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7-wonders · 3 days ago

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All the Debts I Owe

Sith!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Summary: A routine Rebellion meeting goes horribly wrong when the Empire discovers the coordinates, but the Force has other plans for you besides death and chaos. Enter none other than the Sith Lord who's become a perennial thorn in your side.

Word count: 3.8k

A note from the author: Hello there! It's been a while since I've actually written anything (like, six months), so I hope this is good! This fic is a part of my Rebel-verse, where reader is a Rebel and Anakin is Darth Vader, just without the crispiness and chopped-off limbs.

(Also, there are a couple of little Easter eggs in here that you'll hopefully pick up on if you've read my other works in this AU. Let me know when you find them!)

I sincerely hope you enjoy, and if you do, I'd love to hear from you! Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks make my world go round :)

“...and the cost of fighter fuel will be supplemented by our trade alliance with Endor,” General Kessyk finishes reading from the tablet in front of her, and you have to hold in a sigh of relief when you realize that she’s reached the end of her prepared remarks.

The clock ticking loudly on the wall in the meeting room of the Rebel base on Mandalore has been the only thing keeping you from zoning out during the last half hour of the special session called by General Kessyk. When you joined the Rebel Alliance, you pictured your life to be nonstop action, fighting battles and gathering intelligence in the fight against the Galactic Empire. And sure, that’s been a good chunk of your time as a Rebel. But as you’ve climbed the ranks and slowly earned your way into a leadership position, you’ve come to the unfortunate realization that being in charge of the Rebellion involves a lot more administrative duties than you anticipated.

Including sitting through a boring budget meeting, of all things, to discuss how the Rebellion will be funded for the next half rotation.

Oona, your friend and second in command when your crew is out on a mission, nudges your side and slips a piece of paper into your hand. When you open it and look down to read the message, you have to hold in a burst of laughter. “Should I bring up the General’s shiny new robes and ask where the budget for that came from?” it reads.

“I don’t know what would be the worse reaction, her getting upset at your insubordination or her pulling out a detailed expenditure report,” you scribble quickly and hand it back to her.

Oona shoots you a cheeky grin and starts to write her own response, only for you both to be startled out of your merriment by the general calling your name.

“Yes, General?” you ask, pretending like you’ve been listening the entire time and definitely not forcing yourself to count each tick of the clock to keep from dozing off.

“I was inquiring about the status of your requested budget for the Jedi recruitment mission in the Outer Rim, Commander.” Though the Togruta tries to look stern, you can see the way that her lips just barely twitch as she tries to hide the soft spot she has for your antics. Kessyk has a tough exterior, indeed, but she fiercely loves those under her command, and has to often remind herself that she’s in charge.

“Of course.” You begin to pull up your (hastily completed last night) budget request when your heart seizes in your chest.

The Force screams danger! at you a split second before the unmistakable sounds of TIE fighters overhead ring in your ears. Red sirens alerting the base of adversaries start screeching, and everybody scrambles to well-rehearsed places to try and decipher what’s going on. You unclip your lightsaber and ignite it, as do a couple of other assembled Force users. It’s second nature at this point to assume command of a crisis situation, so you look to your trusted right-hand woman, already at a blaster cannon.

“Oona, set blasters to fire and send out a distress signal to the fleet!” She nods, and you focus on the next order of business: getting out there and fighting whatever it is that’s come to attack.

Unfortunately, bombs drop before you can even take a step, giving way to screaming and smoke and, eventually, silence.

•••

In the years since he eschewed the Jedi Order and turned to the Dark Side, Darth Vader has gotten very good at compartmentalizing. Restoring peace throughout the galaxy and carrying out the Emperor’s wishes could often be brutal and bloody, so he had to make sure that he wouldn’t crack under the strain of the horrors he both witnessed and carried out. It was a little like turning a switch on and off. Before a mission, the humanity that he held within him, that wish for no more death and destruction, was hidden away, instead replaced entirely by Sith values. He was then able to do what must be done without any hesitation.

(The aftermath of turning that switch back on and being faced with what he had done was horrific, but he secretly felt as though he deserved it—that it was his penance for all of the pain that he caused.)

There were times when compartmentalizing was easier said than done—killing the younglings all those years ago at the Jedi Temple, for example, had truly tested his newfound ability to do so. But there are other times, such as when intelligence points the Galactic Empire to a meeting of the top forces of the Rebel Alliance, that make it easy to shut a more humane part of him down and focus on the victory ahead. And now, as he stands aboard his destroyer and stares down at the smoldering carnage of the Rebellion’s Mandalore base, victory tastes sweet.

“Lord Vader, I have good news.” Admiral Batch, one of the few admirals not petrified of him, sidles up next to him. “The Rebels were caught completely off-guard, and as a result, we can confirm there have been over 20 casualties of high-ranking members of the Rebel Alliance.”

“Good news indeed,” Vader speaks through the modulator of his mask. “Are there any confirmed names that we can take back to the Emperor?”

“None for certain, until we can get down there and see identities for ourselves. We do know that General Kessyk was in the building, as well as a number of Force-sensitive Rebels.”

The moment that last fact actually registers with Darth Vader is the moment that his carefully constructed cruel facade collapses, allowing the Force to finally come screaming at him and tell him of the major mistake he’s made. How could he have not thought of the possibility that you, his Rebel, would be involved in this meeting? Through both Empire intelligence gatherings and the begrudging revelations from you that your responsibilities had been increasing due to your importance in the Rebellion, he should have made the connection that you were now one of those high-ranking members.

Instead, he allowed his anger and his passion to cloud his thinking until the only thing he could focus on was winning. It’s a move that has brought him pain countless times in the past, and now, it seeks to do so again. Vader has to force himself to remain calm, lest he lose control of his emotions and allow his connection to the Force to wreak havoc on his surroundings.

He takes a couple of deep breaths before feeling like he can speak in a level tone. “Thank you, Admiral Batch.”

The admiral bows his head in respect. “My lord,” he says, turning and heading back to the command center on the destroyer.

There’s not a moment to spare once the panel to the observation deck seals and leaves him alone. He needs to get down to the surface of Mandalore before any Stormtrooper teams can beat him there and start confirming the dead and injured. Darth Vader hurries back to his chambers, where he sheds his bulky uniform and switches into a set of unassuming robes. Clipping his lightsaber to his belt, he pulls his hood up over his head and proceeds to sneak out of the destroyer and into a cruiser—an easy feat when one has the Force on their side.

The Rebel base, once so well hidden in one of the capital’s abandoned industrial districts, is now completely exposed after the barrage of Empire bombs shelled through its defenses. Rubble and detritus are strewn in every direction, making his path to the coordinates of the meeting room that much more difficult to maneuver. Vader takes great care to stay hidden under any outcroppings of the ceiling still standing, hyperaware of the fact that he could be spotted at any moment.

When he finally reaches the room where the Rebellion’s best and brightest were meeting, he pauses as he takes in the carnage in front of him. It’s nowhere near the first time that he’s stood in a room full of bodies, their injuries and deaths partially (sometimes fully) attributed to him. But it is the first time that he’s been so concerned for the welfare of one of the potential bodies. Vader’s frantic eyes scan the faces of the dead and wounded, both hoping and not to see you among them. If he doesn’t see you, it either means that you’re somewhere safe and far away from here or that you’re buried so far under the wreckage that he’ll never be able to find you. Likewise, if he does see you, he’ll have concrete proof that you’re either alive…

…Or dead.

A pit opens up in his stomach at the mental image he’s unconsciously created, and he forces his eyes to work faster, to take in more and more information until there’s no doubt left for his mind to play with. Finally, in the corner of the room, he sees your face peeking out from behind a crumbling column. He has the briefest moment of deliberation, a ghost whispering in his ear that he’s gotten too wrapped up in this whole situation, persuading him to turn back now, cut his losses, and find something else to focus his attention on. Then there’s a pop and a sizzle, a chunk of ceiling breaking off and hitting a pile of embers across the room, and the ghost disappears.

It feels like Vader teleports with how fast he makes it to you, though that is not a skill that the Force grants. Falling to his knees at your side, his hand shakes as he places two fingers on your neck, terrified of the potential outcome when he tries to find a pulse. After a stressful few moments, he’s relieved to feel your pulse beating steadily under your skin. With the knowledge that you’re firmly alive in mind, he takes a moment to actually look you over.

You’re covered in blood and soot, making it difficult for him to determine where you’re injured. Your right arm is definitely broken, and it looks like your right ankle is, too. The extent of your injuries can be determined later by a medical droid. What matters now is that you’re alive, and that you’re stable.

Everything else is secondary.

•••

The first thing you realize upon waking up is that you have no memory of how you came to be in a position where you would need to wake up. The last thing you remember, you were trading notes with Oona to pass the time during a budget meeting. Now you’re here…if only you knew where ‘here’ was.

It’s more difficult for you to open your eyes than it normally is, and when you do finally pry them open, your blurry vision prevents you from discerning where you are. Picking a light source in the distance, you focus on that until the room finally comes into focus and you see that you’re surrounded by white. White walls, white floors, white counters. The logical part of your brain says that it could mean you’re in a medbay. But the logical part of your brain feels…fuzzy, almost. Like there’s a blanket of clouds settled over your consciousness and making silly notions like logic and reason fly somewhere far away

“Am I dead?” you ask yourself.

Somebody laughs at you from across the room, and you look to see none other than Darth Vader, sans mask and cape and all other vestments that he wears as a Sith Lord, strolling towards you. “No, thankfully.”

Blinking rapidly doesn’t get him to disappear in a mirage, but it does serve to dry out your already-unreliable eyes. “Well, now I really think that I might be dead.”

“Not if I had anything to say about it. Which, I did, and it’s why you’re not dead.”

A puff of air leaves your nose—it’s meant to come out as a laugh, but parts of your body seem to not want to cooperate today, so a puff of air is all you manage. The action makes your nose begin to itch fiercely, and as you jerkily lift your hand to alleviate the sensation, you’re stopped at the sight of the blue bacta cast that covers your arm from wrist to elbow.

“Oh.”

“The med droids did it,” he explains sheepishly, as though you might be mad at somebody attempting to heal what must be a significant injury. “Your right ankle is in a cast, too, as are your ribs. The report from the droid earlier said that your injuries are healing at the expected rate, so you should only need to be in them for a few more cycles.”

“What happened?” you mumble.

“What do you remember?” Vader asks.

“There was a meeting, and I was getting called out by Kessyk for not paying attention. Then…” you try to think, but the blanket of clouds presses down on you further and makes everything scatter. “Ugh, I feel funny.”

“Pretty sure you’re on some heavy painkillers right now.” He grabs a tablet from the end of your bed and looks at it. “You’re definitely on some heavy painkillers right now,” he amends.

“How did I get injured enough to need enough drugs to take down a bantha?”

“The Empire received intelligence that some high-ranking members of the Rebellion would be meeting on Mandalore, and the decision was made to carry out a bombing mission. I didn’t even begin to think that you were one of those high-ranking members until after the bombs had been dropped.”

“Wow, you don’t think I’m good enough at my job to be a high-ranking Rebel?” If you had full control over yourself right now, you would be slapping a horrified hand over your mouth and begging yourself to shut up. Instead, you giggle (oh, the horror) at Vader’s panicked expression and bat at his hands with your own uninjured one. “I’m just messing with you. We both know that I’m really good at my job.”

“We do,” he agrees before continuing. “I couldn’t just leave without knowing if you were there, so I commandeered a fighter and went down myself. When I saw you laying there, injured…I wouldn't leave you to whatever your fate might have been if I hadn’t interfered. So I brought you here, to my fortress on Mustafar, to recover.”

A med droid interrupts your conversation when it begins to do a routine round through the medbay and sees that you’re awake. You allow it to poke and prod you, checking your vitals and doing whatever scans it needs, aware the whole time of Vader watching you. His stare is unwavering, closely supervising the droid as though it might rebel against its circuitry and try to harm you instead of heal you. When the droid chirps at him, he glares.

“I am letting you do your job, 21-B,” he huffs.

More chirping, followed by a whistle.

“That’s uncalled for.”

“You can understand it?” you ask, watching the scene in front of you with amusement.

“I’ve been able to understand droids since I was a young boy. For better or for worse.”

When 21-B beeps, even you can tell it's displeased. Vader rolls his eyes and proceeds to argue with the droid a bit longer before turning to you.

“Your temperature is starting to rise a little, and 21-B’s worried it’s an early sign of infection. He wants to give you some medicine to combat that. Is that alright?” You’re a little surprised that Vader is both taking the time to explain the droid’s requests to you and making sure that you consent to the care plan.

You nod, and 21-B begins to fiddle with the IV in your hand before injecting what you assume is the needed medicine into your line. There must be a sedative effect to this medication as well, because your body quickly begins to feel like gravity is no longer going to be able to hold you down anymore. You try to fight the way that your eyes flutter, willing yourself to keep focused on Vader. There are still so many questions you have that need answered!

“Do you know who died?” you ask quietly, using the stores of strength you still have within you to speak.

“Not for certain. There was…a lot of carnage when I came to find you. I couldn’t see who was alive and who wasn’t.”

“Oh.” Although such a revelation certainly warrants a better reaction, one syllable is all that you can muster.

Vader smiles just slightly at your struggle. “Focus on resting, and I’ll see if I can find answers for you, okay?”

You think you mutter an affirmative answer, but unconsciousness pulls at you before you can be sure.

Though it feels like you merely blink, when you open your eyes once more, the shadows in the medbay are much longer than they were when you last saw them. One glance around the room reveals Darth Vader sitting in a chair at the foot of your bed, watching something on a holocron. When he notices you struggle into a sitting position, he powers it off and tosses it on a counter behind him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Better,” you respond truthfully. You feel a little stronger than you did earlier; your mind is markedly clearer, too.

“Good. The droid said that your temperature returned to normal about an hour ago.”

“That’s good.”

Even though you should be focused on yourself, asking more questions about your own prognosis, your mind is with your team and your fellow Rebels—or, you fear, what’s left of them.

“Did you…learn any of the names of the injured and dead?” you ask.

Vader nods and takes a deep breath (Does his face lose a little color? you wonder as you watch his expression for any clues). “I did. General Kessyk is dead.”

You’re almost expecting that answer, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. And in a normal circumstance, you would hide that hurt until you could break down away from anybody. But this isn’t a normal circumstance. You’re hurt and thankful to be alive and probably still a little high on pain meds, which is why you have to stare intensely down at the cast on your arm to keep the stray tears that hit your blanket from turning into full-on crying in Darth Vader’s presence. To his credit, he is incredibly patient with you, remaining silent and giving you the space to feel your feelings.

You manage to get yourself under control quicker than expected, sniffling a couple of times before you can meet his eyes again.

“My second in command—my best friend—was there with me.” It’s hard to get the words out, as a selfish part of you wants to not ask, but instead live in this gray area where she’s both alive and not. “Did you hear anything about someone named Oona?”

The control that you had been so proud of yourself for exercising crumbles the moment that you hear him say that Oona’s injured, but alive. Tears that were vanquished mere moments ago return in full force until you’re sobbing.

Not just crying, no. Sobbing. Like, gross, heaving sobs. The type of sobbing that will most definitely leave you feeling embarrassed later for having such an emotional reaction. At the moment, though, sobbing seems like the only way to properly express your feelings. Relief, at Oona being alive. Grief, for your general and likely a number of others who have lost their lives. And something bittersweet—some emotion you can’t truly place—for yourself and the position you’ve found yourself in.

After a few moments of indecision, Vader rises awkwardly from his chair and hovers inches away from you, unsure of what to do.

“I’m so sorry, Anakin,” you try to apologize in between sobs. “Really, I’m just—”

“Please don’t apologize,” he insists uncomfortably as your breath gets caught in your throat, causing you to almost hyperventilate as you try to remember how to breathe.

Darth Vader is a Sith Lord, and you’re a Force-sensitive Rebel; enemies, that much is true. But first and foremost, you’re both human beings who possess human traits and tendencies. Vader can’t help but sympathize with you, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder before he’s even fully aware of the action. Likewise, when your body recognizes another human who’s willing to provide you comfort in a time of need, it acts by taking his hand in your own and beginning to pull him down onto the bed before logic can say otherwise.

“You don’t want me to hold you,” Vader tries to convince you while he’s climbing onto the bed with you and carefully avoiding your various bacta casts to slide his arms around you, somehow unaware that he’s the one taking the comfort further than just the simple hand-holding and proximity that you initiated. “I–I’m the reason for this. You should be sending me away.”

“Shut up,” you mumble into his chest through hiccuping sobs.

Already, your breath seems to come a little easier, your tears a little lighter. And the Force, which is always humming around you with something to say, has gone contentedly silent.

When you find yourself calm enough to dry your eyes and lift your head off of Vader’s chest, you have to fight a sudden bout of shyness to be able to actually look at him. “Sorry for crying on you so much,” you mumble bashfully.

“I promise you, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” Vader assures. “If anything, I’m surprised that you aren’t angry at me.”

“How can I be, when I would have done the exact same thing?”

He doesn’t bother to hide his shock. “Really?”

“Yes,” you admit with a laugh. “I absolutely would have bombed a meeting of Empire officials, and then belatedly realized you were probably there and tried to get you out safely against my better judgment.”

“Judgment seems to not be either of our strong suits right now. None of what’s happening to us follows any rationale,” Vader says.

“No,” you agree. “We should be mortal enemies.”

“Absolutely.” Vader tightens his grip around you. “Once we figure out why the Force keeps doing this to us, we’re right back to trying to kill each other without any qualms.”

“So glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re so on the same page, in fact, that neither you nor Vader let go of the other. Better to keep the Force happy, right?

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker x you #sith!anakin #sith!anakin skywalker #sith!anakin skywalker x reader #star wars imagine #rebel-verse au #rebel!reader

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kcrossvine-art · 1 year ago

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Hiiii friendssss! What the FUCK is up. What the fuck is up. What the Fuck is up. On todays cute little cookin excursion we are going to be deep frying things and using a wok. If you dont feel comfortable deep frying, and dont have a wok, im sure theres other ways to do it silly :DDD

I believe in you.

From LotR online we're gonna be making Fried Beetroot Sticks!!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes into Fried Beetroot Sticks?” YOU MIGHT ASKSlices of sweet little beated root dipped into a batter with, watch out, special flavors too.

2 Beetroots

Corn flour

Salt

Red Chilli Powder

Garlic Paste

Baking Soda

Water

Peanut oil

And we'll also be making some horseradish sour cream dip to go along with it;

Sour cream

Prepared horseradish

1 Green onion

Few splashes of lemon juice

Salt to taste

Ground pepper to taste

"Cooked, tender beetroot sticks are dredged in a light batter and fried to give a crispy exterior and a soft, sweet interior. Served with a bracing horseradish sour cream, this snack is both filling and delicious."- LotRO Tooltip

AND, “what does Fried Beetroot Sticks taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKThis is like homemade fair-food and it sounds like a contradiction but its not

But maybe its just because its fried food? American brained, sorry.

Retains the inherit sweetness to beetroot

And similar to pickled beetroot the sweetness contrasts the spicey of the batter

(which i encourage you to amp up if youd like more spice)

The horseradish sourcream dip is to die for

Measure with your heart for that one, and save some green onion to top it with when you serve

This would pair very well with a lime italian soda or with shaved ice cones

Im always very anxious about deep-frying things, or working with oils at high temperatures, but i didnt run into any complications with this dish. Just make sure to keep best practices and safety precaution in mind, especially with a wok as it can tilt!

. If you dont have corn flour, you can substitute all-purpose flour . If you dont have peanut oil, look up oils with the same smokepoint to decide what else to use

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The recipe stuck out to me, as i was assembling a list of foodstuffs from tolkiens work, for being such a "regular" named food. Also its worth 19 silver 69 copper in the LotR MMO and im immature.

I think the dip has the most room for improvement and tinkering. I've never made horseradish sourcream before, so more practiced tastebuds could perfect a simple thing like this. In the future id also like to try adding red pepper flakes along with the the powder and garlic paste, to give more visual variety and spice. I think cumin in the batter would be a nice midtone flavor too.

I give this recipe a solid 8/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) for its relative simplicity and modularity with things you could add.

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Beetroot Sticks Ingredients:

2 Beetroots

130 grams corn flour

1 tbsp salt

1 tsp Red Chilli Powder

1 tsp Garlic Paste

1/4 tsp Baking Soda

178 grams Water

432 grams peanut oil

Horseradish Sour Cream Ingredients:

225 grams Sour cream

200 grams Prepared horseradish

1 whole green onion (green and white parts VERY finely chopped)

1 tspn lemon juice

Salt to taste

ground pepper to taste

Beetroot Method:

Peel all beetroots and cut them length-wise into rectangles.

Combine flour, salt, chilli powder, garlic paste, baking soda, and water in a bowl.

Mix well into a smooth batter.

Heat peanut oil to medium in a wok and dip beet roots into batter. Deep fry until golden brown in color.

Stack beetroots on paper-towel lined plates to cool and dry as you go.

Serve with horseradish sour cream!

Dip Method:

Mix all ingredients

Cover and let stand at room temperature for 1 hour for the flavors to blend.

#cross cooks lotr #lord of the rings #middle earth #food recipes #digital art

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heartepub · 2 months ago

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with what endures

genre/warnings/wc. fluff, gn! reader. indulgent food and cooking descriptions, some making out, unbeta'd. 0.7k. note. for @chugging-antiseptic-dye, in response to joshua + a pot of red lentils, by peter pereira. part of my 100 followers event !

No matter how spacious your kitchen, Joshua finds a way to touch you every chance he gets. He does it again now, hands resting on your waist as he presses his front to your back, pretending to squeeze past to get to the refrigerator. He can feel your eyeroll without seeing it. There’s a pot of soup bubbling merrily on the stove, which he has reduced to a quiet, but no less jolly, simmer.

You’re making scallion pancakes—in the name of finding another way of using up the bundle of old scallions in the fridge that isn’t pajeon. You roll flattened dough overlaid with a paste of scallions, flour, and oil, forming a log. Eventually Joshua returns, squeezing past you once more, this time with a pack of tofu in hand. The log you rolled out is now transformed into a round disc. With no warning, you thrust your hip backward, stifling a laugh when he lets out a small yelp in surprise.

“Baby,” he whines. “What if I had a knife?”

You just snort. “You finished prep ages ago, Shua. Also, you don’t need to put the tofu in yet, the dough needs to rest a bit before I can flatten it out and cook.”

At that, his hands are already on your waist. “Really? How long?” He doesn’t need to say anything else, body pressed more insistently against your back.

“Shua, my hands are oily!” Laughing, you extricate yourself from his hold, quickly washing and soaping the residue from your hands before making your way back to him. You greet him with a small, apologetic peck. “Not long, unfortunately.”

He pouts. You sigh, mildly exasperated, “you literally made me rest the dough ten minutes more than I should have a while ago.”

All the best things take time—and it’s best to take advantage of it. That’s Joshua’s philosophy for cooking, which in simplest terms involves dragging you into makeouts any time you didn’t need to be doing something with the food. Whether it was to let the dough rise, the meat marinate, or the cookies bake, lulls in cooking always means kisses. He does it again now, caging you against the counter, making sure to pick a spot where there’s nothing behind you. Joshua leans in, capturing your lips. It certainly has made jointly-cooked weekend meals at least half an hour later than usual.

You indulge in his kisses for a while, until you remind him, mumbling against his mouth, “Your soup, Shua—” he groans lightly, parting with a wet smack. There’s steam rising insistently from the bubbling pot at the corner of his eye. You seem to find his pout amusing, grinning as you lean forward to offer him a gentle kiss. “I’ll start cooking the scallion pancakes.”

Loath as he was to let you go, you end up hip-to-hip by the stove anyway, as Joshua breaks the tofu with a wooden spoon and you coat the pan in a thin layer of oil. The flattened pancake sizzles as you lay it down, and you cover the pan after pressing the pancake firmly into the oil. Joshua ooh’s when you remove the lid and flip the pancake to reveal a gorgeous golden brown crust, bits of scallions peeking out like pockets of spring. Playfully, you scrape your spatula against the top, teasing him with the crisp sound of it as he plays along, cheering.

Right before you plate up the finished pancakes, he holds a spoonful up for you to sip, relishing your approving grin and nod. You tear off a piece from your most freshly-cooked piece, dipping it in the sauce before holding it up to him. He bites into the crispy exterior into a chewy, layered interior, the perfect mix of scallions and dough. You smile when you see the surprised joy on his face.

The exhaust fan’s lamp casts everything in a warm glow, and the world opens up to this: his mother’s soup that he learned for you all those years ago, shared with a recipe you perfected in the name of changing things up. Your trusty rice cooker pinging in the background. Things both old and new come together, but always with love.

Your shared home smells like scallions, spicy broth, and sesame oil. In this corner of the world, everything is delight.

note. outing myself as a cook/food is my love language. scallion pancake recipe reference

#.dive site #joshua x reader #hong jisoo x reader #keopihausnet #joshua hong x reader #joshua fluff #joshua hong fluff #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #svt fanfic #seventeen fanfiction #heartepub100 #it's 2am dawg i'll proofread at a more godly time

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copperbadge · 10 months ago

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My answer was too long for the fried food post. I used to make grilled PB&J, just like you'd make a grilled cheese and my family always thought that was weird. I know, it's not deep fried, but I don't deep fry at home. Weirdest (and BEST) thing I've had was fried tacos, It was a very strange but awesome camping trip, where there was much weird food to be enjoyed. Anyhoo, they took a less sweet kind of donut dough, hollowed out a ball, filled it with meat, cheese and peppers if you wanted them, sealed the hole shut, rolled them in corn flour and dropped them into the kettle. They were served 3 to a bowl, with a scoop of salsa, guac, and/or sour cream. They'd sprinkle with cotija cheese at the end. We also had elote on the side, and hard cider. They took the last of the dough at the end of the meal and stuffed them with marshmallows and chocolate chips, and skipped the corn flour but I was too full of excellent tacos and elote to indulge. Man, the pandemic sucked in so many ways, but my camping group really came together in the spring of 21, and we've had so many awesome trips since then. And lots of deep fried tacos. The person who invented it is trying to do something with tamale batter to make them even more taco-y, but it's still a work in progress. The tamale batter is loose enough that it wants to fall apart in the fryer.

This was sent in response to my "What's the weirdest thing you've fried or weirdest fried thing you've eaten" post and I failed to respond in a timely fashion and was considering deleting it out of shame but then I read the recipe for FRIED TACOS and was like no. The world needs to know. My feelings are as nothing next to the glory of the fried taco.

I realize this is a lot of work for camping but if your friend is still looking for solutions to the tamale issue, I would suggest steaming the "taco balls" in tamale dough first, then cooling and frying -- the masa firms up a lot during the steaming process, and the amount of time it would take to get the exterior crispy and golden should be enough time to reheat the interior. (Or it might explode. Testing is needed.)

I might have to give this a shot -- I can think of a few dough recipes that would work, and I have some fajita seasoning that's going to go stale if I don't use it relatively soon. Hmmm.

#food #sam cooks #recipes #nightshadezombie

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im-gonna-sing-the-doom-song-blog · 11 months ago

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“Sunrise Delight”

Description: Jason cooks you breakfast

Warnings: None

ASKS AND REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the small kitchen. You rubbed your eyes, still groggy from sleep, and noticed the mouth-watering aroma of cooking food wafting in from the kitchen. Curiosity piqued, you made your way out of bed, following the delicious scent.

To your surprise, you found Jason, the enigmatic and tough-as-nails Red Hood, standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with a surprising amount of skill. He wore a dark t-shirt and jeans, his usual rugged attire and a Wonder Women apron he had tied around his waist—a gift from you that he’d adored.

"Morning," you greeted, leaning against the doorway with a sleepy smile.

Jason turned to you, his expression softening. "Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down, breakfast is almost ready."

You took a seat at the small kitchen table, watching as he expertly navigated the kitchen, pouring freshly brewed coffee into two mugs. Despite his rough exterior, Jason had a hidden talent for cooking, something he rarely showed but always seemed to enjoy.

"What's the occasion?" you asked, taking a sip of the rich, aromatic coffee.

"Do I need an occasion to cook for you?" he replied, a playful glint in his eye. "Maybe I just felt like spoiling you a little today."

He set a plate in front of you, a perfectly golden stack of pancakes accompanied by crispy bacon and scrambled eggs. It was simple but made with care, each detail attended to with precision.

"This looks amazing, Jason," you said, touched by the gesture.

"Only the best for you," he said, sitting down across from you with his own plate. "I know I don't always say it, but... you mean a lot to me."

You reached across the table, your hand finding his. "I know, Jason. And you mean a lot to me, too."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his usual tough demeanor giving way to a rare moment of vulnerability. "Good. Now eat up before it gets cold."

As you dug into the delicious breakfast, you couldn't help but smile at the sight of Jason, the fierce and formidable Red Hood, showing his softer side. It was moments like these that reminded you of the depth of his character and the strength of his love.

And in that cozy kitchen, surrounded by the warmth of good food and even better company, you felt a deep sense of contentment. Breakfast with Jason Todd was more than just a meal—it was a reminder of the simple, beautiful moments that made life with him so special.

#jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfiction #red hood x reader #dc comics #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd fluff

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burntsecrets · 5 months ago

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Charred Perfection

Pairing: Eddie x Reader Word Count: 781 Prompt: @fluff-cember Day 1: roasted marshmallows Summary: Eddie teaches you to roast marshmallows the Munson way. Warnings: Fire hazard, mild language, mentions of childhood struggles.

The crisp winter air nips at your cheeks as you tug your jacket closer, watching your breath form little clouds in the dim light. Eddie’s trailer stands behind you, its metal exterior dusted with frost. Before you, a small bonfire crackles and pops, the orange glow illuminating Eddie’s mischievous grin. His wild curls halo his head, and his denim jacket is layered over a frayed hoodie, the scent of smoke and pine clinging to the fabric.

"Alright, sweetheart," Eddie declares, holding up a marshmallow skewered on a slightly bent metal rod. "Prepare to witness greatness. This is how you roast the perfect marshmallow." His dark eyes glint in the firelight, his enthusiasm infectious as he crouches by the flames.

You sit cross-legged on an old blanket spread over the cold ground, your own marshmallow at the ready. “Is this one of your many hidden talents?” you tease, leaning forward to get a better look.

“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re about to experience the art of marshmallow roasting, Munson style.” He gives you a mock bow, flourishing the skewer like a sword.

Eddie holds the marshmallow just above the flames, turning it with exaggerated care. “Patience,” he intones, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “The trick is to rotate it evenly—don’t let it burn. You want that golden-brown perfection. Anything less is sacrilege.”

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. “So no charring? No flames?”

He shakes his head gravely. “Flames are the enemy, my dear. Unless you like eating crispy, sugary disappointment.”

For a moment, you think he’s actually got it. The marshmallow starts to take on a lovely, golden hue, just as he promised. He glances back at you, smirking as if to say, See? Told you so. But then—predictably—it happens.

With one careless flick of his wrist, the marshmallow plunges too close to the fire. Flames leap up greedily, engulfing it in an instant. Eddie yelps, jerking the skewer back and waving it wildly in the air. “Shit! Abort! Abort!”

You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach as Eddie frantically blows on the blackened marshmallow. He manages to extinguish it, but the damage is done. The marshmallow is a charred, drooping mess, bits of molten sugar dripping off the stick.

“Well,” he says, holding up the ruined confection like it’s a battle trophy. “Not my finest hour.”

“Not exactly golden-brown perfection,” you manage between giggles.

“Hey, it’s all part of the process,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “Even geniuses have off days.”

You shake your head, still laughing, and reach over to hand him another marshmallow. “Here, try again. Maybe with less...flair this time?”

Eddie plops onto the blanket beside you, taking the fresh marshmallow with a mock bow of thanks. “I’ll let you take the reins next. Can’t have you thinking I’m a total disaster.”

The fire crackles between you, its warmth chasing away the bite of the cold. Eddie’s hands linger over the flame for a moment before he settles back, his shoulders brushing against yours. “You know,” he says after a pause, his voice softer now, “when I was a kid, Wayne used to build bonfires like this behind the trailer. It was one of the only times we didn’t care about the bills or whatever crap life was throwing at us. We’d just sit out here and talk.”

You glance at him, his face lit by the glow of the fire. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s seeing those nights all over again. “What did you guys talk about?” you ask gently.

He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stupid stuff. Stories about his wild days when he was my age. Advice about girls—none of which I ever followed, obviously.” He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes, he’d just let me rant about whatever sucked at school. He always listened, you know? Never made me feel like I was being dumb.”

The raw honesty in his voice warms you as much as the fire. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tilts his head to rest gently against yours.

“Thanks for this,” you say after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For what? Setting marshmallows on fire?” he jokes, but there’s a tenderness in his tone.

“For this,” you say again, gesturing to the fire, the stars overhead, the quiet comfort of his presence. “It’s perfect.”

Eddie looks at you then, his grin softer now, and he bumps your shoulder with his. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “It kind of is.”

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