little time. So much had been left unsaid. Maybe he’d take a bottle down the lawn tomorrow and say a few of them. Say all of them. It would be a fitting place to go. 

If he doesn’t, y’know, turn back and drown himself in the damned rain first. 

Frenchie raises his fist to knock again, to pound at the wood, willing to throw his shoulder against the hinges if it will help. From inside, a loud bang catches his attention, this time accompanied by a soft thumping sound. More shouting. Closer this time, familiar in a way that tickles his memory in all the wrong places. He’s playing tricks on himself. Maybe, Death is nearer than he thinks. 

If only he was so lucky. 

The latches are being worked on the other side of the door. Too slow, but it's progress. Lightning strikes as the door eases open, surely distorting Frenchie’s worldview because, no. A trick of the light. He blinks and has another look. The eyes staring back at him are beautiful and wide, surprised, but relieved. The lips move over a silvering beard, jaw working until the man before him finally clears his throat. He shifts on the crutch beneath his arm, and Frenchie’s ears are filled with a precious, rasping voice. 

“Took you long enough.” 

All at once, the world spins and comes crashing to a halt. The force is so great, it jolts the lid from The Box. What spills out... He’s energized. He’s alight. He’s clean and innocent and vulnerable and still so damned wounded, but. But. There it is. It’s in every thought. It is a joy to hear. It feels so good to come gasping from somewhere in the depths of his heartbroken soul. 

“Izzy!” 

[beefrobeefcal]

Hey so I was thinking of two different scenarios so:

It’s some kind of special occasion like their anniversary and Mouse bakes Frankie a cake and wakes him up with the cake and a blowjob, Mouse encouraging him to eat the cake and tell her how good it is while she blows him.

AND/OR

Frankie wants to try butt stuff but is really embarrassed about it (for some reason) and he and Mouse work through it together, until it becomes something they definitely want to do more of?

Love you Beef <3

Oh Knowy - you know just what we're dying for!

It's a quickie, but I hope it sates you. 😈

Enjoy!

Beefro 👌🥩💜

--------<3----------

Beefro Proudly Presents:

a Chubby!Frankie one shot

The Catfish & The Mouse: Delayed Gratification

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader (Mouse!)

Summary: Mouse has a special anniversary gift for Frankie.

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI)

Word Count: 1,039

Content Warning: Smutty smutty smut smut, swearing, cake-eating, belly stuffing, naughty Mouse business, oral (m-receiving),

Author's Notes: Thank you, @theywhowriteandknowthings for the prompt. I think we all needed a quickie to get us into the long weekend.

Not proofed. Enjoy!

__________________________

It was your and Frankie’s fourth anniversary, and you’d made his favourite cake the day before, smaller than the one you made for his birthday, but still a generous size. You forwent the decorating, and just simply iced it with a homemade buttercream frosting. You’d hidden the cake at the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t see it.

You crept out of bed and snuck out to retrieve the cake.

“Mouse….? Baby?”, you heard Frankie groggily call out for you.

“I’ll be right there, honey!”, you called back. Once in the kitchen, you completely disrobed and put icing on your nipples and on your stomach. You picked up the cake and headed back into the bedroom.

“Jesus…”, Frankie whispered sitting up in bed, seeing you walk back in. “Fuckin’ eh, Mouse…”

“Happy anniversary, Frankie.” You cooed, strutting towards the bed.

“That all for me, princess?” he said huskily, motioning to the cake.

“All for you, baby.”, you purred.

“And the icing on your tits?”, he growled, his eyes hungrily looking over you.

You just smiled and put the cake on his bedside table. He reached out and pulled you towards him, his mouth immediately enveloping one of your nipples in his hungry, warm mouth.

You mewled as his tongue swirled around your nipple. He pulled his head back, icing in his beard, then moved to clean the other. His teeth grazed your nipple, and you gasped, starting to pant. The feeling was shooting straight down to your aching cunt.

“Frankie… please….” You keened.

He moaned as he released you, a string of his saliva running from your pebbled peak to this mouth.

“So fucking good to me, Mouse… so fucking perfect…”, he grunted, looking up at you before he licked a strip up your abdomen through the icing.

You watched as he licked up the icing. When he’d finished, he moved to push his hand between your legs. You stepped back and he whined.

“No…. baby…. Please… need your sweet pussy…”, he groaned, reaching out for you.

You loved when he was needy like this; it made your core drip.

“Frankie… you see that cake?”, you motioned towards his bedside table.

“Princess… please….”, he growled, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor, his hand reaching out to you. “Come here… come sit on my face… I wanna drown under you, baby… don’t make me ask again.”

“Frankie… baby… I want you to eat that cake… the whole thing… and I’m gonna gag on your big, fat, heavy cock while you stuff yourself…”, you purr.

His hand drops along with his jaw. His dick jumped and he thought he would come right then. “Oh, fucking christ… princess, you’re a bad girl….”, he groaned.

You walked towards him, hands going to his shoulders, and you stood between his parted knees.

“Lay back, and get to work.”, you crooned as you handed him the cake.

*****

Frankie moaned. He was sitting back against the pillow on your bed. He had half the cake in his belly, and you’d been edging him the entire time he ate.

“Mouse… please baby… I need… I need to…. Fuck…”, he whined as you bobbed your head up and down his member.

You had a hand on his balls, feeling them tighten again, and you pulled your mouth from his red, angry cock; your lips were red and worried and wet with saliva.

“But you’re not done, Frankie… gotta get this cake in your belly, then I’ll let you come in my mouth, baby…”, you cooed, your hands rubbing his thighs soothingly.

“Fuck… oh f-f-fuck… p-please, Mouse…. Please!”, he sputtered. He had icing on his face and his skin was flushed.

“You’re doing so good, baby… just finish your cake and you can come…”, you nodded at him with a gentle smile.

He let out a shaky sigh and continued to eat the cake. You leaned down and licked a strip up the underside of his overly sensitive cock and he whined, bucking his hips. You hushed him the took his bulbous tip into your mouth.

*****

Frankie had only a bite or two left of the cake, his belly pushing up, showing where the rest of the cake had gone. He was panting and shaking, whining incoherent babbles as you pushed his cock down your throat and swallowed.

“Please… fuck Mouse… baby… need… oh fuck… oh god… pleasepleaseleasepleaseplease oh god, baby…”, he sobbed, his body trembling.

You bobbed your head, letting his sensitive tip run along your throat. His balls pulled tight in your hands, and he let out a cry, thinking you were going to pull back again. But you continued your motions, and his cake-and-icing coated hands went to your hair, holding your head firm on his cock and began to fuck your throat as he growls.

His grunts and growls turn to whines and panting cries as his hip thrusts become sloppy. You gag and swallow, pushing him over the edge and he shoots ribbons of cum down your throat while he thrusts into you a few more times, pushing some of his come out of your mouth.

He stilled his hips, his body shaking. You pulled off of him and he let out a breathy whine as his body shuddered. His somewhat full belly moved up and down from his breathing.

You crawled up next to him and gently soothed your hands over his belly and spoke to him the way he would to you after he pushed you your limit.

“Did so good, baby…. Deep breaths, Frankie… gotta breathe… good boy… did so good for me… breathe Frankie… come on…”

He turned and looked at you with a smile and you smiled back.

“You okay, honey?”, you asked softly, continuing your gentle belly rubs.

“Fuck yes…”, he nodded and said with a shaky sigh and smiled. “You… you’re gonna wreck me…”

You laid down and snuggled in next him. “Do you have an anniversary present for me?”, you grinned.

He huffed a laugh, his arm pulling you in tight. “If you’re asking if I planned out how I’ll fucking destroying your pussy - yes… but I’ll need a minute…”

You smiled to yourself, feeling your arousal building again.

__________________________

TAGLIST:

@harryleatherfit @theywhowriteandknowthings @harriedandharassed @neverwheremoonchild @toxicanonymity

[itszulli]

“Nina …” Mick said. “Please don’t say that. I’m trying to explain to you why I wasn’t capable of being a father until now.” Nina shook her head. “If you were any kind of real parent, you would know that capable has nothing to do with it.” Mick frowned at her and sighed. “Do you think Mom felt capable of raising four children on her own? Holding her head up high when the whole world knew you’d left her, twice? Making all of the money, and doing all of the housework, and helping each of us with our homework? Making every single one of our birthdays special despite having no money and no time? Remembering that Jay likes chocolate cake with buttercream and Kit likes coconut cake and Hud likes yellow cake with chocolate frosting? Always having the perfect number of candles? “Do you think I felt capable of taking it all over after she fucking drowned? Do you think I felt capable of trying to pay all the bills and still scraping up enough money for coconut at the fucking Malibu Mart? Do you think I felt capable of holding each one of these guys as they woke up in the middle of the night remembering that they had essentially been orphaned? Do you think I wanted to drop out of high school so I could do it all? That I wanted to be twenty-five years old without a high school diploma?” Mick flinched as he heard this, and when Nina saw the pinched look on his face, it pissed her off. “I didn’t feel capable of any of that! But did that matter? Of course not. So I’ve gotten up every single day since Mom died—and even a lot of the days before that—and I have done what needed to be done. Capable is a question I never had the luxury of asking. Because my family needed me. And unlike you, I understand how important that is.” “Nina—” Mick tried to interject. “You think I want to be here selling photos of my ass and living on this fucking cliff? No, I don’t. I want to be in Portugal somewhere living in a shack on the beach, riding waves and eating the catch of the day. But I don’t. I stay here. That’s what it means to be a family. Staying. Not just strolling into a party after midnight expecting a hug.” “Nina, you’re right. I’m a weak—” “Must be nice. To be able to be weak. I wouldn’t know.”

[themculibrary]

Fic Titles That Are Based On Lyrics Masterlist 3

part one, part two

And I Would Drive 500 Miles (ao3) - Nickies_Nonsense steve/tony, harley/peter N/R, 10k

Summary: After endgame Tony decides the team needs a break from saving the world. What follows is a two week long road trip told through the eyes of each avenger. Sam doesn’t know if being stuck in the car for two weeks counts as a break. Steve wants to give Harley a shovel talk. Peter is just happy to be there. Team bonding, cuddling, and lots of really bad singing ensues.

- Thor’s road trip snacks - a mixed playlist with all the avengers favorite songs - a team of underpaid babysitters

baby, i was born this way (ao3) - haveufoundwhaturlookingfor ned/peter, steve/bucky G, 1k

Summary: Peter is ready to come out to his dad, but he's nervous. Luckily, he has an understanding dad.

Build Me Up, Buttercup (ao3) - ElisabethMonroe steve/sam/bucky M, 17k

Summary: Sam Wilson doesn't expect to end up on a baking show after posting a few silly videos online. He doesn't expect to meet Steve Rogers, the greatest actor of all time, or Bucky Barnes, the saddest man with a fake smile as sweet as his buttercream frosting. And even though he doesn't want to win, suddenly surviving elimination rounds is the only way to keep the other two men close and, for some reason, he doesn't want to lose them. Or the things they get up to when the cameras stop rolling.

Can't Help Falling in Love (ao3) - Eeva21 druig/makkari G, 1k

Summary: It's the night of Ikaris and Sersi's wedding. Kingo plays Cupid by getting Druig to dance with Makkari. The night ends with the pair in the rain, and Druig confesses his feelings to Makkari.

Don't Stop Me Now (ao3) - CloudAtlas clint/natasha, peggy/steve T, 3k

Summary: After three years of rooming with Steve Rogers, Clint has discovered that the best thing about him is how he is absolutely, pathologically, unable to turn down a dare.

Wherein Clint and all his friends take to meddling in Steve's love life because they're terrible people.

do you wanna feel a little beautiful, baby? (ao3) - nerdwegian clint/phil E, 5k

Summary: In which Clint’s a cheerleader and Phil’s got a problem with authority. And then porn.

got a whole lot of history (ao3) - haveufoundwhaturlookingfor G, 600

Summary: Bucky meets Wanda at the airport for the first time before the big fight. His first instinct is to protect her with all his might.

If I Could Fly (ao3) - Ashleyparker2815 N/R, 24k

Summary: Peter was adopted by Tony and Pepper Stark when he was only days old. He has a life with them but his world gets ripped apart after his biological parents; May and Ben Parker want custody of their son back.

if the heavens ever did speak (ao3) - hardboiledmeggs peggy/steve M, 1k

Summary: Steve lands in France, and has a rendez-vous with Agent Carter.

I was Born Sick (ao3) - HepG2 steve/tony E, 17k

Summary: For all the genius he was, it certainly took Tony a while to learn of this... "sickness" within. He'd liked them on the same team and that wasn't normal. He could fight this, cure this! So he hid, rebelled. First he removed Steve out of the equation. Then he drowned himself in liquor and sex. Just, Steve wouldn't leave him alone. And that made it so much worse. Inspired by Hozier's "Take Me to Church".

Weakly Tony rose, his chin tilted upwards as he claimed Steve’s lips with his. He held onto the warmth, onto the memory. Let him have this. Let him remember the gentle brush of their kiss, the passing breath on his skin.

“You can’t love me, Tony.”

“And you can’t stop me.”

Lights Will Guide You Home (ao3) - DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee clint/natasha G, 2k

Summary: Five times Natasha acted like a mom and one time she officially was one.

my heart skips (skips) a beat (ao3) - soniclipstick (veriscence) clint/phil T, 2k

Summary: It’s 'too-fucking-early’ am and less than a week before mid-terms, and Clint’s knee deep in snow, because some moron accidentally set the communal kitchen on fire. Clint had declared murder in front of all his friends - his frozen balls would be avenged.

The only wrinkle in the plan is that the aforementioned moron is Phil Coulson. And if Clint wants revenge, he’s going to have to first learn to stop his heart from beating faster than the drums in a Fall Out Boy song whenever it gets within a few feet of Phil.

no one teaches you what to do when a good man hurts you (and you know you hurt him too) (ao3) - canadiandutchiefangirl peggy/daniel T, 4k

Summary: Peggy had known, from the first day, it would be difficult. From the first time she’d walked into the LA office, newly transferred from New York, she’d felt the looks sent her way. But she was used to all of this. Surely she had gone through worse before, with her relationships with Steve and Howard openly speculated upon in New York. She had handled all of that. She could handle this too.

Peggy transfers to the new SSR office in LA to be closer to Daniel but finds the transition more difficult than she expected.

now you know me, for your eyes only (ao3) - Hazloveshisboo steve/bucky T, 2k

Summary: Bucky and Steve get together.

Only The Brave (ao3) - Coffee_and_notebooks bucky/steve/tony, pepper/rhodey G, 6k

Summary: Tony, a single omega and the owner of a tech company, falls head over heels his son’s teacher.

And if that wasn't cliché enough, he's gone and fallen in love with his son’s teacher's boyfriend too.

Seriously, what was he thinking?

take a sip of my magic potion (i'll make you fall in love) (ao3) - latinacap steve/bucky G, 16k

Summary: Working as a barista at Little Spider's wasn't the most glamorous of jobs, but the pay was good for a college student and Bucky's boss was decent enough. It also didn't hurt that Hot Blonde Guy walked into the coffeehouse every Tuesday, and if Bucky put in a little extra something in his cup — a little magical extra something — well, that was just between him and his familiar. It was all going great until Bucky mixed vodka and his grimoire and accidentally baked a love potion into a cupcake and fed it to Hot Blonde Guy.

And if that wasn't bad enough, a blast from the past in the form of his ex-boyfriend/witch hunter is hunting him.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Hot Blonde Guy turned out to be Captain Fucking America.

The Way I Loved You (ao3) - agayturtle wanda/natasha T, 3k

Summary: "It's 2am and I'm cursing your name..."

Wanda and Natasha's relationship didn't last longer than a couple of months, but Natasha can't help but wonder if they made the right choice when they ended things.

or The Way I Loved You by Taylor Swift but it's Wandanat.

this is me trying (ao3) - wlwromanoff (orphan_account) wanda/natasha T, 7k

Summary: i had a feeling so peculiar, that this pain wouldn't be for evermore

as natasha falls into a downward spiral, wanda is there for her.

Waiting for Superman (ao3) - CantansAvis clint/natasha T, 2k

Summary: Clint’s missing; but he isn’t the one waiting for Superman.

you're a crisis of my faith (ao3) - bvckysarm steve/bucky, george/winifred, clint/natasha, bucky/brock E, 75k

Summary: It’s unfamiliar seeing as he’s not in his own house, but not enough that he isn’t able to tell the creak of a floorboard when he hears one. Which means someone’s coming upstairs.

[jeongans]

WEDDING SINGER. JEONGHAN

( a scrapped draft i'll never finish, sorry abt my disappearance lol )

It’s the second wedding Jeonghan ever recalls attending in his entire life. There was his Auntie’s wedding when he was much younger, and the only memories of the event were fed to him through old film, where he stands in a dainty suit — baggy and un-ironed, his stubby and mucky fingers try & grab the uncut cake and his mother still remembers the scolding she gave him. Jeonghan is much older now, and sits on a table at his best-friend’s wedding instead, and he doesn’t think he’ll grab at the cake this time around — if he stops glugging down the cheap wine being served, that is.

The table is empty, only Jeonghan sits, swirling the last of his drink in it’s glass. He considered socialising but he stops himself — the bitter feeling of loneliness may have him say something he shouldn’t, or doesn’t mean. It’s only normal, he thinks, having to watch happy couples sway and dance to the music he seems to drown out quite easily. There’s a few people Jeonghan thinks shouldn’t be on the dancefloor, they trip over their feet and have poor rhythm, but ultimately have a smile on their face, and it fuels his bitter mood even more. Jeonghan thinks that maybe, if he had someone to bring he could also dance like a buffoon in front of everyone’s watching eyes, and still smile and laugh.

But he doesn’t, and he sits alone, slightly tipsy with a growling stomach. He stands up with wavy legs and makes his way through the loud crowd of people happier than him. The buffet is somewhat empty now, and he knows people have taken the best bits, but his stomach has probably began to eat itself by this point. He grabs a paper plate, and a splash of someone else’s wine stains the rim, but he doesn’t care enough to grab another. In front of him chicken is displayed, but it’s grey and dry-looking, and it suppresses Jeonghan’s appetite almost completely.

Jeonghan sits at the empty table again, a few broken salted crackers with cheese lay sadly on his plate, next the chicken he regrets picking up. There is a shuffle, and the chair next to him scrapes against the floor.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” A voice asks. Jeonghan doesn’t even look at first, his eyes bore into his plate as he nods mindlessly. Then, the aroma of cake fills his senses, sweet vanilla cake with sickly amounts of buttercream. The cake that was cut hours ago. Jeonghan’s eyes draw up at this, his eyes land upon a girl, visually no younger no older than him. She shovels a forkful of the cake into her mouth, oblivious to Jeonghan’s concerned stare. Had she really been walking around with a plate of cake for hours? Was it not dry and disgusting yet? She seemed to enjoy it at least.

Perhaps Jeonghan wasn’t aware of how unsettling his stare was, maybe just for the girl at least. In the corner of her eye she watched him watch her and wondered what could possibly be so entertaining or alarming about eating cake. Her chewing slowed to a halt, and she turned to look at him.

[sacredsanguine]

5 Times Amer Doux Dreamt of Killing Nicholas Remington, and 1 Time He Didn’t

Little wonder that later that night, he dreams that Remington blood is as bitter as that chocolate.

Thank you @saviolum-sanguineus for beta-reading this fic for me! @kittenishdelights hope you're onboard the Nicholamer train too! Your pistachio chocolate scene suggestion was so scrumptious, lol!

He haunts Amer’s dreams: a figure of spectral black trailed by the cloying, metallic scent of blood. Nicholas Remington is a reaper whose scythe swings with the flash of his teeth, bared brilliant, searing white after softly swung whispers to a faceless throne. The blood spills whether Nicholas smiles or shouts—and his hands never bear the stains themselves. In his dreams, Amer steps out of the invisible, shadowed line that staff exists in, forces the Imperial Advisor to look at him with that poison-green gaze (not through him, at), feels his blood boil in his veins, and squeezes that black-collared throat until the poison flickers and fails. His scar stings like it’s been torn open when Amer wakes, breathing hard. His hands are clenched into fists in the sheets, crescent moons marking where his nails dig into the swell of flesh. The roar of the kitchen fires is never enough to drown out the screams of his past or the souls he knows will join it soon.

2. Lord Daddano always tests Amer’s patience, but (unfortunately for the chocolatier) he’s grown too accustomed to the sight of Andrey’s tongue swirling wetly around sticky fingers and the sound of entirely too enthusiastic exclamations of gourmet appreciation. It’s the sound of the Imperial Advisor’s voice and his sudden, unexpected appearance that makes Amer wonder if he’s finally tipped over the edge into hallucination.

He’s never known if the presence of Nicholas makes his dreams nightmares or the other way around. Either way, Amer has to lean into the familiar exasperation of watching nobles ignore him in favor of indulging in each other to ground himself. It’s a struggle not to pick up the sweet little knife beside him and drive it into the Advisor’s heart, exposed as it is; instead Amer clenches his jaw and rearranges his features into a smile he knows neither Nicholas nor Andrey will take notice of.

His palm is flat and pointed as the blade he wishes it were when he motions at one of the new pistachio-nougat confections. Its layers are robed in dark, glossy chocolate that’s almost as bitter as Amer feels when he lets himself think too much. Nicholas nods at the recommendation and Amer imagines that pale throat flexing under his grip as Andrey presses the little bite to Nicholas’s lips. Exposed heart indeed.

Nicholas watches—studies—Andrey with a singular intensity that makes Amer’s scar itch. It’s almost enough to make Amer believe his station’s invisibility would last if he lunged across the table and tore Nicholas’s throat out with his teeth.

Little wonder that later that night, he dreams that Remington blood is as bitter as that chocolate.

3. The macarons come out beautifully: smooth, evenly domed tops and tiny, clean feet, not a single crack to be seen in the airy pastel shells that hug rings of velvety buttercream and jam. They take two and a half hours to make, bake, and fill, and a day to mature in a temperature-controlled resting room before Amer hand-wraps them individually in pastel tissue paper and totes them over to the Remington estate in an enchanted silver box worth more than his rented room and the few possessions that fill it.

The cats enjoy them almost as much as Samael does. Amer, robbed somewhat of the perpetual invisibility of his station by his responsibility to introduce each course, despairs quietly in the corner of the room as the friskier of the little white kittens manages to dye himself and half the table pink with ruby chocolate sauce.

He half-expects Nicholas to be as harsh on his son as he is to everyone else in court; the Advisor’s unexpected, radical gentleness is so jarring it slips somehow back into the realm of terror. The same hands that have turned living beings into shapeless, broken bags of blood and bone wield a silver dessert spoon with the careless elegance of a hummingbird feeding from honeysuckle. Samael beams up at Nicholas, showing him some silly thing that the kittens’ pawprints have melded into on the tablecloth, and Nicholas smiles back with the fond, indulgent expression of a stained glass saint.

Amer focuses on the ruby chocolate pawprints until the light makes them gleam red as blood and he tastes his own from where he’s bitten his tongue.

That night, he pins Nicholas to the floor of his own dining room, hands tight around his neck and growing tighter; Amer realises it’s a dream not when green light bursts around him and his blood begins to flow backwards in his veins, but when Nicholas meets his eyes and croaks, “You’d murder a father in front of his son? Very righteous.”

Samael’s eyes are huge and watery, green just as piercing as his father’s magic as he stares at Amer from the doorway. His lip trembles first, followed by his shoulders as he wails, fat tears rolling down his thin face. Amer’s grip loosens, but Nicholas doesn’t move; instead, he begins to laugh—harsh and mocking, more crow-like than the songbirds his son takes after.

Amer’s stomach churns. Beneath Samael’s sobs he can hear the cries of children with dead eyes, the ones he tries to lay out extra blankets and smuggle a few sweets from the kitchens for at every meeting in the teaching hospital basement. Some of them cry at night, others scream in their sleep, and every single one of them would have a fuller family tree if the man laughing on the ground beneath him hadn’t whispered something in the monarch’s ear. He doubts Nicholas doesn’t know—he just doesn’t care.

It isn’t fair. It never has been. It never will be.

Good chocolate snaps when broken, with a loud, clear crack and a clean edge; Amer could identify it in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s why the wet crunch of Nicholas’s neck snapping wakes him up screaming.

4. The Ward trial is a catastrophe. Amer reads the summary of events in the morning paper, launches it into the wastebin furiously, and almost immediately fishes the crumpled ball back out to reread the article in a desperate bid to convince himself that the Butcher of Seraphine Estate would face more than a tap (calling it a slap is too generous) on the wrist.

His despair follows him like smoke billowing out of burnt sugar; it’s only when he shouts at Kezia for a split ganache undeserving of such wrath that he realizes the rest of his kitchen is staring warily at him much like he’d stared at any noble when his scar was still a wound. Amer sets his bowl of frangipane down—it smacks harder than he intended on the counter and he winces—and wipes roughly at his face with the towel at his waist.

“I’m sorry.” Amer can feel the heat of the kitchen fires pressing sweat from his skin, but the pounding dizziness in his head comes with a sensation of being frozen in place. “Send the commis and the dishwashers home for the day—”

“Already did, Chef,” Kezia says flatly; her face is taut with understanding straining at its limits. She’s already chopped the chocolate to fix the ganache; it scrapes off the board and hits the oil layer with a quiet rustle. “Figured it’d be worse for you to see them cowering.”

Amer exhales noisily and nods. Kezia is a better sous-chef than anyone could ask for. Her voice is quiet when she speaks next, still carrying the clipped urgency the kitchens demand. “Go home, Amer. You’re a danger here.”

She could mean anything: distraction around knifes, fires, and the latter two in crowded spaces is all too easy to trip into greater injury, but Kezia pins Amer with a gaze that’s just this side of knowing. She’s a better sous-chef than anyone could ask for, and a better observer too. He’s lucky they’re on the same side.

Amer walks home feeling like he’s fallen into a pale waking nightmare. When he finally falls asleep on a pillow that can’t take much more punching, he sees Nicholas on the stand in the courtroom. There’s blood everywhere; the judge is a headless thing slumped and oozing over a gavel.

There is a sword in Amer’s hand and he can wield it as easy and precise as a dowel spinning sugar for croquembouche; he flies from the benches up to Nicholas, screaming names of people who will never answer him again. The sword finds its target like a lost child running home; there’s a breath of startled resistance before the flesh and muscle parts for Amer’s blade, length sinking in with a wet squelch.

The taste of bitter chocolate interrupts Amer’s litany for the fallen; there’s a moment of silence, sweet as raw sugar, before those green eyes flutter back open and Nicholas bares those scythe teeth at him. It’s soulless, the Advisor’s polished face of personal war, and it burns in Amer’s chest like it’s going to tear him apart—Nicholas clenches his fingers and Amer stumbles forward as the hand buried in his chest rips aorta and vena cava asunder, then plunges deeper and bursts from his back, bloody heart clutched like a pearl; there’s a soft grunt that Amer only knows is his because of the way his lungs ripple around the air driven from them, and Nicholas smiles. It’s a soft in the way moonlight off even the deadliest of poisons is soft, and fixated in a way Amer recognises by the itch that prickles along his scar.

The sword in Amer’s trembling hand sinks in to the hilt, grinding against some fragment of rib when Nicholas squeezes his hand again; Amer’s face is close enough to his that the wet plop of Amer’s heart as Nicholas drops it to the floor is drowned out by his raspy whisper: “My beloved spoke the truth. I’m holding everything else against you.”

Amer wakes violently, hands pressing frantically at his chest as he sucks in air.

5. It would be wise to get to sleep early the night before the Day of Metamorphosis Parade, but Amer’s obligations are apparently dedicated to folly. He isn’t able to leave the kitchens until nearly two in the morning, visions of pastry cream and chocolate butterflies blurring over his vision as he stumbles home through dark streets. He falls into bed and sleep almost instantly, but the peace of a dreamless night escapes him.

It begins in the kitchens: cocoa butter melting while he scrapes pigments into powder with a curved knife, the smell of chocolate making his mouth and eyes water as he works. It tempers easily, eagerly popping out of the molds in glossy, perfect curves, and Amer smiles.

Nicholas is leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, when Amer turns around; the tray of quenelles clatters to the ground, painted white chocolate shells rattling like chips of bone. Nicholas doesn’t so much as blink at the mess, boredom carved harsh and haughty into his face.

“Two dozen dolorosas,” he says; his voice is as strident as ever, demanding in the way of a man who’s seldom been denied and accustomed to making examples of those who do.

He watches Amer work, green eyes hovering over his shoulder like the fangs of a beast as he whisks and melts and whisks again. It’s enough of a reminder of Daddano that Amer’s dream shifts around him for a moment, melting into slick shades of grey and pearly white before he finds himself at the dark, cool shelves of extracts and herbs kept away from the fires. Nicholas hasn’t followed him; Amer’s heart pounds in his chest as his fingers close around an unmarked, dark glass bottle. The liquid inside glimmers clear; even in his dreams, Amer knows that poison is rarely as obvious as storybooks make it out to be.

It will do nothing more than perfume the air with almonds until the chocolate crystallizes and turns its fragrance into fatality. This Amer knows in the watertight, ineffable way of dreams; it’s that same logic that presses him forward against Nicholas, holding the open bottle up between them as fire burns in his gut. He will slip his hand into the mouth of the beast to watch it choke; dignity is a small price to pay.

“Does this please you?” Amer asks, voice low and raspy—partially a conscious attempt to mimic Andrey’s forwardness but mostly thanks to histamines.

Nicholas’s face is still, a mask sculpted out of ice and disdain; he doesn’t bother inhaling before his words are sliding over Amer’s skin like the burning thaw of icicles. “You’ve forgotten yourself.”

But he doesn’t push Amer away; Nicholas raises a hand, looking rather like a cat toying with some bird trapped in a corner, and lets his fingers crawl up the edge of Amer’s jaw, gripping a little too tight for comfort. His eyes are clear, green boring into green like a candle held between two mirrors. “Get back to work.”

The hunger in his voice is cold enough to raise goosebumps on Amer’s skin, even with the heat of the kitchens.

Death, it turns out, dreams of itself wrapped in the delicate scent of almonds and a glossy coat of chocolate so dark it’s nearly black. Amer rolls out twenty-four perfect spheres of bitter chocolate—how fitting, that they’re already in mourning colors—and holds one up between thumb and middle finger.

Nicholas doesn’t part his lips; he raises a brow imperiously until Amer lifts the dolorosa to his mouth, then smiles that scythe-like smile, malicious in the way of a beautiful thing meant to hurt. His tongue is warm, teeth blunt but unforgiving as he holds the tip of Amer’s finger between them and rolls the chocolate deeper into his mouth; the tip of his tongue flicks against Amer’s fingertip, oddly whip-like, and for a moment the dream imagines that the skin there splits, blood sizzling.

Amer draws his hand back and smiles at the sharp crack of chocolate; there will be an instant of smooth pistachio and salt on the Advisor’s tongue before the bitterness blooms into eternity—Nicholas lunges forward, one hand curling harshly around the back of Amer’s neck, dragging him down so Nicholas can slant his mouth over Amer’s, fingers digging in enough to force a gasp out—

His tongue is hot, slicked with chocolate that tastes of blood or blood that tastes of chocolate; Amer bites down and tastes bitter iron and smoke, swallows down Nicholas and his death as they fall together to the floor, hunger and rage twitching between them.

Green holds its reflection captive until both mirrors shutter, emerald candle between them snuffed out as suddenly as waking from a nightmare—Amer jolts upright in bed, every breath and muscle in his body throbbing hard.

That afternoon, when he crunches the detonator in a sweaty fist, he can’t help but think of the way Nicholas laughs—sharp and splintered.

+1. Amer has never been particularly devout, but it does strike him as a sign that it was the third dream of his in which Samael appeared, and that it’s Samael who saves him, even if his life is paid for by the blood of those he’s torn from and a batch of pastel macarons. Kezia’s mutterings about what kind of man names his child “Poison of God” flash through his mind and Amer’s scar screams from its silent throne beneath the curve of his eye.

He pours himself into work as much as he can, hoping that exhaustion will be the end of the specter in his dreams: Amer’s nights know no such kindness. Every night, he finds himself on his knees with the taste of blood in his mouth, looking up at Nicholas and Samael like some corrupted version of La Pietà in Kezia’s church. The scent of gore holds him down, green burning into green; Amer finds himself in a wretched loop of looking up and meeting Nicholas’s dry gaze—to be seen by him in waking life carries only a dilute cousin of the satisfaction it does in dreams, the majority of its power turned to the induction of pitiless, fathomless rage.

Samael gazes down at Amer but does not speak. Amer is impaled by matching green gazes, his own rendered useless in the face of destruction; Nicholas is impassive as he looks down the bridge of his nose at Amer, and for a moment, monstrous, ravenous hunger roars above the pounding of blood around them. Amer cannot move. He cannot speak. All he can do is wait for the reaper to bring his scythe swinging down.

It never comes.

[hollywoodbabylondean]

elaboration:

cookie table: a western pennsylvania wedding tradition where in lieu of appetizers, the families bake batches of cookies.

gobs/whoopie pies: two small cakes make a sandwich with a cooked milk/buttercream icing (correct) or a marshmallow fluff based icing (incorrect)

pennsylvania dutch ham pot pie: a ham stew with leavened dumplings boiled in at the end

pierogies: ravioli but with potato and cheese based filling

birch beer: root beer but made with birch sap instead of sassafrass root

pittsburgher/pittsburgh salads. so. take a massive burger. put fries on it. take a salad. put fries on it. drown it in ranch.

red beet eggs: hard boiled eggs pickled in vinegar and beets

del grosso theme park: so. take a very successful but mid spaghetti sauce. now take an amusement park. you are eating spaghetti outside in 80 degree weather.

eat n park smiley cookies:

mallo cups: reese's but with marshmallow-coconut filling

[elline]

hiii hi ive come to ask about ur drawing, it seems to be pom but whats the lore!!

OK OK so . this isbig so.

THIS is the grenade dragon, a pomegranate type dragon that resides in the village. they came After pomegranate cookie left for dark enchantress.

they helped rebuild the village after itd been torn down and works hard to keep the townspeople and the gardens full of life. they are sweet and kind and arent kin of the original five dragons but still catch up with them from time to time. theyre like lotus but a little less mean i guess.

this is punica granatum cookie who also keeps the village in high keeping and helped take the place of pome as high priestess when she had left. theyre more related to the gardens themselves than the other townspeople but its a more or less same difference. they taught ghoulflour cookie how to properly care for the trees and made blueprints for some of the buildings in the village.

this is ghostflour/ghoulflour cookie. they are the main gardenkeeper and while not being a pure pome cookie, were taken in by the others(especially wine gum) to help tend to the trees and heal the guards that had been wounded. they originally lived in the lotus palace/ some islands very near it before sailing to the village (and half drowning on the way). theyre kind of alive so to say but they talks about themself as if they are a different person and people have sometime seen petals similar to her hair float near the lotus palace and village. so yk

THIS IS WINE GUM COOKIE they were there before pomegranate cookie left the village and also kind of had a little crush on her and it broke her little heart but whatever that's not important. shes not a true pomegranate as well but she is a mix of that and jewelling cookies species which is infused with heavy wine. she is besties with ghoulflour cookie and is a main general/guardsman for the village. the other cookies respect her but shes kind of mean but in a way that she was like raised to be really mean but has like the nicest voice imaginable. idunno if that makes sense. anyway along with that she uses her geomancy to embroider them into attire for the village. bc shes cute like that.

ok last but not least this is pomme mousse cookie theyre a bastard but in like a tired old man way. they write books and poetry for the village and are also a calligrapher so they design most of the markings and banners among the townspeople. also he provides things like bandages and medical parchment because they make their own paper.

and i lied heres the other ones; jewelling cookie, m.f. buttercream cookie, and pomegranate sprinkle cookie. jewelling takes cookies skin to turn into gems, mf and pommy sprinkle were 'oven experiments' mf got a kind of superhero power to her and pommy sprinkle just got all fucked up. very short term memory on her bc there is sprinkles baked into her cookie brain. we love her anyway though. ok im done thank u

[fitnessgeekandcoffeefreak]

10.25.2022.

I did a fitness 🙌 I forgot to take pics so here's an adorable one of my ding dong dog. I'll be drowning in buttercream for the rest of the week so hopefully I can finish the other half of my fitness goal for the month. Miles are all complete though!

Miles: 51/50

[bratprincezz]

A Poem Written by Cas and Your Response

Castiel didn’t know how it came to him, but he’d learned that you loved to read and he knew he had to tell you exactly how he felt. When he shyly pushed the letter under your door, you hear it graze and sat up to see is someone was trying to come in. Frowning in confusion, you tilted your head and noticed the paper on the floor.

You got out of bed and opened it, surprised to recognize the handwriting and confused as to why it was so secretive it had been given to you in such a way. Then you began you read

You radiate beauty and purity You smell like innocence Before Like dirt when the Earth was new Like the water on that version of this planet Like that very same air before it was polluted

Your eyes are as deep as the ocean But they light up when the sun shines upon them And I can see the fire in them When they are hungry

Your skin is as soft as down Your arms wrapped around me once You feel warm and safe Like a place I want to burrow And call home The curves of your body Leave me wanting to touch I’ve found myself wondering if I could But dare not ask Should the request scare you away

I haven’t tasted you yet But I imagine your kisses Have a sweet and spicy flavor Like the red lollipops sold in convenience stores The taste of sweet cinnamon burning your tongue A pleasurable break From the norm

Your heartbeat sounds like ancient drums It can be calm and quiet when at rest But then loud and energizing Like drinking too much coffee Giving energy and excitement to a day off

Sometimes I think I cannot control my feelings around you I believe I am not even close To your equal I am not beautiful Like you I probably smell like ozone My countenance can seem Vacant much of the time Therefore, my eyes are Probably not as deep My skin may be soft, But I fear my arms Aren’t quite as inviting My lips I imagine kissing them Would only taste bitter I don’t think my heartbeat is Really mine What good is another’s heartbeat? I’m not very relatable My previous life didn’t allow me to experience all these things, not in the way you have

I wish I could exoerience this with you

I want to smell your sweat Mixed with mine On us Between us If our bodies are ever found in any position Together

I want to see you All of you Whatever you allow I want to learn every bend Every freckle Every muscle Relaxed under my touch

I want to feel you The way lovers do Fill you up Have you wrapped around me I fantasize what making you feel pleasure Does to your body - What sounds do you make?

I want to taste you In ways I never have Your tongue Your lips The core of you Whatever you want me to

I want to hear you Say my name With lust and exertion With love and devotion To find my ears Tell me what you like

Then I want us to change roles Repay each other All of those things Playful and lascivious Superficially sinful But in love

///////////////////////////

“I’m not a poet. Not nearly as good as you.” You handed Castiel the paper it had taken you only five minutes to write in response to his beautiful poem. “You deserve something better, but at least it’s something.”

He smiled and took the letter, unfolding it to read.

You do smell like ozone, mostly. You also remind of buttercream frosting, Irish pipe tobacco, and puppy breath.

You look magnificent. Powerful, beautiful, adorable. I’ve seen the real you, and there’s nothing else like it. When you hold me I feel soft and sensitive. Vulnerable but strong. I imagine you taste like earl grey - earthy and real. Warm and comforting. You sound like the low rumble of thunder. Your voice drowns out the world. When you speak to me, I feel more confident. When you share with me, I feel special and important.

Yes, I want the same things. I think of the same things.

I want you to grab on to me and hold me close so I can smell you. I want to feel you inside and around me. I want to taste your skin. Kiss your nose. I want to hear your most explicit sounds and know all of your fantasies. I want to be submissive to your touch - I know it’s not what you expect of me - for us to be equals in a tangle of tantric love. Breathe with me. Hold that masculine, dominant element and take care of me. I want to be yours and you will be mine.

Castiel looked up at you, somewhat shocked.

“I told you. It’s not as good–”

He immediately pulled you in for a kiss and you lost yourself in his embrace.

[bl00dha1l]

dr s/o ramble don’t mind me

steve is not a fan of cherry coke. and he hates diet coke. he loves vanilla coke, but will drink cherry vanilla only if i’m having a regular cherry. which i think is strange because like, if you don’t like cherry, why are you drinking cherry vanilla???

anyway, he doesn’t particularly love the attention we get as avengers, but he kind of likes the attention we get for being together. that being said, he loves to keep up appearances only if we’re together. he sort of likes our status as “america’s power couple”.

I’ve been teaching him to bake. he’s miserable with frostings. couldn’t make a buttercream to save his life, but he’s gotten the hang of scones, WITH mix ins, can you believe it? i’m so proud of him.

when we go for rides on his bike, he doesn’t wear a helmet unless we’re going a long distance. I mean, technically he doesn’t need one, but with that logic, how come I’M the one who has to wear one?? he puts one of his jackets on me before we walk out the door. and it’s not like I don’t have any of my own, he just insists that they won’t keep me warm enough, especially at night.

(my body is at a constant temperature because of my powers. the cold might be annoying, but i’ll never start shivering, and my nose will never start running.)

and it’s obvious that his jackets don’t fit. he thinks it’s funny how i drown in them, and how often i always have to pull the sleeves up. but it’s fine. it’s his way of showing affection, especially before we’re together.

[spaceumbredoggos]

So much for stardust chapter Eleven

Content Warning for Self Harm, Vapes, mouse flavored cheerios, some sort of omegaverse shit without it entirely being omegaverse, and fleas and ticks.

Stolas paced back and forth after his phone call with Lucifer. “Well?” Blitzø was pressing for answers, to which Stolas replied, “Lucifer is coming over as we speak to meet Kenz. Loona, you might wanna wake them up pretty soon.”

“Are you sure? They look like they really need to rest.” But Stolas was adamant about me waking them up. I gave a heaving sigh and walked over to the guest bedroom, noticing how peacefully Kenz was sleeping. Octavia had stitched up the cuts and bandaged them up, leaving them looking like a mummy. Kenz was drooling on the Minecraft wolf plush, smiling in their sleep. I shook them awake, to which they glared at me. “I was having the most amazing dream and you woke me up!!!”

I stifled a chuckle. “What was it about?”

“There was a government mandated order to give everyone cake. And top notch quality cake with buttercream frosting better than Costco’s. How the fuck did the government top Costco buttercream frosting?”

Kenz was trying to get themself back to sleep. “Just let me have a great dream for once where I’m not drowning in rivers of blood or being abused or having to deal with a… Forget it!!! Now I’m hungry!!! I wish there was some cake, but cake for breakfast is a birthday thing, and it’s not my birthday yet…” They stood up, wobbling on their legs. “Fuck!!! Since when did my legs turn into jelly?” They spent the next five minutes getting used to walking before walking to the kitchen and making themself a bowl of cereal.

“Kenz—“

“What?” They seemed to be enjoying their cereal despite it being made for demons and not humans. I cringed as they nearly finished the bowl before I took it away from them. “Thats Mouse O’s.”

“So? They’re amazing!”

“They’re supposed to taste like raw mouse—“

“All the better. I always wanted to eat raw mouse, but I didn’t want to catch like fifty diseases.”

Stolas must be right about the umbredoggo thing. I grimaced as Kenz ran to the bathroom to wash their face and brush their teeth. I bolted after them. “Kenz!!! Don’t use the tap water!!!”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid it’s not meant for humans, Kenz.” Stolas barged in on them being stained red with the tap water. “Now you tell me. Is there anything here I can use to make myself look like I didn’t just walk out of my own open casket funeral?”

Stolas stifled a laugh as I dried them off with a towel. “Kenz, you should just lay on the couch. But don’t go to sleep.”

I walked them to the couch as they sat down, scrambling to find their phone. “Shit. Why did Striker have to crush my phone?”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Now can you sit still before you pull out your stitches?”

“That can happen?” They started to twitch nervously. “So why can’t I go home right away anyways? Is it because of the whole me being able to survive the Wrath Ring thing? Are you gonna board me off to some Demon Government Facility to run tests on my soul? Because—“

“We’re trying to keep you safe.”

“It’s bad enough that Ford’s worrying his stomach into knots over me, but you guys too?” Kenz scratched at their scalp. “Fuck, since when did I get this itchy?”

“Lucifer wants to meet with you.” I noticed Kenz find a flea in their scalp. “Fuck!!! I’m getting fleas!!! How’d they get there? And is that a tick?”

“Those aren’t just typical Earth fleas and ticks.” I grimaced, calling Stolas over. “Kenz, can you sit still while Stolas checks your scalp? The Wrath ring has a lot of pests that irritate demons.”

Kenz sighed as Stolas put some herbal insect repellent in their head. “It burns and itches.”

“Try not to scratch. And I’ll need to draw some blood.” Stolas grabbed a needle, drawing Kenz’s blood. They were strangely okay with the needle, not scared of it at all. Stolas walked to his lab as Kenz laid down, watching the TV.

“Wait, that’s a Voxtech TV. Turn it off.”

“I can’t do fucking anything!!!” They hung themself upside down. “It’s because we’re trying to keep you safe.”

“I know. I just wanna go home!!! And I keep feeling like I’m some stupid kid with knives hot glued on their fingers, unable to do much except get into trouble.” They flailed their arms in the air to further elaborate their point.

“You can go home after we figure out why you can survive the Wrath ring.” I petted Kenz’s head as they smiled. “Itchy!!! So itchy!!!” They stood up and stared scratching at their head again. “Don’t scratch it!!!”

“Too late.” Their scalp started to bleed. “Kenz?” Stolas tried to hold them still as they writhed in agony from the itchiness. “I thought those herbs were supposed to help!!!”

“By any chance do you have sensitive skin?”

“Did you use peanut butter or something?” Kenz sniffed their hand. “You used peanut oil in your solution.” They flopped on the couch in a daze, causing Stolas to panic. “The one time I didn’t bring an Epipen.”

“How badly are you allergic to peanuts, Kenz?” I held their arms to their sides and grabbed the human Epipen from my bag, jabbing it in them before their face turned blue. They gasped for breath and shook themself, shaking from the effects of the shot. “Where’d you get that anyways?”

“Wendy’s deathly allergic to bees. I also keep it handy in the field.” I made sure that Kenz was breathing as Stolas grabbed some water and washed the peanut solution out of Kenz’s hair. Kenz was oddly still for the amount of ADHD they usually have. It was then I realized that they weren’t breathing and their face was turning blue.

There was a knock on the front door as I grabbed another Epipen. “In a minute!!! Life or death emergency?”

“How life or death?” It was Lucifer, who kicked the door down and noticed Kenz suffering a life threatening allergic reaction. “Woah!!! Woah!!! What did you do to them?”

“Well, they picked up some nasty external parasites from the Wrath ring, and the ointment I gave them used peanut oil as a lubricant.” Stolas awkwardly chuckled as Lucifer placed his glowing hand on Kenz’s forehead. They stirred awake, dazed and out of it. “My mouth itches so fucking bad…” They started to throw up, the allergic reaction not out of their system yet.

Lucifer healed them up as they sat up on the couch. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Kenz smiled, still dazed from the allergic reaction. “Some peanut allergy. I mean, I guess that proves I’m human, right?”

Lucifer bursted out laughing as Stolas grabbed the blood results. “Oh dear.”

“What?” Lucifer grabbed the paper from Stolas and gasped. “Oh my god!!!” Lucifer jumped up and down with joy. “They’re not all extinct!!! They’re not all extinct!!! Reincarnation works!!!!”

Kenz tilted their head. “Excuse me?”

“Kenz, can I ask you something?” Stolas spoke in a calm tone. “Yeah?”

“How high is your prey drive?”

“Define a prey drive.” Kenz seemed really embarrassed by this question. “Well, you didn’t seem at all aversed by the taste of raw meat and you mentioned how you would always chase animals as a kid.”

“And you’re saying this because humans don’t have a prey drive.”

“Correct.” Stolas paced back and forth nervously. “Kenz, you’re not human. In your soul. You don’t have a human soul. You have an umbredoggo soul.”

The news hit Kenz like a ton of bricks. “This could explain why you chase after small creatures, since Umbredoggos are predators, and that you tend to have a deeper connection with animals than humans. This also explains your neurodivergence.”

“What the fuck is an umbredoggo anyways?”

“They’re very powerful beings of balance created by Lucifer, Belphagor, Asmodeus, Beelzebub and the Axolotl to balance out the many dualities of the multiverse. We think, that because your soul is that of the last Umbredoggo, which was killed as soon as it was born at the dawn of time, that it’s only a matter of time before your first transformation.”

Lucifer grabbed his phone and started calling Bee. He described the whole situation as Kenz hid their face in embarrassment. “You’re going to experience some biological changes equivalent to puberty—“

“Fuck!!!” Kenz hid their face deeper into the couch cushions, but then perked their head up. “I can control this transformation, right?”

Stolas looked doubtful. “If umbredoggos are so powerful, then why am I trapped in Gravity Falls in the human realm?”

“It’s because that universe counts you as an anomaly. Once your human body has lived a long fulfilling life, your umbredoggo form will be permanent and you can be free. But you can still traverse the multiverse and heaven and hell. Although I wouldn’t recommend it.” Stolas’s gaze suddenly turned cold. “Striker must’ve known. And Bill knows. Which is why he’s been targeting you so heavily.”

Lucifer got off the phone, then sat next to Kenz. “Look, Kenz. You’re in biiiiig trouble.”

“Way to lead off!!!” I noticed Kenz hiding in the couch cushions. “Kenz, are you okay?” They shook their head as Lucifer walked up to them. “Lucky for you, I can help you—“

Stolas gestured for Lucifer to stop. “I’m not gonna cut their head off—“

“He wants you to not offer me a deal, dumbass!!!” Kenz’s words were muffled in the couch cushions. Lucifer paused, trying to figure out what to do from there. Kenz wasn’t budging, hiding in the couch cushions.

Suddenly, Bee materialized in the room. Lucifer described the current situation as Kenz was zoning out with a look of great concern on their face.

“So they haven’t transformed yet?” Bee looked concerned as she sat next to Kenz, who was probably in the middle of a PTSD flashback. They seemed out of it, drifting off from reality. They didn’t even respond to Bee calling out to them.

“Crap. They must be going through something intense.” Bee reached out towards Kenz, who didn’t budge from their sheltered position on the couch. Bee seemed to get an epiphany at that moment. “It’s a mental block. They feel like not being human is something to be ashamed of. They’ve been unconsciously suppressing the urge to transform as a result. But they can suppress for only so long.” Bee started to rub Kenz’s shoulders, to which their position loosened. They still didn’t make eye contact with her, but they started to appear more relaxed.

“They should head home. It’s getting late, and I think if anyone can figure out the Umbredoggo thing, it’s Ford. Kenz doesn’t open up easily, and I think they need some food, and a new phone.”

I turned on the IMP van and walked Kenz to the front seat. They sat down, leaning on me slightly before turning to the other side of the seat. They still seemed off and disassociated, whining slightly with the PTSD flashbacks.

“Kenz?” They didn’t respond as I realized that they were scratching furiously at their wrists. “Hey!!! Kenz!!!”

“What?” They shook and noticed the blood on their fingers. “Oww… I don’t remember doing that…” They started to hyperventilate, trying to get a grip on themself. “I am a skin picker. I must’ve torn out the stitches on my wrists…” They were shaking vividly and fervently. I noticed then that their hair was matted and had lost its shine. Their skin was pale and there were heavy bags on their eyes. They looked thin and dazed, barely there.

“Kenz, are you okay?” They shook their head and tried to hide their face in the Minecraft wolf plush. “I don’t believe a word anyone says. This is just some fever dream.”

They’re in denial about this. I pulled up to an In N Out and took a hit of my mango blast THC vape. I offered it to them. “That smell is too intense.”

“It’ll chill you out—“

“Or it’ll sync weird with my meds and make me feel worse!!!” They swatted the vape away as I noticed them wiping the blood off their wrists. “You haven’t been taking your meds.”

“I have. I never miss a dose. I don’t trust myself off of them.” I then noticed their med container in their backpack that they always carry with them. “Ford keeps telling me to lower the doses and try some of his more natural stuff because apparently Bill has been ‘Influencing the absorption of my meds to where they’re either ineffective or making things worse.’ But he can’t do that. If he could, he’d have done it long ago. It wouldn’t make sense for him to do it now.” They curled up, rubbing their temples. “Fuck… Headache.”

I ordered a cheeseburger from In N Out, and Kenz ordered theirs too. We pulled to the side road and ate, then continued driving to the shack.

Kenz was half passed out in the front seat having taken their nighttime meds. They twitched in their sleep. I pulled up at the Mystery Shack, gently carrying Kenz to the couch.

Ford and I discussed Kenz’s current condition for hours before I left. He decided to keep Kenz under strict observation in his private study. I hope they get better.

[joanlattanzio]

This is how you make a salted caramel chocolate cake for your twin sister whom you haven’t seen in … God, a long time. In hopes that you avoid talking about the things you haven’t been talking about and just eat in silence. For the batter, you will need as much butter as you can manage without leaving your cake too dense and greasy. Taiye would die in pure bliss if she were to drown in a tub of good butter, so she used plenty. You should use a little over two cups of all-purpose flour, three quarters of a cup of unsweetened cocoa powder—preferably fair trade; no need to have the exploited labour of children on your hands just for chocolate—a teaspoon and a half of baking powder, a quarter teaspoon of baking soda, a half teaspoon of salt, and three large eggs. You may add a cup of sugar, but Taiye used a cup of honey instead. And finally, some vanilla extract. In place of buttercream frosting, Taiye made honey caramel to pour over the cake.

Butter honey pig bread - Francesca Ekwuyasi

[drinkingshadows-blog]

Sometimes self care looks like putting back that bottle of wine instead of drinking to drown away the memory of making buttercream from scratch in an ex's kitchen with his grandmother while she teases you about when the wedding will be.