#he’s more of a sear or a pan fry

[clingyduoapologist]

bro his husband died give him a break

Context

On paper I’d agree anon but I like my characters like I like my coffee: pressed and crushed and ground and burned and roasted until they’re bitter,

[cloveroctobers]

OCTOBER PROMPTS 🎃 — 1. Luca

PROMPTS from here + here and I’m using: “I really appreciate that you’re getting into the Halloween spirit, but it’s ten in the morning, please turn off the slasher films so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” + “Pumpkin spiced latte, please.”

A/N: so glad Luca was voted for the most on the poll lol because he’s the only one out of the options I started writing for in the drafts! let’s see if I can keep up with making these short this year 🤭! This is nothing but fluff and a smidge of annoyance — reader on Luca’s nerves just a bit really. Mentions of a classic horror film, that I actually need to go back and watch! I think I watched it once before since I won’t lie I usually watch the more updated versions when it comes to that franchise more so,, although I’m not the biggest fan of the series anyways like dear Luca…don’t drag us too much ⚔️!!!

WARNINGS: Reader being a bum for the day? Luca just wants to eat without background noise? + slight language, oh and pumpkin slander!

*GIF BELONGS TO: @wiha-jun !

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。

Luca prefers his mornings to be soothing, not filled with screams that can make anyone’s ear drums bleed or have the neighbors in the cul- de-sac sending the coppers right over. He had just gotten back from his morning run around the city, finding you sleeping down on the couch now compared to your shared bed. Which was humorous that you had the energy to climb out of the bed wrapped in mountains of blankets that you kept stored in a woven basket tucked away in the living space; during his absence just to continue your rest on the pale gray sofa.

You barely budged when he announced he was heading out into the damp morning and also repeated the same motion when he’s back, gently bending down to press a kiss to your edges before disappearing upstairs to shower. You’re awake with lidded eyes once he’s arrived downstairs, smelling of fresh mint soap and Olibanum as you’re messing around with the flatscreen on the entertainment center.

“Are you truly awake for the day darling or is it going to be another two to three business days?” Luca jokes on his way by, not expecting what you were going to set the television on.

You’re mocking him, voice still full of sleep, leaving the taller man to chuckle to himself as he heads into the kitchen, searching the fridge around the corner to ponder over what he can whip up. There’s plenty of possibilities as Luca’s eyes scan over what’s stocked in the fridge, finding that’s something he had to do now that you both shared a home together.

He could do cold smoked salmon…putting the protein to good use along with the radish and watercress…yet you were out of cream cheese. He could always ask his favorite critic, brace yourselves, it’s not Luca himself but rather you, what you were feeling like for breakfast but he knew regardless what he prepared you’d probably eat.

Thinking to himself, fingers tapping against the handle of the open fridge, he decides to go for something simple and more festive if you will. So he decides on homemade maple pancakes, without the walnuts since you were allergic and picks the pecans that your grandfather brought over from his pecan tree back in Georgia earlier this year. He’ll fry up some danish bacon with thyme searing the pan—hoping to bring flavor to the pork—or really to basically get rid of it, although it was a kind gesture from a neighbor who learned Luca was in the culinary field—the both of you were not the biggest fans of Denmark’s bacon.

No disrespect of course.

“Hey, want some of this Risalamande?” Luca calls out as you began to get engaged into the film, that’s probably been on for about twenty minutes since Luca takes more time debating on what to eat at home than when he’s out in the city.

Immediately your nose scrunches up as Luca is diving into the colorful rice pudding, leaning against the doorway that leads to the living room and front of the detached home, “Texture, Luca. Come on!”

Luca snorts with a slight roll of his eyes, “Ah, I see I’m getting picky you this morning, yeah?”

A wag of your finger as if it were a wand goes shooting into the air while you respond, “Sssh!”

“Rude.”

Luca spins back into the kitchen with a shake of his head, downing what most would consider a Christmas dessert but he doesn’t care one bit. He’s a man that enjoys eating and Christmas was more of his holiday anyway.

That holds him over long enough and he’s got the comfort of him whisking the dry ingredients together, focus steady on getting just the right mixture before moving onto the wet ingredients. It’s easy work really, which means Luca doesn’t mind making breakfast more than any other meal. It was similar to his own work, yet pastries were more his speed and he often challenged himself to try out new techniques majority of the time, so it wouldn’t always be easy but it was the pleasure in knowing that this is the starting point of your day, which beats a protein bar any way.

Luca uses his hands everyday and yeah it so happened to surprisingly be his weekend off, he didn’t mind keeping his hands busy when it came to breakfast and serving to the person he truly adores.

He’s at the stove, with minutes passing by at ease, his arched brows raising so often when the tempo of the movie begins to picks up. “What are you watching?”

He can’t help but to ask.

“…The Evil Dead, 1981.” He’s shocked he even gets a response from you since you tend to zone out when it comes to media.

Sometimes it was certainly a bad habit. You were an environmental documentary editor so it wasn’t unusual for you to get wrapped up in screens. Yet Luca couldn’t really blame you for that since he got lost in his craft as well; the both of you were working to get better with turning those habits off when together.

…if you don’t count right now that is! There was nothing wrong with being passionate about your interests but it was also always important to prioritize your partner, especially when work was a good chunk of your lives, yet it wasn’t the only thing that mattered. The both of you understood that.

He hums, finding possession films and gory themes weren’t really his thing. He actually has a weak system when it came to those type of horror films or rather blood (passing out from the mere sight fake or not or simply the stench of it is not something Luca was proud to admit) and let’s just say he was glad to not be in the room with you now. Horror really wasn’t your lane either, you were more into sci-fi films whereas Luca loved a good action film or documentary.

You were both each others test subjects, you with his food and him with your edits on your hybrid schedule.

“Come eat,” Luca says after while, the food steaming and filling the house with a sweet, salty and slightly earthy aroma.

He’s wiping his hands off with a rag, which he steps to the center of the kitchen, balling up the used rag to toss with a swift flick of the wrist into the laundry room up ahead. The rag plunks right on the washer and Luca smirks to himself before heading back to the dining table tucked in the corner by the oven. He always sits with his back to the oven because in a sense it’s brings him placidness. It didn’t make much sense to you since you originally thought Luca just wanted the view of the screened in conservatory all to himself but he flirted that you were enough of a view for him. Nonetheless he didn’t really need to explain it to you, if that’s the spot Luca wanted then so be it. You rarely argued about it simply because you could eat out there if you really wanted. He could keep the meaning of sitting with his back to the oven to himself. Perhaps it was his way of putting it behind him for awhile when engaged with you? Who truly knows but you did think about it a bit once you settled into the shared home.

Luca’s pulling himself up to the table, picking up a fork to start plating and clenched his eyes as more screams fill the home.

“I really appreciate that you’re getting into the Halloween spirit, but it’s ten in the morning, please turn off the slasher film so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” Luca calls out to you, after picking up that you were in a lazy mood and not ready to join him at the table.

The film actually gets lower as Luca shoves the pancake into his mouth, beginning to chew the meal as you say back, “pumpkin spiced latte, please.”

Luca questions with his mouth full, “what was that?”

“I’ll join you if there’s a pumpkin spiced latte waiting for me.”

Luca sits back in his chair and swallows, “you don’t even enjoy pumpkin so what are you on about?”

“But it’s fall, Luca.”

Luca pinches the space in between his skinny brows, “…for fucks sake, you’re quite spoiled you know that?”

“I love you.” You sing out while Luca scoffs.

He comments, “You better.”

So now he’s up on his feet again, messing with the olive espresso machine that you still won’t tell him how much you paid for last Christmas, he’ll use the last bit of maple syrup that he had leftover from the pancakes, there’s no pumpkin spice in the flat since he isn’t a big fan of pumpkin flavor either so he uses: 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/8 teaspoon ginger, and 1/8 teaspoon of ground cloves, yet he brought home some pumpkin purée that one of his fall-loving co-workers gave to him; homemade from her mini pumpkin patch in her backyard, he steams the oat milk, mixes the espresso, puree, syrup, spices, and vanilla all together before combining it with the milk. From there he frothed it just for a few seconds to get some foam and finally tops it off with whipped cream and more cinnamon.

Sitting back down, he slides the drink over to your side of the table and before he can call out to you to inform it’s ready, he’s hearing the shuffle of your feet in those ridiculous hot pink fluffy slippers. Luca glances at you and finds you rather cute still in your cozy pj’s and hair a complete mess.

“Your royalty,” Luca bows towards your drink, making you gasp playfully as you approach him, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, “it’s still hot,” he warns as you reach over for the handle of the mug at the same time but you pick it up with ease.

You peek at the latte and then back at him saying, “Shoo,” you wave your hand making Luca frown up at you.

You and these damn hand movements, you should be a conductor like your older sibling instead.

He soon picks up on what else you want, making yourself comfortable right in his lap, making Luca shake his head at you, tangling around you now so he can finish the breakfast but with you in his lap.

You on the other hand werent much of a breakfast person, although you loved a good brunch moment with your mates! but you hardly turned down much of what Luca prepared. He knew you’d get around to the pancakes if you didn’t start picking at his own plate soon.

“How is it?”

You nod, running your tongue over the top of your lip to get rid of the whipped cream, “hmm, now I kinda see what those pumpkin bitches go crazy over.”

Luca chuckles, “do I get to sample?”

“It’s the least I can do,” you tease as you blow on the steam before tipping the mug towards Luca’s lips.

He ends up blowing on it more before sipping and it’s your turn to watch his own opinion before he says it. You can always tell what direction this may go based on the way his eyebrows and eyes move.

“Not half bad if I do say so myself but a smoked butterscotch latte from Café bønne is actually better. I frankly don’t see the hype with this latte.” Luca shrugged with a pinch of his lips in thought before turning his hand back to the bacon.

You groan, “we haven’t been there in ages! We should go there today.”

“Nope, storms coming in this afternoon actually with a chance of power outages which is why you should eat those pancakes sooner than later, love.” Luca explains before adding, “should have gone running with me this morning. I passed by that route today too.” Luca tells you while you take another sip of the latte.

You weren’t aware of any storm coming in but you had to admit that you fell asleep on the news last night after the show you stayed up to watch with Luca went off. It really amazes you how he can stay up late and get up to function the next day. You on the other hand? Had to follow a routine or else you’ll be no good at work, hybrid schedule or not.

“Fine, I guess the shitty pumpkin makes up for it.”

Luca peeks at you mid chew, “Are you insulting my beverage when you asked for it?”

“Never! This definitely gets a 8.5 across the board. So I’ll shut my spoiled self up, babes.”

“Now that’s the spirit.”

A shove to his shoulder makes Luca wink and grin over at you, poking his lips out for a peck, making you aware that he was only teasing you.

Sighing you lean forward to press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, “thanks for breakfast.”

With his free tatted hand, he runs the pad of his thumb against the childhood scar on your kneecap stating with a smile, “anytime, darling.” He says as he peers at you from underneath his eyelashes before tossing in, “Even when you’re being a picky pain in my arse.”

“Welp! Moment’s ruined.” You hopped off Luca’s lap while he tried to latch onto you with a laugh but you swung your hips out of his reach, however not without plunking up his last pancake to take with you.

See!

Luca huffs, sticking his tongue into the side of his cheek before taking your plate with him to follow you into the living room. You’re seated back on the couch and he sits on the opposite end of it, tangling his limbs with yours as you cover each other with the blankets.

“This pancake is delicious.”

“So are yours,” Luca is smug as he eats from your plate now before glancing at the horror film on screen with disgust, then softening his expression as he sets his eyes back on you.

Which leads to the both of you taking turns eating pancakes and sharing the pumpkin latte, making the feel of autumn in the atmosphere sink in with the warmth of each other.

Hours later…you’re laying cuddled up to Luca’s chest on the couch, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling along with his hands clasped together against the small of your back is enough to almost put you to sleep. The wind has picked up now, whistling through the cloudy skies of Copenhagen followed by a harsh patter of rain that can be heard from the ceiling of the living room.

Which is just enough remedy for the both of you while you rest until you suddenly ask, “what did you think of the evil dead?”

Luca almost grimaces before he states, “…I prefer midsommar.”

“I want to debunk that with you but I also want to go back to sleep.”

Luca laughs before nuzzling his cheek against your head, “Fine by me, we have time to get into it later.”

“Over pancakes?”

“Breakfast for dinner? As long as you promise to actually sit at the table with me?”

“There’s no place I’d rather be…and I also want to hear your thoughts on that film. A true Mukbang starring us two, can’t get any better than that, no?”

A smile curls onto Luca’s lips at your excitement, then he speaks, “who’s the audience then?”

“The entities that maybe lurking around this house.”

Luca pops a eye open, “I really don’t like how you just said that. Especially after you had me watching that horrid fucking film.”

“Hey! A lot of horror lovers will definitely drag you for that but don’t worry, I’ll fight anything and anyone that dares to step to my man and that’s on what?”

Luca shakes his head while pretending to think about it, “period? Or whatever it is you say. You’re still a brat for saying that though. I don’t know if you notice but Halloween isn’t until the end of the month.”

“I’m sorry,” you coo squeezing his shoulder, “but Halloween starts as soon as September hits and don’t you forget it you big baby.” You curl your hand from around Luca’s shoulder to squeeze his cheeks together.

“You’re the…baby.” Luca mimics, his cheeks now appearing like a gapping fish due to your actions, “Taking thirty naps a day and being a massive pain in my bum.”

“NAURR,” you exaggerate making Luca lift his brows in annoyance before you continue, “I’m your favorite headache.”

Luca let’s out a sigh, “you’re not wrong.”

“I never am,” you sass before the room goes quiet a bit more—besides the weather outside until you voice your thoughts out loud, “Midsommar though? Really? I wouldn’t put that and Evil Dead in the same category.”

Now it was Luca’s turn to shush you.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°

Continue along with my October anthology prompts here.

[statisticallymorelikely]

00Q edit for @ironpe: demon!Q kidnapped

James gets the call at six in the morning, just a couple hours since he dragged himself out of the proverbial fire and back into the frying pan, the frying pan being the hotel room Q had secured for him for his post-mission wind down. Tanner's voice is haggard and grave on the other end of the line but James is not surprised. In fact, he'd been expecting something like this.

It had been years since he'd felt exposed, Q's power had been a reassuring companion in that time, but as he was escaping away on his motorcycle earlier that evening, an unease crawled up his back. He felt unprotected, a figurative shield sliding like water off his back. It was one thing to not have Q in his ear, but to not feel his presence at all was a different kind of vulnerability altogether. It was unnerving.

And so, he had been waiting for this call.

Tanner's voice washes over him as he relays details of Q's abduction, how they did it, who the assailants were and what they want in exchange. James listens idly, cleaning his guns almost on auto-pilot until he catches the only piece of information that matters to him: Q's estimated location. Finally given the scent, James goes on the hunt.

---

Q had been to church only once in his long and weary existence. It had been to tempt a priest. Having just been recently deployed to Earth, he was a trainee still. His supervisor had given him a list to accomplish: a tour of the classics, and what could be more stereotypical than convincing a priest that a few coins in his pocket was well-deserved. (After all, he took care of his flock so the flock should take care of his needs.)

What his supervisor failed to mention though was that temptations like those were best served via whispers in the wind at night while Q himself stayed right outside the window, because stepping onto consecrated land was excruciating. No, Q learned that lesson the hard way, and that pain is seared onto his memory forever, second only to Falling.

It's that same pain that's now coursing through his being, rendering him helpless on the floor of the abandoned church this terrorist group has chosen to hole up in. An outside observer would attribute his current state to the admittedly harsh beating he's been taking at the hands of their interrogator. But honestly, the blood and bruises are misleading. Endless punches and low level electrocution are nothing compared to the thrum of heaven in his bones, trying and failing to purify his wretched soul over and over again.

Finding a moment to think seems impossible and yet his mind eventually fights through the haze of pain and crawls its way toward James. He wonders how his little investment is doing. With Q incapacitated like this, his protective wards over James will surely be down. Q had inconveniently left him vulnerable during a crucial part of his mission, not that he had much choice. He hopes the madman hasn't gotten himself prematurely blown up, though it would be hilarious if he did. Maybe they can laugh about it together back in hell.

It's a little funny how much that thought comforts him.

---

James finds them in an abandoned church in a small town just outside Paris. Operatives like him are often referred to as ghosts. Terrifying yet unseen, taking enemies out quickly and quietly and then disappearing just as silently. Not this time though. This time, James is a demon. A furious tempest sent to rain down fiery judgment against those who have sinned.

He moves from room to room, searching, killing, no words, no hesitation. No need to interrogate anyone, he'll find Q when they're all dead. It doesn't take long, not with a vengeful double-oh on mission.

James opens the last door, down to the small catacombs, shoots the last two men and finally sets eyes on Q, sitting limp and lifeless in a corner.

"Q!"

He crouches down next to him, one hand coming up to check for a pulse on instinct. There isn't one. Q didn't need one, but James knows he likes to keep up appearances.

When he carries Q out of the church, there's a lump in James' throat as he looks down at the frail, bloody creature in his arms. Q may have damned him all those years ago, but they've also spent those years together, building a strange kind of trust amidst all the danger and death and bickering. He always wondered why Q didn't just let him die the moment he signed his contract, but also protected him, shared his power with him, and allowed him to do good. Now, he fears he may never get the chance to ask.

Numb, he trudges past the all the blood and the bodies, as he makes his way into the surrounding forest where he'd stashed his car. He walks past the fence, each step crushing overgrown grass underfoot getting heavier and heavier until James concedes and kneels down on the ground.

"Am I supposed to pray?" He bites out a bitter laugh, looking heavenward. "Is that what you want?!"

"No, you dolt," comes the hoarse whisper. "Just get me away from this place and I'll recover."

James gasps in relief, eyes watery as he holds Q tighter against his chest. "You prick, I thought you'd died."

"Oh, James," Q wheezes out. "I never knew you cared."

"You know what? Neither did I."

[pinkpinkstarlet]

so this is something I talked about on my old acc but I’m bringing it up here now

ghostflower tangled au!!!

heads up for a really long post lol

@adorefavv @ace-and-sleepdeprived @chessbox @darksidescorner @daydreaming-en-pointe @hoe-bie @i-put-the-wit-in-dimwit @skullghoulz @sp1derw1re @spiderkittens @spidey-bie @thecrowandtherose @the-cat-and-the-birdie @thisismisogynoir @punkeropercyjackson @l0starl @t1r4misuu @zainnbug @urmadiik @tatumis-a @ohara-n-brown

___

so there’s two ways I think this could go:

#1: In Brooklyn of universe-1610, Miles is still a baby, being taken care of and loved by his parents. One night, when Rio tucks him into the crib and leaves the room, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man of universe-928, carefully opens the locked window open and steps inside, making sure to stay silent. He walks over to the crib where Miles is sleeping soundly, unaware of the crime that the man is about to commit. Miguel knows it’s horrible, kidnapping a child for them to never see their true family again, but it’s necessary for the security of the multiverse, no matter how much it hurts. He tries his best not to compare him to his past child, Gabriella, as he slowly picks up the sleeping baby and cradles him gently. However, Miles wakes up as soon as Miguel touches him, and starts crying at the unfamiliar face. Miguel hears Rio and Jeff walking up to the room and quickly dashes towards the open window, only hearing her gasp loudly as he faces the room one last time, eyes glowing a vibrant red as his claws carries the fragile child in his hands. And just before the two horrified parents can do anything, he vanishes.

Jeff and Rio search everywhere, with an ongoing case to search for Miles happening more than a year, but it’s no use. Miguel took Miles to his universe and locked him in a secluded tower within the spider society, raising him as his own from then on. Miguel truly believes that Miles is an anomaly, and that the only way to stop him from getting bitten is by removing him from his home entirely, and he reveals some of that to Miles. But he also lies to him about the world, telling him that’s it’s a dangerous wasteland filled with horrible monsters that have killed most civilization off, and that the only people remaining besides them are selfish and cruel, wicked people that would not hesitate to torture a “fragile” child like Miles. This makes Miles absolutely terrified of the outside world, making him reluctant to leave and even easier for Miguel to handle.

But Miles is secretly still curious about the world. He’s read about it in his limited selection of books, and along with his interest in drawing and arts in general, he wants to at least get a glimpse of the world, hoping that there might still be some beauty in the “wasteland.” Of course Miguel refuses, and his hopes are low, until his 15th birthday. Every year on his birthday, LYLA, the extroverted and sneaky ai assistant of Miguel, would show Miles the lanterns that unbeknownst to him, happen right in his universe by his parents as a way to mourn him. This strengthens his yearning to go outside, without Miguel even knowing it.

Then we have Gwen, a new recruit in the spider society, is exploring the building of the society and finds the secluded tower within a separate part of the building, and gets promptly knocked out with a frying pan by Miles. When she wakes up, the whole conversation between Eugene and Rapunzel in the original film happens between Miles and Gwen, with him being convinced to go outside with her. The whole story plays out like Tangled, except instead of dying, Miguel escapes and retreats to another part of his universe, plotting a way to still “preserve the canon.”

___

Now here’s the second one:

This is much closer to Tangled, with the Morales family being royalty and living in a kingdom very similar to Corona. Rio is pregnant but also extremely ill, and Jeff orders all of the guards (including Aaron, who is the Captain of the Guard here) to search for a possible cure, one of which being the elusive magic golden flower from Tangled. Doctor Olivia “Liv” Octavius used this flower to not only stay young for thousands of years to continue other scientific research of hers, but she also studies the flower for other ways it can benefit herself.

One day, the guard finally find the flower and take it to the castle, feeding it in a soup to Rio. A little after that, she gave birth to Miles, who inherited the same healing powers from the flower through his hair, which was now blonde. Everything seemed happy for the family, until Olivia broke in at night and decided to kidnap the child for her own gain. She keeps Miles in a tower just like in Tangled and uses his powers for her experiments and to stay alive, while acting as his mother. The whole story plays out the same, with Gwen being Eugene and Kingpin and The Spot/Johnathon Ohn being the Stabbington Brothers.

[peppermintpinklemonade]

MITRI COOKING FLASHBACK FIC…… SPARE MITRI COOKING FLASHBACK FIC PLS………

Baby, bro, child, dude, you’ve seen most of it, you’re my fe3h guy of all time, however… ty so much for asking so I have smth to share so here are some of my favourite bits:

‘Felix is gonna be so happy.’ Dimitri thought cheerily as he grabbed the handle of their frying pan from the cabinet.

Dimitri pulled out the frying pan from under the rest of their cookware and everything in the cabinet clattered out onto the floor with a loud crash.

‘Oh goodness.’ Dimitri sighed as he went to restack the cookware. It was probably fine, Felix wasn’t a very heavy sleeper, but his room was far from the kitchen. He needed Felix to stay asleep so he could surprise him.

~~~~~~~~~more under the cut

‘Oh, shoot.’ Dimitri thought as he placed their carton of eggs and butter on the counter. He hadn’t done this by himself yet and he’d forgotten to pen down instructions the last time someone had fried an egg with him.

He picked up his phone and paused the old rock song he hadn’t heard before and opened his messaging app.

Ashe my friend, could you please remind me how long to fry an egg for?

Thank you,

Dimitri :)

Dimitri waited as Ashe typed, the three dots jumping in place of his message.

It’s Dedue, apologies. Ashe is asleep right now but I heard his phone go off while fetching something I left in his room. Please make sure the pan is at medium heat and has a small amount of either oil or butter melted in it. Crack the egg into a shallow bowl and then slide it into the pan so you can start over if the yolk breaks or pick out any pieces of shell. Once the egg is in the pan, watch the edges of the white for crisp browning. You want semi-soft yolk, solid white, and a crispy brown bottom. You can use a spatula to slightly lift the egg to check if you are unsure if it is ready. Good luck Dimitri.

~~~~~~~~~

Dimitri took an egg and lightly tapped it on the edge of the bowl like he’d seen. Perhaps not as lightly as he had intended as he pushed the egg into the edge of the bowl almost to his hand, crushing the shell in his palm, and sending yolk and egg white onto the counter and Dimitri’s apron.

Dimitri sighed, the bowl was a good idea.

He washed the bits of egg and shattered shell out of the bowl and off the counter and tried again.

This time he managed to get most of the egg in the bowl, but the yolk was absolutely decimated and full of bits of shell.

Third attempt. A broken yolk again, less shell though.

Dimitri looked remorsefully at the carton of eggs. This was wasteful.

“Oh!” Dimitri remarked. He took a serrated butter knife and sat the egg on its side on the counter. He began to carefully saw back and forth in a line down the middle of the egg. Dimitri smiled to himself as the knife broke through the shell in a neat line. He opened the egg the rest of the way and stared at his perfect cracked egg in the bowl. Felix was gonna be pretty impressed he’d thought of that, he’d make sure to tell him when he served him the food.

~~~~~~~~~

‘Oh.’ He should make some for Sylvain too. He would probably get home in an hour or two, and he would probably be hungover and maybe sad and would appreciate a full breakfast he didn’t have to cook. Dimitri brought the eggs back to the counter, he’d make more after he served Felix.

~~~~~~~~~ ok for these next ones idk how to do left text so I’m just gonna colour it

Oh, he also needed paper towel to line the plate. He quickly doubled back to grab a few strips. On his way his arm caught the handle of the frying pan. He turned around and, without thinking, caught the falling pan halfway to the ground, its tilt poured sizzling butter on the back of his hand and fingers as the hot metal seared the palm of his hand. Dimitri instinctively yelled, dropped the pan with a loud clang and clutched his hand, now bright red and radiating–

–heat, the throbbing pain getting worse and worse, the smell of his sizzling flesh, no, not just his, he was pretty sure. Oppressive warmth pushed into him from all sides, he could barely see through the grey smoke and orange flames whipping in the air. Someone called his father’s name, and then his, quiet against the ringing in his ears from the explosion and the screams of the people falling to their fiery deaths around him.

He was twelve, he had been in the audience watching his father and stepmother speak against the backdrop of their promising political agenda for the year projected on the wall. He was in the front row, waving to his best friend’s older brother Glenn, who smiled back covertly from his position on the side of the stage. Glenn stopped smiling at him and his face contorted with concern, he said something into his mouthpiece and took a step towards Dimitri’s parents, his hand on the gun hiding holstered at his waist.

~~~~~~~~~

“Dimitri!”

Dimitri looked around, he couldn’t make out anybody in this inferno, and the ringing in his ears deafened him too much to identify its owner.

“Dimitri!”

Felix walked into the kitchen frowning, rubbing his eyes. “If you’re gonna get up at ungodly hours on a Saturday at least keep it down.” He admonished harshly.

Felix continued, “What the hell are you–”

Felix rounded the corner and registered the scene in front of him. Dimitri, kneeling on the floor beside a frying pan spilling steaming eggs and butter onto the floor. He had pressed his hands into the ground and was staring at them blankly with his one good eye. His left hand was red and blistering. Tears were brimming in his eye and his breathing was quick and shallow.

“Shit.”

Felix’s expression of anger dropped like a heavy weight, wide eyed concern etching itself deep into his face, sadness softening the edges of his worried brow.

~~~~~~~~~ same thing w center text imma make it purple

Glenn let go of Lambert and knelt down in front of Dimitri. Holding his hand out.

“Dimitri, let’s go.”

“Dimitri,” Felix began, gingerly covering Dimitri’s burnt hand with the wet cloth.

“It’s okay,”

“I’ve got you,”

“take my hand.”

Upon getting no response, as expected, Felix gently lifted Dimitri’s hand and wrapped it in the towel, wiping off the butter still burning blisters into his hand. He watched Dimitri carefully, making sure to move slowly so as to not startle him.

~~~~~~~~~

Dimitri looked up at Glenn as he ran beside him, gripping his hand tightly. His raven hair was falling around his shoulders, whatever he’d tied his hair up with was long gone.

“What happened, what’s–”

“–going on, Glenn?” Dimitri mumbled, slowly stumbling to his feet. He tightened his grip on the warm hands wrapped around his. He looked up, no, down. Amber eyes stared back at him through loose raven hair that collected around narrow shoulders. Amber?

Glenn stared back at him, his piercing blue eyes serious and hard.

“We’re not sure, we think this is an attack.”

Felix sighed tightly and cupped Dimitri’s face softly, “I’m Felix, it’s 2023, you’re safe, and–”

“–we’re going to get out of here,” Glenn continued.

“it’s going to be okay.”

AUGH I feel like put way too much to be qualified as ‘snippets’ but, them,,,,

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Chopped

Part Ten of If You Can't Take the Heat

You Got a Minute? | Masterlist | To Market

Pairing: Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto x Reader

Rating: M (though it may have explicit chapters in the future)

Notes: Welcome back! I hope y’all are having a nice week!❣️ Also no worries, there’s another chapter incoming, it just doesn’t have a name yet.

Also also we will return to the land of plot next chapter. This one is just for funsies.

Warnings: Fluff! Chopped! Not beta-read.

Summary: It seems more like something Carmy might make at the shop—a panini spilling over with bright vegetables, chicken, and oozing cheese. There’s a serving of fries there as well, and you know that they’re handcut and baked.

“First baskets are ready to go…Please open your first basket.”

“Babe, it’s starting,” You call out, eyes set on the television as the contestants open their baskets. “Do you want me to come help you?”

“Nah, you’re good. Turn it up!” Carmy calls back. You reach out, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up so that Carmy can hear it from your kitchen. Ted Allen’s voice rings out across your living room: 

“Green tomatoes…” 

“I’m looking at these tomatoes, and I’m just thinking uh, I hate these,” Groans one of the contestants. 

“Venison,” Ted Allen goes on. 

“Ooo,” You frown, brow furrowing. “What even is venison?” 

“Deer meat,” Carmy says, setting two plates down on the coffee table in front of you. You glance down, and do a double-take at the sight of the food there as the scent of it catches your nose. 

“Damn, babe. That looks good,” You reach out, taking your plate up. It seems more like something Carmy might make at the shop—a pannini spilling over with bright vegetables, chicken, and oozing cheese. There’s a serving of fries there as well, and you know that they’re handcut and baked. You reach out, taking your plate and leaning back in your seat, popping a fry into your mouth with a groan. When you look up again, you find that the chefs are already off and running. 

“Wait, what else did they get?” You ask. 

“Water chestnuts and wonton wrappers.” 

“No.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Those wonton wrappers are so dangerous…What would you do?” You ask, glancing at Carmy. 

“Bacon wrapped venison bite. Use the wonton as a little bowl, pan sear the venison ,” He answers without a second thought. “Throw the water chestnuts and the green tomatoes into a puree, add some shallots, garlic, some heavy cream. Give a brighter taste to the bite—cut through the salt, counter the crunch.” 

You blink at Carmy, stunned, watching as he plucks up a couple of fries and pops them into his mouth. 

“...How long did it take you to come up with that?” You ask. Carmy just shrugs nonchalantly, reaching out and taking his beer. You smile, shaking your head and resting your chin on his shoulder. 

“Fricking genius chef.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“Gordon Ramsey’s got nothin’ on you.” 

“Eat your food,” Carmy presses. “It’s getting cold.” 

You can see, though, that his cheeks are pinking with flattery. You’re perfectly content to lean back and watch Chopped, but Carmy mutters to himself every now and again—between bites, after sips—completely unprompted. 

“Plating always makes me the most nervous,” You mutter as you watch the four chefs hurriedly put their food up. “Like, what if you drop something?” 

“What do you do if you drop something when you’re bartending?” Carmy asks, glancing back toward you as the four chefs line up to 

“Laugh it off in person but, like, scream on the inside.” 

“But you keep going, right?” 

“Yeah, ‘cause I have to.” 

“So do they.” 

You scoff, leaning back in your seat. “Alright—Michelin Miyagi.” 

-- 

“Oh my god, are you kidding me!” You crow as one of the contestants leaves. “That’s insane!” 

“No it is not—” 

“The other guy left off a basket ingredient!” 

“Yeah, but raw pork could kill someone.” 

You consider Carmy's argument before you slouch back, grumbling.

“For your main course, we have…”

You half-shove the remainder of your panini into your mouth as Ted Allen begins to introduce the new ingredients. 

“Swordfish…Fennel seeds…” 

You glance toward Carmy as he gives a short nod, and lets out an appreciative hum. 

“Maraschino cherries…And potato chips.” 

“Breading for the swordfish?” You pipe up. 

“Good,” Carmy nods, pointing at you without looking away from the television. “If you grilled it, that would be good. Drain and rinse the cherries, turn that into a salsa.” 

“What about the fennel seeds?”

“Add it to the swordfish. Some paprika, garlic, lemon.” 

“...Hell, I’d eat that.” 

--  

“Wow—” 

“Saw that coming,” You mutter. “You can’t just shove something into a blender with cream and call it a hummus.” 

“Amateur hour,” Carmy agrees. You watch, smiling as Carmy scooches down om the couch, resting his head on your lap. You reach down, tenderly combing your fingers through his hair as Ted Allen proclaims:

“And your dessert must feature…Granny Smith apples…Sweet vermouth…” 

“Curveball,” You mutter.

“Gingerbread…And apricot paste.” 

“Ice cream?” You ask. 

“Mm…With what?” Carmy asks, tipping his head up to look at you.

“The apricot paste and vermouth? Turn the gingerbread crumbs into a crumble…”

“And the apples?” 

“....Okay, I take it back, make a little, like…apple pie?” 

Carmy considers for a moment. 

“I’d make an apricot ice cream, use the vermouth to cook season the apples with, and use the gingerbread as a crumble.” 

“...Yeah, you know what,” You nod. “That’s the move.” 

“Uh-huh…Good jumping-off point, though.” 

“You're too kind, Berzatto.” 

Carmy huffs softly, amused. 

“...You’re pretty good at this,” He comments. 

“You’re a freaking rockstar at this, but like…Knew you would be…I'll do the dishes after this.”

"I got 'em."

"You cooked, it's only fair."  

“...We'll do 'em after the next episode.”

Tag list: @bobawithpomegranate ; @brandyllyn ;  @artemiseamoon  ; @amneris21 ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @backoff-imreading ; @quietpainter ; @milf-trinity ; @distinguishedfilipina ; @peoniarose ; @missredherring ; @estrela-rogers ; @silkiers ; @sammiekay01 ; @velmalav ; @themartiansdaughter ; @eddiemunson4ever  ; @whoahoney​ ; @wittyno ; @winchestershiresauce ; @artaxerxesthegreat ; @blueeyesatnight​

[gag-me-munson]

Shelter me

(PT. ||) (Catch up here)

Pairing: Eddie x Fem!Reader

Warnings: A bit of self harm mentions, abuse is also semi-mentioned but that's about it for this chapter. Kind of a filler chapter as well, but hey.

"Eddie, I know that's not you cooking." Wayne mumbles to himself as he exits his bedroom to find you in the kitchen in front of the stove. He stops in his tracks and watches as you continue to fry bacon, jumping back when the grease splatters onto your skin, cursing under your breath.

"Oh," you sputter and drop a piece of the crispy pork onto a plate, "Good morning... Eddie told me you liked eggs but the bacon is getting ready to expire, so I hope you don't mind. There's, uhm, there's also coffee ready as well." You smile and gesture to the steaming pot.

Lighting his morning smoke, Wayne chuckles and moves around you for a cup, filling it with simple, plain black coffee before sitting down at the table. "Thank you," he states and the ashes his cigarette, "How did you sleep? I notice you made Eddie sleep here on the couch." He laughs under his breath, both of you trying to keep quiet to allow his nephew to continue snoozing.

"I didn't mean to put either of you out," you laugh lightly and shrug, grabbing a bowl to crack and mix the eggs into. You take salt and pepper and a dash of almost expired milk into the bowl and whisk while you talk, "I appreciate you letting me stay... I know I'll need to go home eventually-"

"Young lady," Wayne holds a hand up and stubs out his butt, "You're not going back there while I'm around. Nope. No sir." He grunts as he stands and goes to refill his mug. "What do I have to do to keep you away? To keep you, well, safe?"

You, meanwhile, pour the egg mixture into the hot pan and scramble the eggs to doneness, placing them on a separate plate while you think. Eventually you shrug and point to an empty plate, "breakfast is served."

Wayne goes about getting his bread toasted before filling his plate with the food you provide, thanking you while doing so before grabbing a fork and settling down.

"I smell bacon." Eddie groans himself awake and sits up, running a hand through his tangled mop, yawning loudly. He stretches before standing up and grinning at you before heading to the small bathroom.

"I guess," you begin through a small mouthful of eggs, "I guess there is no saving me. What can you do that the cops can't, after all?" A small sniffle and Wayne looks up from his breakfast and sighs.

"I can keep you. Here with us. We don't have a lot, but then again," he gestures, "it doesn't seem like you're used to a lot. I'll talk to him, at least."

Fear rumbles through your belly and you almost spit up your eggs, "Please... Please don't. I can do this. I can-"

"Handle yourself?" Eddie finishes the sentence as he pulls a fresh shirt over his upper half. "Yeah... been there before." He moves by you gently to fill his own plate before settling in beside his uncle, "what's the worst that could happen?"

You gulp loudly then and drop your fork onto the plate in a clatter, "the worst?" And you bring a hand to your throat, remembering.

"You little whore!" He spits into your face and lifts you off of the ground with seemingly gentle ease. Hand around your throat, he grips tighter, eyes searing, "who was it you were sneaking around with this time? Who?!"

Coughing the thought away you shake your head, "I don't want to talk about it. Wayne, I can be out of your hair today while-"

"You two just... just stay out of trouble and take care while I think, okay?" He nods and finishes his breakfast in one more swift bite. "Just... stay low while I'm away, deal?"

Both you and Eddie nod as Wayne leaves to his room to dress for work. You look at each other sheepishly before you take Eddie's empty plate and put it into the sink, "If I stay again, I'll do those soon."

"You think dishes are that important? When," he sighs loudly, placing his hands onto his face and rubbing it roughly, "when are you ever going to realize that you are important? Not chores. Not pleasing the men in your life. You."

"Okay, I'm off. Behave, stay low and most importantly," Wayne points at you and glances down, "make sure those arms of yours are taken care of. Peroxide and Neosporin. Bye." With that he smiles at you and waves at the pair in front of him before exiting the trailer.

Looking down to your cut and scarred arms, you wish for longer sleeves and rub them quickly. Eddie takes note of this sudden and shy change, reaches for your hand and kisses the top of it.

"Shall we do that first?" He asks softly and you nod.

The bathroom is almost like the one in your trailer, but you note it's cleaner and better kept. Almost like the people here actually want to live, thrive on something instead of just surviving. Eddie busies himself in getting the products and cotton balls while you sit on the toilet and take one.

The work you both set about doing is tedious but welcomed after never taking care of yourself before like this. It was... well, usually cut and go, harsh as that sounded in your mind.

"I never wanted to start this, ya know..." you murmur and dab some more Neosporin onto a particularly nasty wound. "It just sorta happened one day and I felt... so much relief, so much control."

Eddie clears his throat and shakes his head, hair wildly flowing around him, "I can't imagine anyone wants to do this. But... I get it. I can understand needing control." He sighs and leans to rest his back on the wall, watching you finish up.

"You do?"

He nods and gives you a grin, "I do... but let's make a promise today, alright? No more of this. None of it. Promise me whenever you feel like you're in danger... you run, escape however you need to and I'll be here, always." With that he holds a pinky out to you and this, finally, brings a laugh from you.

Locking your pinky with his, you make the promise and then Eddie stands up and dusts his pants off, "let's get outta here for a while, huh? I have a meeting tonight, come along."

Standing now you grab Eddie's hand and thank him for being so understanding, for not turning you away.

"For you?" He smiles and squeezes your hand back, "anytime."

And butterflies float and fly in your stomach for the first time you can ever recall.

[captainbogwitch]

Excerpt: The Hands That Wield the Sword

And it truly was a feast. What would be multiple courses in a more Hylian setting was presented all at once on the Zora’s table. Sidon give Link the name of each dish as they pass it, happily placing however much of it the Hylian wants onto his plate (his first plate, anyway. Sidon quickly went to grab another when it was full.) Many of the dishes had names in Hylian, but the prince was eager to share what they were called in the Zora tongue as well and enthusiastically offered to learn their signs in the Zora Sign Language, as well as Hylian Common Sign.

On the table set in silver or stone bowls are foods Link had never seen. Hineska’ Agaga’, the Hylian rice dyed red with achote seeds, spiced with onion, garlic, and a hot pork sausage Sidon called chorizo; salads made of cucumbers and daigu’ radishes pickling in a bowl of soy sauce and lemon juice sitting beside a plate of stir fried bok choy, Hylian shrooms, and spicy peppers. The smell of hot frying oil filled his senses as they passed the fried vegetable lumpia, its rice paper wrapping dark brown and sizzling. A few bońelos uhang, small, pan-fried cakes of shrimp and vegetables sat next to the lumpia and red rice creating a small wall between it and savory breadfruit swimming in fresh coconut milk. Link recognizes the smell of kelaguen and tityas from the meal Kodah and Kayden gave him the morning before, but Sidon explains that this is kelaguen månnok, made with poultry rather than seafood. Its spicy aroma sent Link’s mouth tingling, the taste of sharp lemon, crisp spice, and fresh, earthy niyok coming back to him joyfully.

The “entrees,” as they would be called on Hylian tables, comprised of pansit bihon månnok; clear, thin rice noodles dressed brown with fish and oyster sauce, tossed together with sautéed snow peas, poultry, carrots, and bamboo shoots, topped with bright white, crunchy bean sprouts and lime juice. There was fresh, seared sizzelfin trout encrusted with sesame seeds that fell apart beautifully when you took a bite, the sesame seeds adding a delicious texture to the soft fish. Tender grilled pork spareribs sprinkled with only pink rock salt and course pepper sat at the end of the line followed by three small bowls of desserts, which, once they finally came into view, made Link’s eyes widen in excitement. In one sat steamed sweet niyok and cassava, its smell bringing a sense of freshness and cleanliness after the line of strong, savory dishes. Sidon has to turn Link away from the baked pumpkin empanadas (påstets) and crumbly inafliton roset cookies before he could stuff them in his mouth, promising that he will bring them once they sit.

At their place settings are cups of fresh water and an earthenware pot of lemon ginger tea. Link, a master of restraint, waits for Sidon to finish making his own plate and sit down before he explores the vast richness in front of him.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Custody Battle--Four Seasons

The Ritual of Propagation has succeeded. Aziraphale and Crowley are ready to welcome the newest member of Their Own Side. But the Archangels have other plans. No young angel has ever been raised outside their closely guided care, and they have no intention of changing that.

As Aziraphale, Crowley, and Kokabiel get ready for breakfast, their peaceful morning is abruptly interrupted. Their next visitor has arrived...

(Chapter has CWs for mild violence and panic attacks. Whole fic has warnings for noncon, emotional manipulation, and more--please check the tags carefully!)

Read it on AO3!

Aziraphale hummed cheerfully as he chopped ingredients, keeping an eye on the sizzling sausage and hot oils dancing in the pan.

He’d started making crepes, as planned, but he’d found the scent of the batter… uninspiring. Even when he switched from strawberries to a lovely mix of raspberries, blackberries, and loganberries picked from the garden—a bit of tartness to counter the sweetness… well, one sniff and he knew that wouldn’t do at all.

But as he rummaged about the kitchen, he soon discovered what he was in the mood for.

The sunlight streamed through the windows as he set to work, shifting the enormous pan over the gas flame. The perfect morning for a meal on the garden patio, soaking in… everything.

“Mmmmmh…” Crowley sighed, coming up behind him and sliding his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “I think I called it. Those are some funny looking crepes.” 

“Oh, hush, you.” Aziraphale expertly shifted the sausages to make room for the bacon. “I thought a little change was in order, and Kokabiel likes watching the pan, don’t you my dear?”

They bounced excitedly across his wing, not leaping as high as yesterday, instead trying to match the spattering, cracking sounds of the oil in the pan.

The scents filled the room, warm, savoury, and crisp. Sausage and thick back bacon, as well as black and white puddings. Now he just had to sear the tomatoes, caramelise the mushrooms, fry the bread, then take care of the baked beans and eggs. He’d even managed a bit of laver bread, though something was still missing. A bit of trout, perhaps, or some cockles…

“You sure you want fried food?” Crowley asked, one hand running idly along his wing. “How’s your stomach?”

“Much improved, thank you for asking.” Aziraphale nudged the bacon, making sure it cooked properly. “My appetite has quite recovered; not a hint of nausea to be found.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder. “And how are you?”

“Awesome,” Crowley said with a lopsided grin. He’d changed his clothes, now sporting a snug-fitting lacy black corset top under one of Aziraphale’s dress shirts, unbuttoned and flowing loose. They, and a few mis-matched necklaces, worked together to draw attention towards his bosom, which appeared to have grown even larger. “Shower was a good idea.”

“Naturally. It was one of mine.”

Crowley snickered, leaning closer to press against his angel. “Not your only good idea…” He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, damp hair brushing both their faces.

Aziraphale immediately shoved him away. “What—what is that horrid— stench?” He pressed his hand to his nose, trying to block it out.

“What? I—I don’t—” Crowley sniffed his own hair. “Not me. Did the eggs go off?”

“I haven’t started them yet—and I know what rotten eggs—this isn’t foul, it’s…” He tried to pull his hand away and… no, there was the nausea, back in full force. “Oh!” Aziraphale slammed down the spatula, stepping away from the stove. “It’s no good.” He jerked open the nearest window, taking one deep gulp of air after another, hoping that would rinse the horrid malodour from his memory.

“I… I guess this is a new shampoo,” Crowley admitted, twisting his hair up into a knot, “but it barely has any scent!”

“Well. One of us is mistaken.” Another breath, and his mind started to clear. But his stomach still churned uneasily, and the thought of standing over the stove for another twenty minutes made his knees weak. “If it isn’t the shampoo, it must be something.”

A brush of fingers running up his back. “Do you need me to—”

“I need you to give me space!” He swatted Crowley away, fanning his face with the other hand. “It’s—I’m sorry, I just need you to… get rid of that smell!”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Crowley sniffed the loose shirt collar, then bent almost double trying to do the same for the low-cut corset top. “I… I tried one of those little potpourri things in my drawer? Is that it?”

“I can’t even think!” Aziraphale pushed past him, sprinting up the stairs. “I will find that scent and exorcise it from this house!”

“Angel, you can’t be—wait!”

“No! You’ll thank me when it’s gone. Good Lord, Crowley…”

“Just… leave my deodorant, alright?”

Aziraphale paused at the top of the stairs, leaning against the bedroom door as he fanned himself, chasing away the summer heat. A distant, hazy thought slipped across the back of his mind, not quite fully formed. Confusion, protest, and a sense of curiosity.

“Well, I thought it was entirely necessary,” he grumbled in response to Kokabiel, still trying to get the awful smell off his tongue. “Really, he has no sense of moderation or—or anything when it comes to trends and fashion. If the humans declared walking around with kippers in their jackets to be cool, Daddy would have them bursting from every pocket. Absolutely insupportable.”

The curiosity drifted away, turning in slow circles, then rushed back, nudging an impression, the ghost of a memory, into his mind. For a second, Aziraphale could smell it again—too chemical, too sweet, and an undercurrent that was downright astringent. The memory alone was enough to make his stomach roll. “Yes! Precisely that! And we can’t let Daddy get away with it, can we?”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Crowley appeared at the bottom of the stairs, waving the spatula at his husband. “I’m not going to take this from someone who hasn’t changed his cologne in five years!”

“A classic scent never goes out of fashion!”

Kokabiel’s attention began to drift away, unable to follow the conversation. But they quickly brightened as another memory rose up in their mind: clematis and jasmine, magnolia and sweet alyssum, and over it all, the smell of honeysuckle: sweet and heady, citrus and vanilla.

“Yes!” Aziraphale beamed at the youngling. “Oh, look how clever you are. Yes, we want Daddy to smell like the garden, not like a chemical plant explosion. Why don’t you set things up outside, dearest, and air yourself out?”

“Fine, fine, right after I finish cooking your breakfast.” He pointed the spatula like a sword. “You’re lucky that I love you.”

“I truly am,” Aziraphale agreed wholeheartedly. “Mind you don’t burn anything.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[tiefthieves]

Out of the Frying Pan, into the Fire

Sikah caught her breath as she sat hidden behind a stack of crates with her hood drawn over her head. She turned the stolen artifact over in the palm of her hand, admiring the shine of its polished gold. This would certainly sell for at least a hundred gold— enough for a small room at an inn, a meal, travel supplies, and maybe fresh clothes too. As an urchin, she wasn’t a stranger to using cold cobblestone as a pillow and the clothes on her back as her covers. But, Sikah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bath or washed her shirt, nor the last time she’d slept in a real bed. 

She didn’t mind being alone. Hells, without anyone to rely on or provide for, she could keep all the spoils for herself. Albeit, there were times where Sikah did find herself longing for company. Part of her missed the companionship, but more of her missed the ease. When she was with her old band of thieves they split coin, shared food, a roof over their heads, and had a constant web of intel. Now that she was alone, Sikah had no one to rely on but herself. 

When the buzz of investigating footsteps faded and the murmurs from watchmen dissipated, her breath settled back into her lungs. Sikah stood from her shadow and headed toward the nearest merchant. As she went to exit the alleyway, she collided with something; instantly, she was knocked off her feet by a devil-red tail and held down against the cobblestone floor by some sort of magic. She stealthily slipped her treasure into her pockets and raised her hands in surrender. 

The man standing above her looked down with fiery, glowing green eyes. An intricate tattoo danced across his forehead, down his jaw, and dipped under his chin into three Ms on his neck. Like Sikah, he had horns, flaring out and up towards a center point; an Asmodeus, just as herself. 

“The artifact you took, where is it?” The man spoke shortly. 

“An artifact? I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was just heading home from work,” Sikah lied, keeping eye contact with the man as she slyly flicked her tail to nudge a dagger loose from her belt. “I have a family to feed, so I would greatly appreciate it if you could release me from whatever magic hold I’m under.” 

The other tiefling raised a brow and studied her face, searching for cracks in her alibi. “If I was stupid, I’d believe you. Unfortunately for you, I’m not a fool; but fortunate for us, the richest people tend to be.” He dismissed the spell and extended his hand to Sikah, “Zotian, recruit of Mammon’s finest Infernal Bane.” 

“Your attempt at intimidation due to your affiliation is moot,” she eyed his hand, opting to get up herself. “I don’t make deals with devils, nor do I fear them.”

“Oh, I’m no devil, though I’m flattered I seem foul enough,” Zotian smiled. “The coin in your pocket is nothing but a trial planted by the devil Mammon himself. He recruits only the finest tieflings for his thieves— and he’s had an eye on you for quite a while.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. I travel alone and I work for no one.” Sikah moved to walk past him. 

“I can see it, you know, the longing in your eyes. They went ablaze when I mentioned our people. Your previous companions judged you harshly because of the horns on your head, that’s why you now walk alone. You don’t have to be alone anymore, come and find kinship with us, with your kind,” he outstretched his hand again. 

She stopped in her tracks and turned around. Sikah didn’t know what came over her at that moment, but she fished the coin from her pocket, placed it in Zotian’s palm, and shook his hand. 

Years had since passed. The foul heat of Avernus doused Sikah’s skin with sweltering sweat. Her precedent sentiments toward the nether realm were perpetually scorched with hot lightning, scarred by the thunderous crack of a whip and the blistering pain of seared flesh. After the death of Zotian, the tiefling never saw herself stepping foot into the hells, willingly at that.     

She pulled the hood of her cloak over her horns to obscure her face from the fire-licked light; if anyone, friend or foe, from her previous allegiances, were to spot her, Sikah wasn’t sure what fate would assail. She wondered if any of her previous underlings were still lurking in the shadows, scavenging the now abandoned homes, once owned by aristocratic cambions, charred to rubble by the flames of the blood war. The tattoo that framed her face and embraced her neck itched at the thought. She tightened her grip around the collar of her cloak as she descended into the shadows of the hellish landscape. Her mission was simple: locate Fizban’s stolen encyclopedia of dragon-authored spells, assassinate its captor, and return the book to the eccentric wizard who’d hired her to retrieve it. Luckily, there were whispers about where the book resided, who kept it, and how to find it. Unluckily, the individual who possessed it was one of Mammon’s tendrils, Duke Focalor.

Focalor was alleged to be advising Zariel at an upcoming military conference, leaving his fortress and library of treasures unsupervised. Sikah could easily slip in, sleuth around for the artifact, retrieve it, and then escape back to the mortal realm. 

Her return to the mortal realm, however, was anything but easy. A brine pool, a pod, a tadpole; voices in her head that she didn’t remember whispering before. One simple expedition for a book turned into a tentacled epoch.    

[psiimaid]

he gets my. blood rishing. andn my fingers clench you have no idea how much i nneed need to have him so babdly iiiiiiii pleas eplase please i need to feel his pulse and overactivd heart and hear his cries and screams and hopeless sobs. and whimpers and nasal whines and begging and watch him kickk and writhe when i crack himm open and struggle whhen i pin him dwon i need him so so sos sosnsosnso badly please plames please pleade god if you’re listening i’m on my knees i need The Psiioniic from Homestuck in a size i can squeeze and crackall his fragile bone s and crush him until his gaspeing erratic breathes cease and a model that regenerates well i say model but i need him to be the only one ever ever ever i need him special one of a kind and shaki ng and eyes wet and he’s sossososo scared i need him to be real with warm flesh and wiggling toes and to look at me with with sentience behind his blank eyes and i need him to know and i want him i need him i need him to be piss his pants terrifyied of me but also kind of love me do you follow but it’s okay i don’t care as long as i have him please i need him pinned to my desk like jesus on the cross open and awake with tears streaming down his face while i spend half an hour unraveling his small intestine and puncturing each of his vital organs also maybe taste him a little please i want to feel him burst under my teeth i want to slam his skull split opn on hard concrete but it’s okay bc i’ll clena him up and make sure he smells nice and clean and bundle him up in a suffocating ball of blankets so i can can wrap around him at night and squeeze him with my whole body and i want to be able to take him wit me anywhere should i desire to do so and have himas my stress ball i watch his eyes bulge when a clamp down and hsi huge heaving breaths and twitches when i ease off only for me to crush him harder plelaepleasepleasepleaseplease i need this i need him clamped open w his teeth gritted but absolutely unable to control himself when i sprinkle salt into his open chest cavity i want to peel the muscles from his limbs like string cheese and tie him into knots hang him upside down until he passes out then revive him and do it again i want to shave him bare and shivering i i need him to feel ashamed like a dog i need to break him down again and again and again i want to pump his full of air seal his lips shut and slam my fist onto his stomach i need all this and everything i’ve ever said about him before i need this so bad you don’t understand PLEASEpleasepleaslpels please god his absence is the source of the emptiness i feel i can ignore it mostly but now i can’t help thinking about it every day and it’s so saddening that i’ll never be able to have this i’ll never be able to sear him against a burning hit frying pan i’ll never be able carve pretty designs into his skin i’ll never be able to rip him open or crush him with the force if a trash compactor i’ve never wanted anything more than this please please please either have him delivered to my door neatly packaged by tuesday or else remove this longing from my bones

[yamchaisawesome]

DND 5E Classes for Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons

Let’s start with the most obvious, Merida. She’s a fighter with a bow. She doesn’t use magic and she shoots arrows. Give her the archery fighting style and throw on the battle master archetype picking things like ambush, commanding presence, tactical assessment, and precision attack for a good long range damage dealer that also acts as a basic skillmonkey. Heck, maybe even throw in some rogue for the extra damage and skill expertise. Now for the more interesting takes.

Hiccup is a drakewarden ranger, maybe with a couple levels in artificer. He’s an incredible inventor with a dragon companion. Give toothless lightning for his essence since that’s the closest thing to plasma you get in dnd. Then for his spells get searing smite and elemental weapon for his cool dragon sword and some utility/crowd control spells like ensnaring strike and daylight. He’s our main utility.

Then we have Jack Frost who’s a draconic bloodline sorcerer. I know that’s weird but look at the abilities. Aside from the ability to speak draconic you get some extra defenses, some elemental affinity, flight, and some fun charm/fear effects. All things jack can do. Give him all the ice spells along with fly and greater invisibility and you’ve got a decent nuker/stealther on your hand.

Now you’ve got rapunzel who’s 100% a paladin. She deals lots of damage with a frying pan, she heals, and she’s got some other fun magic abilities in the TV show. Give her oath of the ancients and reflavour anything mentioning vines as her hair. The tenets fit her whimsical vibe too.

Overall, party’s solid. Everyone deals lots of damage, Hiccup can solve a bunch of niche situations, Jack can stealth well, Merida can do a decent amount with her skills and Rapunzel can heal and tank with Toothless.

If you want to expand this to either set of 6 or just want to tell me I’m wrong, feel free.

[proceduralpassion]

One Uniform

Day 16 of Narcoctober- Create a fanwork that focuses on dreams, either literal or metaphorical

Character(s): Trujillo

WC: 928

A/N: Trujillo in his Ratatouille era>>>

If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change. Trujillo comes from a line of police officers all throughout his family. His highest goal was to see one of Colombia’s most evil forces in the grave. Even afterwards, he maintains the same dedication and commitment to protecting his home and ridding it of the people who seek to exploit and cripple it. But Trujillo has always had a second love.

He’s left home alone by himself for the first time when he’s nine years old. His mother had set out of bread and butter for him to make his own breakfast, but he craved for something more and the world- kitchen- was his oyster. 

He puts the plain bread up and grabs some arepas from near the fridge. He inspects his artillery of ingredients and procures an egg and some chorizo that his dad bought in bulk and stored in the freezer. There’s some leftover beans and rice from dinner last night, so the young boy decides that he’s going to make himself some calentado for breakfast. It’s a dish associated with memories of his grandparents who live in the Andean region and cooked this up for him every morning when he was on break for the holidays. 

He grabs two pans and sears up the rice and beans in random spices he grabs off the shelf in one pan and uses the other to fry his egg. He laughs to himself in enjoyment as he maneuvers between the two apparatuses, feeling a comforting flutter as he cooks the food that will nourish him. He fries up the sausage last and puts everything together on one plate, adding some avocado and cilantro as garnish. 

He eats his food with pride and while there’s nothing like the comfort linked with eating his mother’s cooking, he feels a different kind of spark of joy as he finishes his meal.

Trujillo takes over a lot of the cooking for the family when his dad dies. His mother had already been carrying shell shock for two years after his oldest brother was killed in the line of duty. She’s a shell of a person now and even going through the motions takes so much energy out of her. He’s eighteen and in the thick of his training, complete with a bunch of unforeseen responsibilities from an administrative role. Even still, cooking is one thing he can take off his mother’s plate and he comes to realize that cooking is also the only time in his busy life that finds peace and solitude.

He gets shot in the chest during the capture of their most recent target. The vest prevents mortal damage, but the impact left him with a severe enough injury that part of his lung had to be resected. He’s told in the process of rehab that he’ll most likely be moved to a more administrative position due to the limitations that come with less breathing capacity. It’s a blow to his ego, initially. To be told in subtle terms that he was now inadequate to be in the field, to no longer be viewed as a dependent, boots on the ground, kinda soldier. 

His new position has him working normal hours which means more time on his hands. Weekends off. One of his colleagues gives him a gift certificate for a cooking class at one of the nearby culinary schools as a birthday present and he makes plans to attend one on a Friday night after he’s finished with work for the day.

The lesson is Cuban-themed and consists of a three course meal tutorial complete with tostones, ropa vieja with rice, and pastelitos de guayaba. 

Perhaps, not coincidentally, Trujillo finds that he’s at peace with himself so much more now than he has in a long time. He comes from a line of police officers including his father, brothers, uncles, and both grandfathers. It’s all he’s ever wanted to pursue even with his passion and love for cooking. But he’s served his country for nearly two decades now and is proud of the accomplishments he’s made to better it. His father, brothers, and Carrillos’ death have left pin-sized holes in his heart that haven’t ever quite fully sealed up, even after all these years. He’s physically given about all that he can give to his job.

As he kneads through the dough for his pastries, wearing an apron and toque, he considers that maybe he wasn’t meant to wear only one uniform for all of his life. 

He’s fought the good fight. He’s sacrificed again and again. He’s been broken down.  He’s picked himself back up. He’s had losses. He’s had wins. He regrets none of it. He’s at peace with even the hardest trials he’s experienced. 

He’s lived a full life and he still has so much more to live. So much more to experience. So much more pain. So much more passion. 

Trujillo doesn’t think he’s at his most useful where he is right now. He can say that to himself now without feeling prideful or less of a soldier. He’s made the biggest mark he can already make and now it’s time for the old guard to part ways.

It’s a minute thought that springs up when he’s first told that his raid days are over. But he’s okay to let it grow and fester now. Because maybe he’s not running away from everything he’s ever known. Maybe he’s running towards the first day of the rest of his life.

Click here if you wanna be added to my taglist! Taglist: @drabbles-mc @asirensrage @ashlingnarcos @narcosfandomdiscord

[kakarotcake]

In honor of Gochi Day, have this post-Buu saga fluffy oneshot I wrote of Chi Chi and Goku returning to their domestic life 😊 I wrote it last year, but I didn't have this account in May sooo I get a freebie.

C/W: Light sexual themes, nothing explicit.

Peace returning to the Earth never meant that Son Goku would stop training.

There were always going to be limits to push, and new heights to reach. Fighting was one of the things in the world that brought the Saiyan the most happiness, be it against someone who was trying to destroy his home planet or against someone who merely wanted a friendly spar, and he couldn’t picture a realistic scenario where he would give it up.

For now until he felt he made substantial progress, Goku focused on working more with his Super Saiyan 3 transformation. The series of events that transpired because of the now-fallen Babidi and what eventually became Evil Buu allowed him to fully grasp that he hasn’t mastered it yet, so dedicating time and effort was a must. It took him several years to achieve the form in Other World, and if it took him several more years to get its rate of energy consumption slowed down, then so be it.

Today, he would try to maintain Super Saiyan 3 for as long as he could, even if the fatigue made him pass out later. Standing outside of his home on the expansive Mount Paozu, Goku stood meters away in a clearing, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists as a golden aura surged around him. Long hair of a similar color whipped about as the martial artist sparred with an imaginary opponent, repeatedly throwing punches and kicks in a rhythmic fashion that carried enough strength to level a mountain many times over. This carried on well until some hours later as the sun set, and Goku was left being extremely drained.

Sweat dribbled down his forehead in a miniature stream as he took a moment to breathe, feeling all of the nerves in his body burn with a searing pain. That wasn’t anything he’s never dealt with before, but weariness was beginning to set in and set in harshly. Figuring that was enough for now, the Saiyan stood up from his seated position on the grass, and walked back to his home with the intention of getting a nice bath set up over a fire to cleanse his body. A brush of his hand through the transformation’s long golden locks to clear his face only caused an awful lot of moisture to set on his skin, and Goku looked down at the sweat coating his hand with a grimace. Alongside bathing, he should definitely try to wash his mane of hair as well. He had forgotten that it tended to act like a giant sponge.

He went to work setting up one of their large bathing tubs, easily picking it up and filling it with the clean water from their home’s nearby river. Next, Goku started a fire and placed the barrel on top. He had a lot of time to kill before the water would be warm enough, but first, he did need to get the things he needed to bathe and dry himself afterwards.

Past his own stench, his nose picked up a delectable smell wafting from his mountain home, and it acted like a magnet. Goku opened the backdoor to the kitchen and stepped inside. He was greeted by the sight of his wife standing before their oven, that was covered in an assortment of occupied cookware.

“Goku?” Chi Chi looked over her shoulder from flipping a slab of meat in a frying pan, eyes widening at the sight of him. Particularly, how his face appeared in Super Saiyan 3. He knew she was still getting used to it.

“Did you finish training for today?”

“Mostly.” A soft smile unconsciously appeared on his face, which tended to happen whenever he saw her. He closed the door behind him, remembering that she hated it being left open.

“Why do you still…look like that then? Are you going to change back?”

“Not right now. Part of the training is staying in this form as long as I can, so my body will get more used to it. Remember how I did the same thing as a normal Super Saiyan?”

“…Yes, a little…” Properly turning towards him, she crossed her arms and had a frown pulling the corners of her lips down.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“I much prefer how you normally look, Goku. The “no eyebrows” thing keeps throwing me off.”

His initial response was to chuckle in amusement, and step closer to her. Whatever guard she had quickly melted, he noticed, as her features softened – especially when he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“I’ll change back before bed. Don’t want my freaky face to spook you.”

“It’s not freaky.” Chi Chi scoffed, laying a hand on his chest. “Just…very different. Not THAT big of a deal.”

“Well…thanks for understanding.”

Goku leaned down to lay a kiss on the bridge of her nose, immediately causing a blush to darken her fair skin. Her soured expression was completely gone now, replaced by a giddy smile. She looked so cute that he couldn’t resist giving her another kiss, this one further down her nose, though there was gratitude present in it as well.

Ever since his identity as a Saiyan came to light years ago, both for him and her, it changed a lot of things. For one, even though she was still adamant on Gohan keeping to his studies, she was far more understanding of why exactly he loved to fight so much. To push his limits and continue growing stronger. That first night he spent in the hospital after his battle with Vegeta was the first time they were together again in over a year, and they had a serious conversation over what’s occurred in their lives during the period; including Gohan’s.

It was all so long ago that he couldn’t remember every single thing they discussed, but one thing he vividly did is that Chi Chi made it clear he was still her husband. She still loved him, even with he belonging to a race of aliens that brought nothing but suffering to their planet back then. Loving combat was in his blood, and she would be a terrible wife to refuse accepting him for who he was.

That night lead such a deeper, intimate understanding to form between them that he felt even closer to her than he did previously. That remained true years later, to today.

“Of course.” She responded with a gentler tone, playing with a strand of his golden hair.

“Dinner will be ready soon. Gohan and Goten should be back from the arcade before then.”

That’s right; Goten did want to go to one. He knew Gohan wasn’t the type to play video games or the like, but he couldn’t turn down chaperoning his little brother.

“Sounds good. I’ll take a bath in the meantime.”

“You should.” She poked him halfheartedly. “The stink of your sweat is almost overwhelming.”

“Yeah…but I bet part of you likes it, huh?”

He grinned at her shocked look, and the deepening of her blush. It wasn’t as if their bodies have never been pressed together like this, with he being sweaty…

Goku walked away before she could retaliate for his tease, grabbing the items he needed then going back outside. He laid his towel and washcloth over the rim of the tub and did a few stretches while the water continued to warm. When it was at a suitable temperature, he stripped off his clothing and quickly hopped in.

Immediately, the Saiyan breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the soreness in his muscles being soothed. He sat there for some minutes, enjoying the warmth before he started to bathe. Foamy soap was spread over his skin and filled the water as he scrubbed himself, but he was soon presented with what would be the most daunting task in the moment. Goku grabbed a handful of his hair, grunting in slight vexation as he used his free hand to reach for the shampoo bottle. If he had to deal with this regularly, then maybe he could afford to spend a little less time maintaining Super Saiyan 3…

He paused when he heard a door open and close, detecting a familiar ki source approaching him.

“Chi?” Goku looked over towards his wife, seeing she lay her hands on the rim of the tub.

“Need some help, dear?” There was a giggling undertone to her voice, and he felt her grab a portion of his locks.

“I’d hate for you to deal with this lion’s mane all on your own.”

“I was just wondering how I’d manage it.” Goku admitted, shrugging. “Can you wash it for me?”

“I’d be happy to.”

He gladly sat back and relaxed, dampening his hair while Chi Chi took the bottle and squeezed a handful of shampoo into her palm. Pleasure shot from his head down his spine in tingles when she started working it in, rubbing his scalp and spreading the foam around until his head was almost entirely enveloped in it.

“Oh my, it’s like there’s even more than I thought. Why does this form of yours give you such long hair anyway?”

“I don’t know. It just…does.” He never thought about that, actually. Then again, he wasn’t sure why he also lost his eyebrows in 3, or why Super Saiyan in general made his hair turn gold either.

“Just another Saiyan mystery, hm? At least it’s soft and fluffy.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he could picture the amused look she had. With her presence, how good the warm water felt, and his still-existing fatigue, Goku felt so at ease that his eyelids suddenly were like weights. They involuntarily began drooping, and he didn’t put up much effort into keeping them open.

He missed this. Their family had already started going back to a new normal after Buu, but there was still no ignoring how there was a strong sense of yearning that persisted in his heart. Being deprived of this for 7 years, a decision he did choose to make though now questioned if his earlier belief in it keeping his family safe ended up making a difference in the end, was something he never wanted to go through again.

To put his sons through again. To put her through, again.

“I’m so happy you’re back, Goku…”

Like she sensed his thoughts, Chi Chi verbally acknowledged the atmosphere. Her voice cracked some, and he raised an arm from the water to hold one of her hands that currently rested on his chest.

“Me too. And, I’m not leaving. Never again.”

She returned the action, lacing her fingers with his. Another break of silence passed, but neither of them needed to say anything else. Chi Chi resumed lathering his golden mane, while her husband quietly relished in the feel of her ki. When she was done, he rinsed it by briefly dunking his head underwater, and stood up to get out of the tub.

Standing before Chi Chi, the blushing woman took his towel and dried his hair to the best of her ability, getting onto the tips of her toes some to lovingly press her forehead against his and brush their noses together.

“You know…this Super Saiyan 3 isn’t so bad. You’re still as handsome as ever.”

As always, she reminding him how attractive she found him caused Goku to beam.

“In that case, do you want me to come to bed like this?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind.”

The undertones of her singsong claim sparked a special kind of heat deep within him, but in a manner awfully similar to how he teased her earlier, she promptly left the towel hanging awkwardly over his head and walked back towards the house. He intently watched how she lightly – and purposefully – swung her hips back and forth.

“Go ahead and finish drying off, then get dressed. I’ll start setting the table.”

Though they were far, he sensed Gohan and Goten’s ki signatures coming closer at a speed that suggested they were probably riding on Nimbus. The little cloud wasn’t nearly as fast as them flying themselves, but it was fast enough that they would get here before he could try to get back at his other half and keep up this game. Darn.

Oh well. There was always tonight, and he wasn’t so tired that he would crash right away. With that in mind, Goku patted himself dry, smirking at the bedroom antics possible to be had after dinner and when their sons went to sleep.

There was a lot of lost time to make up for...

[spooniechef]

The Dinner Diaries Days 9-11 - Meat Tips

The last few days haven't exactly been massively exciting in terms of menu stuff. In fact, Monday and Tuesday were pretty much one meal of "heated-up meat, some carbs, something that qualifies as a vegetable" supplemented with fruit smoothies. Today was the tuna broccoli lemon pasta (I finally remembered to go pick up some tinned tuna), so that'll keep me going a little. Just I figured I'd mention a couple of tips and tricks when it comes to meat. I'm sure a lot of this is stuff everyone knows, but ... I didn't know this stuff once, so maybe it'll find someone who needs to know.

Steak: Well, specifically rump steak (other cuts are a whole different beast in some respects, but rump steak is cheaper) but apparently this goes for more or less all red meat. Main thing - let it reach room temperature before cooking. Apparently this helps it cook more evenly. Also, if you spice the steak while it's resting to room temperature, the spices have more time to flavour up the meat. On the subject, one of my favourite things to do with a rump steak for flavouring is to leave it to rest to room temperature in a shallow dish, sprinkled with some garlic salt, some onion powder, a little pinch of celery salt, little bit of dried chilli flakes, and a splash of lemon juice. I'm not sure why lemon seems to enhance chilli, but it does, and that little bit of heat will seep into the steak really well. If you're frying it (which is generally how I do it), heat the pan to very hot but not smoking before putting the steak on - that'll sear the steak and keep it juicy on the inside. Honestly, I figure most of this stuff works for all red meats. As for cooking times, I'm not exactly an expert, because I like my steaks very, very "are we sure they're not a vampire?" rare. I leave them a few minutes per side at most.

Chicken: I'm talking quarter-chicken - thigh and drumstick, still attached to each other, skin on. I'm good at roasting a whole chicken, but I got the general vibe of it from roasting chicken legs on their own. The thing about resting the meat to room temperature before cooking holds true here as well, for pretty much the same reasons. In this case, it's more that whatever salt you're putting in your seasoning mix will permeate the skin and make it nice and crispy - similar principle to making crackling (it's a roast pork thing; I'll handle that one another time). Similar blend, too, though I find the lemon-and-chilli thing a bit overpowering with chicken if not brining it. So I generally stick with garlic salt, onion powder, and a little bit of season-all. Just put it in the oven at about 400F (I generally do 200C fan assist, for those working in celcius) for maybe 15 minutes. If you want to check and don't want to use a meat thermometer, find a small, thin knife and jab it deep into the thickest part of the thigh. If the juices run clear, it's okay to take out. If not, leave it in another few minutes. One of the good bits about the skin being crispy is that it's just another way of searing the meat; not as much moisture escapes so you're not in too much danger of overcooking it if you leave it in a few minutes longer than you need to.

That's basically been the it and all of it - it actually took longer to think about how to describe the tips I used the last couple of days than it did to use them. I do this stuff so often now that I don't even think about it. (Honestly, that was a gripe an ex of mine had with me; he wanted me to tell him how I made his favourite dishes and I gave him so many generalities when he wanted specifics. I measure that shit with my heart, is all.)

Anyway, tomorrow's probably going to be largely about the leftovers, but I'm about to round off today's 'being busy' with making chocolate chip cookie dough from a recipe I found on Gluten Free On A Shoestring. I don't generally post recipes here until I know they actually work, and the dough needs to chill for at least twelve hours, so I'm going to make that now with a view to having at least one mini-break from my work-from-home job involve putting cookies in the oven and maybe rewarding myself for the bullshit my workplace is putting me through right now. I'll keep you posted.

[friendlyfatbee]

10th Hottest Ghost: Chef Soufflé

HON HON HON BONSOIR, this guy is… not hot. But he could be!

Looks: I based Chef Soufflé on mid-19th century beauty standards because the white chef uniform everyone is familiar with was popularized by Marie-Antoine Carême (a famous French chef). This time period, men typically aimed to have a pinched-waist look and appear more feminine (source, warning this source has nude Greek statues when discussing beauty standards before the 19th century.) Chef Soufflé clearly is the exact OPPOSITE of this appearance, appearing portly, stout, and fat. While this wouldn’t be inherently all bad, his unkempt appearance with his messy moustache and stained uniform (which can be explained by cooking, but not his moustache) leads to a deduction of points. The only saving grace here is his uniform being worn properly.

Personality: There is… a lot to unpack here. He enjoys his job and takes it with pride, but seems to struggle with interacting with others, especially with his own failures. See, he’s quick to anger when Luigi throws him off mentally with an unexpected appearance and he messes up his own dish, and experiencing high stress in the cooking industry isn’t all uncommon! However, Soufflé is taking his leisurely time cooking and smelling the fish he’s searing, so to go from 1 to 10 anger wise seems to allude to something more. There’s also some other strange attitudes such as hitting himself with his frying pan if he fails to land an attack on Luigi. What I’ve seen no one else talk about, however, is when Soufflé gets vacuumed up. While it seems plain visually, if you listen closely… Soufflé whimpers. While others before Soufflé’s boss fight grab their hat or yell for help in hopes someone else hears… he quietly whimpers to himself. Soufflé seems to suffer a lot from something unseen, and would definitely benefit from some form of therapy to help with his internalized issues. The score is somewhat alleviated by the possibility of gaining better coping skills, but is ultimately penalized for this current state now.

Survival Rate: this was fairly average and set in the middle. While a hit to the head from a cast-iron frying pan would do IMMENSE damage, he appears to not have any attacks not involving his frying pan. His frying pan is easy to knock from his hands or he pulled from such, hence a middle-most score.

Niceness Rate: Nope. As for now at least, but we are currently focusing on Chef Soufflé in the present. Like Dr. Potter, he focuses on his craft and has very little positive reactions with Luigi. Unlike Dr. Potter, Soufflé only acts shocked at Luigi’s appearance and only gets angry when he drops his dish, not already holding negative feelings against Luigi beforehand.

Overall, I feel Chef Soufflé could benefit from therapy and love himself first before all else! Though if he does learn to cope, and maybe clean his hair, he could easily get to someone’s heart through their stomach!