#they are fully glazed instead of the thick icing on the bottom

[fluffypotatey]

how come you can still live in the same state and yet encounter two types of girl scout cookies????

[ohhicas]

hey I got bored at work and made a KH Cafe ‘Menu’ but entirely Org13 themed some are suppose to be the ‘main’ things while the others are me panicking and like “WELL, SHIT,” throwing ideas out against the wall

all for funsies cause im fully aware these won’t look cute on a plate, but hey. it’s the org. they’re the edgy emo kids.

Xemnas:  

   Meal: Hayashi rice with pickled ginger on the side and the cream swirl. The rice is dyed yellow and in the molded to the shape of a heart. Complimentary clear red chopsticks come with the meal.    Drink: Shaken espresso served in a martini glass. Lightly flavored with vanilla and a cinnamon sugar lip    Dessert: Affogato with vanilla ice cream, cinnamon sugar dusting, and shaved chocolate. An acrylic of his weapon (however hard it is to make two laser swords look cool) comes laying against the serving plate.

Xigbar:  

   Meal: Pumpernickel, cream cheese, and salmon half-sandwich. Side of a spicy cucumber salad and toothpick skewered tomatoes. The acrylic of the arrow gun is attached to a toothpick, which is holding the sandwich closed.    Drink: Black peppercorn infused blackberry syrup with club soda. Served not stirred for layering effect. Comes with an acrylic of his arrowgun attached to the stir-stick       Dessert: Two slices of roll cake, chocolate outside with an anko cream filling. Plated so they're half laying on each other with a thick chocolate drizzle going across the left side of both cakes. The plate is dotted with whipped cream with a fanned strawberry leaning against it. 

 Xaldin:    

   Meal: Chicken omurice with three strips of seaweed across the egg. Comes with three mixed skewered vegetables on a small bed of lettuce.    Drink: A delicately layered drink with blackberry puree at the base, a rose jelly and syrup layer,  and carefully topped with soymilk. Stirring with the provided berry skewer on a themed Xaldin lance stick will blend the flavors.    Dessert: A single slice of a dense chocolate cake with edible, dried rose petals. It’s more of a torte than a true ‘cake’, and has three blackberry glaze drizzle stripes across the slice.

 Vexen:    

   Meal: A small bowl of cold cucumber soup with four cream cheese tea sandwiches. Each tea sandwich has two to three small heart-cut pink radish across the top.    Drink: Blue cream soda carefully layered to fade to clear on top. It’s topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and some white snowflake shaped sprinkles.    Dessert: Two scoops of coconut flavored ice cream dressed up with whipped cream and coconut shavings. The ice cream balls have a stripe of strawberry preserve and a few dots of mango to pose as buttons to theme it like a snowman. An acrylic standee of his Snowman shield is stuck in the whipped cream

Lexaeus:  

   Meal: Curry plate with chicken katsu cutlet. Instead of laying on a bed of rice, the chicken lays against side vegetables with the rice is shaped into a mound, placed center of the curry. An acrylic image of Lexaeus's skysplitter is placed into the rice, handle sticking up.    Drink: Hot orange spice tea. Nothing too special, but there is a slice of orange pressed to the bottom of the shallow cup that can be eaten after, if you’re in to warm fruit.    Dessert: A caramel cake baked in a rock shaped mold. It sits on a bed of five banana slices and drizzled with caramel sauce. A few dark brown and orange candy chocolate rocks are also scattered around the base.

 Zexion:    

   Meal: An open face sandwich on toast, layered with lettuce, cheese, and ham. The top of the ham is decorated with the Organization's logo in mayonnaise. Comes with leafy side salad and fruit.    Drink: Blueberry fruit syrup layered with club soda and edible pearl powder to give the drink an illusionist shimmer. Topped with just enough cream to reach the top of the glass and a dusting of dried blueberry powder.    Dessert: Six small shortbread cookies decorated in icing fondant to look like the cover of his book. Served with dipping chocolate. Comes with an acrylic souvenir of his book.

 Saix:  

   Meal: Hamburg steak plate with a decorative X shape of mayo across the sauced top, served on a small bed of rice. Comes with a side salad of mixed vegetables and crescent moons of baked kabocha squash. An acrylic of the Claymore is pressed into the center of the steak as if it was slammed in.    Drink: Lavender syrup mixed with American lemonade only until the drink resembles a light grey color rather than a heavy lean into yellow or purple. Decorated with a lemon slice cut to resemble a moon.    Dessert: Dome mousse cake with a deep blue finish. The mousse is lightly lemon flavored with a center of blueberry jam, and resting upon a vanilla cake base. The cake is decorated with a fondant crescent moon and a dusted golden X. Comes with a candied lemon wedge.

 Axel:  

   Meal: A slice of pepperoni pizza, piled high with small cupping pepperoni, and dusted with chili flake. A side of a tossed, leafy salad is provided to help cut through the heat. A chakram acrylic comes attached to the salad, skewering a tomato wedge.    Drink: Tomato juice and beet juice layered together to make a light gradient-- heavier on the tomato than the beet. Top is sprinkled with cayenne for a little bit of an added kick. Decorate with a small celery leaf.    Dessert: A blood orange flavored cake, square cut and layered into three small tiers with raw edge sides. The top is sugar crusted and crisped in a brulee, with a sun fondant decoration wedged into a few peaks of cream. A twist of candied orange is also placed as decoration

 Demyx:  

   Meal: Small dish of seafood doria with a side of green vegetable to cut through the heavy dish. No broccoli is in the doria itself, and is instead decorating the side leafy salad. An acrylic of his sitar is laid across the salad.    Drink: A tall glass with a clear, bubbly ramune flavored soda. Blue soda-candy jelly is at the base. It’s served cream soda style, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream balanced at the top and a long blue straw.    Dessert: A raindrop cake with a soft blue-green gradient. The top is dusted with kinako powder. For how simple the dish is, it comes with a side of seasonal fruit and a plastic spork styled at the top to resemble his sitar's handle that you can take home.

Luxord:  

   Meal: Caprese bites on a bed of lettuce. The cheese and basil base remains the same for each, but the cherry tomato on top varies between a bright red tomato or a dark purple skinned tomato. The salad has a balsamic drizzle and card suits cut vegetables.    Drink: An espresso served with a small container of cream and two sugar cubes, chocolate-dotted to be dice.    Dessert: Chocolate lava cake with a deep red filling, dusted with powdered sugar. It's served alongside thin cookies decorated into playing cards. It can be turned into a meal set with the drink option. 

 Marluxia:  

   Meal: Salad full of mixed greens and colorful radish. Designed to be incredibly colorful, it’s got a few little blooms of edible flowers wedged around the plate. Comes with a few flower shaped breaded chicken ‘nuggets’ along the rim.    Drink: Rose syrup infused sparkling lemon soda, decorated with dried rose petals. There’s the smallest bit of strawberry syrup at the bottom of the cup to really make a pink color. A wedge of lemon decorates the rim.    Dessert: A thin, crisp almost crepelike shell in a low dish holds mixed berries, mint, and thick soft chunks of pound cake. The whole thing is drizzled with a sweet rose syrup. An acrylic of his scythe hangs out among the cake bits.

 Larxene:  

   Meal: Two skewers of karaage laying on a bed of cabbage with tartar sauce and two wedges of lemon. The other side of the plate has fries with a bit of mustard drizzled across the tips.    Drink: Layered cream soda, blue syrup at the bottom that fades into a pale yellow. It's topped with whipped cream and comes with sour popping candy meant to be mixed into the drink to activate the light carbonation. Comes with an acrylic charm of one of her daggers.    Dessert: Shaved ice with yuzu and orange drizzle. It’s a stretch to include it under the Larxene umbrella, but the sour notes should bring forth thoughts of lightning and shocks.

Roxas & Xion:

   Meal: Roxas and Xion share the same half sandwich, as if it was once part of a whole sandwich and split into two meal plates. They differ in that Xion gets a side leafy salad with radish and carrot, and Roxas gets french fries. [ and then i gave up makin them desserts & drinks, since they have the seasalt milk ‘drink’ at the actual cafe ]

[skzsauce01]

God’s Menu

Synopsis: Two chefs face off in the final dessert round. Who will come out on top, and who will be the next Cooking God? Cooking competition AU inspired by Chopped. Possible cooking/baking inaccuracies.

Warning: none

Word Count: 6.6k

Pairing: fem!reader x chef!Felix

“Who will win and become the next Cooking God?”

This is not a laughing matter, but your nerves about the situation think otherwise. The bright lights of the studio kitchen and the multitude of cameras pointed at you make your pulse thrum at an even quicker pace than the last two rounds. With your opponent in front of you and the host right beside you, you grow increasingly on edge. It’s becoming more real by the second — a chance to win ten million won, your dream of opening your own bakery being fulfilled, your future studded with three Michelin stars.

You would say you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at such a wild scenario, but clearly your body has already decided on that.

Since you’ve already bursted out laughing on the last two takes, you can’t exactly do it again. It’s so difficult though. The host Park Jae is chatty and humorous behind the scenes, but the solemn way he delivers the cheesy line is such a big contrast to himself. It doesn’t help that you can see his jaw trembling as he holds back his laughter. It’s almost an invitation.

With the grin on your face barely concealed, you say, “I will.”

In front of you, Chef Lee Felix replies, “Not a chance,” in an extra deep voice, his thick Australian accent shining through, taunting you to give up your cracking charade of calm.

“Chefs, open your baskets.”

“Cut!”

As soon as the clapper is dropped, all three of you let loose into peals of laughter. Jae and Felix clutch onto each other for support, and you grab the nearby edge of the work surface to steady yourself. It’s all so silly. You wonder if Jae is like this on all episodes of God’s Menu or if he simply finds you and Felix especially fun to be around. Felix is a charmer, but you’re not certain if you feel that way because he’s rather attractive, the head chef of the two Michelin star restaurant Levanter, or simply because you feel like your insides have been reduced to cotton candy ever since you stepped inside the studio. Either way, the combination of you, Felix, and Jae has not been easy for the filming crew.

However, as the director calls for you and Felix to head to your stations, you steel yourself for the most important part of the competition. You glance at Felix once more to see how he’s faring, and he mouths, “Good luck,” at you. You smile back and hope that it’s reassuring enough.

“And… action!”

Jae resumes his professional television persona from the far end of the studio where the judges are sitting. “Chefs, open your baskets.”

With unsteady hands, you pull apart the flaps of the giant wicker basket. Then you immediately grimace once you see the four ingredients you have to use in your dessert. Strange foods are part of the competition, but you are always surprised by some of the things the producers put in the basket.

“You have to make a dessert with camel milk…”

You have used cow milk, goat milk, sheep milk, even buffalo milk once, but never camel. Hopefully, it has a similar composition and taste to one of those.

“Rose syrup…”

This is an ingredient you use daily in the upscale restaurant you work at, so you can possibly modify one of your recipes if the other two ingredients aren’t too absurd. Macarons will take too long, so maybe a decadent flourless rose and chocolate cake. You could easily incorporate the camel milk into a dense, fudgy cake.

“Beer flour…”

Never mind on the flourless cake. The cake idea may still be possible, but what on earth is beer flour? If it tastes anything like beer though, you might have to nix the idea altogether.

“And jalapeños.”

They are bright red and thus, extra spicy. Your first instinctive is to candy them and to use them as a garnish on your maybe-cake. The spice would cut through the sweetness and richness of the cake as well.

“Forty minutes on the clock, and your time starts… now!”

Your previous nervousness dissipates completely. Compartmentalizing while cooking, or soon to be baking in this case, has always been a relatively easy feat for you; your mind forgets the rest of the world and refocuses on the task at hand.

While Felix heads straight to the pantry for his additional ingredients, you tear open the package of beer flour with your knife. Unfortunately for you, it smells exactly like old beer, so you forgo your initial idea. You warily eye the clock and calculate the time needed for the plan you have just created. If you’re quick in the kitchen, you could make a good tart. All the basket ingredients can easily be used for one purpose or another.

Yeah, you think you’ll do that.

As you rush to the pantry for some flour, butter, sugar, and vanilla for your shortbread tart crust, Felix walks past you with a sheet of puff pastry and a carton of cream. You wonder what he’s going to do with his repertoire of skills. Hand pies? Strudels? Something completely out of the box?

You push those thoughts out of your head and gather your ingredients for the crust along with the ones for the chocolate cream filling. The cameraman following you takes several steps back as you stack containers in your arms. You press down the topmost one with your chin and carefully balance them as you speed back to your work station. Fortunately, yours is the closest to the pantry.

While the flours, butter, sugar, and vanilla are being combined together in the stand mixer, you begin slicing your jalapeños before candying them in a pan with some sugar. After a moment’s hesitation, you add in a splash of rose syrup as well to further accentuate the flavors in the rose glaze. You hear a crash of metal on your left. Felix has set a pan on his stovetop and is dropping a handful of sliced jalapeños into his pan.

It’s never early too early to start getting your presentation dishes, is it?

You walk past him — “Behind, Chef” — and peer inside to confirm that he is also making candied jalapeños. It’s a little concerning that you and he have similar elements in this round since the judges may deem the idea “uncreative.” If push comes to shove, you can probably transform the peppers into something else, but you have no idea what else to do with them now. Instead, you grab four ceramic tart pans and head back to find that your dough is fully combined.

As you press a layer of the dough into the bottom of your pans, you overhear the panel of judges speculating over your and Felix’s desserts. Park Jihyo, a celebrity chef known for her wide variety of kimchi dishes, points out that both chefs appear to be making candied jalapeños. Jae mentions something about Felix possibly putting it between his puff pastry like a sandwich. Could he be making a dessert sandwich with puff pastry as the bread? You can’t help yourself. A quick glance over at Felix and then upwards towards the wall-mounted clock informs you that he is pouring something into his blender and that you have thirty-three minutes left, neither of which are helpful.

You place the pans on a baking sheet and slide the tray into the oven to bake. You take a sip of the camel milk, which tastes a little nutty and will work nicely in the pastry cream filling. As the milk and heavy cream heats up, you chop a dark chocolate bar to add into the mixture to melt. The main reason why you decided on a chocolate cream filling is because one of the judges, Lee Chaeryeong, is a self-proclaimed chocoholic as well as a renowned chocolatier and baker. If you can impress her with your dessert, everyone will flock to your bakery.

Being the head pastry chef at Hero’s Soup is fun, but to have full creative control and to make whatever you want, is what you truly desire. You have a menu already drawn up, paint colors selected, and even a storefront scoped out. All you need now is a lot of money to get it opened. Chef Lee Felix and his dish are the only thing standing in your way. He may have gotten his start as a pastry chef, but you have spent the last several years being one at a top restaurant. Only one Michelin star, you admit, but you know your work is superb. The critics at Clé magazine said so.

You whisk in the sugar and slowly add your beaten eggs into the chocolate mixture. You don’t want to risk having bits of scrambled egg in the tarts. After you mix it all until it turns smooth, you check your tart crust in the oven. It’s done blind baking, so you take it out to cool before filling it with your filling. In the meantime, you work on the rose flavored cream to be piped on top.

“Behind,” calls Felix.

As you run back to your station with a carton of whipping cream, Felix heads to the ice cream machine with his blender container. He pours his light pink mixture in. Rose ice cream, it seems, will be in his dessert. Rather unhelpfully to you and more for the cameras, Jae announces that Felix’s dish will feature ice cream.

“An ice cream sandwich maybe with the puff pastry he has in the oven?” he adds.

That certainly is a dessert sandwich. You can’t help but look at the judges’ reactions to that suggestion.

Ok Taecyeon, chef and owner of the Japanese restaurant Winter Hitori, seems pleased by that idea. “Or maybe a mille feuille,” he says as he cranes his neck to look at the ingredients at Felix’s station, “with ice cream instead of pastry cream.”

A mille feuille and a tart are pretty different from each other, but you don’t miss your dessert’s similarities to his. Unoriginality aside, this could become a direct comparison of technical abilities. You’re certain you’ve got him beat on that.

You pause on your rose cream to fill your empty tart shells with the chocolate filling. There is an audible gasp from Chaeryeong as she sees the silky smooth texture being poured into each pan. How can you blame her when you yourself are mesmerized by the shine of it?

“Chocolate’s on the menu!” Jae exclaims. “How do you think it will go with all of the mandatory ingredients?”

You suppress a smile at her excitement as she details the finer points of chocolate pairings. Without a doubt, she is the one you must impress. It won’t be an easy feat, but you think she’ll enjoy your dish.

You stick the now filled tart shells back into the oven to bake. Fifteen minutes left, and not only does the filling have to be baked through completely, it has to cool down with adequate time so you can pipe on the cream. The giant bowl of rose cream is completed and set aside.

Now the only thing left for you to finish are your candied jalapeños, which you should have paid more attention to because they are on the verge of being burnt. The sugar and rose syrup have caramelized into a dark brown mess around the edges of the pan, and the red peppers have gone mushy. At that moment, the camera leans in to get a closeup of the disaster and captures you loudly swearing at it.

They can censor that in post-production.

"Behind. All good?" Felix asks as he rushes by with a casserole dish for ice cream collection. You hope his ice cream base didn't work.

"Mostly."

Jae's theatrical whisper and the approved hums from the judges inform you that Felix’s ice cream did turn out beautifully.

"Behind," he says again.

"Heard."

With an exasperated sigh, you set the ruined pan aside and turn back to your cutting board. You had the foresight to not use all of the peppers, but two measly ones are not going to be enough for the amount you want on each tart.

“Hey,” you shout to Felix, hoping that he can hear you over the whir of his food processor, “you have any jalapeños left over?”

He pushes the plastic container with one finger a smidge in your direction as he pulls off the parchment paper over his freshly baked puff pastry. “Take it.”

With a sigh of relief, you walk over to grab them. You expertly chop them into neat slices and throw them into a new pan. A sprinkling of sugar, a circle of rose syrup, and a turn of the stove knob later, the jalapeños are being candied, hopefully properly this time. As you wait, you check your baking tarts. They are still not done yet, which is to be expected but bothersome.

“Ten minutes left on the clock!”

The nervousness is back, and you whisper, “C’mon, c’mon,” at the oven door like it will encourage the tarts to cook faster. After letting yourself stare for a few more seconds because maybe they’ll suddenly be done in that short time, you pop back up to check on your peppers. They, fortunately, are turning out well. You turn down the heat so as to not let the syrup turn into rock candy as you wait for those cursed tarts to be done. Why did you decide on something so risky? Why couldn't you have done a puff pastry crust and not spend ten precious minutes fiddling around with the dough?

Because of the beer flour and because your pride demands that you prove your skills to all the talented chefs, that's why.

Another minute passes, and you drain the pan of the liquid and let the peppers cool down. Felix keeps running back to the pantry for more ingredients, and the judges voice their disapproval at that. You feel a breeze brush across the back of your neck as he dashes back to his station. It’s never a good sign when chefs grab last-minute items; it either means they’re behind schedule, forgot a component of a key element, or about to screw up whatever they have already made in an attempt to fill up time. Or maybe you’re just being cynical. All your nerves are on fire at the moment. Jihyo and Taecyeon soon turn their attention to you when they realize that your tarts are still in the oven.

“You can’t just look at them all day!” Jihyo exclaims at your crouching position.

She’s right, so you make a quick decision: finish these underbaked tarts in the microwave. You flounder for a towel, pull open the oven door, and walk to the microwave as you fast as you can with a tray of steaming hot pans. As all of the tarts are being cooked, you run back to your station to fill a pastry bag of your rose cream. You have six and a half minutes left, and if you’re quick, you can stick the tarts in the blast chiller to cool a little bit. Never mind that putting hot desserts into a freezer is considered blasphemous, you have a competition to win.

The microwave loudly beeps, and you run back to cart them back onto the baking sheet and shove them in the blast chiller. They could still be underdone for all you know, but that’s a risk you have to take. It will still be delicious at least. Felix decides to grab yet another ingredient, and you watch with interest as he selects a bunch of basil. You can’t say whether rose and basil is a good combination, but you trust that he has an idea of what he’s doing. He flashes you a panicked smile as he runs back. It’s the perfect embodiment of your current emotions.

“Less than five minutes, chefs!”

You’re certain the judges mean well when they begin to shout at you about starting on plating, but it only makes you more anxious. You keep watch of the clock, precious seconds disappearing in front of your eyes. Once it hits two minutes, you’ll take them out. Piping pastry cream is so easy, you could do it in your sleep. Garnishing should be simple too. You can do this.

Taecyeon yells, “There’s no time! Get it together!” exactly when there are three minutes left. One more agonizing minute later, you take out the tarts and head back to your station with the same kind of balancing act you performed when you made a mad dash to the microwave. At first glance, it appears the chocolate cream filling has set and cooled, but who really knows? You pick up your pastry bag and start squeezing fat dots in a crescent on the tops of each tart. The pink cream looks beautiful against the dark chocolate.

“Less than thirty seconds remaining!” shouts Jae.

“I can’t watch,” Chaeryeong declares. “Hurry!”

With a slightly shaky hand, you place your candied peppers on each dollop, grimacing when some of them are just the tiniest bit askew. You quite literally have no time to fix them though. A millisecond after you finish setting the last one, Jae calls out for you and Felix to stop cooking. You throw your hands up, showing that you have stopped. Then with a sigh, you grasp the edge of the table and look down at the final desserts. They all look amazing, minus the imperfect pepper placements, on the outside, so you hope that the insides match, no gooey filling in the center. Out of curiosity, you glance over at Felix and catch him eying yours as well. His mille feuilles look stunning — light pink ice cream sandwiched between golden brown puff pastry, topped with a row of pastry cream, red jalapeños, strawberries, and basil so finely chopped, you can barely see it.

You and Felix meet in the middle and nearly collapse on top of each other. He pulls you in more a congratulatory hug, and your unease about your dessert disappears for a second. His hold is strangely comforting considering you have only met him today. You could stay here all day. Then you remember that all of this is being filmed and that you’re hugging Chef Lee Felix, and your pulse jumps.

“We’re done now. Nice job,” he says. He pulls away and observes your frozen expression. “No laughing fits yet?”

A giggle escapes — they’re back and even worse than before, you can already feel it — and you clamp a hand over your mouth, embarrassed. “They’ve just started.”

“Good luck on the judging.”

“Yeah, you too.”

The director yells, “Cut!” and the moment is gone.

You and Felix idle around by the judges’ table as the production crew takes close-ups of the food. Felix easily makes conversation with all of the judges, especially Taecyeon. He smiles at the right parts, adds anecdotes when appropriate, and you wonder how he is so unphased by the dessert round. It’s all you can think about, replaying every single action you made.

“I can’t wait to try that chocolate tart,” Chaeryeong warmly says to you. “It looks amazing.”

Now all you can do is stare at her in disbelief with the silliest grin on your face. Felix gently nudges you to remind you to speak.

“I can’t wait for you to try it,” you hear yourself reply. It’s uncharacteristically high-pitched, and you feel yourself growing hotter despite the lack of harsh studio lights.

“The fourth one is for me, right?” Felix teases. “I want a bite of that too.”

“Only if I get some of your mille feuille,” you say. “It looks amazing.”

“What about me?” protests Jae, making everyone laugh.

Once the close-ups are completed, you and Felix return to your stations and make the dramatic walk to the judges’ table. The lighthearted atmosphere from before is gone, and your nerves are back in a completely different way. The anticipation from the beginning of the round is nothing compared to the fear you feel now. You stand tall with your hands behind you, the perfect picture of confidence, but behind the camera, you are twisting and knitting together your fingers. Felix, on the other hand, is solemn. Lucky him.

“In the dessert round,” Jae recites, “you were tasked to create a dish with camel milk, rose syrup, beer flour, and jalapeños. Chef Felix, what did you make for us today?”

With a steady voice, he answers, “Judges, I have made for you a rose and strawberry ice cream mille feuille topped with a strawberry rose syrup crumble, candied jalapeños, sliced strawberries, and some chopped basil. I hope you enjoy it.”

There’s a pause as the judges cut into the dessert and try it. Like in the previous rounds, their expressions are indecipherable as they chew and deliberate to themselves. Taecyeon is the first to speak.

“First off, your presentation is beautiful. Everything is very neat and precise, which shows your attention to detail. I especially love the basil. Not only does it complement the rest of the dish, it’s a nice addition of color to the plate.”

Chaeryeong nods. “I agree. Strawberry and basil is a classic combination, and I think you balanced those flavors very well. However, neither of those ingredients were in the basket.”

You can almost feel the temperature in the room drop at that revelation.

“Yeah, you definitely focused more on the pantry than the basket ingredients,” Jihyo adds. “Strawberry is the star of this dessert, and I wish you highlighted a basket ingredient instead, especially since you had so many good choices available. And ice cream wise, I think it is too sweet. And I can just barely taste the rose syrup in there.”

“Where is the beer flour in this?” Taecyeon asks as he lifts off the topmost layer of puff pastry. “Is it in the crumble?”

“Yes,” Felix quickly replies. “I didn’t like the flavor of the flour, so I decided it would be best to hide it with the strong syrup flavor.”

“You definitely did that well,” Taecyeon continues. “And your jalapeños are great, help cut through the sweetness of everything.”

It’s clear that there is nothing more to be said. You note that the baker of the trio of the judges said nothing negative about Felix’s dish.

“Thank you, Chef Felix,” Jae concludes. “Chef Y/N, what have you made for us today?”

There’s another cut as the production switches out the half empty plates for your tarts. Sensing your increasing anxiety, Felix reaches over and pats you on the shoulder.

“Good luck,” he whispers. “You got this.”

You can only give him a tentative smile in return before filming resumes. Jae repeats his line to help the transition.

“Judges, I have made for you a chocolate tart with a beer flour crust, rose pastry cream, and candied jalapeños. Please enjoy.”

Chaeryeong is the first to scoop into the tart with her spoon. When the spoon comes out clean and with a pile of solid chocolate tart, you breathe a sigh of relief. She mulls over it as she takes another bite, but Taecyeon already has one ready.

“This is rich and delicious.”

You stop wringing your fingers together. A smile is beginning to form on your face, and it takes some willpower to remain calm.

“I love the way you cut the beer flour with regular flour because let’s be real,” he continues, leaning in conspiratorially, “beer flour tastes pretty awful. I can still get some hints of it, but it’s not overpowering.”

Jihyo nods in agreement. “You have good textures, from the crunchiness of the tart shell to the silkiness of the filling. My only problem with your dessert is that it’s heavy. There’s a lot of chocolate and then you top it off with something pretty sweet. Your candied jalapeños do help, but the ratio of cream to peppers is off.”

Your joy wilts as you take in her comments. As much as you want for her to be wrong, you didn’t get a chance to eat your creation, so you can’t exactly deny it. However, everyone knows that the judge with the weightiest opinion in the dessert round is Chaeryeong. When you look over at her to see what she thinks, she is still picking apart the tart.

Jihyo, situated in between Taecyeon and Chaeryeong, nudges her. “Anything to add, Chaeryeong?”

She looks up at you, and you realize that likely already made a decision on her first bite. Her words are clear and decisive. “I think you made a lot of good choices. Finishing it in the microwave, using dark chocolate, incorporating the rose syrup in the candying process. I do agree with Jihyo that this is a little too rich though. Your rose syrup cream feels unnecessary, but overall, it’s a delicious dessert.”

Your heart is pounding. Everything feels hot, and you are suddenly hyperaware of the cameras around, waiting to capture your reaction. You remember your fiddling fingers and stop moving them.

“Thank you, Chef Y/N,” Jae says. “The judges need some time to deliberate the winner. Remember that the decision will be made on your dishes from all three rounds. Chefs, we will see you after.” He nods at you and Felix, and as per the instructions from the producers, you and Felix walk to the green room.

No other takes are needed. You follow behind Felix, wondering how he is still so poised after all of that. Inside the green room, there is a cameraman waiting, ready to film some commentary from you and Felix. You settle into a stool at the table, and he sits in front of you.

“You did a great job,” he says in an overly produced way. You bet he was rehearsing this. That’s what you should have been doing during his judging. Now your remarks won’t come out as smoothly. “I definitely focused on the pantry too much, but hopefully the other rounds will help me out. The beer flour really confused me.”

You swallow and try to concentrate on him instead of the tabletop. If you don’t get this right, you’ll have to redo it. “Yeah, definitely a tricky ingredient. It was smart of you to use it in your crumble. But yeah, I think we both did pretty good. May the best chef win.” You stick your hand out for him to shake, and he does.

“Cut,” interjects a producer. “Alright, that’s all for that scene. Let’s start on your interviews.”

You nearly forgot about those. You and Felix share glances, both of which are reluctant goodbyes, before being whisked away into separate rooms. As you sit in front of a green screen, you recount what you did in the dessert round, walking the audience through the choices you made and the emotions you felt. There’s a frenetic energy about you this time unlike the previous interviews after the appetizer and entrée rounds. You are so close to the ten million won, you can almost taste it.

Your interview takes almost all of the time. Just as you swallow your last sip of water, the producers are informed that the judges have finished discussing and that you are needed back to the kitchen studio. When you stand up, you nearly knock over the stool you were sitting on. The walk to the studio is longer than it was before, and you want to push the dawdling production crew aside so you can get there faster. Your heart pounds erratically underneath your mask of serenity.

Felix smiles at you from where he stands in front of the judging panel. The signature cloche of God’s Menu sits ominously from its location on the table, two spotlights illuminating its silver shine. Taecyeon, Jihyo, and Chaeryeong are getting last-minute makeup touches, and Jae is idling around, rereading his script even though he has said the lines numerous times before.

“Hey,” you greet Felix as you take your spot beside him. “You nervous?”

“Yeah. It all comes down to this, right? Ten million won and the title of Cooking God.” He says the last part like Jae does, no theatrics spared, and you laugh. It feels good to do so, like a small bit of tension has been released.

Someone adjusts the lights, and suddenly you and Felix are in the dark. Feeling a little courageous, you tell him, “No matter what happens, I just want to say that it’s been an honor competing against you. It’s been a lot of fun, and I think I’ve learned a few things from your cooking.”

“Same here. You’re an awesome chef and an even better person.” The lights shine back on you and Felix, and he sneaks a glance towards you after a producer calls a warning to begin shooting soon. “I’d say ‘good luck,’ but with the way you cook, I don’t think you’ll need it.”

Your face is as hot as an oven. “Thanks. Same to you.”

The clapper goes down. “Action!”

“Chefs,” Jae starts, “the judges have finished deciding. Let’s see who is our next Cooking God and who is getting ousted.”

His hand wraps around the handle of the cloche, and you hold your breath in anticipation. The sound of your pulse in your ears is deafening. You’re not one to wish for someone else’s downfall, but you hope that it’s Felix’s mille feuille underneath. Everything you have worked for today all comes down to this. You can’t lose. You knit and twist your fingers behind your back, and keep your eyes glued to Jae’s hand.

When you see the dish on the table and the judge’s impassive faces, you begin to cry. Your chest tightens, your throat suddenly has a cherry pit lodged inside, and your vision goes blurry. How funny that you start the round with laughter and end in tears. It’s all too poetic for such a moment.

“Chef Felix,” Jae solemnly says, “you have been ousted. Judges?”

You don’t hear what the judges have to say about Felix’s dishes from the past three rounds. All you can focus on is the wood paneling of the judges’ table as you stifle your bubbling sobs. It shouldn’t be too difficult, right? You suppressed all your laughs in the beginning, so this should be easy.

“It was an honor to cook for you today, judges,” Felix says after he has received all of their critiques. He turns to you and wraps in a warm embrace, making your flimsy grasp on your emotions disintegrate. “Congratulations. I knew you would win when I saw your dessert.”

“Thank you so much,” you whisper.

After he heads down the hallway to the green room to film his exit interview, the cameras are back on you and solely you. The judges give you encouraging smiles, Chaeryeong’s the largest.

“Chef Y/N, you are the new Cooking God,” Jae announces. “Congratulations.”

You wipe away your tears with the back of your hand in a vain attempt to make yourself appear more composed. However, when the applause begins, it all comes pouring out — your thanks, your appreciation, your rambles about the bakery you have planned.

“I’ll be sure to come by,” Chaeryeong says. “Your tart was your best dish of the day. If you put it on the menu, I’m definitely going to buy one.”

“Your creativity in all of the rounds was amazing,” Jihyo adds, “but dessert is really where you shine. Give us a call when your bakery is open.”

Taecyeon compliments your appetizer and also agrees with the other two. “Chef, you should be proud of yourself.”

You beam through your tears. For a momentous occasion, you half expect confetti to start raining down and a symphony to start playing. However, there is only production orchestrating a few more shots of you shaking hands with everyone and a closeup of your face. The small celebratory scene is over soon as you are led to another room for your victory interview. This one is easy, simply you expressing your joy and partially promoting your future business.

When you’re done, you are told to wait in the green room while they set up some paperwork for you to fill out later. To your surprise, Felix is there as well, sitting at the table with a tired look on his face. His water bottle is empty, and there is an unopened one next to it. When he sees that you are there, he lights up.

“Hey there, Cooking God,” he says. “Congrats again.”

“Hey. Thanks again.” You sit across from him and slump against the table. “I thought you would have left already.”

“I’ve got some paperwork to do and one more interview to finish up. You know,” he says, propping himself up on his arms, leaning forward, “I never got to try your tart. I was really looking forward to it.”

You can see yourself reflected in his eyes. He has very pretty eyes. “I never got to try your mille feuille either. Do you think production will be mad if we sneak back in and eat the leftovers?”

“We might have to dig through the trash, but I’m down.” He pulls back. “What are you going to do with the prize money, if you don’t mind me asking? I don’t think Jae asked you about it during the judging.”

So you tell him all about it. You tell him of the empty building on the corner of the street you have been eying for the last year, the late night hours you have spent experimenting with recipes, the white banner and silver ribbons you have envisioned for the grand opening of your dream. He listens intently, nodding along and cracking smiles when you draw the details in the air.

“Wow, you’ve got it all figured out already.”

“Yeah,” you agree, feeling flushed and breathless. “It’s been a long time coming.”

There’s a knock on the door, and a member of the production team pokes his head in. “Chef Lee Felix, we’re ready to shoot the interview now.”

Felix nods and stands up from his stool, taking the both water bottles with him. “I guess this is goodbye then. Good luck with everything.”

“What’s your number?” you blurt out before the nervous laughter starts up again. You just finished one of the most grueling cooking competitions in the country; asking someone for their number should be a cakewalk, but said someone also happens to be a highly esteemed chef. “I’d love for you to be at the grand opening.”

His mouth splits into a grin. He tears the label off of the empty bottle and asks the staff member if he has a pen. Then he scrawls down the digits and hands you the label, the fresh ink against the glossy paper shining underneath the lights.

“See you during the opening,” are his last words to you before he follows production out of the room.

You clutch the edge of the label and mouth the numbers to yourself, trying to commit them to memory. A needless action, but it feels right.

When you are called for paperwork and logistics, you carefully fold the paper and place it inside your chef jacket’s pocket, right by your heart. The check for eight million won — taxes unfortunately exist for prize money — goes in there as well.

The grand opening is a grand affair: customers flocking to the street corner in droves, a giant banner and even a red ribbon celebrating the occasion, and display cases being emptied throughout the day. As promised, Chaeryeong and Jihyo show up to the opening. The day is nearly over when they arrive; only a few people linger around, buying last-minute treats. You decide to close for the night.

Even though the two celebrity chefs say they have finished filming a new episode, they are both in high spirits. They bring along a plaque for you to hang that reads “God’s Menu Approved,” and you are both mortified and thrilled. Chaeryeong wants you to put the plaque in the window, but Jihyo insists you have it behind the counter. However, you don’t really want it in either location. Your office seems like a wonderful place.

“How about a tart?” you ask to distract them. “On the house, of course.”

They nod enthusiastically at the offer, and you set down two familiar-looking ones. “As seen on God’s Menu, the Dessert Round Tart, chocolate with rose-flavored cream and candied jalapeños.”

The bell on the door chimes, and a voice you have not heard in months says, “Any left for me?”

“Felix!” you exclaim, rushing to him. He’s still in his chef’s uniform, and you can almost smell sriracha on him. “How are you here? I thought you said you had a shift.”

He shrugs and smiles boyishly at you. It makes you all sorts of nervous, and your stomach flutters with something that is not laughter. “Surprise!”

“Let me go get you a tart,” you say as you lead him to the same table as Chaeryeong and Jihyo, both who recognize Felix from the show.

You head behind the counter and reach for the last tart left in your hidden stash of desserts. You saved three for the judges, but Taecyeon isn’t here. He is apparently in the midst of opening a new location, and you understand. After all, you’re doing something similar. It all works out in your favor though since Felix is. With more care than the previous two, you place the tart on a small plate and set it down in front of Felix.

“Here you go. Enjoy.”

He cuts into it with the fork and savors the first bite. “It’s even better than I thought it would be. This is amazing.”

“Definitely agree,” says Jihyo. Hers is completely gone, only the smallest crumbs left. “You’ve really refined it.”

Chaeryeong, mouth full of chocolate, can only nod in agreement. You smile, flattered by their compliments. After some pushing from the trio, you sit down with them to eat the leftover desserts from the day and to catch up. Chaeryeong and Jihyo are predictably busy with the filming of God’s Menu and overseeing their respective establishments. Meanwhile, Felix is still head chef of Levanter and has been tasked with adding something new to their menu. You tell them all about the beginning of the day and how a dog almost tore apart the low-hanging streamers outside. Felix sympathetically pats your hand. You then join in on the laughter, yours of which is more induced by his touch than the memory of the dog.

Some time later, Chaeryeong announces that she has to go, and Jihyo follows. You send them off with some lemongrass cupcakes and lie about where you will be displaying the plaque. No matter what, it’s going in your office where only you can see it. Felix stays around, and with everyone else gone, it’s just you and him.

“Hi,” you say, suddenly feeling shy. “You’re not leaving yet?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted to ask you something."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Since you still haven’t tried my mille feuille from the show and since Levanter needs a new menu item, would you want to help me sometime?” He pauses and grimaces at his words. “Wait, you’re probably busy with your bakery now and—”

“I’d love to,” you abruptly say. “Probably only taste testing though, if that’s alright. Business conflicts and all.”

Your favorite thing about Felix, you decide, is the way he lights up, the way the excitement emitting from him is palpable. With a tinge of red across his cheeks, he says, “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other soon.”

You let out a short laugh. “I guess we will. I’m alright with that.”

“So am I.”

~ ad.gray

[daltonacademia]

There’s A Time For Daring - 1

charlie dalton x fem!reader [post events of the movie]

word count: 1.7k

warning: allusions to sex / slight sexual harrassment? drinking, mentions of neil’s suicide, horrible parents 

Charlie couldn’t help but emit a low growl as his vomit-inducing, picture-perfect, high-society mother and father, whom he despised, prodded him towards the expansive front entrance of Nealson Preparatory School located in southern Vermont. His fuschia-lipped, cakey-faced mother, Cynthia Dalton, was a well-dressed, dignified housewife by day and charming socialite by night; she was particularly harsh as she trampled his pen-stained oxfords with her spearish kitten heels. His eyes shot daggers at the snow-strewn path below, a familiar fire burning in his core.

There were many things Charlie was tempted to furiously spit out at his parents, but instead, he managed to keep his jaw clamped shut, his pearly whites digging into the light pink of his lips hard enough to draw blood. No matter what he shouted, cried, pleaded, they wouldn’t budge. They never would. And it was infuriating.

“Charles! Being expelled from such a prestigious school is no laughing matter, young man. That school cost us quite the pretty penny! How dare you defy the rules to the extent of expulsion. It’s disgraceful, and I will tolerate it no longer!” Charlie’s mother shrieked, furious tears smudging the thick mascara that coated her eyelashes.

“You’ll be shipped off to Nealson Preparatory School in February, and if I hear so much as a single mention of your name not followed with overwhelming compliments, you can expect nasty, nasty consequences! Go pack your things, you’ll be staying with Aunt Barbara until the first of February finally arrives!” The rims of Charlie’s brown eyes stung with anger, frustration, and furthest down, sadness. He was diminished to nothing but an image-ruiner to his mother. The person who was supposed to love him, protect him, save him from the horrors of this hell called Earth.

Mr. Dalton silently observed the boisterous outburst from his expensive leather armchair across the den, a glass of strong, half-drunk whiskey in his palm. Charlie couldn’t bear to see their despicable faces any longer, and as his body felt no longer under his control, stomped up the stairs in a huff, rapidly swiping away the glassy tears spilling from his eyes. Thoughts of running away, escaping it all, flooded his unstable mind. ‘I get why you did it, Neil. I really do. But did you have to go so soon?’ 

But instead of lingering on the image of Neil any longer, he hastily threw his bare necessities into his suitcase, which was still covered in an array of Welton Academy stickers.

The grounds of Nealson were unsurprisingly well-maintained; it reminded him a lot of Welton. The impeccably manicured lawns, gleaming, icy blue lake, the gothic stone arches and pillars. It was eerily similar to Hellton, even down to the ice-cold blanket of snow coating the distant rolling hills. It’s beautiful, Charlie thought, surveying the slow sprinkling of snow, No, it’s hideous. 

Before he could fully vomit at the vile grounds of his new school, his parents fiercely shoved him inside the Headmaster’s dingy office, politely taking the vacant mahogany seats beside him. Charlie couldn’t be bothered to listen to a word his parents said with pearly white smiles, which were no doubt tooth-rotting, sugar-coated lies about the real reason he was expelled over a month prior. 

He knew that they couldn’t just be transparent and tell the Headmaster that he had socked the utterly vile Richard Cameron’s face in (rightfully so, in his opinion), or that he was a star member of the infamous Dead Poets Society, or that he had gone to the extreme lengths to stage a phone call from none other than God himself. It didn’t work like that. 

His mother’s cheeky, artificial voice sounded precisely the same as it always had: carefully rehearsed and slathered with naivety. Seemingly without hesitation, the catty woman could deflect any less-than-pleasant questions or insinuations about her “golden role-model” son, who’s admittedly “a little misguided at times”. 

The new headmaster seated across from him appeared to be around the same age as Mr. Nolan, which, as far as Charlie was concerned, was older than the Cretaceous period at least. His pale-as-a-ghost skin was wrinkled and paper-thin; his patchy, gelled side-swept hair was (very obviously) dyed a deep, midnight black, reminiscent of an off-brand Elvis. 

Charlie’s ears continued to mute the awkward conversation happening amongst him, his focus instead shifting around to the various awards and certificates lining the ivory walls. They all seemed so phony; ‘Best Headmaster- 1947-1959’, ‘Nealson Academy: Exceeds Expectations’. The Headmaster had even framed his high school superlative: ‘Voted Most Likely to Succeed’. What a pathetic-

In a swift blur, his parents rose from their seats, his mother clutching her magenta purse with matching pursed lips. Charlie was handed a hefty, stapled packet packed full of school rules and guidelines with a denture-toothed smile from Headmaster ‘Campbell’. This’d make some decent kindling, he thought as he yanked the packet from his clammy clutches, leafing through its pages with a smirk, this garbage’s almost laughable.

A syncopated rhythm of raps on the door, followed by a gravelly, ‘come in', presented his new dorm escort. His chauffeur just so happened to be you, the accomplished and universally admired student body president in the same grade as the newcomer. You were dutifully donning Nealson’s horrendous uniform: a crisp, white button-up accented with a blue and silver tie was topped with a depressing grey sweater vest. An equally loathsome pleated skirt concealed your thighs, and your ankles were shielded from the chilly February air with black crew socks. 

You extended your perfectly manicured, soft hand out to your brand-new peer with a yearbook-worthy smile, introducing, “Hi. Welcome to Nealson, I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” You swore you heard the brunette mutter something disrespectful under his breath, but nonetheless, he, rather unprofessionally, shook your hand with an eye roll. Things between the two of you were not starting off the way you hoped, but you were determined to make a good impression. The best impression possible.

“Charlie Dalton,” he replied with a mischievous smirk. The brunette standing in front of you reeked of cigarettes, and there was the slightest smell of cheap beer clinging to his clothes. His brown hair was messy, springing out in every direction, despite the water furiously combed through it. His eyes glinted with rebellion, a look so alluring yet dangerous.

“I’ll be showing you to your dorm, which you’ll sleep in for the remainder of the year.” Since Dalton was starting in February, he only had five months of studying before long-awaited senior year. Mr. Campbell waved the two of you off, and with that, you trekked towards the Boys’ wing, Dalton sauntering at your side. 

The walk through the main corridor was silent and awkward. You had tried to enchant him with fun facts about Nealson and its (extensively selective) history, much to his obvious boredom and dismay. His umber eyes glazed the walls, uninterested in the decor. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, but for all you knew, it could be on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. 

After a while of treading through the high-ceilinged corridors illuminated with fleeting pale rays of sunlight, the boy next to you made no attempt to hide him drawing designs up and down your body. 

“I’ve never been to a school with both boys and girls,” he drawled with a smirk. “Do things ever get exciting around here?”

You shook your head no while indiscreetly tugging down the hem of your skirt uncomfortably, and he said, “Do you think you’d maybe wanna spend the night with me in my dorm? Make sure I’m all settled in?”

Your whole body, from head to toe, froze. The audacity of this… creep! Your tongue poked, nearly stabbed, the back of your teeth, wanting to unleash a select few words to the disgusting Dalton beside you. But alas, if he were to tell anyone of your fiery wrath, you’d be demoted from class president faster than you could explain what really happened. It’s a corrupt system, sure, but even with the power that comes with such a title, there was no way to mend it.

Eventually, while you were wrapped up in the furies of your mind, Dalton revealed a small, autographed golf ball from his trousers pocket and began throwing it up and down above his head casually with every step. 

“Can you not?” you snapped at the chestnut-haired boy after he tossed the sphere up and down again in an arch. “Don’t wanna get in trouble on your first day, do you?”  

“You think this’ll get me in trouble? Have a little fun, it won’t kill you. I promise.” Dalton turned his gaze towards you, an annoyed but smug grin painted on his lips. He slowly tossed the golf ball to your hands, intending for you to catch it. However, the small ball evaded your grasp, instead bouncing around the hardwood floors below you, creating a series of loud, reverberating thunks.

“You were supposed to catch it, you know,” Dalton teased, nonchalantly watching you chase after the rogue orb. After it was finally safe in your clutches, you stomped over to the no-good newbie, irritated. 

“Nealson’s strict. They don’t let stuff like creating an awful lot of racket go unreprimanded.” You were seething; red-hot blood pumped through your veins. Dalton didn’t look anything but utterly amused.

“Wow, you’re just about one of the biggest suck-ups I’ve seen in a while.”

“A what?” you growled.

“A suck-up. A rule-following poster child of excellence? A bratty, know-it-all? Anything along those lines?” He sputtered insults so nonchalantly, it made your blood boil and eyes sting.

“You better watch it, Dalton. I don’t know who you think you are-”

“I’m the best thing that’s happened to this school, by the looks of it.” 

You had nothing left to say to this conceited shuck of a boy who really thought that he was all that and a side of fries. Well he wasn’t! Not in the slightest! And if his first day of classes wouldn’t drill it into him, you would.

The rest of the walk was pin-drop silent and tense. No more fun facts about Nealson escaped your downturned lips, just the light patting of his beat-up oxfords and your pristine mary-janes on the polished wood floor. The hallways seemed more depressing than usual, their framed portraits and condensated windows didn’t fill you with the motivation that you came to expect.

After finally arriving at the boys’ dormitories, you grumbled, “well, this is it. Have a swell life, Dalton.”

“Right back at ya, Y/L/N. Let’s hope this isn’t the last time we meet.” He gave you a cheeky wink before slamming the door in your face.

[pacific-rimbaud]

45 and narcissa x remus (recissa? black wolf? blupin?)

Drabble #45: “Tell me a secret.”

Asylum Seekers

by PacificRimbaud

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Narcissa Black Malfoy

Tags: Angst, infidelity, brief blood, suggestions of violence, swearing, mild sexual content (Rated M) 

On AO3

Fall, 1978

The line to fucking another man’s wife is neither a straight nor a moral one. Would it help if I told you that of the two of us, I might be the werewolf, but the monster, unequivocally, is him?

Fucking is the furthest thing from my mind when I see her for the first time since she left school—four, maybe five years before I did. Hollow-boned and apprehensive as a hedgerow bird, she sits with one white hand splayed open on the surface of the table and the other one in her lap, like she’s waiting for one of us to serve her.

Sirius rounds the corner from Andromeda’s kitchen carrying three fingers of Ogden’s, no ice, in a cut crystal glass and sets it down, slow and noiseless, as though she’ll bolt at the sound of the contact.

She picks up the glass with the hand she’s keeping out in the open, drains it, and does it again the moment Sirius refills it.

She smells like whiskey and blood.

Arms looped around her own waist, Andromeda leans in the door frame, Moody talking close at her ear.

The sisters are representative works by the same artist, in two different moods. Andromeda is taller and more substantial: dark, warm and still, a heavy-canopied forest in an abundant summer. Narcissa is hard daylight and the sharp, mythical line of a distant peak, white-capped in perennial snow.

Her eyes are her sole submission to softness; between hers and Andromeda’s, Narcissa’s are the warmer iteration of blue.

Moody mumbles, his face erased of everything but formless intensity, and Andromeda’s vision fixes on Narcissa’s pale, restless hand, the pads of her fingers lighting on the table again, preparing themselves to take flight.

Andromeda mutters, and then she moves, palming something from Moody and taking a seat beside her sister at the scrubbed dining table.

“They’d like you to take this." Her voice comes in at a crawling crescendo, pianissimo to mezzo-piano, then retreats.

She places a vial on the table: Veritaserum, in olive green glass with a tiny cork.

Narcissa pulls in a breath, filling her belly and then her chest, and then she bends away in violent submission toward the floor, her gut belatedly rejecting what I identify as several days of nothing but booze.

Ted arrives at her elbow before she’s finished, carrying a glass of water.

Two glasses, one wet cloth to her mouth, and a full minute later, and Narcissa tips the cork from the top of the vial with her thumb, and drinks it down.

“What do you want to know?”

Her voice is scraped and austere, wounded with whiskey and sick and some other interior, mechanical insult: crying, or screaming, or both.

“Tell the rest of us what you told your sister,” says Moody, turning a chair around at the table and straddling the seat.

Narcissa’s right hand rises from her lap.

For a moment I think she’s wearing an elbow-length glove, like she’s come from a formal ball.

But she’s dressed in nothing more than a thin satin slip, lace-edged, with narrow strings for straps, skating over her unrelenting leanness, either black or dark, dark green.

It's not a glove.

She’s slicked from her fingertips to the curve of her inner elbow with dried and drying blood, a lavish, painterly layer, thick and congealed. It’s an opaque garment of gore, covering everything but a row of four lines where her weakly pigmented skin shows through, like someone has grasped her arm, then drawn their fingers away.

I don’t understand why she looks at me. Between her sister, her cousin, her brother by a hated marriage, Moody and Alice Longbottom nipping at her thumbnail by the window, she settles her wide warm eyes on me.

I watch the tide rise inside her.

I watch it breach the barrier.

I watch her flood.

She closes her glazed fist loosely, fingertips touching her thumb, in the way you would make a compassionate cage of your fingers to carry an injured bird.

“I tried to help.”

*

She has a flat in Muggle London that her husband knows nothing about.

It’s small, purchased with her private money in another name. She only has two rooms and a bath, but she’s cleaned it with magic, repaired it, made it sharp and neat and softened it with pale fabrics, made it private, and made it her own.

“Why me?”

It’s the first thing I say, after I’ve come through the door, and just before she closes it behind me.

She doesn’t answer straight away. Instead she pours herself a gin from a cupboard in the galley kitchen, and asks me whether I’d like one. I would, but I tell her no, thank you, and she sits on her sofa, ankles crossed underneath her thighs, and tells me why I’m here.

“Because of the way that Sirius looks at you.”

“And how is that?”

There is so little in the way of the unintentional to her that it’s unnerving.

The tilt of her head isn’t a tick or a quirk. It’s a communication.

I could press the issue, but she and I would both understand the deflection.

Call it what you will in another language, in English there’s only one word for love.

For Sirius, and for me, I believe it’s enough.

“Why not him? Andromeda?”

She’s amused by me.

I can’t help but wonder what else she delights in.

Her hair falls over her shoulder, iced gold against the fabric of her white wool jumper, while I draw a plan of Malfoy Manor to her specifications.

The entry. Staircase. Ballroom. Drawing room. The room where she sleeps. The one Lucius keeps for himself.

Where Tom Riddle lays his head down on the nights he stays.

Where else he might be found.

I don’t push for more than she gives me.

When it’s time to go, I roll the diagram, shrink it down, and shove it into the bottom of my trouser pocket next to my wand.

“Thank you,” I say. “For your honesty.”

It makes her laugh.

*

The next time I meet her in her flat, it’s uncomfortably close to a full moon, and I half gag on the smells of two different men clinging to her body.

She’s washed with an intensely herbal soap, but underneath that is a tinge of nervous sweat, and every unctuous, enzymatic marker of sex.

We cover things the Order already knows, and that she knows we know, but we both understand the nature and necessity of what we’re doing.

It’s safer for her, I think, to start slow, without fully understanding why I would care.

“Good luck to you,” she says while my hand finds the doorknob.

She doesn’t bite her lip. There is never a twist to her mouth.

She’s practiced to rote. Her performance of herself is without error.

I turn halfway around.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

*

I spend the hours of my turning in a vast, borderless desert of physical suffering.

I map it with my own blood, and by the time I wake, it’s a void I can’t recall.

*

“Try this next time.”

She sets a pot of ointment that I can’t afford on the table in front of me.

I leave it behind when I go.

*

She keeps rare and beautiful wines that I refuse to drink.

When I arrive at night on a Wednesday, two months into our regular, irregular meetings, she’s so glassy with ethanol that I nearly leave.

I don’t think about what she wears at home.

When she’s here, she dresses down, in satin trousers and jumpers that fall away from her lustrous white shoulders.

I wonder if this is home.

The surface of her wine rolls and coats the interior of her glass as she lowers herself to sit.

My gut pings with anxiety at the unnecessary closeness, but then she leans away, and rests her head on the leather arm of the sofa while her knees fold against the back.

“I’m going to tell you about death,” she says.

I hear the wine on her breath, and lick my own lips.

I take names, where she recalls them. Where she doesn’t, I make ticks beside dates and locations.

She finishes a bottle, and opens another, her thin arms flexing with the turn of a Muggle bottle opener.

Does she feel safe here? With her magical signature tucked away with her wand? It’s folded between the pages of a day-old newspaper, on the table beside a wingback chair neither of us ever sits in. She never so much as glances in its direction.

Half the new bottle disappears inside her.

“He smells like blood when he comes to my bed.” Her performance falters. “Every time.”

I realize, too late, that the curtain has lowered, and that the house lights have come on.

I’m not prepared to see her this way.

“Which one?” I ask.

She smiles, her mouth a narrow bow.

“All of them.”

*

I walk home in the dark, staring at my hands.

I feel an urge, sharp and angular and immediate, that can I only explain as the opposite of sexual hunger.

What I want is for my palm against her flesh to cancel and negate every other hand that arrived there before it.

I would smooth my skin against every inch of her.

Outside, and in.

I’m not angry. I don’t know what I am.

I won’t touch her for the world.

I’m desperate for her to ask me to.

*

“I can’t be her handler anymore.” I can’t look at Moody when I say it.

*

A week later, Moody glares at me over the rim of a soup spoon. “She won’t speak to anyone else.”

*

I emerge from my next change three kilos lighter.

I couldn’t afford one of them.

In the mirror in the bath, I run my fingertips through the bloody trenches of my ribs.

*

“Oh,” I say, dumbly. “You’ve cooked.”

I haven’t seen her since her last drop a month ago, and I’m grateful for the smell of garlic and onions, seeped into everything and overwhelming whatever secrets her body keeps failing to keep from me.

Standing at the Muggle range, she holds a spoon out over her cupped palm.

It’s more shocking than anything she’s ever done.

I open my mouth, and think, briefly, about the weight of a pomegranate seed.

My mouth blooms.

*

I don’t know what I need. I look for it inside the cunts of the women I meet in the discos of Muggle London.

They’re sweet, and warm, and smell like cocaine and strong perfume and laboratory hormones, and they feel fine.

They feel fine.

Sometimes when I’m inside them, I think about white-blonde hair and narrow hips.

I think about the time I saw her wearing a single red glove, ending at the inside of her elbow. 

When I’m looking for what I need inside of other women, I think about her.

I’m looking for her.

*

“You’re moving too fucking much,” says Moody, never once looking up from his parchment. “Go out.”

He doesn’t make suggestions.

So I go.

The gleaming street reeks of urban petrichor, and the steady incursion of moisture tells me about a new hole in the right side of my left boot.

I’m waxing gibbous inside, something I’ve never tried to explain, but it encompasses something like an unreachable itch, and an ache in the marrow, and a skin-crawling restlessness that I’ve tried exorcising through bone-jarring movement and gallons of liquor, by screaming in train yards and flattening the cilia inside my ears with catastrophic decibels of music, through aggressive sex that turns me into someone I no longer know.

I dance, curled into the form of a brunette with silver eye shadow and no knickers under her shining nylon dress.

I’m stretching my own skin, ready to hurry up the inevitability of what I can already smell between us, when I see her.

She’s wearing a tight silver dress and a glamour that would fool nine out of ten wizards.

Dark hair, dark lips, dark eyes. She’s left her breasts unchanged. Left the unpadded divots of her ribs beneath her constricting dress. Left the perfect lines of her long, long legs.

I follow her out when she goes, and at the mouth of an alleyway I stop five paces behind her, and call out her name.

*

She’s already pulling at the frame of my belt buckle, but she does ask.

When I fuck her for the first time, against a brick wall behind a bin full of wet newspaper, she’s wearing a face that doesn’t belong to her.

I smooth my hands up her thighs.

I slide my fingers through the pulse of damp between her legs.

I erase anything she needs me to.

*

“Was it—”

I’m barely through the door.

An hour later, I wonder if I’ve ever been naked next to a woman.

I have.

I never have.

She lets me in again.

And then again.

Then again.

“Don’t come here if you smell like another man.”

I say it while I’m inside.

She takes shallow, open-mouthed breaths.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know. But I don’t care.”

I extract promises she can’t keep from her flesh while it quivers below mine.

*

While my bones construct a wolf from the materials of a man, I leave my body behind me, howling in a voice that isn’t mine.

I find my way into a dream about the scent of her hair, soaked through with both of our sweat.

* 

“Tell me a secret.” Her open mouth lands against the skin of my belly and then slides closed, a gorging, formless kiss. She skirts my aching cock with a generous deliberation. “I’ve told you all of mine.”

“Not all of them,” I say.

I’m panting like a dog, sweating through sheets we ruined three hours ago.

She looks up at me, hair draped over one warm blue eye, the perfect proportions of her mouth still sliding beside my cock, her legs wrapped around my calf, her knickers slipping against my thigh.

*

I wrap her secrets in a bow, and pass them along to those who can use them.

I keep my hands buried in her hair.

I keep her secrets for myself.

[lemonietrinket]

Broken Crown ||| Prince!San x Reader

Summary: San receives a present from the leader of his kingdom’s governing body that turns his life upside down, and not for the better. His only comfort in life has been you, and now that comfort is being taken away from him. Genre: angst, bits of fluff with a happy ending  Warning(s): big sad, description of an item of clothing thrown out of frustration (not at or in front of anyone, there is no one nearby at the time); foul language (2x f**k) Word Count: 3037 Song(s): Ambience AN: well im here hurting myself with this... hope its not too angsty anon (i cant find your ask tho idk where its gone) happy (slightly late) birthday to my boi san! :))

fem!reader royalty au

~~~

Rocks sank to the bottom of his stomach as San’s entire body flushed ice cold, and then fire hot. Eyes unblinking he peered round at the sea of smiles, their sincerity leaving him reeling. It was as if his head had been submerged in a pool of twilight sea water, the sun’s warmth leaving it lukewarm and dark, forcing his eyes to sting and glaze without even his full knowledge.

It wasn’t until he spotted the widened eyes of his cousin, far down at the other end of the table, that he realised something was wrong. 

“Oh I can’t wait to see the two of them down the aisle!” 

“She’s a real catch, Sannie! You’re so lucky!”

“Aww, look, he’s so overcome with emotion he’s—!”

“Oh my baby is growing up so fast!”

The world span and words merged into one inconceivable mass as San turned. A thick silence permeated his mind, flooding it with nothing but heaviness; the sound of his fleeing footsteps, the echo of confusion behind him, even his own heartbeat—all swallowed up.  The only thing that pierced it was a high tone clatter, accented by a delicate crack and the shattering of glass. 

Tripping up the stairs, his ankle twinging as he went, he broke through the doors to his room, where he came to an abrupt stop. The doors slammed behind him out of the sheer power he’d shoved them open, and as the adrenaline began to phase his brain back into control, he stood heaving.  While fury flourished through his chest, gentle caresses graced his cheeks, painting them flushed when the two met at his throat. The unstoppable heat met numbing cold, and it was as if his throat became carved of hot stone. He was teetering on the edge of screaming, but having silenced himself, all he felt was the urgent threat of bursting. 

Seeing no way out through his lips, his hands began wrenching off his numerous layers of clothing. The heat was too much to handle, yes, but feeling the silk burn through his fingers, and then watching the embroidered jewels scarper across the room as he flung them was a release in itself. Enough of one to allow the ice to cascade through him. 

A shallow, creaking breath poured from him as he frantically followed where his coat had gone. Chewing on his lips, his hands felt around the fabric, still intact minus a few embellishments that had been torn off in his outburst. 

No no... no no no...!

His gaze darted across the varnished crystalline floor, desperate to catch a glint, a twine of thread. With the quartz patterning blurring and yet somehow shining as if possessed, he had no clue if the words were coming from him out loud or were just in his head. There was no way for him to be sure, as days prior everything that had coalesced in a matter of seconds had been nothing more than a nightmare.

Tears trapped themselves between his eyelashes, leaving the world around him in the state of a dream, until he finally gave in. Wiping his eyes  with the side of his fist, clenched and weakening, he sucked in air carefully. It felt too humid in his lungs and did little to quell the urge to succumb completely, but it was enough to hold it down for just a few more moments. And peaking up between his fallen fringe, that was all he needed.

He threw himself at the doors to the balcony, hands tugging at the handles until they finally broke open, and the outside greeted him.

It was an abrupt change, freezing wind slapping him in the face and grasping at every inch of bare and clothed skin it could get its hands on, but he could breathe.  The shock stunted the tears long enough for him to clear his eyes properly, his murky salmon dress shirt—too loose to actually be comfortable and yet still restrictive at the shoulders firmly placing it as his least favourite piece of clothing he was routinely told to wear—finally serving a purpose he agreed with.

The heels of his palms collided with the stone balcony and sent a small hum of pain through his throat, though he paid no mind to it. His attentions were much more focused elsewhere—that being scouring the gardens below, the canopies of the trees beyond, and finally the lights of the city in the further distance. To his annoyance the damp air, enrolled to be the welcome mat for an oncoming storm, decided to shirk its duties and mess with his hair enough so he couldn’t see. Though what shook him up even more and truly beckoned the suffocating feeling to return was the absence of your silhouette. 

It took all the willpower in him left to resist calling your name into the dark. As time went on however, the more he began to worry that he wouldn’t even be able to anymore, if he could. Becoming frantic, he slapped his hand against the stone and cursed. Once then twice, and then again and again until he slumped over the edge. The stone dug into his rib cage, leaving him even shorter of breath than he already was.  He let his eyes fall closed, a whimper leaving his lips, leading him to press them straight and firm. San needed to stay together in one piece, and with the cold bringing an onslaught of reality checks in his head, the more he realised he needed to not behave any worse. But his tether was running short.

Luckily, the respite arrived in a matter of moments, and though they may have felt like hours, the ache of waiting soon washed away as warmth reached his side upon the balcony, and the scent of the wild world below was brought to him. 

Despite your hands being carved from days of work you always held him so tenderly, as if never wanted to let him go—and for once, not in a precious gem kind of way, but more in the sense of a memory. A story from years before that never failed to bring a smile to your face. One that meant nowhere else felt like home but with him. 

He didn’t really know how you got up onto his balcony, without alerting the guards or making the slightest of noises. Nor did he know truly where you were from. It wasn’t like you hadn’t told him—oh, he’d asked you about your life thousands of times and you’d complied in answering every single time with a content smile on your lips—it was just that he had no context to it. You told him of the streets and the lamp-lights, the cheers of the evening and cries of the night, the merchants and the bakeries and the patrols barely on watch, the docks and the promises it held of the future, a new world. But San had never been, so how could he ever fully understand and know of your past, when he knew very little outside his own upbringing? These were the things he lamented when the moon began to sink and you ushered him to finally rest, pointing out that he was moping again.

Your voice was as gentle then as it was now minus the mischievous tones, pressing hushes into his messy hair at your jaw while you cradled him to your chest. 

“Shh, my love, it’s ok. Everything’s ok.”

Hands clutching at your leather jacket, ribbed with gashes that even you couldn’t place, he let himself relax. In your arms, his sobs spilled out so much quieter than they had done before, and his shaking slowly came to an end when they could have easily continued long into the night.  Sat upon the stone floor with you, his problems seemed to drift away. He almost wished you weren’t as sensible sometimes, and that you’d let them pass. That way he could stay there in silence wit you for longer, just listening to the beat of your heart and how it aligned with his. 

It couldn’t happen however, he had to face the consequences at some point, and when you slowly lifted his head to meet your gaze, he knew there was little he could do about it. 

Your motions were met with a disgruntled pout as the boy you fell in love with—now old enough to rule a kingdom without an Aide—wiped his eyes and blinked at you, happy to wordlessly pretend that none of that had happened. 

“Happy birthday, Your Highness,” you teasingly greeted, cupping his hallow cheeks so you could trace shapes into his temple. Your face instantly fell when his did, however, and you realised that you’d struck a nerve. “Sannie, what’s happened? I haven’t seen you this upset in months.”

His gaze dropped as his head did. Your hand didn’t chase him, instead you settled it upon his own, balled between you against the floor. “San?”

“She promised me, Y/N,” he finally began, swallowing thickly, “she promised me and she broke it in a day. It meant nothing to her.”

“Her?” you enquired. “Your mother?”

He shook his head languidly and you could feel his fingers tense between yours. “The Chair. The Chair—she promised my status would be nowhere in any agreement in the trade talks and the—she fucking lied! Next week—with all fucking expenses paid for by the government no less—I... she—a-and she did it on my birthday! Told it to me now, gave it to me as a gift, so now there is absolutely no way I can refuse her! She did this on purpose, Y/N, she knows what she’s doing, she wants me over there for something and I... I don’t want to play her... her games—!”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” you breathed, stroking his white knuckles, “take it easy. What did she do, San? What’s happening next week, where are you going?”

“I’m getting married.”

His abrupt words stunned you into a paralysis. No breath left your lungs, there was no flicker of your fingers. It was like you became a statue. 

“She’s married me off, Y/N. To this princess from Lontaiko no less. I won’t be here after it, I’ll move away, and then I’ll be completely at her mercy.” San glanced up at you, meeting your glazed stare with a sigh ridden with guilt—as if he had any choice in the circumstances. The sight of you without your smile was enough to make his heart sink, and so witnessing the colour drain from your cheeks and your touch go limp forced him to blink back tears once again. 

He pulled your rigid hand to his lips and planted a kiss to your fingers. It brought you back to reality, throat dry and eyes wet, but his touches left your heart aching, his wound now a part of you too. And it tore your heart gradually apart, one thread at a time. 

“Why?” you finally managed, gripping onto his hands almost as desperately as he’d done before. 

He spat a laugh of disbelief. “’Peace’, she said. ‘Peace’.”

You scoffed a weak laugh, hiding your face within the shadows cast from soft candlelight behind. San didn’t let you go, his lips soft at your skin, trying to stay strong and encourage you that it would all be fine but you could feel in the caution of his movements that he didn’t believe it either. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m sorry I didn’t put up more of a fight, I don’t want this, I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to be king—”

“I love you,” you finally whispered, words fragile and very nearly swept by the wind. 

His lips fell still. It was far from the first time you had told him, as every time the moonlight shone upon the two of you, the words kissed the night. Now, however, was different. Seeing you so curled in on yourself reminded him of the first time you had confessed to him. 

A few nights had passed without a single flicker of your silhouette, no curl of the blossoms and brine that melded with you. He’d let it slip first, all doe-eyed and lips pursed amongst multitudes of pillows, waiting for his first kiss that you would bestow upon him. You had rushed an apology, brushing your lips against his forehead in a promise before fleeing.  Every time the moon then rose he waited while dread trickled through his veins, until you finally returned. Your voice seemingly stolen and hands wrung together, gemstone eyes avoiding his at every cost while you waited on the wrong side of the balcony. You’d given him such a fright when he finally spotted you through the bronze embroidered windows—the first time because he couldn’t tell it was you, the second because you could have slipped and fell at any moment, perched where you were.

As soon as he joined you outside, he’d rambled about how worried he had been, not even trying to temper his volume. 

You’d interjected him suddenly, “Can I kiss you properly?” 

He’d been silenced immediately. And then between a small scowl, a pout and the puffing of his cheeks, he’d huffed, “Yes.”

You hadn’t relaxed until he’d held you, lips meeting in the golden haze of the torches that danced with the silver of a crescent moon. 

It pained him to see you in such a way now, for all the wrong reasons. Reasons that couldn’t be helped, he reminded himself, his thoughts possessing a snarl and leaving the pit of his stomach broiling, nothing can ever be done... right...?

Shifting his weight, he raised himself so he was even with you, before at last holding you close. Your hands sprung into action to clutch at his back as he did so, your head nestling into his shoulder while your breaths became shallow. Nose pressed into your hair, he kissed your head as you begged him, “Please don’t leave me, San. Please, please don’t leave me.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at his bedroom. The grandiose sweeping canopies of his bed curtains, light peach and without a speck of dirt. The hard floor that was always cold to his bare feet without fail, and too hard to welcome him home after a long day of duties. The emptiness of the room’s vast expanse, adorned with nothing but elegant plants twisted around veiled sticks to force them to grow how the keepers’ wished.  His eyes changed focus then, coming to glare at the dull reflection in the glass. The faded lines of his hands stroking your back, his intense expression, all stared right back at him, as if in challenge.

And something inside him snapped.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Upon the day of the wedding, after a week of flurried throngs of people and preparations being made, just after the clock chimes sang for seven o’clock, a single member of staff sped through the long corridors to the palacekeep at the very end. Minutes later, he marched with her in tow through to the King’s bedroom, where they found the monarch working at his desk, a bright grin upon his face.

At exactly 7:08, as the sun beamed down upon the kingdom of Silarrean—nestled between the rises of two valleys, neighbour to the realm of Lontaiko— the King fainted. 

When the shadows of the sundials met the halfway mark for that same hour, those same persons that dotted the palace halls like bees within a hive, made up the crowds of search parties pushed to scour every inch of the city at the castle’s feet. 

Within days, the Silarrean Prince San, who the Chair had announced to all the people was destined to marry the delightful youngest daughter of the Lontaikan royal family, was officially declared missing. The wedding was called off, though the King ordered no cease in the search. 

It would prove null, however. The young prince was long gone.

Not that San knew of any of what was occurring back in the place where he had once lived. He could imagine it happening though, the images in his mind that hazy vivid that always accompanied him when he let his mind wander upon things he’d never known.

Leaning out to stare into the distance across the ocean waves, the boat proved to have a balcony of its own. This time though he was on the other side of it, and the correct one too: the one that actually involved living how he wished.  He ran his fingers across the crown between his hands, the edges of silver carved into entwined laurels still sharp, and he knew he couldn’t wait for them to become rounded with age. He found he kept returning to the centrepiece, with its intricate feathers tinged with blue and the cracked azure gemstone in its centre. The split was shaped like a lightning bolt, and it brought a smile to his face, thinking of just how much of an impact he made upon the world around him. It symbolised how he would never return, and that they could neither replace him. He had taken very little with him, but the crown was his birthright, and so he would take it with him, but also leave its life behind. 

Stood by the helm, you watched over him carefully. You would have joined him, but someone needed to steer. The small boat was only a relic, you’d been surprised that it even moved at all. The adrenaline, that had left your heart in your mouth when the rudimentary engine had coughed and spluttered on the night of your grand plan, had long since died down. It remained on the edge of your conscience, ready to cascade through your veins when you needed it. And you were well aware that on the route you were taking through life you were definitely going to need it. Until then though, you relished in the salt of the sea and the calm waters that the rising summer brought for you.

It didn’t matter after all, what would come. You’d find a way, as you were together, and you were both free. 

~~~

an: i feel like this would work better as a longer piece, where the process of the week is followed, with more depth of lore and stuff but ill be honest with you, it took a lot of effort for me to write this in the first place. not because the idea wasnt my thing (far from it—this stuff is my shit) but because my creativity just doesnt like cooperating sometimes.  maybe one day.

also what do you think of my new paragraph break thing? i think its cute. much easier to implement than the photo ones for sure.

all names of places are fictional  

Masterlist

[anthracenes]

Passion-Based Learning | Chapter 5

Tags/Trigger Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Hypnosis, Hypnotism, Abuse of Authority, Conditioning, Dehumanization, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Dom/sub, Brainwashing, Praise Kink, Anal Sex, Manipulation, Objectification, Creampie, Implied/Reference Incest, Step-Parent/Step-Child Incest, Cock Rings, Orgasm Delay/Denial

[read on AO3 here]

After sending Isaac home for the day, Wilfred closes and locks the front door behind him.

He strolls through the foyer, the living room, and past the empty kitchen—traversing nearly the entirety of the first floor alone, all the way towards the staircase in the back. Though he knows of the lovely surprise he’s kept waiting for him, Wilfred is in no real hurry to actually get to it. He’s slow to climb the winding flight of steps leading to his bedroom.

All the while, he can't help but think of Isaac. As Wilfred makes his way up, his mind continues to replay over and over again the sinful, mesmerizing acts shared between him and his new “student”. He thinks back to those big brown eyes: soft pools of melted honey, staring up at him with such innocence through the boy’s long lashes. Warm and oh-so-trusting till the very end, when they had glazed over as Isaac beautifully submits to him.

And who could forget such creamy thighs—wrapped around his shoulders like a vice, pulling him in closer as he plowed through the boy’s virgin-tight body?

Goosebumps prickle at his skin as Wilfred recalls the absolute thrill of it. The boy’s reaction at the end is all but icing on the cake. What matters to him more is successfully instilling in his student the suggestion to let go and obey—to crave the feeling of sitting back, surrendering both mind and body to his tutor during these little “breaks”. Once he has Isaac addicted to this, it will be mere moments before the boy is his; and by that point, it won’t matter how he reacts in the end. Wilfred could reveal everything to Isaac then, and the poor boy will still be all but helpless on his knees for him.

Two lovely pets, both under his complete and utter control.

Wilfred couldn’t wait for the day to come. He’s only certain his little kitten feels the same way.

Eventually, Wilfred reaches the end of the narrow corridor leading to his bedroom. Turning his attention to the silver knob in his hand, he gently pushes open the door.

“Here, little kitty,” he calls, smiling. “Master’s back.”

Inside, his “surprise” lays splayed out on top of his bed. Naked, of course—save for the weighted clamps biting down on his pink, puffy nipples, and the collar snug around his neck. His kitten’s thighs are spread wide open for him on the mattress, giving Wilfred a lovely view of the thick vibrator he slides in and out of his hole. His prick stands tall and pretty between parted legs, drooling all over him as it strains against his cock ring.

His head, lolled to the side in mindless bliss, perks up at the sound of his master’s voice.

Wilfred walks over to the bed beside him. The clothes he had him wear to greet Isaac had since been discarded on the floor, tucked neatly in a little corner away from the bed. His kitten must have been so uncomfortable having to pretend to be human, even for such a short amount of time, that he must have shed them here immediately after. Even still, he’s carried everything out so nicely that Wilfred has little to complain about. The performance he had given them all was stellar, given the truth of the matter. And he’s even gone above and beyond his orders here—putting on his collar and clamps all on his own, knowing just what to do to please his master.

Such obedience begs to be properly rewarded.

Gathering his kitten’s face in his hands, he leans in for a taste. The kiss between them is sloppy and rough, just the way he likes it: lips and tongues grinding against one another in a fervent, heated passion as Wilfred plunders his mouth. He relishes the little sounds he receives from his pet, who’s long abandoned playing with his toy in favor of wrapping his arms around him—pawing desperately at his face, his hair, his chest, his back. When he pulls away from the boy, Wilfred admires the adorable way his lips tremble, glistening with saliva in the pale light of the room.

He doesn’t need to look hard to notice the flush that had crept onto his skin, or the way his bound cock twitches with wanton need in between his legs.

“My… eager today aren’t we?” Wilfred smiles, nipping at his lips. “Were you that lonely, kitten? Waiting here for me, all on your own?”

Alex nods, mewling. His pet nuzzles insistently at him, rubbing his face against his fingers.

Wilfred chuckles. He narrows his eyes as he slides his fingers past his kitten’s cheeks and drags them onto his hungry lips.

“Well. Why don’t you show me how much you’ve missed your master, then?”

His kitten eagerly takes them in his mouth, licking and sucking on the digits like there’s nothing else he’s ever meant to do in life. He closes his eyes, moaning around them as he starts to couple the act with other sensations—tugging at the weights dangling from his chest, stuffing himself silly with the toy again.

“Good boy…” Wilfred purrs, sighing as he pets the boy’s head. “You’ve become such a good kitty for me now, haven’t you?”

The sight of such a submissive display from his pet only excites Wilfred. There is such a marked difference from the way the boy had been their very first meeting together, and it only highlights just how far his pet had come since then. It’s a blessing that Wilfred had come and “fixed” him just when he had. His mother, the weak-willed woman, had only spoiled the brat rotten all these years. Were it not for him, there’s no telling what type of trouble the little wretch would be getting into otherwise—what with that mouthy attitude, and his blatant disrespect for his elders.

Now, though? Now, his stepson is nothing if not an absolute dream.

A mindless, cum-thirsty little kitten, who lives only to please and serve.

He takes his fingers away from his pet, eliciting a desperate whine from the boy. Before he could go on to protest anymore, however, Wilfred flips him over face down—lifting his hips up and pinning his wrists down onto the mattress. He traces the curve of his lovely ass, rubbing soft, sensual circles with the flat of his digits before surprising his pet with a loud, harsh smack.

“Now, now... we’ve gone over this before, pet,” Wilfred whispers, voice thick and husky in the boy’s ear. “Well-behaved little kitties don’t complain like that now, do they?”

He rubs the sore bottom before giving it another hard spank.

“What should you do instead, when you want to ask Master for something nice?”

Alex keens at the assault on his buttocks. If the way he’d moaned just now hadn’t already signaled how much he had enjoyed his punishment, the way his cock twitches and leaks precum all over the sheets certainly does. He’s long been made receptive to Wilfred’s every touch—mind heavily altered and played with, to crave every bit of pain and pleasure his master wishes to hand him.

Everything Wilfred does to his body now feels nothing short of good.

“Forgive me, I… please…” he breathes, in between heavy panting. “I… I want… in me… please…”

“What’s that?” Wilfred tugs hard on a weighted clamp, causing his kitten to cry out from under him. “I can’t hear you at all. Come now, Alex, speak up for me. Tell Master what you need, properly.”

“Please, Master!” Alex cries, shamelessly begging him. “I need your cock inside me, please…!”

Wilfred chuckles, letting go of the weight. He removes the clamps off his pet’s chest altogether, taking a swollen nipple and rolling it gently in between his fingers. With his other hand, he grabs the vibrator and slides it out of the boy, turning it off.

“I do love it when my kitten purrs so prettily.”

Wilfred unfastens his slacks, just enough to pull his hard cock out from within while still leaving the clothing on him. He doesn’t bother grabbing the lube from his nightstand either, seeing as how his pet had done well to prepare himself already—judging by how slick and gaping his hole is for him. He strokes himself off before lining up at the boy’s entrance.

“You did good out there today… I couldn’t be more proud of you. Good kitties like you deserve to be rewarded once in a while, don’t they?”

His pet mewls, nodding.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Wilfred grins, gripping his pet tightly. “Here’s your reward, little kitty.”

With a quick thrust of his hips, he shoves himself in. Both Wilfred and Alex moan in unison as his cock twitches deep inside the boy, buried up to the hilt. Wilfred holds himself there, steady and fully seated inside his kitten’s fluttering hole. He makes no effort to move, casually taking the time to enjoy the warm, wet heat of his body while he watches his pet strain to keep from rutting back.

“Don’t move, darling. Stay. You know who’s in control, don’t you?”

Alex nods, shivering.

“Who do you belong to, Alex?”

“You, Master,” the boy manages. “I’m yours, a… all yours…”

“Do you want to cum?”

“Only if... Master wishes for it…”

Wilfred smiles, pleased at his kitten’s complete obedience. He knows there’s simply no turning back from here. There’s no undoing the months of sex and abuse he had heaped onto his stepson’s body; certainly no undoing the fact that he had long taken his virginity. His kitten can’t even get it up without a cock in either hole now. Even if he could erase the suggestions rooted firmly in his mind, there’s no way his pet would ever go on to enjoy a normal life after all of this.

He starts thrusting in earnest, then. In and out at a brutal pace, fucking his kitten hard into the mattress and making the boy gasp and writhe around him. He slides back, almost pulling out completely before slamming back inside, over and over again.

“That’s right. You’re mine, Alex. My pet, for me to use as I wish,” Wilfred whispers in his ear. “Your mind, your body, your orgasms, your pleasure… only I decide what to do with it all. And for you, there is no greater pleasure in life than that now, is there?”

His kitten shakes his head. He’s mewling happily as he gets to rut back and forth, driving his cock deeper into his unresisting body.

“To let go and take everything I give you, without a single thought in that empty little brain. It’s the highest honor a pet like you could ever have. And now you’ll help me bestow it on our new student too, won’t you?

“What do you say, Alex? A new little pup for you and I to play with. How does that sound?”

“Yes, yes yes...” his pet moans, rolling his eyes back. “Please, Master, please…”

Wilfred holds his kitten tight as he feels himself nearing orgasm. He reaches down front, smearing the boy’s own fluids all over his bound prick before tugging at the cock ring.

“I’m going to fill you up, kitten,” he grunts. “Nice and full. I want you to feel me deep inside of you, as you come on my cock. That will be your reward for such a brilliant performance.”

His pet merely sobs in gratitude, too far gone for words at this point.

Wilfred slides the ring off of him as he reaches his own climax. Immediately his pet cries out, cock pulsing as he shoots ropes and ropes of white onto his hand. The feeling of his kitten clenching down on him is so good, Wilfred is content to stay that way on top of him for a while—allowing that beautiful hole to milk him dry.

They collapse on the bed, not long after. Wilfred holds his stepson close as they both come down, panting heavily and catching their breaths together. Up close, he watches as his kitten closes his eyes, fast asleep in his master’s arms. He must have been so exhausted from the day’s activities, to have succumbed to sleep so quickly like that.

Wilfred chuckles. He pats his head gently, smiling as he murmurs sweet nothings into the sleeping boy’s ears. Alex is permanently, irreversibly ruined, now—incapable of being anything other than the dumb little pet Wilfred had meant for him to be.

And pretty soon, Isaac will be too.

[caramell0w]

Soulsearcher

Parings: Loki x Reader

Summary: Loki is finally able to show his true self to you

A/N: This was submitted to me by my friend Lis and I am happy to host it. This is the first time she has written a fanfic; but she did a fantastic job on this! Please support her and leave lots of love!

Word Count: 2.3k

Here is the link to her: Masterlist

10 years ago:

“Come on Y/N, once more, show me your fondest memory,” Queen Frigga demanded.

You tried to focus but your brain was fried after hours of training. Your H/C lay in two boxer braids on your shoulders, held together with intertwining green ribbons. Your brow furrowed and you inhaled sharply as you felt the well known power stir. It didn’t shoot out as it usually did; the projection still appeared though.

It was the vaguest overlay of snow on Asgard; the crunching of snow beneath boots could be heard faintly. It was paper thin however and you could see the palace garden through the projection. The memory faded soon and you exhaled deeply. 

“All right, I think that’s enough for now. I’ll see you at the gardens tomorrow, don’t be late,” Queen Frigga boomed.

You quickly nodded and ran off towards your quarters in the castle. You were a princess by blood, although you weren’t exactly a girly-girl. You preferred warrior training, or training your powers with the Queen over tending to your hair and make-up each morning.

You kept running; not really looking where you were going. You were simply too excited, and wanted to tell Sif how your training session had gone. You saw a large shadow appear in your peripheral but you couldn’t respond in time. Before you could react; you felt yourself flush against something solid, something metal, and something muscular?

 Oh crap. You looked up very slowly to see two faces staring at you, one pair of green eyes and one pair of blue. The princes of Asgard; their gaze transfixed on your hands that were on their respective breast plates. You quickly dropped your hands to your sides and dropped into a small curtsey, you green gown flowing on the floor, and your face flushed.

“My princes, I-I’m so sorry, I did not see you there.”

Thor looked at you and opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

“We noticed that, look out next time,” Loki murmured.

You were blushing by now, “I’m really sorry, my princes. I’ll leave you alone with the queen no…”

“Hang on, that is your apology?” Loki asked, looking a bit confused, one eyebrow raised at you. He tuts, shaking his head, “that won’t do…. how about-“ He lets an awkward pause fall, his index finger resting on his chin, deep away in thought. His icy blues staring into the garden and straight through you.

It took quite some time and by now you had assumed the worst. Maybe a weekend in the dungeons, cleaning the stables or worst of all: being Loki’s personal assistant. Meaning you’d have to be near him at all times; unless he was sleeping or going to the bathroom.

“You can explain to us what you were doing with our Mother,” Loki finished. 

You looked up confused, but quickly masked it with small smile.

You nodded, “as you wish. I was practicing using my powers; I don’t fully understand them yet; making them harder to control. Queen Frigga was so kind as to help me better my powers. Maybe use it for good later on,” you ended in a soft whisper.

Thor was smiling, “Well, Lady- I’m sorry what was your name again?”

Loki smirked and answered before you had the chance to answer, “it’s Y/N. Mother just said it a minute ago brother, are you really that daft?” He sneered.

Thor grimaced, “Always so rough with words, Brother. It’s kinder to ask than to say it without her granting you permission to use it. Anyway, Lady Y/N, I’m sure Mother will be able to help you. She managed to help Loki even though Father and I always thought he was a hopeless case. You know, not having the warrior physique and all that.”

Did he really just say that? Thor could be so brutal sometimes when it concerned his brother. Lady Sif had told her about it, knowing how it hurt Loki, even if he won’t admit it. You steal a quick glance at Loki. Sure enough, she saw pain hidden in those emerald eyes at Thor’s harsh words.

He quickly masked it with a massive smirk and a loud smack to Thor’s arm, “says the man who couldn’t pronounce the name of his weapon until he came of age.”

Thor groans, “it’s was a tough set of syllables alright. Stop discussing it with every third person you meet.’’

Loki grinned. You cleared your throat, referring the attention back to you.

“Is that all you require, Prince Loki and Prince Thor? I would like to retire for the day; using my powers to this extent has exhausted me.”

Loki looks at you and he gives you a faint smile, “that will be all for now, Lady Y/N. Though I’d love to know more about your powers and how you came to be here on Asgard.”

You smiled, “you know where to find me, your majesty.” With that, you quickly picked up the bottom hem of your dress and quickly disappeared into the palace.

“See you around, Lady Y/N,” Thor called after you. 

You went off to find your cousin Sif, maybe she could help you figure out the brothers, since she knew Thor so well.  You didn’t see the two piercing green eyes that followed your every step.

“Brother? Why are you smiling like that?” Thor asked getting suspicious. “Did you replace my cape with a curtain again?”

Loki laughs, short and deep, “No brother, not today,” he said with a glint in his eye.

“Ah, it must be because of Lady Y/N then,” Thor reasons.

“It’s not, and this conversation has now ended. Let’s go. It’s time for dinner,” he sneers.

“Of course brother,” Thor said, knowing by Loki’s reaction, he had touched upon the truth.

5 years later:

After that day, you and Loki kept getting closer. Sif and Thor were afraid at first that Loki might hurt you. They stopped worrying when they saw how much Loki cared for you and how you seemed to improve his mood and behavior whenever you’d come by. You could even project Loki’s fondest memories for him. Digging painlessly into his memory and showing him happier times; playing with Thor when he was younger and learning from Frigga, and of course, meeting you.

What you hadn’t expected was that he’d also come to you when he was extremely upset or angry. He would storm inside and pin your wrists in one hand, his eyes flaring, he would be towering over you. His actions fierce and threatening but his eyes would betray him. They would be glazed over, tears threatening to fall at any moment, in the corner of his eyes.

You knew he wouldn’t just tell you what was wrong; he was too proud for that. He didn’t want you to view him as weak. So, you would softly release your hands from his grasp and put your fingers on his temples. Using you powers to get to the root of the pain, projecting it in front of you both. You power surged as you felt the heaviness of this particular memory, not good. The projection was vivid and in bright color. Seems your training with the prince and the Queen had strengthened your powers, after all.

The projection was of Odin, telling Loki how he never truly belonged in Asgard, telling him of his true heritage, you saw Loki’s skin change color and his lovely green eyes turning into a deep crimson. It scared you but you weren’t going to let that show.

“Oh, Loki,” You said instead, your finger brushing his jawline gently. “I’m so sorry that happened to you; I will never betray you, I promise. I won’t run away. You’re not a monster and I could never be afraid of you. I’ll be here for you, always.”

He looked up at you, “Thank you Y/N; that means a lot right now.” He said softly, the breaking of his voice exposing his true feelings. Loki laid his head against yours whilst you placed your hand in his hair, rubbing it softly, using the other hand to wipe away the tears that fell.

“It’ll be alright, I promise,” You repeated to him until he finally believed it too.

You managed to keep him on the straight and narrow. Every waiver of his morale, you would set him straight. You took him for frequent trips to Midgard, where you had fallen in love with the forests, loving to roam and explore them freely, especially when you knew no one was watching. Loki’s gaze would be fixed on you and your childish enjoyment of nature but finding it endearing as well. You even took him to Jotunheim once; though it hurt him too much to face his past like that.

You were the one that convinced him you two should join the Avengers. His illusions and your projections would prove to be very useful for them. Whether it was for distracting enemies or confusing them; and maybe mentally torture them with rough memories from their past. You two were a dream team.

Loki trusted you fully and knowing he never had to explain himself when he was around you, was a very calming thought. But the latest projection when you touched him, concerned you. It was Loki, sitting on an icy throne, scepter in hand, with blue skin and deep crimson eyes. Loki had refused to show you his true form, arguing that you had seen enough already.  You decided to drop the subject, for now.

Present:

It was finally here. The winter. You had always loved the winter; it reminded you of family, friends and coziness in general. Sadly, not everyone in the Stark tower shared your enthusiasm. Steve and Bucky got some minor PTSD whenever they’d be hit with snowballs or when they had to go through a snowstorm. Clint and Natasha would spend it together, ice skating, and drinking hot chocolate. Very cozy but also very secluded, away from the tower. Tony preferred to stay and work on ways to keep the tower and himself warm; you thought that was what a sweater and thick coat were for, but whatever.

You refrained from pulling Bruce into the snowball fights after the big guy showed up and used his arms as a snowplow, throwing a blizzard over the entire team last year. You skipped over to Loki’s chambers and gave three soft knocks.

“Who is it?”

“Thor,” you joked, talking in your deepest voice.

“Not up for it,” came the reply.

You smirked, “It’s me, you doofus.”

“Hello Love,” Loki replied. He transported you into his room and he stood in front of you.

“I have something to show you,” you smiled.

“Oh? What sort of thing?” He asked, a dark glint in his eye.

“Not that kind of thing. Oh stop pouting, you’ll like this surprise,” you promised, producing a blindfold from your back. “But, you’ll have to trust me fully and promise not to peek.”

Loki perked up, a smirk gracing his lips, “oh, darling are you sure we’re not thinking of the same thing?” He grinned.

You sighed and waited for him to calm down before saying, “come on, Loki; close your eyes. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Loki sighed, “Fine, but if this is a trick, you’ll regret it later.”

You felt a shiver going down your spine, that stupid voice of his. You hated and loved the control it could take over you. You slipped the blindfold over his head, keeping his hair from being caught between the strings. Next, you grabbed his hand and swung your left arm around his waist. He had no clue for how long you guys had walked until you finally pulled off the blindfold.

Loki squinted, his eyes adjusting to the bright light outside, before gasping in awe at the scene in front of him. You had led him into the middle of the forest. All the trees were frosted with snow, icicles hanging down rocks, reflecting the light and the small lake that was there was frozen over. No sign of any disturbance except for the boot prints you both left in the snow. It was a place that exuded serenity.

Loki stared at you for a long time. You felt a blush creep onto your cheeks at his intense stare and gathered your thoughts before you spoke.

“I remembered when I projected that memory of you in Jotunheim, in a frozen kingdom. I wanted to show you that you don’t need to go to there to experience the beauty of ice and snow; it’s right here and it won’t just disappear. Neither will I. Show me your true form, Loki,” you said softly, fascinated as you saw his skin change to the same frosted color the ice was. Small ridges tracing his sharp face and arms. His eyes were the last to change into a deep crimson.

Loki held his breath and kept his hands to his side as he waited for your next move. You smiled, stepping forward, tracing the figures on his skin with your finger.

“Beautiful,” you whispered.

Loki released the breath he’d been holding, feeling relief wash over him. He quickly placed his hand in your hair before you could protest, and pulled you towards him. He kissed you deeply, intimately, putting all his feelings for you into the kiss. He kept holding you close and tugged on you gorgeous long H/C hair.

When you broke apart you were both out of breath. You started chuckling making Loki look up.

“What’s so funny?” He asked, feeling ridiculed.  Hearing the anger behind his words, you placed your hand on his cheek.

You looked into his eyes and smiled, “this whole situation. How we met and how we learned to trust each other. How you’ve finally revealed your true form to me, after all this time. How you match the ice so beautifully, my prince. Most of all; how fate made our stories intertwine. I love you Loki.” You breathed against his lips, “All of you.”

Loki’s eyes turned back to their lovely green hue and he smiled, kissing you softly, “and I you, my princess.”

Tags:

@kamala-khaan @beautifullybarnes @bxchananbxcky @daffodilparker @dorkychris @shamptain-shmerica @spideyydarling @bucksies @pctemaximoff @killmongrer

[sashagilljournalist]

You make miso happy

Miso soup, the quintessential Japanese dish. For the longest time, I had a tub of miso paste tucked neatly away in the corner of my fridge. I bought it at the height of my miso soup passion but it was now left neglected, with seemingly no other purpose in life. In an effort to find something else to do with it, I discovered that one of life’s greatest wonders lay hidden in the depths of my kitchen. My love affair with miso soup was on its last dregs, but my infatuation with miso paste had only just begun.

Miso paste is a fermented mixture of soy beans and a grain—rice or barley make a frequent appearance—inoculated with Koji, a type of mould. For the keen bean sake lovers: yes, the same Koji used to make the rice wine. This mixture is left to ferment with a healthy dose of salt, for a variable amount of time (more on that later). The mould breaks the beans down as it cultures, into a mixture of amino acids, fatty chains and simple sugars. The resulting concoction is deeply twangy, funky, an absolute umami bomb. And, as I hope I will be able to convince you by the end of this article, the secret ingredient that will bring you to unsurpassable culinary heights.

The colour, aroma, taste and pungency of a miso paste depends on a great number of factors. The conditions the paste is cultured in, for example, or the age of it. Even the geographical region in which it is let to culture plays a role – due to the different strains of bacteria available to lend a hand in the fermentation process

There is, it seems, a dizzying number of miso varieties, with over 1300 different types available, aged from anywhere between a few weeks to several years. But, in an effort to simplify the whole shebang (miso purists, please forgive my crude generalisation) they can be broadly broken down into two categories – sweet (sometimes called ‘light’) and dark miso pastes.

Sweet miso is the baby of the miso world. White miso paste (shiromiso) falls into this category. It is gloriously golden, the lightest of all the miso pastes – due to its higher percentage of grains. It has only had a several months-worth of fermentation, which is a heartbeat in the fermentation scene. The resulting taste is buttery, and mellow – and makes it, for beginners, the gateway drug. Or, for the adventurous, the best miso option in a sweet recipe.

Dark miso (sometimes called red miso, or akamiso), is the brooding older cousin, and more complex. Dark miso ranges in colour, from a dark brown to an almost-black. It has been fermented for a much longer time and contains more soybeans than it does grains. Time has made it deeply salty, earthy and robust. For this reason, it is the perfect ingredient to plop into a stew, or into a meat rub. It evokes memories of marmite, and indeed marmite is no stranger to a stew – providing the umami foundation upon which so much flavour is built. If you avoid soy, fear not! There has been a recent influx of ‘new age’ miso. The hippies of the miso scene, if you will, and they can be made with anything from chickpeas, farro, adzuki beans, buckwheat, rye, millet, to… if the fermentation gurus of the internet are to be trusted… cookie dough. And while I lack the self-control to be in possession of spare cookie dough, I admire the passion for the cause.

Miso paste is a beautiful thing, not only because of its wonderful resonant taste, but also because of its versatility. Miso isn’t just for soup. Miso isn’t just for Japanese cuisine. You can use it in salad dressings, whisk it into marinades or brush it on as a glaze. Make a compound butter with it, and slather it onto thick wedges of toast. Use it in a sauce to bathe your noodles, mash it into silky potatoes. The line doesn’t end there. Desserts do equally well with a bit of the miso treatment. Swap out the salt in a salted caramel for a spoonful of this golden paste. You’re in for a treat.

As a fermented product, miso has a remarkable longevity, lasting almost indefinitely if treated with sufficient care. As a general rule of thumb, sweet miso is best if eaten within a year after opening – their fleeting fermentation period makes them a little less resilient than their darker counterparts. Dark miso, if left in sanitary conditions in the fridge, will practically last you forever. It will, however, darken over time, thanks to the powers of oxidation. But even this process can be hindered if you keep the surface of the paste covered neatly with a piece of baking parchment.

Another perk of being a fermented product: miso is jam-packed full of good bacteria. You know, the reason why yogurt is touted to be good for your gut? These bad boys are all over your miso paste. For this reason, if you are eating miso for its probiotic health benefit, you should avoid plunging it into a boiling stew or whacking it into the oven for a long braise. Instead, stir it into a stew right at the end, or brush it on as a glaze once most of the roasting is done. I admit to using the stuff, not for its ability to help my microbiome, but because it’s really, really tasty. So while I try not to overcook it, there will inevitably be situations where it cannot be avoided (in, say, baking a miso brownie). Taste trumps health benefit.

There is no better proof, than in the pudding, so I will supply you with what I have found is my favourite pudding to pair with miso. If there are any points awarded for a double pun whammy, I truly believe that this qualifies. I hope – no, I implore—you to give miso a second chance. It is not a one-hit wonder. In the words of Wild Cherry – Play that funky music.

Image Credit: Jules, Stone Soup

Miso Caramel Sauce This is a vegan caramel sauce with which you should adorn every manner of desserts – ice cream, chocolate fondants, layer cakes or squidgy blondies. The only limit is your imagination, and – well – your stomach’s capacity. The 40 minutes of cooking time might seem exorbitant for a sauce but once it is in the pan it mostly takes care of itself, just give it a nudge every so often to prevent the bottom from catching on the pan

Ingredients • 1 can full-fat coconut milk (1 ½ cups) • ½ cup white sugar, or brown • 3-4 tsp white miso (start with 3, then add more to taste) • 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, bring the coconut milk and sugar up to a simmer. Lower the heat to low and continue to cook, for about 40 minutes, until halved in volume. Stir it occasionally, perhaps every 10 minutes or so, to prevent it from catching and burning at the bottom of the pan. Once reduced to about ¾ cups, place a small amount of the hot milk mixture into a bowl with the miso paste and vanilla, and stir it to dissolve. Return this to the pan and stir to combine it fully. Remove it from the heat - the mixture will be an appealing light-golden colour, and will thicken up further as it cools. Store it in a clean jar, in the refrigerator, for up to a week.

Image Credit: Sasha Gill

[dreamsinthefoxhollow]

Cortez Waterwheel

I was at home in a house I lived in around the late 80’s. It was a small adobe structure that was very old, and was once the home of the local governor in the early 1900s. It had been modernized at some point, and had plastic and metal conduits along the walls leading to surface-mounted light switches and hanging lightbulbs. There were only a few rooms in the place. The front entrance was a built-in porch, meaning it was part of the house structure and not a porch added to the building. The main room was cozy and big enough for a small family to sit and relax, and had a tin stamped pattern ceiling. A small dining area was beyond that, with barely enough room for a medium-sized table for six. Further back was the kitchen and a tiny washroom, which had a tiny two-bin portable clothes washer. Past that was the door leading to the back yard. If you were looking in from the front door all that was in line on the left side of the building. On the right was a doorway leading to a hallway that connected the main bedroom in the front right corner of the building, the bathroom, and a servant quarters room in the back. There was a door in the back of the servant quarters leading out to the back yard. The yard was large, easily 10 times the size of the house. In front was a large lawn which wrapped around the left side of the building and extended past the back corner. There were large trees in the front providing lots of shade. A small chain link fence covered in vines and shrubs separated the yard from the sidewalk and street beyond. To the right of the front of the house was the entrance driveway, which ran from a chain-link gate to back yard. Past that, more to the right, was a small garden area, possibly for flowers of small crops. The driveway led straight back to a small garage, all by itself by some trees. It was only wide enough for a single vehicle, but was long enough to park two inside front-to-back … if the room wasn’t taken up by boxes and cabinets and rugs and assorted materials. The driveway also branched to the left and around the back of the house. There was an irrigation canal dug into the middle of the yard, on the left side, coming from a thick row of trees, and marked the division between the grass on the side and the back yard proper. The rest of the yard in back was undeveloped, just a dirt lot, though all indications were that it was probably a miniature farm that used irrigation flooding. It was possibly larger in the distant past, but was now cut off by a tall chain link fence a short distance past the back end of the garage.

I was in the living area, looking out the front windows. It was dark inside but bright outside. I noticed someone moving and opened the door and went onto the porch. Then I opened the outer door and stepped to the lawn. The someone was at the small gate at the end of the little path leading from the front door to the street. They were standing on the sidewalk and leaning comfortably towards me. I must have missed something in a momentary daydream, because when I realized the person was talking they were in the middle or their thoughts. There were talking about the stones that made up the path leading from the gate to the front steps. I looked down at them. They were regular square pieces of reddish flat stone. Instead of forming and orderly path they were somewhat disarranged and spaced randomly. I reached down and started to move them around, trying to put them in order to make a path two squares wide that was straight. I found that the stones were all different sized and some were even not square, but in odd, random shapes. I gave up for a moment and went inside. There were more stones inside I could possibly use for reference. The floor of the main room was all red stone tiles, and they were the same size and shape as the stones outside, at least the stones I thought were outside at first, the square stones that should have been easy to put into order. I went back out to the front lawn. This time a small, scraggly, tan dog followed me out. I started to move the stones around again, intent on making them fit together correctly, orderly, in a neat double-row. Then the tops of the stones started to pop off in my hands. The pieces were clear like glass, but dimpled so they weren’t fully transparent. They were square and were supposedly some kind of glaze over the tops of the stones to make them look shiny. I couldn’t seem to match them back up to the stones and was worried they were fragile, as if they were perhaps made of ice. Fortunately, they seemed to be just as strong as the stones. I give up and head back inside, with the little dog following close behind me. Mother is in the living area and walks to the main bedroom. I follow behind and tell her about the little brown dog that is following me. I flop out on the bed, which is unmade, white sheets rumpled everywhere, and ask her if the dog is hers. She’s sitting on a small stool, or on the edge of the bed, I’m not sure which. She tells me she doesn’t remember any small dogs at all, while she is doing something else, perhaps brushing her hair. The small dog jumps onto the bed where I am and sniffs around the mountains of bedsheets. I begrudgingly get up from the comfortable spot I was laying. I have to get myself ready because I have to drive in to the city, about an hour drive away. I’m not late, but I really should get myself ready to go.

I walk out of the bedroom and into the hallway, but the house has changed. That part is now part of a home I lived in during the mid-90s, with a long hallway on the right and two bedrooms on the left, with a small guest bathroom at the end of the hallway. I hear voices and shuffling. They are members of my family, step-brothers and their children. They are all in the guest bathroom and spilling out into the hallway as they try to all use the room to wash up at the same time. Oddly, they are all wearing different style of clothing that are all patterned in black and white. I hesitate. I don’t want to socialize with them, and they don’t want to socialize with me, either. I managed to get past them and into the last room, technically my room, since that is where I had been staying when I lived in the place. It is a little dark in the room, not quite gloomy. The huge windows at the end of the room give enough light even with the vertical blinds closed. I just wait there with the door closed until I stop hearing the sounds coming from the hall and bathroom. I wait a moment longer. No sounds. They are done. I expect the worst, I’ve seen it before. They will use the room but break everything. The last time they had broken the sink and the entire bottom cabinet was gone from under it, including the plumbing, so there was nowhere for water to drain to other than the floor. They had also broken the toilet and clogged it badly, and left if clogged and disgusting. I expected the same this time. I open the door and go out into the hallway.

Except I’m actually outside. It is sunny and I am standing beside a brown and red building. I think the sides were wood boards. There are trees and a dirt path that I am standing on. I look at the building as I stand next to it. It is tall, and there is a strange circular section along the wall. If it were a full circle it probably would have been more than 10m in diameter. Almost half of it was below ground, though. I could hear the sound of water, like you would hear in a small stream that was running over rocks. I suddenly remember that circular thing in the building is a waterwheel, and for the most part it almost looks like a side-mounted paddle wheel on a riverboat, complete with riverboat. There are large levers on a podium-looking projection sticking out from the wall. I select one of the largest and pull on it. It easily slides into position and clunk with a notch-like, metallic sound. The water wheel begins to move, barely at first, turning slowly but picking up speed. I step back and admire it. The spokes of the wheel are apparent, now that I am further back They are wood and painted red, and densely packed together in multiple rows, so dense that I can’t actually see through to the other side of them. A loud metallic clang and thunk startles me. A few seconds later there is the same clang and thunk noise. I realize that now that the wheel has gained speed, it’s triggered some kind of piston assembly, like for a steam engine. The noise I hear are the valves opening and closing, and the piston moving. The sounds continue, gaining speed until there is only about a second between each cycle. Then, abruptly and silently, it all slows to a stop. It has completed what I had started by pulling the lever – to pressurize the water for the house.

I walk to the door I had come out of and go back in, to find myself in the hallway just outside the guest bathroom. I am dismayed, but not surprised. The bathroom is a complete mess just as expected. The toilet is unflushed and full of white things. The things are also all over the floor and it looks like either the toilet overflowed or the shower was aimed out onto the floor. Everything is wet. The shower itself is full of dark grime. I ignore the sink and the mirror above it. Thankfully, the white things all over the floor and in the toilet are not feces, but some kind of globs of silicone adhesive, or some kind of foam adhesive. I know for certain because there are bags of it stacked by the shower, sort of behind the toilet and out of the water that’s on everything. The bags are like bags of powdered cement. The top one seems torn. Still, I need to get ready, I need a shower badly. I’ll just quickly shower and try not to step on anything and just get out of there as quickly as possible. I turn the shower on and the water sprays straight out onto the floor. Some splashes onto the bags before I can shut the shower. I wipe the water off the bag in hopes that it doesn’t soak in and ruin the contents, and end up getting the white adhesive stuff all over my hand. All I can say is “Ewwwwwwww” and try to wash it off, in the sink. It seems fairly waterproof and smears on my hand instead of washing off in the stream of water.

[justolearytm-blog]

Metro by T.M. O’Leary

It began at around 4 pm. It was just like any other day. A ride on the Metrolink, a coffee from Starbucks, an illegal smoke on the steps of the station. The air was crisp. It was January…something. Thomas couldn’t remember. He wanted to finish the Marlboro before he boarded the Shrewsbury train. However, he was disturbed when an icy wind started blowing harshly against his right cheek. He snuffed the butt half through the smoke and started walking up the stairs.

Two young people, a couple, passed him on the way up. The sky was glowing brightly though no sun was showing through the clouds. A day where sunglasses were necessary, but still gloomy enough to expect snow. He sat in the Northernmost unit so he was facing the way the train was moving. The unit doors still open, an icy chill swept through it. The Securitas security boys checked his ticket. An all day pass. He half expected to get a nod of appreciation from the guard for the pricey purchase, but instead just moved on to the next ticket holder.

Not a lot of people on board that afternoon. Maybe a dozen people combined throughout the entirety of the cabs. A girl boarded. Very pretty. Maybe 21.She was wearing a brown and heather trench coat which looked to be made of 100% wool. On that chilly day, it was buttoned to the very top. A small pink scarf peeked out where the collars met. Blue jeans underneath, and brown moccasins. Beautiful brown hair and a book beneath her right hand. He could barely see the title. “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim”.

The doors closed and the Metrolink operator asked the passengers to take their seats and that the train would be moving soon. The brown-haired girl didn’t sit. She stood with her left hand hooked around the bar and swayed when the Metro finally started to pick up speed. As much as he would have liked to stare at her all day, she had already flashed Thomas a couple of apprehensive looks and he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. He felt rather timid himself. He looked away. He diverted his eyes to the abandoned buildings and factories along the Metrolink route, covered in graffiti with their windows smashed out.

They reached their next stop and a large group of people boarded. Over a dozen people huddled onto the unit, their arms folded, their shoulders up around their neck from the chill. He briefly wondered where they were headed, what they did for a living, what was on their bucket list?

He knew Forest Park was his first destination. The operator’s voice cracked over the intercom instructing the passengers to exit from the left. Thomas stepped off the unit and an arctic blast of wind hit his face. From there, he would catch a connecting Metro to the Delmar Loop or U City Loop as the Washington University students called it. It was one of his favorite places in the world. He gazed down the track as the Metro approached, his eyes slowly glazing over with wind chill. This unit, more crowded than the last one as it is one of the few connection points on the St. Louis Metrolink.

Thomas stepped off at his destination and discreetly slipped his wallet from his back pocket to his front. Having his wallet stolen was not an odd occurrence in St Louis so he always took extra precaution. Upon looking around his surroundings, he saw a group of teenagers hanging off the hand railings on the other side of the tracks. He would have to walk straight through them to reach the street. Walking through groups of people, particularly those already associating with each other caused nervousness for him. He was what some would call “anti-social”.

One of the kids jumped off the railing and stopped him. “Hey” the young man said. Thomas didn’t respond, he simply looked him in the eye. “I saw you put your wallet in your front pocket when you got off. Worried you might get robbed?” He was spot on. “It has happened to people before in this area” Thomas replied. There was a certain aggressive energy in the air that Thomas could feel. The small group of friends who were just a second ago, about 5 of them, hanging off the railings were now positioned around Thomas. They didn’t look like an immediate threat but their body language was intimidating.

“Listen here chief, I have something I want you to hold for me. I have to go up the street and talk to my boy. See that officer?” The boy pointed at the direction of a cop standing on the top of the Delmar stairs. The officer was staring downwards on the track and was slowly turning his head towards them. “Don’t look. Chill chill.” The boy said. Thomas didn’t quite know what to make of the situation and wasn’t sure what the boy was asking but panic was starting to creep up his throat.

“Like I said I just need to holler at my boy right quick and my boy Jeff here…” “Sup” says the friend. “… he’s gonna wait right here on this side of the tracks. If I pass by this cop, he is going to stop me and ask me to empty my pockets because he busted me doin’ shit I wasn’t supposed to be doin’ on these tracks before.” Instantly Thomas thought why the hell doesn’t he have one of his friends hold whatever the hell it is?

The boy pulled back the bottom edge of his shirt and Thomas could see a pistol tucked into the front of the boy’s pants. Immediately his heart started racing. It became very clear to Thomas that no matter what he said at that exact moment would mean dire consequences regardless of what actually came out of his mouth. “Hold this, it will be 15 minutes and I will give you $20 for your time.” The boy said, and slapped a $20 bill in Thomas’ hand and then after a careful look back and forth handed him the gun and said, “ hurry up! Put it in your pocket!” Not knowing what to do, Thomas complied. Finally the pressing question came to the surface. “Why can’t one of your boys hold this while you go up the street?” Thomas asked. The boy seemed like he had fully expected Thomas to ask just that question. “ My boy here is already on parole and these other four dudes are comin’ with me.” The boy said. The guy who the boy was talking about who was apparently on parole looked to be not even 17 years old. But this was St.Louis, Thomas knew of people not even 15 who had been incarcerated for well over a year.

Thomas was petrified of the situation he found himself in. “Like I said, 15 minutes and I will be right back. No sweat.” The boy said. As the boy said the word “sweat” Thomas instantly started feeling little ice drops of perspiration run down his neck and down his spine. Before Thomas could tell the boy why he was the last person for this detail , the boy and the other 5 members of his crew jogged off towards the officer and up the stairs, disappearing across the street.

Thomas didn’t know what to make of this situation at all. Manic thoughts ran through his head: Do I stand here? Do I take a seat? Do I head over the the trash can and just dump the pistol and go on my merry way? He sure as hell wouldn’t dare board the metro again with a concealed firearm on his person. If he got caught, that is a two year stint in the Thunderdome: The St Louis City Jail where inmates fight so violently that they make the floor shake and the roof vibrate. He decided to try to play it cool: Cross the tracks and mind my own p’s and q’s. Just another day. This was the first time he had been seriously hassled at a Metrolink stop and for his inauguration, it had to be the worst situation possible. Panic was not a familiar sensation in Thomas. Nothing that had escalated to a full fledged panic attack. He was thankful he never had one. But he felt he would soon find out exactly what one felt like. Finally, after looking around, salvation. He saw a trashcan to the far left of the stop but as soon as he got up out of his seat, a bicycle cop wheels up to the trashcan and parks against it. He was devastated.

Snow began to fall. Thomas slowly took his seat again. It was coming down quickly and in wide range but the chunks of snow themselves were not very thick. He tried an old mantra he heard while observing a yoga class one time: Think of your finest day. Remember the good things that are going on in your life. Remember your center. He immediately began day dreaming about the day he lost his virginity. The first time he saw the ocean. His first airline flight as a child. Anything and everything that was not there, in that present moment.

“Feeling okay?” Oh shit. It was the bicycle cop. Sitting on the bench with Thomas’ head tilted back trying to remember the best days of his must’ve looked like he was about to nod out on heroin. “Um, yea, I was just daydreaming.” Thomas said. She shifted her belt. “ There has got to be a warmer place to do that.” She said. Thomas half-smiled. Her radio crackled. She spoke some police talk gibberish into the speaker and released the button. “You have any id on you sir?” She asked Thomas. “Of course.” He replied. He pulled out his wallet from his front pocket. A rush of blood and adrenaline shot up his throat. He had put the gun in the same pocket as his wallet and if the bicycle cop wanted him to empty out his pockets on the spot, all she had to do was ask. Trying to retrieve his wallet now would instantly throw Thomas under the bus. Just then, loud horn went off in the distance. The Metro must have spotted someone on the tracks and sounded the horn to signal for them to get out of the way. The bicycle cop looked over her shoulder at the Metrolink cab. This bought Thomas just enough time to make the maneuver he had to make. As she looked, Thomas maneuvered the gun’s barrel away from where his wallet was stuck and he got his I.D. out just before she looked back at him. Thomas’ hands shook profusely. “ I have it right here. Ha.” Thomas could feel the sweat build up on his forehead. “Mr. Robinson. From Crystal City? Far away from home today aren’t you? What brings you to Delmar?” Oh shit. What am I gonna say. Originally my plan for coming to the loop was to go to Blueberry Hill and grab dinner and maybe shoot some pool at Fitz’s but now I have to explain to the cop what I was doing there perched like a dumbass on the Metro stop. “ I am just on my way to the airport. I had lunch at Blueberry Hill and now I am going to meet my sister at the airport.” It was a reasonable explanation, he thought, but he could tell he gave away something in his voice and he could see her eyebrows shift beneath her sunglasses to indicate she was puzzled. “Well you just missed your train.” She said. The comment threw him through a loop. What train? Is she talking about the Metrolink? Just then it dawned on him. “Oh yes. Well there will be another one on its way shortly.” He showed extra teeth when he smiled. “Well stay out of trouble Mr. Robinson.” She said as she handed back his I.D. back. As she picked up her bike to walk up the stairs, he managed to get his I.D. back into his wallet and then put his wallet…shit! There’s hardly any room in my pocket! Between the wallet and the firearm it looks like I am concealing a small midget in my pants! He tucked the wallet in half way through so the other half was poking out from his jeans. OK, OK, five or six minutes have gone by and no hang ups besides the officer. This asshole better show up soon before shit really goes down. The officer Thomas was warned about was making his way towards him as the bicycle cop pedaled away. The cop was coming in Thomas’ direction.Thomas tried not to look directly at him, but he could see the cop was trying to make eye contact.

He walked directly in front of Thomas.“Sir?” He said standing stiffly. “Yes officer?” Thomas said, as nervous as could be. “Where are you heading today sir?” The cop asked

“Um, to the airport, to see my sister.” Thomas replied. This didn’t put a dent in the cop’s inquisitiveness. “I just got done talking to the Officer Maley.” Said the cop. “She says you were coming from Blueberry Hill and were on your way to the airport. Like you said, but…” good, this honorable officer was vouching for me and was confirming what I was doing at the Metro stop. “I just saw you get off the stop two stops ago and you haven’t left this stop yet.” Thomas’ head spun like crazy. Passing out sounded like a great idea at that point. A million excuses ran through his head. I hadn’t had to lie in any way since he was in high school. What the fuck am I going to say to this random cop? “Paul! PAUL!” Screams came from the top of the stairs. The cop finally broke eye contact with him and jerked his head over to the street where there was a lot of commotion. The cop ran off like a lightning bolt where Thomas could see two of the six bastards who were left him there to be harassed by police while he had a (presumably loaded) handgun the size of Arkansas in the front pocket of his Levi’s.. Hopefully the fucker who handed off the pistol to Thomas was in the group who both cops now barreled down on, their clubs drawn. Thomas immediately power walked over to the trash can where the bicycle cop was before. Without looking left or right; he dumped the gun through the lid and walked back the way he had come from.

Just then, he heard a roar coming down the tracks of the Metrolink that led back to Forest Park, then Shewsbury. He quickly boarded and felt the weight of fifty boulders lift off his chest. A spiked chill ran down his spine with the warmth of the cart hitting his body. Almost hyperventilating, almost crying, he sat in the back row, facing traffic, and watched as the police knocked the boy who handed Thomas the gun what felt like a lifetime ago to the ground and applied their handcuffs. The doors closed. The unit began to move.

Feeling back to his old self, he took a gander around the car. Graffiti. Buildings.

Cruising on tracks above the street traffic. Bright skies and snow lightly falling. Away from that awful, awful situation. Then, there she was again. Hanging on to the bar at the front of the unit like she was when he boarded at Shewsbury. But how? Why? He had only been off the tracks for 20 minutes and she couldn’t possibly have done what she had to do in that short period of time. She looked at Thomas. He realized he was staring again. He looked out the window.

As he watched traffic, he saw her approaching him and with a slight smile across her face. When she got in front of him, they locked eyes and a big smile spread across her face. He smiled sheepishly back at her. She sat down. “I’m Amanda,” she said putting her book evenly on her lap. “Thomas”, he said. She smelled of dandelions, or some potent pollen. Her hair flowed down well past her shoulder blades. Her eyes as dark brown as freshly brewed espresso. He didn’t think of what happened at Delmar.