Pest control Danny
So Danny is Damian's twin and like the usual jazz. YOU ARE ALIVE?. HAHA NO.
So batfam noticed something. When Danny thinks no one is looking he is muttering die pests and stomping his foot and in general trying to kill something
Alfred thinks Danny saw pests and does not hesitate.
Anyway like a few months later world is in danger yada yada and they need the help of a minor demon, who literally stole the key they need and they need to trade for it.
And the encounter goes like this.
Constantine: we are dealing with a minor demon, don't lower your guard just because it's a lower demon. It managed to steal the key.
Bat: hn
So Constantine summons the demon and the demon gets summoned
Demon:well well-
Danny:ITS YOU!
Demon: huh? Yes-
Danny:NOT YOU, YOUHAVE YOU BEEN THE ONE BRINGING PESTS INNNN THE HOUSE? Ugh later ILL TALK TO YOU LATER need to get rid of this
Batfam : wait a min-
Danny straight up lunges at the demon breaking the circle in the process and no longer trapping it but still Danny grabs it by the legs as it was trying to escape and he just literally kills it.
John Constantine slowly backing away : uhh we needed a . . . thing from that . . ."
Danny: I'll get that key for you, but for the love of the ancients stop summoning things . Gotham is arleady cursed enough as it is
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There are many things people expect from one called 'God of Blood'. Always, the first thought is the blood of war, the blood of violence, the blood of the weak shed for the goals of the strong. Ares doesn't think of the blood of battle at all. When he thinks of blood, he envisions the many tied knots of blood bonds and bonds forged in the blood of battle. Blood sons and blood daughters, blood brothers and battle sisters, blood oaths and blood vengeance - he watches over them all and keeps close each one of these bonds.
One cannot begrudge his displeasure then when he realises he cannot tell Leto's offspring apart just by looking at them.
It was easier when it was just Artemis. Dark hair curled about her shoulders, a fierce mien whenever Father summons her to the mountain, a scattering of bones and blood shed whenever she was disturbed; the eldest child of Leto was a wild thing, sharp toothed with sharper claws always at the ready. There's whispers of her being a twin, of her other half being made to crawl on their belly as penance for their sin of god-slaying but Ares pays it little mind. What twins look alike among their number? Even dog litters are born distinct with all their unique markings inlaid in their fur. Artemis' twin too would be much more than their sister's mirror image.
Pouring over his list now, he wishes anything about Phoebus Apollo was that simple.
Mirror image did not begin to describe it. The twins were the same height, the same build, had the same colour and texture hair, ate the same raw food and drank the same amount of nectar. There was no difference in how they dressed, no difference in the company they kept, no variance in the weapons they used. There are some days Ares still cannot believe Phoebus will grow into a man and not some nymph with the way his ears have that slender point. He watches them now, sitting together beneath a shady palm and stringing their bows in an uncanny unison and curses because he still cannot tell them apart. What use is his skill in knowing blood when they both have the same damn blood running through their veins? What bond is there to sense when they are tied so tightly together, Ares can scarcely tell brother from sister?
He sighs. Unadorned and completely alone, the only way to know who is who is to speak to them. He'll have to find more ways to tell them apart from a distance. Surely they cannot stay this similar all the rest of their immortal lives.
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⊹ ♡₊˚๑ 𝙀𝘼𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙐𝙏 ! ⊹ ♡₊˚๑
chef!Sukuna headcannons
okay. I know I haven't posted anything in like a year. and I know I'm a little rusty so bare with me ok😭 I'm sorry for the wait! Reader was intended to be black but I don't describe any features.
lmk if I should turn this into a fic!!
Warnings: none!!
Chef!Sukuna is one of the world's biggest assholes. SURE he graduated top of his class AND SURE! The waitlist for his restaurant is so, ridiculously long. But his personality? Awful.
He’s known for his near godly knife skills. He can chop an onion in ten seconds. He’s pretty sure it’s a world record.
His own staff is so, so terrified of him. The new kid, who’s bright-eyed and fresh out of culinary school, who was beyond excited to work at a Michelin-star restaurant quits on his first day.
(he cried on his walk home)
Sukuna leans into the back of his chair, while Uruame lets out an uncharacteristically loud sigh from their spot at the door.
They step closer into the room while speaking, “You can’t keep a Junior chef for more than six hours—”
Sukuna groans, “Calm down— your job is to be my sous. Act like it.”
He puts his feet up on the peeling wood desk in front of him, deftly ignoring several receipts that were strewn on it.
Uruame nods, before leaving.
Sukuna wasn’t in the wrong you know, the junior chef should’ve known the difference between sauté and panfrying.
He groans while moving to leave his office— he had prep to do.
He’s worked hard to get where he is— to make his restaurant as good as it is. He designed the kitchen himself. He chose each appliance meticulously and placed them in the space deliberately
The delivery and food-prep and pastry sections are in specific parts of the kitchen, they cater to the menu.
Speaking of the menu. You cannot tell me that he didn’t lock himself in his apartment with pots and pans strewn everywhere.
He’d have a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, and his hair would be a little dishevelled
But, he finally figured out that what his main dish needed was an acid.
He’d have a rare, genuine smile on his face while he runs his hand through his hair. He’ll take another bite and excitedly drum his fingers on his kitchen countertop. He’s good. He knows he’s good.
Sukuna’s leaning on the host station with a pencil in hand reviewing the guest list for that night’s dinner. His eyebrows raise at your name— which is circled in red marker angrily. He shouts to Uraume, who’s at the back prepping.
“What’s the red marker for.”
“We have a food critic coming in tonight.”
Sukuna scoffs, “We always have food critics coming in.”
“This one’s different.”
Yeah right.
For the head chef, and owner of a michelin star restaurant— Sukuna is relaxed.
He’ll wear a white button up and some black slacks and the days he’s expected to work front of house. But his sleeves will be rolled high on his forearms and there’s always this dismissive look in his eyes
He doesn’t have to be some kiss ass— his food speaks for itself.
People waited months to get into his restaurant for his food, not to have a conversation with him.
The first thing Sukuna realizes is that you take a laughably short time looking at the menu. From what he can see from the host station, you’re looking at it out of graciousness than necessity.
He walks over, ready to take your order. He nearly laughs when he notices that your notepad already has writing on it.
You’re looking up at him through the low light of the restaurant. It’s tinged red. Like a night club you think. Tacky.
“Hi,” You smile, “I’m surprised I’m being served by the Sukuna.”
“Yeah— it’s a slow day.”
You hum, “And here I was, thinking that you were out here just for me.”
He laughs. It’s this loud, low and smoothe. “I can hear your heart breaking from here.”
“Let’s start with the focaccia.” Your voice is a little shaky. He likes the sound of it.
He walks to the kitchen with a familiar grin on his face.
Food critic his ass— you’re in love with him. He can tell.
Chef!Sukuna who’s never had a negative review. Ever.
GQ. The New York Times. The Washington Post. Critics become regulars— they want an excuse to chat Sukuna (even if he doesn’t entertain it)
He’s earned a name for himself in the food scene, you know. People love him whether they like it or not.
This was just the start too— he’ll open more restaurants, maybe something more formal. He thinks of himself as an immovable object or an unstoppable force or whatever is in those management books Uraume reads
So, imagine his surprise when Uruame forwards an article to him at 11:54 pm on a thursday.
Especially when he sees that you wrote the article.
And that you gave the restaurant a 3 out of 5
A three out of fucking five.
Sukuna was going to kill someone. You, preferably.
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