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cevansbrat0007 · 2 years ago

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Southern Comfort

Summary: A day after your ex-boyfriend's unexpected return, you show up on Ari's doorstep intending to ask for a little time. Too bad your grumpy bounty hunter isn't feeling particularly charitable.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Some Angst, Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Arguments, Angry Sex, Discussions of Ex-boyfriends, Mentions of Body Image, Mentions of Disordered Eating, Manhandling, Pushing, Discussions of Female Virginity (mentioned), Edging (mentioned), Restraints (mentioned), Brief Allusions to Rape/Forced Sex, Allusions to DubCon/NonCon, Primal Play (mentioned), Ass Slapping, Spanking (mentioned), Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Takes place directly after the events in Case of the Ex, but it is not the sequel. This story is part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Not beta'd. Not beta'd. All mistakes my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

“Alright, now. Remember to breathe, sugar.” You mutter as you adjust the skirt of your floral sundress. “You’ll be in and out quicker than a hiccup.”

Although the day had cooled down considerably since this morning, the temperature still sat at an uncomfortable 88℉. Which therefore meant that you were uncomfortable. Even after a shower and a change of clothes.

You take one last moment to fluff your curls and reapply your lip gloss before reaching inside your car to pull out a ceramic baking dish, complete with a lid. And then you begin the quiet trek up the concrete walkway. Your stomach is in knots by the time you reach the front door to ring the bell.

Your teeth begin to worry your bottom lip while you wait, part of you wishing that you could just sit the dish on the front porch and make a beeline for your vehicle. But your Mama hadn’t raised you to be a coward, and neither had your beloved Uncle. God rest their souls.

So you had to see this through. And once you were done you would head over to your shop and through yourself into work until the sun came up. There was already a crispy chicken salad waiting for you on the passenger seat, accompanied by some reduced fat buttermilk ranch dressing.

Your stomach growls at the thought of food. It was a subtle reminder that you hadn’t eaten much lately, save for the wrap Ari had brought by yesterday. Now that you’d devoured, right along with the chips, salad, and the cookie – all of which had been delicious.

But when it had come time for you to call him that evening as you were locking up, for some reason, you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to do it. Because if he answered, you knew that he was gonna want the skinny on your ex-boyfriend. And you really weren’t prepared to dive into all of that yet.

So you’d decided to shoot Ari a text message after you’d already arrived home for the night, letting him know that you were safe and that you needed time to process the day’s events. After that was done, you’d powered off your phone, content to simply be alone with your thoughts.

And you had yet to turn it back on. Sometimes a girl needed her space.

In that same vein, you also hadn’t bothered with opening the store today. You’d been a little paranoid about receiving a pop-up visit from Ari or Mason. Or, worse yet, both of them at the same time. Again.

Seeing him like that had really done a number on you. He’d looked so good standing there in your shop with that same boyish grin of his. It had immediately transported you back to high school, in the most confusing way possible. But at least it hadn’t stirred up any romantic feelings.

In your opinion, Mason Prescott was a lot like double frosted chocolate mud cake. Pretty to look at, but indulge in more than a couple bites and it was liable to make you sick to your stomach.

Just as your mind begins going down the rabbit hole of comparing problematic men to desserts, the front door is wrenched open to reveal a stern-looking Ari Levinson. He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and light gray t-shirt.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, neither of you saying a word. He doesn’t need to communicate the fact that he was worried about you, not when it’s written plain as day all over his gorgeous face. But now, at roughly 6:30 in the evening, he wasn’t just worried. He was downright pissed.

At you. Oops.

“Good evening.” Comes your shy greeting once it eventually becomes too much. “I…I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d drop by.” You offer up a lame shrug, wishing that you would’ve practiced your speech a little more before you’d gotten out of your car.

Ari grunts in response, the seemingly ever-present tick in his jaw growing more pronounced with each passing second. And you can feel your confidence taking a dive as a result.

“I also wanted to tell you that I was sorry for kicking you out the way I did yesterday. And for texting instead of calling. I was a little ruffled, but I could’ve been a bit more gracious about things.” You force yourself to take a steadying breath. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“Alright.” That’s all you get from him. And now that tempting mouth of his pressed into a thin, firm line. Which did not bode well for you.

“I would’ve called you from the shop, but I decided not to open today so…” Your body sways in the wind as a gentle breeze picks up. Boy did that air feel good on your skin.

“I know.” Ari replies flatly. “Drove by your house earlier and saw your car. That’s the only reason I hadn’t filed a missing person’s report with Marlon Timmers down at the station.”

“Oh…”

And that was your confirmation right there. Yes, you had indeed worried this man. Which meant that he’d felt the need to go looking for you. If only to make sure that you were safe. And that a certain Prescott wasn’t taking up real estate in your driveway.

“I made you somethin’.” Pasting on a smile, you present him with the covered dish you’d brought along with you. “As part of my apology.”

The bounty hunter hesitates briefly before accepting your offering with a sigh, followed by a quiet “thanks”. And then he turns on his heel to head deeper into the house. Unsure of what else to do, you decide to follow behind him, closing the door as you go.

Besides, you’d much rather continue this discussion indoors anyway.

“It’s a cobbler.” You find yourself babbling as you both make your way into the kitchen. “A peach cobbler. It’s kind of my specialty, right up there with my brambleberry pie. The secret is a splash of bourbon, plus a dash of vanilla.”

For some reason unbeknownst to you, your nervous admission stops him dead in his tracks.

“You brought me a…” He trails off as he sucks in a breath, his brain kicking into overdrive. “Is this – is this a breakup cobbler?” You wince when he unceremoniously drops your beloved baking dish onto the counter.

Your eyes go wide at that, his unexpected accusation leaves you bristling. As if you had it in you to be so callous. If you were breaking up with him then you would’ve brought along muffins. Or perhaps a nice iced lemon blueberry loaf.

You had simply come to apologize, and maybe ask for a little time. Nothing too crazy, mind you. Only a few days, really. Maybe week tops.

“Oh, simmer down now, Beast.” You sniff, clutching your purse under your arm. Clearly he was still smarting about yesterday’s turn of events. But even so, there was no reason for you to conduct yourself as anything but the proper gentlewoman you were raised to be.

“Duchess, I swear to God….” Ari’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose as he visibly prays for patience. Meanwhile, you’re busy stewing over his ill-treatment of your precious cookware. “If this is a breakup cobbler, I’m gonna spank your ass so hard you won’t sit comfortably for a week.”

That rat bastard! Heat floods your face as your mouth goes slack. Ari Levinson had officially gone too far, which meant that it was up to you to set him straight.

“You are unbelievable!” You screech, smacking his chest with your handbag. It feels good, so you do it again. You’re even poised to do it a third time before it’s snatched from your grasp.

“Oh yeah, baby?” The agitated bounty hunter rakes his fingers through his hair, yanking at the chestnut strands. “Then how come I don’t hear you denying it?”

“I came here trying to do something nice.” You hiss through gritted teeth. “And to apologize for–”

“For what? Trying to fly away on me? Again?”

Ari reaches for you, although you’re quick to slap his hand away. With the way you were feeling right now, you were liable to bite him.

“You came here to apologize for being an ass. I’m supposed to say "no big deal". Next comes the part where you ask for space, because you’re confused and you’re scared.” He finishes with a shrug before turning his body so that he can fish something out of a drawer. Seconds later you see that it’s a spoon. “Add that to the fact that you’re falling for me–”

“Oh, fuck you!” You interrupt with a snarl, slamming your hand down on the counter. But your gaze remains trained on his chosen piece of cutlery.

“I have a feeling we’ll get to that.” Ari jams the utensil into the center of the cobbler. “But first…” He scoops up a hearty helping, grinning at the crumbly bits of crust and juicy peach before raising the spoon to his lips and devouring it in one swift bite. “Mmm. Not bad, baby.”

Not bad? You inwardly seethe. Not BAD? What that man had in his possession was an award winning cobbler. It was better than excellent. It was fucking legendary.

Your man chews animatedly, making a show of savoring the decadent mouthful. “Maybe a little heavy on the nutmeg. But as I was saying…” He sucks a stray drop of filling off his thumb. “Between the sudden appearance of our good buddy, Mace, and you being overwhelmed about this thing we’ve got goin’ on…I reckon that you’re feeling a tad out of sorts. Am I right?”

The gall of this man! A red haze colors your vision as his words wash over you, filling you with a slow churning sense of rage. Just who the fuck did Ari Levinson think he was?

“My cobbler has the perfect amount of cinnamon and nutmeg, you–you uncultured jackass!” You grit out through clenched teeth.

You could tolerate a lot from folks in this town. But one thing you absolutely would not abide by was someone bad mouthing one of your made-from-scratch confections. You baked with learned skill, as well as passion. It was the one thing you felt you were genuinely good at.

Which meant that you were about to choke some sense into the gorgeous man standing in front of you.

“Yeah?” He shovels another spoonful into his mouth. “Then how about you stick around and fight with me about it instead of running off like I know you want to?”

The smug turd gobbler has the nerve to smile at you before helping himself to more gooey, peachy, crumbly goodness. Little did he know that you were this close to slapping him hard enough to make his ears ring.

He wouldn’t even have to stoop down low for you to do it. You were so mad you could practically feel yourself about to levitate.

“No, thank you. In fact, I think I’ll be going.” You tell him, your tone rife with disdain. “Now hand me my purse and return my sub-par cobbler and I will be on my way.”

The damned bag had your keys inside it. Next time you left the house intending to make amends you were going to wear something with pockets!

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ya know what, Bird?” Ari tosses the spoon into the sink with a clatter before crossing his burly arms over his broad chest. “I’ve just realized that I’m not feeling all that charitable at the moment. Plus, you didn’t say please.” He tacks on the last bit with a cheeky wink.

“Meaning?”

He has no idea that you’re fantasizing about keying the side of his precious Nissan Titan right now.

“Meaning that we can either stand here all night sizin’ each other up.” He lets out a resigned sigh. “Or we can take a seat on the couch, or maybe curl up in bed, and talk about what’s got you ready to run for the hills.”

“And I take it there is no option three?” Your hands settle on your hips as you glare back at him.

“You and that damned option three.” Ari chuckles under his breath, not finding a damn thing amusing. “Well sweetheart, option three involves me cuffing you to my bed and edging the fuck out of that sweet pussy until you tell me whatever it is I wanna know.”

“There isn’t anything to know, Ari!” You all but shout, feeling every bit as frustrated as you sound. “I haven’t seen Mace in damn near five years!”

“Be that as it may, there was still something about his visit that shook you, Bird.” He goes to reach for you again, only to have you dance away. You absolutely did not want to be touched right now. “I saw it then and I see it now.”

“And if I were to tell you that it’s not a big deal?”

Instead of immediately responding, Ari cocks his head to the side, taking a moment to study you. “Then I would tell you that you’re lying. And not just to me. But to yourself.”

You look away, temporarily at a loss for words as you wrap your arms around your middle. A middle that was a little too soft for your liking, regardless of how often you seemed to be counting calories these days.

“I gave him my heart. And he smashed it into a million glittering pieces the first chance he got. I mean, I guess I can’t be too mad since I’m the one who gave him the hammer. Not once, but twice.” You spit as you feel hot tears prick the backs of your eyes. “But even so, do you honestly think I’d be stupid enough to let him do it a third time?”

“Bird.” Your nickname falls from his lips like a soft, urgent plea. But you don’t hear it. Not really.

“I was the fat girl who fell for the jock. Not really all that notable, I suppose. Except in this case that jock just so happened to be the golden boy of Bell’s Creek.” Your arms fall wide before dropping them down at your sides in defeat. “But I didn’t care. Because I was stupid and in love and a fucking virgin when he–” You abruptly cut yourself off when you realize the direction your thoughts are heading.

You’d already said more than enough.

“When he what?” Ari’s voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“It doesn’t matter.” You rise up on your toes as you search for an opening to snag your purse.

Because you were through talking about this. It was time for you to head back home, crawl under the covers, and hide there until you could summon the strength to bake every single dessert you could possibly think of using every last bit of the ingredients you had stocked in your kitchen.

And then you would eat them all until you either accidentally gave yourself diabetes or you finally exploded.

“Please talk to me.” This time when Ari takes a step towards you, you beat back a hasty retreat. And you don’t stop moving until you reach his front door. “C’mon, baby, wait!”

But you didn’t want to wait. What you needed was to be alone. The plan had been to drop off the cobbler, make your amends, and then peace the fuck out. And now it had all gone to shit because you’d allowed Ari Levinson to get under your goddamned skin the way only he could.

So, you’d walk home and send someone to pick up your car later. If you left now, you’d make it back before the sun had even begun to set. Besides, it wasn’t like you couldn’t use the exercise.

A firm hand on your arm halts your movements, hauling you backwards against the solid wall of his chest…

Which is when you finally snap.

“I did not give you permission to touch me!” You hiss, turning in the embrace and shoving at him with all your might. However, you know that the only reason the bounty hunter actually lets you go is because you had the element of surprise.

Because holy shit! What the fuck had you just done?

“Woah, woah.” Ari quickly backs away, his palms raised in surrender. “It’s okay, Bird. I pushed you, so you pushed me. It’s okay. It’s all okay, sweetheart.” You can tell he’s doing his damnedest to keep his tone calm and even so as not to spook you further.

You give him a shaky nod, feeling more than a little embarrassed by your inability to control your emotions.

“I’m so–sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” You manage to eek out, even as your bottom lip starts to tremble. You scrub your hands over your eyes as you fight back tears. “There is no excuse.” You tell him, keeping your head bowed as your knees feel wobbly.

What an awful mess you’d made of this whole thing. Truly.

“Fuck!” He exhales softly, clearly unsure about whether or not it’s okay to touch you. “I don’t want us to end things like this, baby. I really don’t.” Now there’s a note of desperation in his tone that wasn’t there just a few seconds earlier.

Ari goes quiet, weighing his options as he contemplates the best way forward. At least that’s what you assume he’s doing, since you’re too preoccupied with wishing the earth would swallow you up where you stood.

“I’d really like to hold you. But I don’t want to scare you. So you’re gonna have to come to me.” He opens his arms to you then, just as you’re ready to fall apart at the seams. “But – and I can’t stress this enough – only if you want to.”

This time you go time without hesitation. And just like always, your man is right there to catch you before you shattered.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you!” Your words come on the heels of a muffled sob as you cling to him, pulling his body closer to your own as the feelings of remorse threaten to overwhelm you.

“Shh, little Bird. Shh.” Ari murmurs as he lifts you into his arms and carries you into the living room. Once there, he settles you both on the couch, tucking your smaller frame into his own.

He whispers soft, sweet kisses along the damp skin of your brow as he tangles his fingers in your curls to massage your scalp. “I got you. I got you. I got you.” He tenderly rocks you back and forth while he waits for you to calm down.

“Please don’t leave. I swear I didn’t mean it.” You’re babbling now and you know it, but it does manage to earn you a relieved grin from your man.

“Nobody’s goin’ anywhere, sweetheart. Not you. And definitely not me.” He cups your jaw, gently forcing you to meet his gaze. “We’re just fine, you and me. I’m a big boy. You surprised me, maybe. But you didn’t hurt me.”

“But I shouldn’t have –” You begin, your eyes blurring with a fresh wave of tears.

“Listen to what I’m saying.” Ari interjects, his tone containing just the right amount of authority to get your attention. “I’m a big boy, baby. I’m talking 6’3, 220 lbs on a good day. I ignored your body's cues, okay? I'm the one who failed to properly read your warning signs and I got in your space – so please hear me when I say that a pretty large piece of this was my fault too.”

You shake your head “no”, because it should go without saying that Ari would never hurt you. At least not on purpose, and never physically. And yet…

“Baby, you went a little primal is all.” He reaches for your hand to press a kiss to your clammy palm. “That’s all that happened. No harm, no foul. We can even play that way one day, if you’re interested. But not unless we’re both on the same page.”

You weren’t quite sure what he was talking about, but for now you’d simply choose to go with it. Because right now you’d need the kind of comfort and reassurance that only your man could provide.

Needed him to ground you when you felt like you might float away.

“Okay, but I’m still sorry.” You sniffle, gingerly wiping your nose on his t-shirt. Not that he minds overly much.

“I’m sorry too. Not just for pushing you how I did, but for disrespecting your cobbler. Which is divine by the way.”

Now that has you perking up almost immediately. “But you said –”

“Little Bird, I don’t know shit about what goes in a peach cobbler. My nutmeg crack was a shot in the dark meant to piss you off. I figured once I got you talking, you’d spill your guts, I’d take you to bed where you me me promise not to shoot your ex, and then…” Ari trails off as your words from earlier come flooding back to him.

Not wanting to start down this road again, you wrap your arms around his neck before slanting your mouth over his. Your tongue strokes along his plump bottom lip, seeking entrance. Ari responds without hesitation as he buries both hands in your hair, drawing you closer to him.

Right now you needed this man more than you needed air in your lungs. “Please.” You whimper, shifting your body so that you’re now straddling his hips, your legs coming to rest on either side of his thickly muscled thighs. “Please, Ari. I need you. Don’t make me wait.” You nip at his lips, before trailing a fiery litany of kisses along the curve of his jaw.

A part of your mind screams at you to slow down, to explain yourself. But you quickly silence it once Ari’s skilled hands abandon your curls in favor of your chest. Gripping the bodice of your dress, he manages to rip the lightweight fabric in two on the first try.

“Fuck, baby! Promise we’ll talk after.” He snarls, more to himself than you.

Meanwhile, you eagerly reach behind you to undo the clasp of your bra. You both let out a groan once you finally rid yourself of the garment, your heavy breasts spilling into his waiting palms. Of course he wastes no time before drawing a pouting nipple into his warm, wet mouth - sucking deep. His expert tongue takes turns teasing and laving at the pebbled tip as wetness pools between your thighs.

“After.” You hurriedly reassure him as you pull away long enough to unfasten his jeans. It winds up taking the both of you working together to free his impressive erection from his boxers, nearly sobbing with relief when it's done.

Because you needed him inside you now.

Needed him to fill you up just right. Wanted him to go so deep that you didn’t have to worry about thinking anymore. All you wanted to feel was him moving inside you. You couldn’t wait to feel that sweet burn you’d come to crave as he stretched you out with his perfect cock. Couldn't wait for him to claim your body with each slow, delicious stroke of his hips.

Breathing heavy, your hand fists itself around him as you guide his length to your waiting pussy – your panties having been previously torn to shreds. Right now you were so fucking wet for your hunter that you could feel your slick practically dripping down your thighs.

“God, yes!” You slowly lower yourself on top of him, welcoming your man into tight, velvet heat. And you relish the feel of nearly being split in two as you begin to ride him.

Ari’s head tips back in bliss, offering you his throat as you use him for your pleasure. “Doin’ so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ tight.” He grits out as your walls spasm around his cock, milking him as if your life depended on it. And in some ways it did.

He slaps your ass, spurring you on. “Harder!” You growl as your teeth graze along the shell of his ear, loving the rough way he squeezes your globes as you work yourselves into a frenzy. “Just like that, Beast. Don’t let go!”

You bury your face in his neck as stars begin to dance behind your eyes at the same time as that invisible coil tightens in your belly, threatening to snap and send your hurtling into oblivion. But you wouldn't go without your man.

Not without Ari.

“Never, baby.” Without warning, he flips your bodies so that you’re laying on your back, enabling him to take over. He sets a grueling pace – the sounds of slapping flesh and passion-fueled grunts filling the room. “We go together, you and me.” He captures your lips once more, swallowing your heady little cries of pleasure.

“You and me, Beast! God, yesss!” You keen, as you wrap your legs around his trim waist, your wedge heels digging into the small of his back. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”

END

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sleeper-kerennnnnnx · 5 months ago

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MASHLE author’s Q&A translation （3）

Please point out some poor translations or errors! I will correct them in time, thank you!

I will translate this in four parts!

Here are the Q69-Q99 parts! See my page for the original text and other parts!

To the animation fans: This article talks about many characters that did not appear in the animation! Please note that there are slight references to the subsequent plot of the comics‼ ️(Q86, 87, 88, 90, 93, 96-99) You can avoid it if you don't want to see these

Q69: Why does Mr. Ajito wear a collar?

A69: To punish himself!

Q70: Will Mr. Renatus not age?

A70: No!

Q71: Mr. Renatus is immortal. Even if he is cut or get hurt，he will regenerate. So how did he get the scar on his left face?

A71: It feels like it was left by him protecting the person he loved before he became immortal! He is a person who is loyal to love! But I didn't write it when I was serializing it!

Q72: Is Tsurara（Ice Cane） a boy or a girl?

A72: It is a child born from a boy and a girl.（Translator：come on man， I saw on Wiki that she is a girl)

Q73: What temperature does Tsurara feel?

A73: The temperature she feels like minus five degrees! How pitiful!

Q74: What flower is in the hair ornament of Miss Sophina?

A74: It is blueberry. (Translator：It is a flower in the anime and a blueberry in the comics)

Q75: According to Dot's investigation, the more evil a person is, the stronger he/she is. So is the cold-blooded Divine divisionary Sophia (the Cane of Knowledge) also "evil"?

A75: When she speaks, it sounds like Hiroshima dialect! ! ! ! ! !

Q76: If the Divine divisionary compete with each other? Who is the strongest? Is it Ryoh, the masterpiece of mankind?

A76: It is Mr. Ryoh! The highest masterpiece of mankind! ! ! ! !

Q77: Kaldo is the director of the Magic Talent Management Bureau, Ryoh is the captain of the Magic Guard, and are the other Divine divisionaries also the directors of their respective management bureaus?

A77: That’s right! ! !

Q78: How did Orter become a divine divisionary? Please tell me how to go from the Magic Police School to a Divine divisionary.

A78: Integrated into Easton!

Q79: Did anyone else get married besides Ryoh？

A79: No! ! !

Q80: Does Macaron have other things to dip in tartar sauce besides fried shrimp? Can he forgive fried chicken dipped in tartar sauce?

A80: Yes! Whether it’s fried chicken or tartar sauce!

Q81: Is it also magic that Macaron changes his appearance after releasing magic?

A81: Yes!

Q82: In the last episode, Capaccio and Max were together. Did they become closer? Also, did Capa apologize?

A82: Apologized! Everyone should apologize after a quarrel!

Q83: What is the name of Cappaccio‘s personal magic?

A83: Rebound magic

Q84: What is the personal magic of Bamboo Man Tom? Bamboo magic？

A84: Bamboo magic!!! Bamboo!!!!!!

Q85: What is the opportunity for Tom to be interested in bamboo? Will he turn into bamboo?

A85: I think he noticed it when picking bamboo shoots! I think he has become a person as strong and flexible as bamboo!

Q86: Levis (Valgis blond eye mask) uses armored form in the work. If he has other forms, please tell me!

A86: There is a torpedo state that turns himself into a projectile!

Q87: How is Levis's twin brother?

A87: I felt that he was much better when I saw him last time.

Q88: What do Domina and Levis think when they see the mama's boy Charles?

A88: Uh… uh…okay… that's how it feels！

Q89: What is the order of Adam's three disciples? From the eldest disciple to the third disciple

A89: They were classmates at the same school, like the student version of the original trio of Naruto!

Q90: Meliadel and Wahlberg became Adam's disciples at the same time. Did she do anything to make herself to look young? Or is her personal magic to delay aging?

A90: She probably used lotion, toner, and sleep to look so young…

Q91: Why did Innocent Zero rarely use Wahlberg's space magic?

A91: Because other magic is very powerful!

Q92: I want to know why Innocent Zero went astray, which was cancelled in the main story.

A92: Realized that humans are despicable animals… We are animals! ! ! ! !

Q93: What happened to Innocent Zero and the four children? What did they do in prison? Will they be released in the future?

A93: I think they spent most of their time studying. They will never be released in the future.

Q94: What happens if the owner of the Thirteen Master Canes dies?

A94: The Cane will come to someone else, and a new owner will be born!

Q95: In addition to Cappaccio and Doom (the eldest son of the Root), what other blessings are there for the Thirteen Master Canes?

A95: Something like the Thirteen Master Canes that can predict the future five seconds later!

Q96: Is Doom's Thirteen Master Cane in the hilt of the sword?

A96: It should be in the sword!

Q97: It seems that Doom is not wearing any clothes when he use 100% power. Is he naked? Or is he wearing a rubber suit?

A97: Wearing a rubber suit or something like that!

If you are naked, you will be caught (sweat).

Q98: Did Doom open a pancake shop?

A98: He is serving a life sentence! Maybe he opened a shop in prison!

Q99: What hairstyle does the second son of the Innocent zero have when he takes off his hat?

A99: It's bald!

Can I please ask for the little red heart if u like🥹? See the my page for the others！

Chinese version updated in：longyou1225.lofter.com

#マッシュル mashle #mashle #kaldo gehenna #doom #innocent zero #levis rosequartz #domina blowelive #carpaccio luo yang #margarette macaron #ryoh grantz #charles contini

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lesbianelphie · 1 month ago

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thinking abt marty mcfly. Who grew up in an unhappy family with a nonconfontational insecure doormat of a father, and ends up developing a reactive response to being called "chicken". The most prominent threats to his physical safety and happiness come from biff/the tannens, an archetype of the toxic masculine macho bully. He gets into fights when challenged or to defend other people - it would be safer to just walk away and reject the toxic masculine norms inflicted on him, but he's convinced he has something to prove - and wrecks his entire life after accepting a dare to street race.

he spends the entire trilogy working a car up to highway+ speeds to save himself and fight for his present/future (speeding the car out the mall parking lot and accidentally sending himself to the 50s in the process; half the plot of pt III is just them figuring out how to get the car to go fast enough) but in the end his saving grace and pivotal character development moment is his refusal to race even when challenged as "chicken".

Something about how our maladaptive habits which hurt us stemmed from adaptive things we used to have to do to survive, but healing and growth come from unlearning those things. The 88 miles per hour that saved marty in 1885 and at the twin pines mall would have ruined him if he'd continued to give in to peer pressure. By refusing to race his new truck at the speeds that were needed to power the now-destroyed delorean, he makes the measured choice that prioritizes his future, instead of the reactive habitual one that would have left him stuck in the past.

Tl;dr Marty getting repeatedly stuck in the literal past, defending his ego to the point of unnecessary self-endangerment, and having to speed in the delorean vs. Choosing not to street race in the end represents him growing past his past learned attitudes/behaviors guided by the insecurities and toxic masculinity inflicted by the men in his life, allowing him to focus on his future and break the pattern established by men like George, the tannens, needles, etc.

#idk is this incoherent #back to the future #bttf #marty mcfly

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planetpiastri · 2 years ago

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happy valentines day vinny !! 💝💝 may i request #88 kisses in which ‘i’ll kiss you right now to prove i don’t feel anything for you’ but the kiss proves the opposite from this list with hangman

loving you && i hope this week is treating you well so far! 🫶

beeeee!!! i love this request SO much omg. reading it back idk if it really captured the Vibe of the prompt buttt i hope you'll like it anyway<33 | [wc - 1.6k]

“Come on, then.” Hangman’s smile is confident and beautiful and infuriating. “Your chariot awaits.”

And he gestures at his bare shoulders.

You groan and roll your eyes, forcing yourself to look away from his glistening, naked torso protruding from the shallow end of the pool. It was a little frustrating to learn that he’d earned the right to feel so confident taking his shirt off in a crowd of people. The guy was an Adonis; his physique was almost unfair. Where did he even find time to do all that working out?

From your place on the side of the hotel pool, you pull your legs out of the water, not trusting Rooster not to pull you in against your will. “I’m good,” you say pointedly, scooting backwards on the tile.

The other pilots boo and make a general uproar, which draws a laugh out of you in spite of yourself.

“You were the one that suggested we play chicken in the first place!” protests Fanboy, sending a gentle splash of water in your direction.

“Bob’s been doing a good job,” you say quickly, nodding your head towards the goggles-clad man leaning against the lip of the pool. “He and Hangman can team up against you guys.”

Hangman and Bob pull almost identical displeased expressions, which just makes you laugh again. Bob adjusts his goggles—which somehow make him look even dorkier than his usual clear frames—and says, “I’ve lost three times. I think everyone is tired of seeing me get knocked over.”

Hangman starts to wade through the shallow water, striding towards you. “Come on,” he says. “I promise not to let you fall. Just get in.” As he approaches, he shoots you a cocky wink. “I know you just don’t trust yourself to behave with your thighs wrapped around my head.”

“Oh my god!” you shout, your face burning as everyone laughs uproariously.

This is the usual when you hang out with the group. Everyone except for you is convinced that you’ve got it bad for Jake Seresin. You don’t, for the record. He’s frustrating and cocky and entirely too chiseled, and not your type, and you don’t have feelings for him! End of story!

But no one believes you. Least of all Hangman.

And you running around the pool, giggling stupidly while he chases you, certainly isn’t helping your cause.

So you get in the pool. And you climb up on his shoulders. And you play chicken against Rooster and Phoenix. And you don’t think about his hands splayed across your bare thighs and the muscles in his shoulders flexing under you and the way the sun glinting off the water in his hair turns him golden—

Phoenix shoves you hard and you topple backwards, landing in the water with a loud splash.

When you come up, everyone’s laughing and cheering. Hangman has his hand on your back, saying, “Sorry—are you okay?”

“Fine,” you splutter, wiping water from your eyes. “You said you wouldn’t let me fall.”

“My bad,” he chuckles, brushing some hair out of your face. “How can I get you to forgive me for letting you down?”

“We have to win at least one time,” you say, straightening up and knocking Hangman’s hand away from your face. “Turn around. Rooster! Phoenix! We’re going again!”

“Your funeral,” says Phoenix with a teasing shrug. She always gets this way during competitions. When you're on the same team, it's awesome. When you aren’t, it's was infuriating.

Without waiting for Hangman to drop down in the water, you place your hands on the smooth planes of his back and climb him like a tree, clambering your way onto his shoulders as he stumbles and laughs, reaching up to help where he can.

“Easy, now,” he says, his voice thick with amusement. “Let’s save that for when we’re alone, alright?”

“God, shut up,” you grumble, your heart pounding. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding tight as he and Rooster step towards each other, squaring off.

Across from you, Phoenix says, “It’s not too late to back down.”

“Your head’s almost as big as his, Trace,” you laugh, patting the top of Hangman’s hair.

“You take that back,” she retorts, falsely serious.

“Go!” shouts Fanboy.

Both sides surge forward. Your hands meet Phoenix’s, both of you laughing and straining against one another. Hangman’s grip on your thighs is grounding and forceful. This time, you know he won’t let you fall.

Phoenix’s eyes go wide, and you know you’ve got her. She yelps, and Rooster makes a strangled squawking sound very representative of his namesake, and they both tip over backwards, falling apart as soon as they hit the water.

“Yes!” Hangman yells, reaching up and lacing his fingers through yours in celebration. The spectators ooh and aah and whoop appreciatively, and you easily slide off of Hangman’s shoulders, landing with a small splash next to him.

Before you can speak, he bends and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you partially out of the water in an embrace. Your stomach flip-flops, and it’s all you can do to hang on before he puts you down again—but doesn’t take his arms away.

“Oh, my god,” Phoenix calls, standing near Bob at the edge of the pool, wiping the water out of her face. She’s smiling, and she’s pitched her voice up a few levels to let you know she’s teasing. “Just kiss already!”

Hangman laughs. You don’t.

Then, to your horror, Coyote—who up till now had been minding his business on one of the loungers by the pool—puts his lips together and makes a loud, obnoxious smooching noise.

You disentangle yourself from Hangman’s arms and begin to wade back towards the steps, your face burning as everyone laughs, no one seeming to pick up on your genuine frustration. “You’re all children,” you call, not caring who hears you.

“Oh, come on—” Hangman’s voice starts out loud, but then gets quieter as you hear him splash ungracefully through the water after you. His fingers gently brush your wrist, but you shake him off and don’t look back.

“You cannot seriously be following me right now,” you grumble, grabbing up a towel and making straight for the pool house, Hangman’s footsteps following you the whole way.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

That stops you short. You turn, adjusting the towel, and stare at him with an arched eyebrow.

“I should have said something,” he says, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes. He didn’t bother to grab a towel like you, so his chest is still bare and dripping and stupidly distracting. “I don’t know why I let them tease you like that. I should have told them to stop. I’m sorry. Can you just…come back out? Please?”

“I don’t have feelings for you,” you say stubbornly.

“I know.” He doesn’t sound like he does.

“I don’t,” you say again.

“Okay,” he says, holding his hands up defensively.

“I mean it, Hangman.”

“I’m not arguing!” he says, a laugh bubbling out of him.

You’re not sure what takes over you, but suddenly you’re striding across the floor of the pool house, the towel falling out of your hands and pooling on the floor, and grabbing Hangman’s face in your hands, pulling him down to meet your mouth in an angry kiss.

Well, now you’re here, you think. Now what?

Hangman answers that question for you. His hands meet your waist, sending shivers through you, and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. His skin is cool and damp and intoxicating, and the droplets on his cheeks—

You pull away abruptly, blinking stupidly.

Fuck.

“What was that?” Hangman asks after a moment, eyeing you cautiously.

“I was proving a point,” your mouth says without permission.

“Okay.” He glances sideways before looking back at you. “What point?”

“That I don’t have feelings for you.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

An awkward silence settles over the pool house. Outside, you can hear splashing and laughter. No one is gathered at the door, clamoring for proof. No one has their ear pressed to the door, straining to hear you and Hangman’s juicy conversations. And you realize that you just kissed Jake Seresin for no real reason except… except….

Oh, god.

Except you wanted to.

You have feelings for Hangman.

“Oh, my god,” you groan, driving the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Oh, my god.”

“I’m so confused,” says Hangman, and it comes out like a disbelieving laugh. “Do you seriously think this is all on you? You think they all tease you because of what you’re doing?”

“Oh, my god, stop talking,” you blurt, covering your face. “This cannot be happening.”

But Hangman steps closer. “It’s ‘cause I have feelings for you. And they all know it! That’s why they tease us.” He sighs. “And I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel the same.”

“Jake,” you snap, interrupting whatever self-righteous spiel he was clearly gearing up to give, and the usage of his name instead of his call-sign brings him up short. “Jake,” you say again. “I’m stupid.”

“I’m so confused,” he says again, and this time it sounds like he really means it.

But then you smile at him, and understanding finally, finally dawns in his eyes. You take half a step forward, closing the gap between you two, and you say softly, “I was too. But kissing helped a lot.”

He smiles crookedly, and this time, it isn’t infuriating. It’s endearing. And when he says in a low voice, “Guess I’ll just have to kiss you again, then,” it isn’t cocky and self-assured. It’s just Jake, knowing what he wants and finally getting it.

And you’re so glad to give it to him.

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bonefall · 1 year ago

Note

are amphibians like newts and frogs considered aquatic? i know crustaceans & mollusks would be

Yes they are! Generally, the more time it spends on land, the closer it will be to 5 calories than 4. The estimate was actually based on frogs and tadpoles, I had to make an educated guess.

My best source was a feeding chart from a reptile food website which sells whole small prey for consumption by snakes. It perfectly lists out the values of dozens of small animals, but no fish. So I took a note of the 4 calorie estimate, observed that an adult frog increases in calories compared to tadpoles (bucking the trend with the others on the list where younger animals are worth more caloric value) and went on to do more research

I couldn't find a source that broke down WHOLE prey caloric value like the chart, so I ended up comparing caloric value between rabbit fillets, chicken fillets, and fish fillets on human-centric nutrition websites. My hypothesis was mostly consistent, even with more species added. Fish (perch, flounder, pike) < Wild Mammal (rabbit, squirrel) < Poultry (chicken, turkey, quail). There was overlap between "classes", certain fish getting over the 100 hump, but generally there was a trend I boiled down into 4/5/6

This is consistent with how a lot of fish meat is actually water. In fact, cats quench a lot of their thirst from the food they eat. I also learned some very interesting stuff about the fat distribution in fish which is going to blow a bit of a hole in some of my Clan culture stuff lmaoooo, but I'll furiously swim across that obliterated bridge when I get there

But funfact! Fish oil is rendered fish fats and it is the form that unsaturated fat takes, whereas lard is what saturated fats become. I need to do more research into this topic to understand what kind of difference it would make in a wild cat's diet.

There was one big bucked trend though: salmonid meat was WAAAAY higher in fat and calories. Like, absurdly high. Like 150 cal trout fillet vs 110 cal of rabbit fillet vs 88 cal of perch fillet.

I do not know why that is. My guess is that maybe it's because they were taking the number from farmed salmonids? Maybe it's because they're particularly fatty fish? Perhaps this is just the raw power of salmon slammin'.

Anyway, at one point I was trying to estimate exact caloric value per popular prey species, but decided I didn't have the "backing" to get so exact with the numbers since I was doing estimates with the fish. I'll do the work if it comes down to it, but for now, 4/5/6 is a quick, easy guideline you can use for just about any WC project.

#I was planning for Bb!RiverClan to be the guys who didn't cook much #Being quite snooty about it and insisting it's good for you #But it turns out they're actually at the highest risk of getting worms for that #Maybe I'll keep it for the irony because that sounds VERY funny #Cleric in the corner SOBBING because Waterpool just caught tapeworms for the 4th time #Willowpelt over in TC like ''I ALWAYS KNEW THEIR GLOSSY COATS WERE TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!!''#No wonder her daughter Sorrel has a thing about worms lmaoo #I need to do more research but what I've come across here is that. Like. Actually?#A fish-only diet might cause a lot of really specific and pretty serious problems in RC #Another is that fish have so many micronutrients that some of the sites I visited were warning about some of those 'overdose' side effects.#The carp example was just the most interesting #I guess I had been assuming a lot based on the conception of fish as being 'the healthy meat'#Clan culture #Nutrition guide #Bone babble

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thereignclub-trc · 2 years ago

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100 foods that you should eat:

1. Oysters

2. Liver

3. Eggs

4. Wild game

5. Salmon

6. Bone marrow

7. Kefir

8. Microgreens

9. Steak

10. Shrimp

11. Scallops

12. Raw milk

13. Blueberries

14. Pomegranate

15. Kiwi

16. Potatoes

17. Butter

18. Olive oil

19. Ghee

20. Chicken

21. Rice

22. Spinach

23. Carrots

24. Clams

25. Mussels

26. Avocados

27. Coconut oil

28. Watermelon

29. Yogurt

30. Sauerkraut

31. Kimchi

32. Sourdough

33. Raw honey

34. Bee pollen

35. Cacao

36. Fresh herbs

37. Sweet potatoes

38. Lobster

39. Crab

40. Pork

41. Bone broth

42. Raw cheese

43. Onions

44. Zucchini

45. Cucumbers

46. Garlic

47. Ginger

48. Turmeric

49. Strawberries

50. Blackberries

51. Raspberries

52. Colostrum

53. Honeycomb

54. Dark chocolate

55. Sardines

56. Tuna

57. Cod

58. Pumpkin seeds

59. Brazil nuts

60. Mushrooms

61. Grapes

62. Oranges

63. Apples

64. Dates

65. Asparagus

66. Cherries

67. Lemons

68. Limes

69. Bananas

70. Mango

71. Dragonfruit

72. Olives

73. Pineapple

74. Peaches

75. Grapefruit

76. Brussel sprouts

77. Beets

78. Cabbage

79. Cauliflower

80. Mahi mahi

81. Seaweed

82. Salmon roe

83. Cod liver

84. Lamb

85. Coconuts

86. Tomatoes

87. Pickles

88. Artichokes

89. Beef tallow

90. Squash

91. Avocado oil

92. Spirulina

93. Eggplant

94. Celery

95. Chia seeds

96. Flaxseeds

97. Pistachios

98. Cinnamon

99. Goji berries

100. Vanilla

#thereignclub

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tinsyfairy · 4 months ago

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09.21 food diary ! 🍂

* note this is not intended to encourage anybody or follow my habits i'm just documenting my life and i want to find others who are like me :)

₊⊹ intake limit : 1.3k

₊⊹ water intake : 1.5L

₊⊹ f4st¡ng time : 18 hrs

⌗ breakfast : ham sandwich 🥪 + popcorn

– 2 slices of bread (150)

– black forest ham (88)

– 1 cup of spinach (6)

– cheese (35)

– 1/2 cup b00m ch!ka pop popcorn (35)

> total : 314

⌗ lunch : omelette <3

– 1 egg (72)

- 2 egg whites (36)

- 1/4 cup feta (70)

- 5 mushrooms (11)

- 1/2 cup of spinach (6)

> total : 195

⌗ dinner : soup :)

– chicken and dumpling soup (340)

- 1 cup of spinach (6)

> total : 346

other :

– random snacks / picking on food (est. ~200)

> total : 200

☆ total : 1,055

☆ burned : 554 / 15k st-eps/ 30 min y-ga

☆ net : 501

— log :

hi friendsss!! its rlly late so i rushed to make this log!! I was super busy today and I kinda snacked too much and I'm rlly disgusted with myself but I'll be making up for it tmrw with an om-d :)

IM SO TIREDDD im sorry but I'll definitely update more in the morning :(( good night friends stay safe and hydrated

#₊⊹ tinsyfairy food diary #@tw edd #4nor3xia #light as a feather #ed but not ed sheeran #4norexla #3d f4st #@na motivation #th1n$pø #th1nspø #tw ana rant #4n4blr #tw 3d shit #f00d log #f00d diary #th1nspi #th1nnsp0

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songbirdsanctuary · 5 months ago

Text

Buchteln

So... 88 votes, and not a single 'no'. I guess you wanna see a fic where Scar bakes.

So this one he makes one off my personal favorites, Buchteln filled with apricot.

Word count: 5,359

Scar wandered aimlessly around his kitchen, his tail flicking with each step as he mulled over what to make. The room was warm and cozy, the soft glow from the late afternoon sun casting a golden hue across the counters, but Scar’s mind wasn’t on the light—it was on what to bake. He wanted to make something good, but for once, he wasn’t sure what.

His eyes drifted over the shelves of ingredients as he ran a hand over his chin, deep in thought. Scar didn’t bake for himself often; in truth, he rarely ate the fruits of his labor. No, his joy came from baking for others, the way they smiled when they took their first bite, how their eyes lit up as the flavors danced on their tongues. The satisfaction of bringing a little bit of happiness to his friends was what drove him into the kitchen time and time again.

He stopped for a moment and rested his hands on the cool marble countertop. Who should he bake for this time? He tilted his head, running through his list of friends. Impulse? No, he had just brought him a fresh apple pie last week, and Scar doubted Impulse would be ready for another sweet treat so soon. His tail swayed behind him as he paced a little, considering his options. What about Xisuma? Scar smiled at the thought of the admin, remembering how pleased X had been with the chorus fruit chocolate cake he’d brought by a few days ago. Another gift so soon might be a bit over the top.

Scar hummed softly to himself, then paused. Pearl. He hadn’t baked anything for Pearl in a while. A broad grin spread across his face as the decision settled in his mind. Yes, Pearl would appreciate something special. She always had a way of making him feel like his efforts were worthwhile, even if she never demanded anything.

“Alright,” Scar muttered to himself, already feeling more focused now that he had a recipient in mind. “Pearl it is.”

But now came the question: What to make? He tapped his fingers against the counter, thinking hard. A cake? No, too similar to what he had already done for Xisuma. Something light, sweet, but not overwhelming. Maybe a pastry of some kind, something Pearl could nibble on during one of her long adventures.

After a few minutes of deliberation, inspiration struck. Buchteln. Yes, that would be perfect! Light, pillowy rolls filled with something sweet—he had apricots growing in the garden that would make an ideal filling. It was a comforting dessert, a treat that would warm you up on the inside but wasn’t too heavy.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Scar got to work. He walked over to his pantry, pulling out a large bowl from one of the lower shelves. He hummed softly as he began to gather the ingredients. For the dough, he would need flour, eggs, sugar, butter, milk, yeast, salt, and vanilla extract.

One by one, Scar pulled the bags of flour and sugar from the cabinet, setting them gently on the counter. Next came the yeast—he checked the packet to make sure it was still fresh—before reaching for the little bottle of vanilla extract from a nearby shelf. His hands worked with a practiced rhythm, each motion deliberate but easy.

Scar’s gaze flicked to the window as he remembered the eggs. He grinned and made his way outside, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path that led to his small chicken coop. The chickens clucked softly in greeting as Scar approached. He reached into the coop, carefully gathering two warm, brown eggs in his hands, giving a soft chuckle as one of the hens nudged his arm as if in approval. “Thanks, girls,” Scar said, giving them a fond smile before making his way back inside.

Once he returned to the kitchen, Scar placed the eggs beside the other ingredients, pausing for a moment to survey everything laid out before him. There was something immensely satisfying about this part of baking—the preparation, the anticipation of creating something from nothing more than a handful of simple ingredients. It reminded him of building, how each block placed down eventually became something greater than the sum of its parts. But instead of bricks and wood, he had flour and sugar, butter and milk.

He rolled up his sleeves and got ready to begin, his thoughts already drifting to Pearl and how surprised she’d be when he showed up with a basket of fresh, warm Buchteln. The thought made him smile as he reached for the flour and began measuring out the first cup.

Scar reached into one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a sturdy pan, his fingers grazing the cool metal as he set it down with a soft clink onto the stove. The kitchen was filled with a warm glow, and the hum of activity was soothing to him. Cooking and baking always gave him a sense of purpose. He carefully measured out 1/3 cup of butter, watching the golden chunks fall into the pan, their soft edges already beginning to melt. Turning the heat on low, Scar kept a close eye on it, occasionally swirling the pan to ensure the butter melted evenly, a habit he had picked up after a few too many incidents of butter browning unintentionally.

As the butter slowly liquefied, its smooth golden surface reflecting the light above, Scar inhaled deeply, letting the rich, creamy scent fill the kitchen. When the last of the butter melted into a warm pool, he turned off the heat, carefully tilting the pan and watching the butter glide to one side. He set it aside to cool slightly, knowing that patience was key in baking—too hot, and the butter would scramble the eggs.

While the butter rested, Scar moved over to the counter, reaching for his large mixing bowl. He loved this particular bowl—it was wide and deep, perfect for stirring ingredients without making a mess. Grabbing a wooden spoon, he set to work. First, the flour. He scooped it with precision, leveling off each cup before letting it fall with a soft thud into the bowl. Once the flour was in, he added the sugar—a delicate cascade of white powder—and then, the yeast, sprinkling it over the top like magic dust.

The mixture in the bowl looked like an unassuming pile of dry ingredients, but Scar knew that soon it would transform into something entirely different. With a few gentle swipes of the spoon, he mixed the flour, yeast, and sugar together, watching as they combined into a pale, soft mixture. The flour was light and powdery, swirling slightly in the air with each movement, and Scar couldn’t help but smile at the sight. There was something calming about working with ingredients so simple, yet so integral.

He stopped for a moment, holding the spoon mid-stir, and then carefully made a well in the center of the dry ingredients, just like he had done countless times before. The flour and sugar slid to the edges of the bowl, forming a soft, pale crater in the middle. Scar stepped back for a moment, admiring his work—it almost looked like a little nest, waiting to be filled.

Next came the wet ingredients. Scar moved to grab another bowl, this one slightly smaller but still spacious enough to handle what he needed. He picked up the measuring cup, carefully pouring in the warm milk—just the right temperature, not too hot to kill the yeast but warm enough to activate it. He glanced over at the butter, now cooled to the perfect temperature, and poured it into the bowl with the milk. The two liquids swirled together, the butter leaving golden streaks as it mingled with the creamy milk.

Then came the eggs. Scar cracked them against the rim of the bowl, one at a time, watching as the bright yolks slipped down into the liquid below, their rich yellow contrasting with the pale milk and butter. He whisked them gently, the sound of the whisk rhythmic and soft, until everything was well combined, smooth and slightly frothy. The salt came next, just a pinch to balance out the sweetness, and finally, the vanilla extract. He loved the smell of vanilla—it reminded him of warmth and comfort, like curling up with a soft blanket on a cold day. As he added a teaspoon, the scent blossomed in the air, bringing a smile to his face.

Satisfied with his mixture, Scar moved back to the large bowl with the flour, yeast, and sugar. He picked up the smaller bowl, carefully pouring the wet ingredients into the well he had made earlier. The liquid mixture slid into the crater, pooling at the bottom before slowly spreading outwards, soaking into the flour from the edges.

Scar set the bowl down and grabbed the wooden spoon once more. He began stirring slowly, drawing the flour from the edges of the well into the wet center. His movements were gentle but deliberate, folding the ingredients together with care. The dough began to form, thick and sticky at first, but gradually becoming smoother with each turn of the spoon. The process was almost meditative—Scar lost himself in the rhythm, in the soft scrape of the spoon against the bowl and the feeling of the dough coming together beneath his hands.

He knew that soon it would be time to knead the dough by hand, but for now, he simply enjoyed the quiet act of mixing, knowing that each step brought him closer to creating something special for Pearl.

Scar continued to stir the mixture, watching as the flour gradually absorbed the liquid ingredients, transforming into a sticky dough that clung to the sides of the bowl. As the spoon became less effective, Scar set it aside and dusted his hands with a bit of flour, feeling the familiar, gritty sensation against his skin. He reached into the bowl, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding dough, and began working it with his hands. The dough was warm and pliable, sticking to his fingers slightly as he began folding and pressing it together.

He transferred the dough onto a clean, lightly floured surface, dusting the top with just enough flour to keep it from sticking too much. Scar took a deep breath, letting himself sink into the familiar rhythm of kneading. His hands pushed the dough forward, stretching it out, then folding it back on itself with a firm but gentle touch. The repetitive motion was soothing, almost hypnotic, as he worked the dough into something soft, supple, and smooth. Every fold and press of his hands brought the dough closer to that perfect texture he knew so well.

As he kneaded, Scar’s mind wandered, thoughts of Pearl and her reaction drifting through his head. He smiled to himself, imagining her wide grin when she took her first bite. Kneading was always the part of baking that made him feel the most connected to the process—it was personal, his hands guiding the ingredients from their raw form into something full of potential. Each press of his palms was like building the foundation of a structure, brick by brick, until everything was just right.

The dough started to transform under his hands, growing firmer, smoother, and more elastic with each passing minute. He could feel it gaining strength, the gluten developing and binding the ingredients together in a soft, stretchy web. His arms moved in steady, practiced motions, pushing the dough down, turning it over, stretching it again. He occasionally dusted the surface with more flour, just enough to keep things moving smoothly but never too much to dry it out.

Eight minutes passed, then ten, and the dough was ready. It felt springy and smooth beneath his fingers, elastic and responsive to his touch. Scar pressed a finger into it lightly, watching it bounce back. Perfect.

With a satisfied hum, Scar lifted the dough and placed it back into the large bowl, tucking it into a neat ball. He grabbed a clean kitchen towel from a nearby hook, soft and warm, and carefully draped it over the bowl. The dough was now ready to rise, and Scar knew the next step was to wait—a lesson in patience that baking never failed to teach.

He carried the bowl over to a cozy spot near the window, where the afternoon sun streamed through the glass, casting a gentle warmth across the counter. It was the perfect place for the dough to rise, nestled in the sun’s embrace. Scar glanced at the clock and smiled to himself; it would take about an hour or two for the dough to double in size, enough time for him to relax a little before continuing.

With the dough resting, Scar took a moment to stand back and admire his work. The kitchen smelled faintly of vanilla and yeast, with the promise of freshly baked bread hanging in the air. He felt a quiet sense of accomplishment, knowing that soon enough, the dough would be ready for the next step, inching closer to becoming the delicious Buchteln he had envisioned for Pearl. Now all he had to do was wait, letting the magic of yeast and time do its work, slowly transforming the dough into something light and airy.

As he wiped the flour from his hands and leaned back against the counter, Scar glanced out the window, watching the golden rays of the sun inch lower across the sky. It was a peaceful moment, the calm before the final flurry of activity that would bring his creation to life.

As the dough rose quietly in the kitchen, Scar decided to stretch his legs and take a short walk outside. His backyard was a peaceful retreat, filled with life and vibrant energy. The gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of his small garden, and the sun dappled the ground with patches of light. His boots crunched softly against the earth as he approached his favorite tree—a lone apricot tree that stood tall and proud at the far end of his yard.

Scar had always loved this tree. It had been one of the first he planted when he moved in, and over the years, it had become a steadfast companion, offering shade in the summer and fruit in the late spring. He could see the small buds of future apricots beginning to swell, but they were still green, not yet ready for picking. As he came closer, his heart sank a little—none of the fruit seemed ready to harvest. But Scar wasn’t too worried; being part tree elf had its perks.

Gently, Scar rested a hand against the rough bark of the trunk, feeling the connection between them spark to life. He could sense the tree's slow, steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. The leaves rustled softly above him as though the tree was waking up from a lazy nap.

“Hey, Apri,” Scar said softly, his voice warm with affection. He loved giving nicknames to his plants—he found it made them more personable, more like friends. And they never seemed to mind; in fact, they responded to it, even if trees were a little slower than other plants to show it.

The tree hummed in response, its voice deep and slow, as trees often spoke. It was a sound more felt than heard, a vibration that echoed through the earth and up through the soles of Scar’s feet. “Mmm... Scar... What brings you here today?”

Scar smiled, patting the bark affectionately. “Could I have a few fruits today?” He asked, his tone polite and respectful. He always made sure to ask nicely; trees appreciated kindness, and he believed in giving back to the land that provided for him.

“Mmm?” The tree took its time to respond, its leaves swaying lazily in the breeze. “How many do you need?”

Scar looked up at the branches overhead, thinking for a moment. He didn’t need too many—just enough for his Buchteln, enough to make Pearl smile when she took her first bite. “Three. If you please?” Scar asked, his voice soft.

There was a pause as the tree considered his request. It hummed again, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the trunk. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, one of the branches began to lower toward Scar, inching its way down like a living thing. Scar watched in quiet wonder as the tree responded to his magic, the buds on the branch swelling before his eyes.

As the branch lowered to his height, Scar noticed the apricots beginning to grow right before him. Their greenish-yellow hue slowly deepened into a rich, warm orange, the fruits swelling and ripening in mere moments. It never ceased to amaze him how nature could be so generous with just a little nudge from his magic.

Once the apricots had ripened fully, their skins soft and fragrant, Scar carefully plucked them from the branch one by one. He handled them with great care, their slightly fuzzy skins cool and smooth against his hands. “Thank you, Apri,” Scar said softly, giving the tree another gentle pat on the trunk as he stood back up.

The tree hummed once more, its branches swaying gently in a breeze that seemed to answer him. “Hmm... Anytime, Scar...”

With the apricots cradled in his hands, Scar made his way back to the kitchen, the scent of the ripe fruit filling the air as he walked. He set the apricots down on the counter and grabbed a small knife from the drawer. One by one, he sliced each apricot in half, twisting the two halves apart to reveal the small pits inside. He discarded the pits, then gently crushed the apricot flesh with a fork until it began to break down into a thick, pulpy jam.

Scar decided not to add any sugar; he loved the natural sweetness of freshly picked fruit, and he knew Pearl appreciated the authentic taste of the ingredients. The apricots, still warm from the sun and the magic of the tree, softened beautifully, releasing their juices as Scar worked them into a rustic, simple filling.

He smiled as he watched the apricot jam come together, thinking about how it would pair perfectly with the soft, pillowy dough now rising in the bowl. Everything was coming together nicely—just a little more time and care, and the Buchteln would be ready to fill with this fresh, sun-kissed fruit.

And with the dough rising steadily behind him, Scar felt a sense of calm satisfaction wash over him, knowing that every element of this bake—from the dough to the apricots themselves—was made with care, attention, and a little bit of magic.

After about two hours, Scar returned to the kitchen. The dough, now soft and swollen, had doubled in size, filling the bowl with its light, pillowy texture. He grinned, pleased with how beautifully it had risen. This was the moment Scar always looked forward to—the transformation from mere ingredients into something alive and full of potential.

He approached the bowl and gently placed his hand on the surface of the dough. It felt warm and soft, like a plush cloud, but he knew it was time to move on to the next step. With a decisive motion, Scar punched down the dough, his fist sinking into it as the air rushed out in a satisfying whoosh. The dough deflated instantly, its puffiness collapsing under the pressure. Scar chuckled quietly to himself; there was something deeply gratifying about that moment, a sense of control and power in shaping the dough as he pleased.

He dusted his counter with flour, watching the fine white powder fall like snow onto the surface. Carefully, he turned the dough out of the bowl, placing it on the counter with a soft thud. It spread slightly, but still held its shape, elastic and smooth beneath his touch. He took a deep breath and began the process of dividing the dough into smaller portions.

With a bench scraper in hand, Scar divided the dough evenly into twelve pieces. He worked methodically, cutting and weighing each piece to ensure they were all roughly the same size. Scar had always liked precision in baking; it was a delicate balance of art and science, and getting the proportions just right always made him feel more connected to the process.

Each piece of dough was rolled into a ball, the smooth surface stretching and glistening faintly in the light. Scar placed the small dough balls in a neat row on the counter, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he prepared for the next step. He pressed each ball flat, shaping them into small circles with his hands. The dough was supple and warm, slightly tacky to the touch, but it yielded easily beneath his fingers as he shaped it.

Once he had twelve flat circles of dough in front of him, Scar retrieved the apricot jam he had made earlier. It had thickened nicely while he worked on the dough, still fragrant and vibrant with the sweet, tangy scent of fresh apricots. He smiled to himself, satisfied with the filling he had created—it would be the perfect complement to the soft, fluffy dough.

Scar spooned a small amount of the chunky apricot jam into the center of each circle of dough, careful not to overfill them. The bright orange filling sat like a small jewel in the middle of each dough round, glistening in the light. He worked quickly but carefully, knowing that too much filling could cause the dough to break or leak during baking.

Once all the dough circles were filled, Scar began to carefully pinch the edges of each circle together, drawing the dough up and over the apricot jam. He made sure to seal the edges tightly, pressing the dough firmly together to trap the sweet filling inside. His fingers moved deftly, pinching and twisting the dough until each piece was securely sealed, the jam nestled safely in the center.

Scar placed each dough ball seam-side down in a buttered baking dish, arranging them snugly together so they would bake into a warm, golden mass of sweet, filled buns. The buttered dish glistened softly, its sides slick with melted butter that would help the dough bake to a beautiful golden brown. As he placed the last dough ball into the dish, Scar stepped back for a moment to admire his work. The balls of dough fit snugly together, their surfaces smooth and taut, with just a hint of the soft jam hidden beneath.

Scar brushed the tops of the dough balls with a little melted butter, ensuring they would bake to a beautiful golden color. He could already imagine the scent of warm, sweet bread filling the kitchen, the soft, pillowy Buchteln fresh out of the oven. The apricot jam, still slightly chunky, would melt into the dough, creating pockets of sweet, fruity goodness in every bite.

Satisfied with his work, Scar set the baking dish aside, ready for the final stage of baking. The hard part was done; now all that was left was to wait and let the magic of the oven do its work, transforming these simple dough balls into something special for Pearl. As he wiped his hands clean, Scar felt a warm sense of pride. He could already picture the look on Pearl’s face when she took her first bite, the sweetness of the apricots mingling with the soft dough.

After about half an hour, Scar began to notice the sweet, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread filling his kitchen. It was rich and warm, with just a hint of fruity sweetness from the apricots. He peered through the oven window, and his heart fluttered with excitement—the Buchteln had risen beautifully, their tops a perfect golden brown, shimmering slightly with the buttery sheen he'd brushed on them.

Satisfied, Scar grabbed his oven mitts and carefully opened the oven door, feeling the rush of warm air escape. He gently slid the baking dish out of the oven, the weight of it solid in his hands. The Buchteln looked perfect—plump, golden buns nestled snugly together, slightly puffed up from the heat of the oven. Each one held a secret pocket of apricot jam, their surfaces smooth and shiny, promising soft, airy bites filled with sweetness.

With practiced precision, Scar carefully removed the buns from the pan, one by one, setting them on a cooling rack to let the steam escape. He handled each one delicately, feeling their warmth through the thick mitts, making sure not to disturb the delicate balance of the dough and filling. Each Buchteln was slightly firm on the outside, but he could feel the softness underneath, the dough springing back with a slight press of his finger.

After letting them cool for a few minutes, Scar set the warm, golden buns on a plate. Their rich scent still lingered in the air, filling the kitchen with that unmistakable comforting smell of home-baked goods. He stepped back for a moment to admire his work—there was something deeply satisfying about seeing the fruits of his labor sitting there, waiting to be enjoyed. The light in the kitchen caught the golden tops of the Buchteln, making them glow with an inviting warmth.

He wasn’t done yet, though. Reaching for the powdered sugar, Scar carefully dusted each Buchteln with a fine layer of white sweetness. He held the sieve high, letting the sugar rain down in delicate, airy puffs, covering the tops of the buns like freshly fallen snow. It added the perfect finishing touch, a light sweetness that would complement the apricot filling without overpowering it.

Scar smiled as he watched the powdered sugar settle, a soft dusting that contrasted beautifully with the golden-brown tops of the Buchteln. They looked so inviting, so perfectly made, that for a moment he wondered if he should keep one for himself—but no, these were for Pearl, and the thought of sharing them made him even happier.

Once the dusting of sugar was complete, Scar carefully transferred the Buchteln into a wooden container. The container had been one of his favorites for years, a beautifully crafted box with a smooth finish and intricate carvings along the edges. He liked to think it added a personal touch, something that made the gift even more special. He gently nestled the Buchteln inside, making sure they were securely placed so they wouldn’t shift around on the journey. As he placed the final bun inside, he marveled at how snugly they fit, almost as though the container had been made just for them.

Scar placed the lid on the container, the soft wooden click sealing the Buchteln inside. For a moment, he stood still, the container in his hands, feeling the warmth of the freshly baked buns radiating through the wood. There was a sense of anticipation building within him—he couldn’t wait to see Pearl’s reaction when she opened the box.

With everything ready, Scar made his way out of the kitchen and toward the door, the wooden container tucked securely under his arm. The afternoon sun was still bright in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape as Scar began the walk to Pearl’s base. The container felt solid and reassuring in his hands, each step bringing him closer to the moment he would share his baking with her.

As he walked, Scar couldn’t help but smile. He loved these small acts of kindness, baking something from scratch and then delivering it to a friend. There was something magical in it, a quiet, simple joy that came from creating something with care and then offering it to someone else, knowing that they would appreciate the effort, the thoughtfulness, and, most of all, the taste of something made just for them.

The path to Pearl’s base was familiar, winding through a beautiful landscape of rolling hills and colorful flowers. Scar hummed a little tune to himself as he walked, the container held carefully in his hands, his heart light with anticipation. He imagined Pearl’s face lighting up when she opened the lid, the surprise and delight when she saw the beautifully dusted Buchteln waiting for her inside. That thought alone made the entire process worth it.

By the time he reached Pearl’s base, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. Scar stood at the entrance for a moment, adjusting the container in his hands, a smile on his lips as he knocked gently on the door. He couldn’t wait to share the fruits of his labor with his friend, knowing that the warmth and sweetness of the Buchteln would brighten her day as much as the process of making them had brightened his.

Pearl noticed Scar approaching from a distance, the late afternoon sun casting his familiar silhouette against the warm golden sky. With a gentle flutter of her moth wings, she took to the air, her soft, silken wings catching the breeze as she glided gracefully down toward him. The vibrant colors of her wings shimmered in the fading sunlight, giving her an almost ethereal glow as she descended. As she landed softly a few feet away from him, her wings folded neatly behind her back, their edges still shimmering as they tucked in close to her body.

"Scar!" Pearl greeted him with a bright smile, her voice full of warmth and joy. She practically bounced on her feet as she stepped closer, excitement radiating from her. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity—she always loved when Scar visited, knowing he often came bearing something special.

Scar smiled back at her, his heart lifting at the sight of her bright, cheerful energy. Seeing her always made him feel lighter, and her enthusiasm was contagious. He held the wooden container carefully in his hands, the same one that now held the sweet treats he’d spent the afternoon making just for her. He could feel the warmth of the Buchteln still lingering within the wood, a promise of the comforting, sugary goodness inside.

"Hello, Pearl," Scar said softly, his voice filled with affection. He took a step forward and presented the container to her, his tail flicking happily behind him. The weight of the box was light in his hands, but it carried with it the thought and care he’d put into every step of the baking process.

“I brought something for you,” he said, his smile widening as he held the container out toward her. There was a note of pride in his voice, but also a gentle modesty—Scar never baked for praise or recognition, only for the joy of sharing what he made with the people he cared about.

Pearl’s eyes lit up with curiosity as she looked at the wooden box. Her hands reached out, delicate and eager, as she gently took the container from him. For a moment, she held it in her hands, feeling the weight and warmth of the contents inside, already guessing what sort of delicious treat Scar had prepared for her this time. She smiled softly, glancing back up at him with gratitude.

"Aw, Scar," she said, her voice touched with affection. “You didn’t have to, but I’m so glad you did. What’s inside?”

Scar grinned, leaning in a little closer as if to share a secret. “Something special,” he said with a wink. “Freshly baked Buchteln, filled with apricots I picked just for you.”

Pearl’s expression turned to one of delighted surprise. She loved Scar’s baking, but the thought that he had gone out of his way to pick fresh apricots just for this recipe made it all the more meaningful. She couldn’t wait to open the container and see the sweet, golden buns for herself, to breathe in the scent of fresh pastry and fruit.

Her wings fluttered slightly in excitement, the soft movement betraying her eagerness. "You always know just what I like," she said with a laugh, holding the container close to her as if it were a treasure.

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