#GBBO Au

[laundrybiscuits]

Eddie’s doing some dumb trick with a couple of wooden spoons, clever hands making them move through the air in improbable ways, and Steve’s about to bite his whisk in half. 

He’d thought for sure that Eddie would be going home the first week; Edward Munson, 29, bartender/musician from Brighton with mismatched tattoos and wild hair, seemed like exactly the kind of pretentious asshole who would flame out early with some ill-advised hipster experimentation. If Steve (28, social worker from Indiana, USA) had been a complete asshole, he’d have said that Eddie didn’t have the fundamentals. That he was all sizzle, no steak. 

It’s a good thing Steve’s not a complete asshole, because Eddie’s been blowing the technicals out of the water so consistently it’s actually pretty fucking embarrassing. His signatures and showstoppers are making a very respectable showing too, except for the time he tried to incorporate some fresh pandan extract and fucked up the liquid ratio, leaving him with a dripping mess that Mary’d declined to even try. 

Afterwards, Steve had seen him leaning against a tree and struggling to light a cigarette. Steve went over for no particular reason, flicking on his lighter and holding it out like a peace offering. Eddie looked at him warily, but bent over the offered flame. 

“Can’t believe I made it through this one,” Eddie said after a moment, white smoke curling out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I feel like that every week.” Steve leaned against the tree next to Eddie. It was a big tree, the kind that’s probably been growing in this field since before England was even England. 

“Nah, but—c’mon, you know what I mean.”

“You had some bad luck with your showstopper. Happens to the best of us, man. Your signature hand pies looked sick as hell.” Steve’s own hand pies had turned out pretty well, so he was feeling generous. It had only been the third week; plenty of time for Steve to snag Star Baker, though even by that point, Steve had been getting the creeping feeling that he was being a little too American about the whole thing. Everyone else seemed to think competitiveness was some kind of deadly sin. It was—actually kind of nice, to get the same kind of nerves he’d always gotten before high school basketball games, but know that he wasn’t really fighting against anyone except himself in the tent.

Anyway, the very next week, Eddie had done some kind of kickass gothic castle with a shiny chocolate dragon and gotten Star Baker for the second time. Steve had clapped him on the back, appropriately manly. Eddie had pulled Steve into a real hug, arms tight around Steve’s shoulders and his whole lean body pressed up close and warm. It had only lasted a moment, and then Eddie had bounded over to Mel and Sue, both of whom he’s been thoroughly charming since the get-go. 

Steve thinks that when this season—or, uh, series—airs, no matter where Eddie places, the entire country is going to be just as charmed. Eddie’s going to get whatever kind of cookbook deal or streaming show he wants. Sponsors will take one look at that handsome face and charismatic grin, and a whole world of possibilities is going to open up for Eddie. 

Steve’s not in it for any of that, of course. He’s here kind of by accident, because Robin pushed him to apply, and it’s a goddamn miracle he’s been holding his own. Hell, it’s a miracle he’s in this country at all. When Robin had started looking at the Cambridge MPhil program in linguistics, she’d said wouldn’t it be great if and he’d snorted, yeah right, like I could ever get whatever job I’d need to move to another freaking country, but then—well. Things had happened the way they’d happened, and now Robin’s almost finished with her degree and Steve is taking time off from the London charity he works at in order to be on Bake Off. 

He’s told all this to the cameras, plus the stuff about how baking started as a way for him to connect with the kids he used to babysit in Indiana, blah blah blah. He thinks it’s probably too boring for them to air, but he gets that they have to try to get a story anyway. 

Eddie Munson, on the other hand, is probably going to be featured in all the series promos. Steve is rabidly curious about what Eddie’s story is, but he hasn’t worked up the nerve to just ask. It should be the easiest thing in the world. They’ve got kind of a camaraderie going, the two of them; a bit of a bromance, as Mel’s put it more than once. 

It’s true they get along pretty well, and the cameras have been picking up on it: on the way Eddie’ll wander over to Steve’s bench like a stray cat whenever they get some downtime, how they wind up horsing around sometimes, working off leftover adrenaline from the frantic rush of caramelization or whatever. There’s the time Eddie had hopped up on a stool to deliver some kind of speech from Macbeth, of all things, and overbalanced right onto Steve, who had barely managed to keep them both from careening into a stand mixer. Sue had patted Eddie on the shoulder and said, “Well, boys, that’ll be going in the episode for sure.”

They both get along with the other contestants just fine, of course, but they’re two guys of about the same age with no wife and kids waiting at home. It’s only natural that they’re gravitating together, becoming something like friends, Steve figures. It’s pretty great that he’s getting at least one real friend out of this whole thing.

It would be even greater if Steve could stop thinking about Eddie’s hands in decidedly non-friendly ways. With all the paperwork he’s signed, he can’t even complain to Robin about how Eddie looks with his sleeves pushed up to show off the tattoos on his forearms, kneading dough and grunting a little under his breath with effort. Steve had almost forgotten to pre-heat his oven that day. 

Two benches away, Eddie fumbles the spoons he’s been juggling with a clatter, and he bursts out laughing, glancing over at Steve like Steve’s in on the joke. Steve grins back, heart twanging painfully in his chest, and thinks: well, fuck. Guess this is happening.

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #3

Date Night 🍾 / Creepy Cookies 🍪

Then

“Oh, just finish it,” cajoles Satine, pushing the remnants of her pizza his way. “All you could talk about on the way over was how much you wanted pizza.”

“Before I ate a whole one myself!” he retorts from the other side of the coffee table. They’re toasting the end of midterms in Satine’s living room, an empty bottle of red between them and a second waiting unopened in the wings. They started at opposite ends of the couch, but the further they got into the wine, the farther they migrated onto the floor. “What am I, one of your people?”

“Oh, come off it,” she says, leaning over to swat at him. “You don’t have to be one of my people to eat what makes you happy.”

He gives a rueful laugh. “With my appetite? If I ate everything I wanted to, I’d be the size of a house.”

Satine coughs, halfway through a sip of wine. “Well,” she rasps, “why don’t you, then?”

He stares at her, his brow creasing. “Why don’t I — ah, because I’d be the size of a house?”

“Okay,” says Satine, feeling wild. “So? Would it be worth it, if you enjoyed yourself?”

A deep flush is rising in his cheeks. “So I should just sit around eating pizzas until I’m two hundred kilos, then?”

Satine sets her wineglass down a bit too hard. “Is that—is that something you want?” 

He busies himself with the second bottle of wine, trying unsuccessfully to break the seal with a nubby fingernail. Satine gives him approximately five seconds of grace before sliding closer and poking him in the ribs. “Ben! Of all people you can tell me if it is. I’m the last person who can judge you.”

The smile he offers her is tight, self-conscious. “Well — not two hundred kilos, at any rate. I just mean — of course I want to eat that way. But if I let myself, I would never stop, and I’d like to be able to fit into a chef’s coat.”

She squints at him. “You’d never stop? It’s not as if you’ll gain two hundred kilos overnight if you have one big meal.”

“But that’s the thing!” he bursts out, and she sits back, surprised. “I know myself. I know how I feel about — this. I would enjoy it too much. I’d never eat normally again. You’d be rolling me out of the kitchen before you knew it.”

He still isn’t looking at her, his gaze trained firmly on his knees, and she pokes him until he glances at her and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Ben. Listen to me. Even if you ate like that for a month, you wouldn’t hit two hundred kilos. You might need new pants” — he cracks a smile— “but you’d have plenty of time before then to decide if you wanted to go that far. Gain ten kilos and see if you like it. Gain twenty. See how it feels and reevaluate. It’s not an all or nothing kind of thing.”

She pats his shoulder awkwardly and settles back beside him. “Besides, don’t be daft. They make chef’s coats up to at least an 8X. You’ll have plenty of room.”

His smile widens infinitesimally. “Oh, you’ve looked, have you?”

“Of course.” 

Now

“So this is what your people call date night, is it?” asks Obi-Wan, a mischievous glint in his eye, and Satine makes a face at him.

“If I call it a date, will you stop looking so self-satisfied?”

“Unlikely,” he says, and she swats at him with the arm that isn’t looped through his.

“Besides,” she says, “this is a necessary outing. Your shirts can hardly reach around you anymore. It’s getting indecent.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re wildly concerned about my indecencies.”

“I should be. I’m the one they inconvenience most.”

He laughs, and she allows herself a little smile at her own expense. She’ll miss seeing his overtaxed shirt buttons and straining seams, but she’s also fairly sure that he’ll continue to press the limits of whatever new clothes they purchase tonight. 

It’s a crisp fall evening, just minutes from rain, and they’re using the weather as an excuse to hide behind turned-up collars and scarves as they make their way down Bond Street. Satine’s pale hair is braided back and covered by a silk kerchief, and she’s dressed entirely in navy and grey, a far cry from the jangling colors she chooses for Bake-Off. Obi-Wan’s beard has grown out some, ever redder the longer it gets, and she suspects he’s already heavier than he was this past series. She’s not shy about diverting attention if she has to, but it would be nice to have one night that’s just for them.

She steers him into a boutique a few storefronts down, and he raises an eyebrow at her as they step inside. “Big spender,” he remarks, and Satine preens for a moment. 

“I called in a favor.”

She approaches the girl at the counter while Obi-Wan stops to peruse a selection of richly colored ties laid out in a sunburst on one display table.

“Is Cordé in, please?” she asks, and the girl’s face lights. 

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Just a moment.” She hurries into the back room and returns accompanied by a fine-featured young woman with wide brown eyes. Her hair is the same chestnut brown as Padmé’s, but it’s cut in a short, chic bob rather than twisted into one of Padmé’s elaborate updos. Draped around her neck is an orange measuring tape that looks perfectly in tune with her structured white blouse and royal blue wide-legged trousers. 

“Satine, yes?” she says, a wisp of Scottish accent on the words, and Satine nods, extending a hand. Cordé’s nails are painted the same orange as her measuring tape. “Cordé. Lovely to meet you; I’ve heard quite a lot from Padmé.” She winks, and Satine feels her cheeks color. Padmé’s extensive web of stand-ins, stunt doubles, and fellow actors from Amidala have dispersed from child-starship all over Europe like so much dandelion fluff, and although they don’t all look quite as identical up close, they all share a sense of humor tempered by consummate professionalism, and Satine can see immediately that Cordé is regarding the two of them with the same unspoken, indulgent amusement as Padmé does.

She’s one of your people, Padmé had texted her after confirming they were all set for this evening. I told her that you two have a hard time toning it down even on international television and she said that’s fine. She won’t be weird about it and she consents to being privy to it, so no worries there.

You’re the worst, Satine had sent back. Thank you.

She agreed, by the way, added Padmé, and Satine could practically hear the smugness in her voice. She’s seen the show.

THANK YOU, GOOD NIGHT.

“Thank you so much for accommodating us,” she says now, gesturing to Obi-Wan and holding out her hand for him to join her. “This is Ben, my — my friend.”

Cordé has clearly been briefed on the decades of backstory behind the word, because she looks unfazed even as Satine fidgets and fixes her hair and Obi-Wan glances around the shop conspicuously. “Pleased to meet you as well, Ben. If you’ll follow me, I’ve set aside one of our private fitting rooms for you.”

Both of Obi-Wan’s eyebrows jump up this time, and he flashes an incredulous look at Satine. She gives a secretive little smile and tugs him along. 

“You have our utmost discretion,” Cordé assures them as she leads them through a door to a secluded sitting area full of mirrors, bolts of fabric, and cloth dummies of varying sizes. “Aaré at the desk is my apprentice; she’s a bit young, but you can trust her.”

“Thank you,” says Satine, pulling off her coat and setting her bag down on one of the plush chairs. “We really do appreciate it.”

“Ben,” says Cordé. A delicate gold chain winks in the hollow of her throat. “I understand you’re in the market for a few new pieces. What did you have in mind?”

Obi-Wan drapes his coat beside Satine’s, and one of his hands automatically jumps to smooth at the buttons of his shirt. He’s wearing a sweater, which makes the involuntary movement even more obvious. “Well, I think a few new dress shirts are in order.”

“And trousers,” Satine puts in. “You could do with a bit more room than you have.”

A sheepish smile breaks across his face. “And trousers, as well. She’s right.”

Cordé nods. “All right then. Ben, if you could shed a few layers for me, I’ll get some measurements and we can get started.”

For the first time, Obi-Wan hesitates, and Satine wonders if his mind went the same place as hers: photographs splashed across the front page of The Sun of Ben Kenobi stripped to his drawers. 

Cordé also clearly shares Padmé’s foresight and apparent telepathy, because she adds, “You’re the only ones booked for tonight. Aaré might come back with a question, but she’s got strict instructions to knock first. We won’t be disturbed.”

Satine watches Obi-Wan let out a breath. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and he pulls off his sweater first, his plump belly flopping out over his belt. His collared shirt is next, and he undoes each button so slowly Satine is sure he’s trying to tantalize her, even though he’s still got an undershirt on beneath. His chin doubles against his chest as he reaches under his overhang for the last button, and as he shucks the collared shirt, it’s clear that even his undershirt is nearly outgrown; the hem creeps up the round bulk of his stomach, exposing the reddish-blond hair beneath his navel, and the sleeves and neckline are slack where Satine knows he’s had to rip the seams for his own comfort. 

He shoots her a sly grin and Satine blinks, realizing the force of her staring. “A little help?” he asks, gesturing to the button of his slacks. “It’s been a while since I could see over my belly.”

Satine swallows hard and steps closer, too flustered to have full control of her fine motor skills. She fumbles with the button for a moment, the heavy warmth of Obi-Wan’s stomach bearing down on her hands, and finally pops it free. He keeps his eyes on her as he steps out of his trousers, his belly jiggling with the movement until he’s standing in just his undershirt, boxers, and socks. His thick sweaters and tailored slacks go a long way toward smoothing the bumps and curves from his figure for the screen, but seeing him here — his chubby chest pushing at his cotton tee, his sides spilling over the waistband of his underwear, his wobbly thighs brushing against each other as he shifts his weight, the hefty curve of his backside, stretching the pattern of his boxer shorts a bit too thin. She catches her breath. She will behave. She will behave. She will behave. 

For her part, Cordé sits scrolling through her phone while all of this is going on. She looks utterly unfazed, as if middle-aged pâtissiers turned television hosts engage in kinky antics in her shop every day. 

“We’re, er.” Satine clears her throat. “We’re ready when you are, Cordé.”

Cordé tucks her phone back into her pocket and unfolds herself, unlooping her measuring tape from her neck. “All right, Ben, step over here if you will. Do you mind if I say the numbers aloud as I mark them down?”

“No,” says Obi-Wan, blinking. “No, I don’t mind.”

Cordé measures his neck, his wingspan, numbers that don’t mean terribly much to Satine. But the lower she moves — his arms, his waist, his hips, his thighs — the harder it gets to stand still.

“Arms, fifty centimeters,” murmurs Cordé, marking it off on a little notepad she’s materialized out of nowhere. “Waist, one hundred and twenty-two centimeters.”

One hundred and twenty-two! He’d been one hundred and twelve the last time he’d let Satine measure, just before filming had started for the last series. If he’d weighed around one hundred and twenty-five kilos then … she’d guess he’s put on ten to fifteen since, judging by how he’s growing out of his clothes.

“Hips, one hundred and thirty-nine centimeters.”

Obi-Wan is very pink. Satine supposes she must be as well.

“Thighs, eighty-one centimeters.”

The revelation that one of Obi-Wan’s thighs is the same distance around as Satine’s waist is so affecting that she nearly gasps. 

Obi-Wan chuckles. “And to think, the waist on the trousers I’ve been wearing is one hundred and fourteen. It’s a wonder I’ve been able to get them done up.”

“And no wonder you had to ask me to help get them off,” Satine chips in, sinking into a chair. She’d planned to take him to dinner afterward, and of course she will — it’s never a question of if she’ll feed him so much as to what degree — but they might need to delay their reservation a bit so she can get her hands on him.

Cordé straightens up from measuring Obi-Wan’s inseam and nods, coiling the tape in her hands. “Let me go grab a few things and we’ll see what you like.”

As the door closes behind her, Satine exhales in a rush. Obi-Wan’s blue eyes meet hers. “I hope you’ll appreciate me just as much in clothes that fit,” he teases.

She can’t throw herself at him fast enough.

[lavendertheys]

Length: 15,050 words (8/8) Rating: T for language, mental health issues, and implied smut TWs: mentions of vomiting and descriptions of severe joint pain

“You could stay, Imogen.”

“I know that,” she promises, “and it’s so temptin’, but…”

Laudna waits and waits and waits.

“If I stay any longer,” Imogen continues with a weak shrug, “I’ll practically be livin’ here.”

Laudna just nods.

.

Welcome to THE GREAT BYRODEN BAKE OFF 🧁

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Production Delay

Episode 4

Technical Difficulties

Episode 5

Post-Production

[darter-blue]

A Good Tart - a great brittish bake off stucky fic

For the lovely Kalika_999 and @marveltrumpshate (from 2021... shhh just pretend 3 years have not gone by)

Summary:

Steve is elbow deep in flour, hair falling relentlessly into his eyes, tonguesticking out in concentration, so of course this is the exact moment today's Bake Off guest judge decides to enter the tent, swaggers really, dramatic and dark in a black on black suit and sunglasses that likely cost more than Steve's car.

Steve doesn't know how this man is famous. Doesn't know why he qualifies as a guest judge. Doesn't recognise him as an important culinary figure.

He only knows he's hands down the hottest human being that Steve has ever seen in reality. And that he happens to be the only one night stand Steve has ever had.

Which happened to be last night.

And, oh shit, his caramel is about to burn...

Steve is in soooo much trouble.

[cha-melodius]

All the Old Showstoppers [COMPLETE]

“Dunno, kinda looks like you know what you’re doing. Are those macarons?” Alex asks incredulously after a little while, and a moment later Henry sees him start slowly approaching out of the corner of his eye. “I didn’t know princes could bake.” “I’d wager not many of them can,” Henry replies as he works, letting one corner of his mouth tug upward.

In a universe where Alex didn’t go to the royal wedding, three years later Alex and Henry find themselves both competing on an episode of The Great Celebrity Bake Off. Will old hostilities lead to disaster, or is there something else causing all that tension in the tent?

(A canon-divergent Bake Off AU; E, 20k, updates Mondays and Thursdays.)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

[sesamestreep]

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 9

Write about a heated debate (from this list) ➸ set in the Bakeoff AU AGAIN, because after my last fic, I wanted to write more Milly content and also it’s been a rough few days and I need to be silly and self-indulgent or I shall perish!! Based on an Instagram Reel I sent to @firstelevens the other day and that we’ve been spinning into a kid fic concept ever since. It grew out of control and I don’t know if it technically fits the prompt, but it’s what I got for you nonetheless. Bon appetit I guess???

“Euuuugghhh! Daaaaad!”

“What? What’s the matter?” Foggy asks from his spot in the kitchen. That tone of voice from his daughter is never a good sign, but he’s mostly used to hearing it when he and Matt are being particularly disgusting about how much they love each other. As Matt is still in the shower currently, he knows that can’t be the reason.

“What did you put on this?” Milly asks, holding up a piece of toast accusatorially. If she ends up following in their career footsteps someday, her cross-examinations are going to be brutal.

“Cinnamon and sugar, as requested,” Foggy answers, coming to stand across the counter from her. It’s a long way from the elaborate recipes he used to make with his spare time—which he no longer has—and when he was on Bake-Off, but it’s one of his daughter’s favorite breakfasts despite its simplicity. Well, it normally is. She’s currently staring daggers at him, so it must not be her favorite right now.

Milly shakes her head at him, like he’s a moron or maybe, more accurately, like they’re going to have to send him to a home soon if he keeps this up. “Not cinnamon,” she says, holding the offensive piece of toast out to him.

Before he can take a bite (his original plan, to illustrate that she’s being silly and unnecessarily picky), the smell reaches his nose and it doesn’t take an extremely experienced baker to know that’s not cinnamon. He brings it closer to sniff it again and makes himself cough. To confirm his suspicion, he returns to the cabinet where they store their spices and looks at the jar he used to make Milly’s toast a few minutes ago and, yep, there it is.

“Paprika,” he says. “I made you paprika toast.”

“Paprika and sugar,” Milly says, in that same enjoy your time in the retirement home, old man tone of voice.

“They look similar in the bottle,” Foggy says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Same color, I mean.”

“Do they smell the same?” she asks, innocently.

“Listen, you—”

“And are they spelled the same way?” she asks, thoughtfully. “You know, when you read the bottle before pouring it over my toast? You did read the bottle first, right?”

“Mills, I’m not kidding, if you can spell ‘paprika’ or ‘cinnamon’ for me right now, I will give you twenty dollars out of my wallet,” he says. “Otherwise, I don’t want to hear it!”

“I don’t know—”

“Exactly!”

“I’m eight! What’s your excuse?”

“For one thing, my eight year old daughter won’t stop tricking her babysitter into letting her watch scary movies and then crawling into bed with me in the middle of the night because she can’t sleep,” Foggy says, grabbing the plate from her. “How’s that?”

“Don’t throw it away!” Milly calls.

Foggy pauses. “Baby, you don’t have to eat it. I’ll make you more with actual cinnamon.”

Milly looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “I know,” she says, slowly. “I just wanted to show Dada what you did.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes and returning the plate. “Just for that, maybe I won’t make you more toast.”

“Sure, starve me for telling the truth. That’ll go over great with the other trusted adults in my life when I snitch on you.”

“It’ll never hold up in court,” Foggy replies, already putting two more slices of bread into the toaster.

“Besides,” she says, ignoring him and popping a sliced strawberry into her mouth. “I don’t crawl into your bed, I crawl into Dada’s.”

“It’s the same bed,” he explains. “Just because you cuddle with Dada and kick me all night doesn’t make it any less my bed. And what’s up with that, anyway? I have it on good authority that I’m the more cuddly of the two of us. Why don’t you ever snuggle me?”

“You want it too bad,” she says, taking a two-handed drink of her orange juice.

“Devil child,” he mutters. His mother once told him, when he and Matt were first looking into adoption, that your children will act as cosmic comeuppance for all the things you put your poor parents through as a child yourself and he hadn’t believed her. Maybe he just thought that, because Milly didn’t share any DNA with them, that his and Matt’s most exhausting qualities wouldn’t rear their ugly heads in her at all. And, boy, love her as he does, he was wrong on that count.

“Dada would never do this to me,” Milly continues, happily. “And he can’t even see! Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“About looking into boarding schools?” Foggy asks. “Definitely.”

“Mean!”

“You’re saying you’d miss me?”

“No,” Milly says, crossing her arms. “But I’d miss Dada and my friends and my teachers and Aunt Daisy and—ooh, can I borrow your phone?”

“Why?”

“I want to text Aunt Daisy a picture of the paprika toast.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come onnnnn,” she whines. “She’ll think it’s funny!”

“That’s exactly why I’m not giving you my phone.”

“You’re no fun,” Milly grumbles, sinking down to rest her chin on the counter dejectedly. Her head immediately pops up again when Matt appears behind her. “Dada! Wait til you see what your husband did!”

Matt stops to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Please don’t say your hair because it feels…uh, chaotic?”

“I haven’t even gone near it this morning,” Foggy says, as he fetches the toast that’s just popped out of the toaster. “That’s all natural.”

“Well, that’s something,” Matt replies, coming into the kitchen. “So, what did you do?”

“He made me cinnamon toast,” Milly interrupts, enthusiastically. “Here, try it!”

As with Foggy, the toast doesn’t even make it to Matt’s mouth before he’s frowning. “That’s…not cinnamon, honey.”

Milly cackles while Foggy glares at her. “I made a small mistake,” Foggy says, over the chorus of his daughter’s laughter.

“What is that? Chili powder?” Matt asks, sniffing delicately.

“Paprika.”

“Oh.”

“And I have been soundly roasted for my error,” Foggy says, mostly in Milly’s direction. “So, I don’t want to hear it from you, okay?”

Matt shrugs. “Okay.”

“Apparently, you would never make such a mistake in your life, because you’re a good dad and I’m some sort of rodeo clown who ended up here by mistake.”

Matt looks at him, very clearly stifling a laugh. “She only thinks that because she’s led a charmed life where I almost never make her breakfast,” he says. “Give it a week, she’ll be begging for you back.”

“You’d just let me eat fruit snacks for breakfast,” Milly says, as Foggy puts her new breakfast down in front of her.

“Yes, and then you wouldn’t have all the nutrients you need to learn new things at school and get smart enough to become the first female president of the United States,” Foggy says. “And then where would we be?”

“There better be a female president before I’m old enough,” Milly says, darkly and with a mouth full of toast.

“Better eat a balanced breakfast just to be safe,” Matt says, pushing off the counter to go find some coffee. “And be nice to your dad.”

“How will that help me become President?”

“People skills,” Matt says.

“Surviving into adulthood,” Foggy says, at the same time.

Milly blows a raspberry at him, but eats the new toast without complaint. Matt’s scouting around for the sugar bowl now and Foggy stops him with a hand on his elbow.

“I already put sugar in it for you,” he says.

Matt smiles. “I don’t care what Milly says. You’re the best rodeo clown a kid could hope for, and a very good husband too.”

“Thanks,” Foggy replies, and allows himself to be pulled in for a kiss. He gets to enjoy that for about ten seconds before Milly makes another disgusted noise behind him. He sighs and pulls back. “What’s wrong with the toast now?”

“Nothing,” Milly exclaims. “It’s you two that are grossing me out!”

“Sorry your dads are in love with each other,” Matt says, with a smile and a faint blush. “You live a tough life.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Milly says, as she shoves an improbably large bite of her toast into her mouth without issue. She’s not even finished chewing when she asks, “Will you walk me to school today, Dada?”

“Why? Are you worried I’ll do that wrong too?” Foggy asks, putting an arm around Matt’s shoulders.

“I’d be happy to, baby,” Matt interjects before Milly can say something smart-alecky back to him. “Go get dressed, okay?”

Mill hops down from her chair happily and practically skips to her room. Matt nudges Foggy’s shoulder with his nose.

“What’s up with you two?” he asks.

“I don’t know. She’s just pushing my buttons.”

“Successfully,” Matt replies.

“Yeah, well,” Foggy shrugs. “I slept half the night with her foot in my face while she cuddled with you. I’m a little cranky, I guess.”

“Feeling left out?” Matt asks, smiling, as he turns to wrap his arms around Foggy’s middle.

“I’m definitely the cuddliest person in this household and I want it acknowledged.”

“I agree,” Matt says, kissing him on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to Milly. She’s a maniac.”

“She takes after you.”

“Not true. I love to cuddle with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, leaning in to kiss him again.

“We could make that happen, you know,” Foggy says against his lips. “Drop the kid off at school, cancel our appointments for today, play hooky from our responsibilities, stay in bed all day…”

Matt seems to be thinking it over, tempted. “We couldn’t,” he says, not quite convincingly.

“We could. I know our bosses and, trust me, they’d want us to get laid.”

“I’ve said it before but those guys are weird,” Matt jokes. “They’re honestly too involved in our sex lives.”

“Yeah, it’s an HR nightmare,” Foggy replies, kissing him again.

“You two better not still be kissing when I come back,” Milly hollers from the bathroom, where she’s brushing her teeth (or so Foggy guesses from the sound of running water).

“We definitely will be,” Foggy shouts back, as Matt collapses into his shoulder laughing.

“I’m going to go attempt to get our daughter’s hair fit for public appearance,” Matt says, giving Foggy another quick kiss on the lips.

“And I’m going to text Kate that we’ll be in late this morning.”

Matt pauses. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Foggy consults his watch. “Our first appointment is at 11. I can do plenty to you in that amount of time.”

Matt looks a little startled by that, but not in a bad way. “Kate’s going to know what that text means, you know.”

“That just means there will be someone to share in Milly’s pain over us being disgustingly in love after all these years. Unless that’s your way of saying no?”

“Definitely not. Just warning you that we’ll get a lot of grief for it later.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You always do,” Matt replies, and Foggy’s definitely not being conceited when he says Matt’s tone sounds downright dreamy.

He heads off to help Milly finish getting ready and Foggy tackles the few dishes in the sink while he waits for another pot of coffee to finish brewing. A few minutes later, Milly appears in the kitchen, dressed and with her hair pulled into a neat bun. Neither of them can do anything particularly fancy with her hair, not least because she won’t sit still long enough for all that, but Matt does a good job for someone who’s never had long hair or siblings. A now presentable Milly pulls her backpack and coat off the hook on the wall and stops by Foggy’s side expectantly.

“What do you need, kiddo?” he asks, as he dries his hands on the towel hanging by the stove.

“Hug goodbye,” she says, lifting her arms towards him and he kneels to capture her in a big hug.

When she finally pulls back, she still looks hesitant, like there’s something she needs to ask him. It once again strikes him as crazy how much she reminds him of Matt sometimes.

“What’s the matter?” Foggy asks, tucking a picturesque loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You feel alright? Is all that paprika I fed you bothering your stomach?”

Milly shakes her head, looking away. “I just wanted to—Dada said that his dad would have made him eat that gross toast because they never wasted food when he was little.”

“Did he?” Foggy asks, already making a mental note to kick Matt’s ass when they’re alone together. “Listen, baby, your Grandpa Jack, he…didn’t have a lot of help when your Dada was young. They had to be really careful with their money and Dada was in the hospital for a while…”

“I know,” Milly says, nodding. “I’m just—thank you for making me new toast, instead.”

Foggy feels a lump in his throat that he struggles to swallow past. “Hey, you don’t have to thank me for that, okay? It’s my job to make your life as good as it possibly can be. Even if I have to make you a hundred pieces of toast every morning.”

“That would be expensive.”

“Still,” Foggy says, firmly. “I’m sorry if what Dada said made you upset.”

Milly scrunches up her face like she’s eating the paprika toast all over again. “He said it like it was funny,” she says, mildly horrified.

“God, okay,” Foggy replies, running a hand over his face. Matt would consider that a charming anecdote about his father. Speaking of people who are going to need a hug from him… “Don’t worry about that. Just have a good day at school, okay?”

“Okay,” Milly says, all concern gone as she hops in place excitedly.

Matt appears around the corner then, pulling on his coat. “Ready?”

“Just gotta get my shoes,” Milly shouts as she zooms off in the direction of the door.

“Alright,” Matt says, as he comes into the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, as he leans in to kiss him goodbye. “Oh, and maybe no more stories about your dad before school, yeah?”

Matt blinks at him. “What? Why?”

“We’ve talked about how sometimes the anecdotes from your childhood that you think are charming and scrappy are actually alarming to the people who love you now,” Foggy says, gently.

“Yeah…” Matt says, uncertainly, before his expression clears. “Oh. Shit.”

“It’s fine,” Foggy replies, rubbing his back. “I already explained that she can ask for as much food as she wants. Just maybe reinforce that with her on your way to school?”

Matt looks pale and queasy even as he nods. “Right. God, I didn’t—I’m sorry—”

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“And you still want to play hooky from work with me, even though I’m the world’s biggest idiot?”

Foggy kisses him on the forehead. “Of course. You’re still a very cute idiot.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Listen, I told Milly it’s my job to make her life as good as possible, and that’s true, but it’s also my job to do that for you. And right now, the best way to make your life better is to take you back to bed and—”

“Ready!” Milly shouts as she skids around the corner. “Are you guys still kissing?! What about my education?”

“She’s right, you know,” Matt says, pulling back and looking a bit better, though still tremulous. “We’re terrible parents.”

“Maybe I should look into boarding schools, after all,” Foggy jokes, crossing his eyes goofily at Milly over Matt’s shoulder.

“I’m never going to be President at this rate,” Milly laments.

“Alright, let’s get you to school,” Matt says, holding out his hand for her.

Foggy leans down to give Milly a kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t let your dad walk into traffic, okay?”

“I won’t,” Milly says, swinging their joined hands between them. “I promise.”

“That’s my girl. Have a good day, baby cakes.”

“You too, daddy cakes.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” Matt says, smiling at the two of them.

“I’ll be here,” Foggy replies, as suggestively as he can manage. It must work because Milly snarls in disgust.

“If you two start kissing again, I’m taking myself to school,” she says, leveraging her full weight against Matt to drag him towards the door. “Or running off to join the circus. You won’t know which until it’s too late.”

“She gets that from you,” Matt says, tiredly.

“I was going to say I think she gets it from you.”

“Maybe she has a point about us being gross.”

“Oh, well, yeah,” Foggy says, with a wink at Milly, who’s glaring at both of them now. “There was never any debate about that.”

[liass-21]

no because also for the gbbo au there’s also the angst of when benji does find out ethan’s a secret agent there to spy on/protect him, and they’re already friends or dating at the point he finds out & then he thinks ethan’s feelings for him were never real!! and ethan has to try to convince him that yes it was fake at first, but then he really did develop feelings for benji and benji doesn’t believe him!!!

no because YEAH but also if we keep going down this path we are going to end up exactly like oriley42’s project au… like this is literally the plot of that fic already but just gbbo instead of neighbors 😭

but like.. ugh the angst… the tension…. it would be so good fuckk it would be so good

[dizzymisslizzie]

Work in Progress Wednesday

Biscuit Land

I started this on my last days of maternity leave and thought it would a quick 3 chapter easy one to crank out before life got hectic… I was wrong. This fic has taken a life of its own and I can’t seem to coral myself from expending it. Posting this in hopes that it inspire me to finally finish this out:

“June! I got it! I got the job on Bake Off!” Alex Claremont-Diaz tells his sister as he walks into their London townhome. “Oh my god! I’m going to meet Paul Hollywood!” June Holleran’s dark curls bounce as she jumps up and down excitedly. “You are ridiculous! I’m going to be the production manager. I doubt I’ll be rubbing elbows with Ole Blue Eyes.” Alex accepts a hug from her and makes a cup of coffee. “Where’s your wife? I want to tell her before you spill the beans.” Alex asks. “Still at the office.” June pouts. Nora Holleran’s position at the London School of Economics had brought June and subsequently Alex to London. “I’m cooking fajitas tonight to celebrate!” June announces and they settle into the kitchen chatting excitedly.“Daddy!” His daughter bounces down the stairs holding her rainbow unicorn lovey. She runs into his arms.

[laundrybiscuits]

I know you said you’re not continuing the bake-off AU & that’s fine but I am curious… in your head, do they both make it to the final? Or does one get knocked out before the other? Only to reappear then at the end when they bring everyone back for the garden party?

That is a very good question! I think it really depends who else is in the tent—tbh one of the big reasons I'm a bit leery of continuing that snippet is that I don't want to make a whole bunch of OCs, and it would feel too weird to transpose the existing cast. Like, what, now Max is from a council estate in Deptford? Dustin grew up in Cambridgeshire? My Brit creds are far too haphazard to pull that off. (when you said Scottish Eddie in the tags I was like. yes that feels right but idk why exactly?? thank you for understanding how he would obviously vibe with a Brighton relocation though, I love queercoding the hell out of him in ways that Steve is absolutely not picking up)

That said...

I think Steve's palate is probably too American to gel perfectly with Paul and Mary, so he's going to have a couple of flavour/texture combos in his showstoppers that they just don't like (and one or two that pleasantly surprise them), his signature bakes are consistently going to look too rough/homemade for their liking, and he's going to struggle a bit with some of the more classically European technicals. I think he'll make it about halfway through the series, maybe even to quarter-finals, as long as he keeps his head in the game and other bakers mess up just enough.

Eddie will take a lot of risks in his flavours, but he's a planner. (I've been mulling over a whole Thing about how he's a classical musician at heart, metaphorically speaking.) He's going to be very technically proficient and precise, which is going to work out very well in combination with his creative flair as long as he doesn't forget to keep an eye on the basics. I could definitely see him accidentally forgetting to turn the oven on or something.

I think he's going to get quite far—more than Steve, barring any unforeseen disasters—but I don't know if he'll make it to the final. He'll try something absolutely off-the-wall for the semi-finals, and it'll basically be a coin flip as to whether it works out or not.

In any case, they will absolutely 100% be officially and very blatantly together by the garden party, and the producers will need to make some significant editorial decisions about the series as a whole.

(Please note that I have never seen a single episode of the Channel 4 version of GBBO except the Derry Girls cast special. I have absolutely no idea what they're up to nowadays, aside from the GIFs I've seen of Mexican Week.)

[ninjakittycomics]

Nick and Preston headcannon

Nicky knew about the minutemen for a while. He'd run into them, they did good work.

That Quincy massacre event was a real shame. Nicky always wondered if someone or something, had given that breaking point a helping hand.

Academic now.

In his new travels with Sole, he got to meet this promising young lieutenant in the ruins of the museum.

He felt awful for this living ray of sunshine. Everything that could have happened to them did. And he is trying to bear the weight of it all.

Glob... Nicky knew what that felt like.

Garvey loves seeing his grumpy grandpa (affectionate). Everything about Nick is actually soothing, and a reminder of how even something feared, can be a great force of good.

Nick, his eyes ever glowing for justice, instills a wash of pride in Garvey's heart. (He also loves hearing the stories of Nick's adventures, and does planning with him from time to time since his knowledge of the layout of the land is incomparable.

Funny enough i see these guys baking together during their off time. I dont know why...

(anyone want to write a "fallout 4, Great Boston Bakeoff" ep? 😅)

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #28

Plagued 🐀 / Movie(/TV) Star 🎥

echo is back from hiatus @athl0chunk  is it just me or is does ben get bigger with every season of bake-off | trella 💃 @howlatthemoonpie i think its every episode at this point lol

til-u-wobble 🔁 shhhyoudidntseeme

[Two images of Bake-Off judges Ben Kenobi and Satine Kryze on set in the iconic tent. The first image is several years old; the tent’s pastel banners indicate that it’s from the first series. Here, Ben and Satine both smile as they pose in front of a baking station. Satine is a tall, slender white woman with a wavy blonde updo who is wearing a dark teal dress and jade jewellery. Ben, a white man whose dark blonde hair and beard verge on ginger, is slightly taller and wears fitted dark jeans and a charcoal-grey sweater with a blue chambray collar popping out at the neckline. He is slender but for a slight paunch around his middle. In the second image, they stand in a similar pose, though this time they’re smiling at each other, rather than the camera. Satine looks largely the same, while Ben is much, much heavier. His smile emphasises his round cheeks, and his double chin is just visible beneath his beard. He wears a dark green sweater and his jeans are of a similar wash to the first picture. His clothes fit him well and don’t attempt to hide his plump belly and thick hips. One chubby arm rests around Satine’s shoulders. He’s too round for his other arm to sit flat against his side. The purple of Satine’s dress is just visible behind Ben’s bulk, as if she has her hand in his back pocket.]

#omg he got enormous 😍 #you’re so fat (affectionate) but to ben kenobi specifically

3,240 notes 

cheezitenjoyer 🔁 plumpeachpear

plumpeachpear:

SWISS ROLLS …….. ben walks into the tent looking like THAT and they’re going to look these 12 innocent people in the eye and tell them to make SWISS ROLLS???

#oh amidala we’re really in it now

59 notes

unduly persecuted for my correct opinions @lumixnara well i WAS going to have a nice evening watching bakeoff with mum but NOW i guess i will have to walk into the sea ….!

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kallie 💖💛💙  @springform_pan  putting this out there now: the ship name for ben and satine should be #cremepatandchill | Rafa Martez @cheetochopsticks  omfg yes

h/c dumpster denizen 🌈 @bikewheels2thicc  i can’t believe Anakin hasn’t made a Big Ben joke yet?? low hanging fruit and he DUCKED

norra 👽 @ignorra_me  not me learning to bake so my man will look like that 😩

Roo Page @pageroo  omg they are sooooo married #cremepatandchill | Roo Page @pageroo  the bickering!!! the Looks!!! @bakeoff my little banter-loving heart is so happy #bakeoff🧁 | Roo Page @pageroo omg and it turns into a little cupcake when you use the hashtag 😭 ADORABLE

sinning📍super hell @my_assive_mass  ok i cannot be the only one thirsting over ben kenobi’s tight shirts tho … that popped button has me WET | sinning📍super hell @my_assive_mass  yes i logged into my horny alt to tweet this WHAT OF IT

✨ Sugi ✨ @SoSugiSays  i just want ben kenobi to raw me while i shove pastries into his mouth is that too much to ask | ✨ Sugi ✨ @SoSugiSays  cannot express how deeply i hope that they never make ben kenobi do one of those reading thirst tweets interviews bc the things i have twote about that man … i am not seeing heaven … | farrah @my_onaconda_dont  NO because i just know he would get so red and flustered :>

time-to-size-up ​​🔁 stretchmarks-r-us

[An image of Barriss Offee standing at her Bake-Off station. She is wearing a white T-shirt, a light brown apron, and a black hijab. She is squinting at the sheet of paper holding the technical challenge instructions, which she is holding less than a centimetre from her face.]

#me and the girls analyzing every gifset of ben kenobi for The Jiggle™ 

233 notes

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Dr. Pudge @bibfortuna normal people at 2am: sleeping me at 2am: so you can actually tell that he’s gaining weight during the season by looking at how in s5e1, his sweater is smooth/unrumpled, but by s5e6 there’s a lump over his belly where the button has come undone under his sweater. in this essay i w

borkus (derogatory) @jaspermcknives  ben kenobi looks like he eats all the bakes himself and honestly i love that for him. we stan a fat king

kiera 🦢 @dimple_simp  OH MY GOD DID HE BURST A BUTTON ASFJDLASFLKJFA;S | thot cross buns @karinathegreat  look at satine lOOK AT SATINE

peli @pelicantweet yeah i’m into GBBO G ben’s Gut B ursting B uttons O ff

vintage lesbian @kallmeklaya oh satine is not beating the little freak allegations this week

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Fat Bucky Truther @letta_turmond oh that chair is a choice he is STRUGGLING … 😳🥵 ben my man it is time to size up

poggle the lesser @pillsburythighrolls  SO THEY??? CHOSE??? NOT TO EDIT THIS OUT??!!? LIKE?!?! THIS IS NOT LIVE TV?!?!?! | jinx 🏳️‍⚧️ (xe/xir) @peach_gobbler  they did that for us 😭😔✊ | poggle the lesser @pillsburythighrolls THANK U POST TEAM WE ARE EATING TODAY | jinx 🏳️‍⚧️ (xe/xir) @peach_gobbler  yeah and SO IS HE

Jen June 🏳️‍🌈🌌 she/her @thefatkosmos  the bake-off chair thing isn’t funny, it’s fatphobic. if your show is backed by a massive international streaming giant, you have no business not providing your stars with furniture they can safely and comfortably use, never mind FIT IN. 🧵 1/?

eleni @vanillaxxxxtract  a short recap of tonight’s bake-off episode 🙈: 💁🏼‍♀️💁🏼‍♂️🖋🍩👩🏾‍🍳📏🥐👨🏼‍🍳🎪🥮🧑🏽‍🍳👱🏻‍♀️👨🏻‍🦰🪑💥🙇🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♂️🌟👩🏾‍🍳😅😰😱😳🤯🥵😵 | eleni @vanillaxxxxtract  yes the end of that is me having a horny meltdown what about it you can’t stop me from living + livetweeting my extremely trashy truth

thelovehandlehandler 🔁 slurpin-and-glurpin

ratsummer:

satine. bestie. i love you and i need you to know from the bottom of my heart that everyone watching bbc2 rn knows exactly what your kinks are

#EVERYONE WATCHING BBC2!?! EVERYONE WITH NETFLIX GIRLIE #WE CAN ALL SEE YOU!!!

520 notes

korkie @korkryze guys can you please make it through ONE episode of bakeoff without getting weird about my aunt

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jedi mind trix [she/they] @beatrixbaking omg they literally got him like a giant reinforced chair holy shit  | siri @hey_siri AND HE’S STILL OVERFLOWING IT

projectguttenberg 🔁burpsmakemeblush

onlyalittlevanilla:

Ok but I actually do want to talk about Ben Kenobi from GBBO bc I think it’s cool that they don’t really treat/shoot/talk about him differently even though he’s gained weight. I can count on one hand the number of fat people I’ve seen on TV who tick all of the “actually fat not just Hollywood fat,” “well-dressed and respected and not treated as a slob,” and “considered to be at least generally handsome by the narrative” boxes at once. And it’s so refreshing to (a) see a celebrity chef who actually looks like they eat/enjoy food and (b) see a fat person get to talk about and eat and enjoy food on TV without it being stigmatized somehow! If I had to guess I’d put him around 350-ish lbs (~158 kg or 25 st for my non-USAmerican followers) and that just feels REVOLUTIONARY for mainstream TV! If he were in a sitcom he would get pigeonholed into some stupid weight loss storyline like that poor beautiful girl from that other show and here in the tent he just gets to be an expert in his craft and have insane chemistry with his costar who obviously thinks he’s the hottest thing since sliced bread and I LOVE IT. 

#YEAH LIKE #im gonna need whoevers running bakeoff right now to start doing every other genre of television #put fat people in everything and LET THEM BE HOT

5,391 notes

doublechinsforthewin 🔁projectguttenberg

onlyalittlevanilla:

Ok but I actually do want to talk about Ben Kenobi from GBBO bc I think it’s cool that they don’t really treat/shoot/talk about him differently even though he’s gained weight. I can count on one hand the number of fat people I’ve seen on TV who tick all of the “actually fat not just Hollywood fat,” “well-dressed and respected and not treated as a slob,” and “considered to be at least generally handsome by the narrative” boxes at once. If I had to guess I’d put him around 350-ish lbs (~158 kg or 25 st for my non-USAmerican followers) and that just feels REVOLUTIONARY for mainstream TV! If he were in a sitcom he would get pigeonholed into some stupid weight loss storyline like that poor beautiful girl from that other show and here in the tent he just gets to be an expert in his craft and have insane chemistry with his costar who obviously thinks he’s the hottest thing since sliced bread and I LOVE IT. 

doublechinsforthewin:

NOT TO MENTION that how refreshing it is to (a) see a celebrity chef who actually looks like they eat/enjoy food and (b) see a fat person get to talk about and eat and enjoy food on tv without it being stigmatized somehow?? And idk it just gets me that they have clearly made accommodations for him (ie chair, more fans during hot weather, fiddly stuff on edges got rearranged after he bumped into Jocasta’s jar of flour) rather than having him lose weight or something. His contract must be absolutely insane but clearly someone is fighting for him and I love when you can kind of see it bleed through from behind the scenes

#like it means so much to me #as a very fat person who also bakes for a living #my personal headcanon is that satine is his pit bull for stuff like this but obviously i have no proof lol

5,394 notes

Jen June 🏳️‍🌈🌌 she/her @thefatkosmos okay, you know what, they did ok with this. they listened, took accountability, and got the man a decent chair. good for them.  | Jen June 🏳️‍🌈🌌 she/her @thefatkosmos  the bake-off chair thing isn’t funny, it’s fatphobic. if your show is backed by a massive transatlantic company AND a streaming giant, you have no business not providing your stars with furniture they can safely and comfortably use, never mind FIT IN. 🧵 1/? | Jen June 🏳️‍🌈🌌 she/her @thefatkosmos should it have taken a whole ass twitter debacle instead of like. literally anyone on set clocking that his chair was too small? PROBABLY NOT, but. yanno. hollywood 🙃

d0ugh-duchess 🔁 dontjuststandthere-bustanut

[An image of Ben Kenobi and Satine Kryze on the set of Bake-Off, discussing who will win Star Baker and who will be eliminated this week. Satine, a thin, blonde, white woman, sits in a delicate white chair with curly armrests at a round table draped in a robin’s egg blue tablecloth. Ben, a fat white man with strawberry-blond hair and a beard, sits across the table from her in a much sturdier-looking white chair without armrests. Between them are the four remaining contestants’ bakes from today’s challenges. Satine’s chair is pulled in close to the table, and her elbows rest on the tabletop, but Ben sits back in his chair, his ample belly filling his lap.]

#ngl i kinda miss the eps where he was still trying to fit into that teeny little lawn chair 😅 #listen im a simple woman with simple needs and mainstream media fulfills NONE OF THEM #pls don’t drag me for this that’s why i put in the tags #god can’t see it if you put it in the tags!

4,677 notes

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484 by tummyrollsss

The Great British Bake-Off RPF

No Archive Warnings Apply, Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi, Satine Kryze, Weight Gain, Light Angst, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, Fluff, Established Relationship, Body Worship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Stuffing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, (feedist version), Burping, Hiccups, fat Ben Kenobi, like he’s FAT fat, you have been warned, dom!Satine Kryze, making that a tag, i just think she’d like to be in charge!, the author’s barely disguised numbers kink, no beta we die like ben’s chair

After the chair fiasco, Satine wants to see how much bigger Ben can get before the season is over.

Language: English   Words: 19,302    Chapters: 10/10    Comments: 31    Kudos: 303 Bookmarks: 55    Hits: 7,721

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toastwithextrabutter 🔁 thebstandsforbbw

thequeerfeedress:

me seeing “gay representation” on tv: thats not me

me seeing sat!ne kr¥ze quietly lose her shit on gbbo every week: shes just like me fr

849 notes

obiroundkenobi 🔁 himboswithhiccups

[A photoset of six screencaps from series 5 of Bake-Off. The photoset is captioned “Satine Kryze gracefully white-knuckling her way through feedist hell 1/???” Top left: Satine and Ben Kenobi listen as Kit Fisto describes his signature bake. Ben’s big belly rests on the counter of Fisto’s baking station. Satine looks perfectly normal except that she is clutching a rolling pin for literally no reason. Top right: Ben cutting himself a sizable second slice of Barriss Offee’s pineapple upside-down cake with his free hand resting on the plump curve of his belly. Satine, just visible behind him, is smiling with her mouth while her eyes do a thousand-yard stare. Middle left: Ben smiles good-naturedly as he brushes powdered sugar from near the hemline of his sweater and accidentally reveals a sliver of the bottom curve of his belly, straining against the pale blue button-down he’s wearing underneath. Satine is all the way across the tent, but she’s looking at him nonetheless. Middle right: Satine and Ben sitting across from each other at the judges’ table after the showstopper, mid-conversation. Ben is very clearly too big for the little white garden chairs but is valiantly wedged in despite the fact that the armrests are basically lost in his side rolls and his hips are so wide that they’re overflowing the seat. Ben is carefully leaning forward to pull a plate toward him, while Satine holds a knife and fork and has cut the petit four on her plate into about eighteen pieces. Bottom left: Ben with his eyes closed in pleasure after taking a bite from one of Steela Gerrera’s signature hazelnut-cardamom creme brulees. Satine is looking on perfectly affably, but host Anakin Skywalker is looking at her with one eyebrow pointedly raised. Bottom right: Ben and Satine sit at the judges’ table, a split second before that really obvious cut. Ben is spilling out of his little garden chair and his face shows a look of slightly panicked surprise. Satine is just starting to jump up from her own chair, one hand thrown out toward Ben like a life raft. The fingers of both her hands are splayed wide, and although it’s not verified by the episode’s subtitles or closed captions, her mouth forms a word that looks a lot like “Fuck!”] 

#god is she dying up there i would be dying #shoutout to satine kryze for living out all of our kinkiest dreams #we love you queen #bakeoff #creme pat and chill

6,905 notes

chouxpersizeme 🔁 thickfrosting

thickfrosting: 

god i hope they just. let bakeoff keep (d)evolving into a feedist wonderland afjalskdfj. last week: wildly obvious camouflage bc ben popped a button on air. this week: unsubtle cut bc bens chair (?!?) broke (?!?!?!?!) when he sat down. next week: satine rubs bens belly and he burps onscreen. during the final they reenact The Cake Scene from matilda. lets keep this going for the love of god this is the most alive ive felt in months 

#RIGHT THOUGH I FEEL INSANE #feels like watching yuri on ice as it was airing #us every week: THEY DON’T MEAN- THEY CAN’T- THEY’RE NOT GONNA -??!??! #yoi creators every week: lmao fucking WATCH US #looks meaningfully at netflix #WELL??? ARE YOU GONNA?!?!

3,879 notes

[dictearchive]

[lavendertheys]

Length: 8,200 words Rating: T for language and heavy themes TWs: very descriptive panic attack (see author's note)

Another silence settles between them, and Imogen might actually fall back asleep after all.

“I could make us chocolate chip pancakes,” Laudna offers after a while, hushed and close to Imogen’s ear, like she’s trying not to disturb her any more than necessary.

Imogen hums in agreement, but doesn’t move a muscle, and neither does Laudna.

“Or,” she continues, voice soft as silk, “I could stay right here.”

Imogen nuzzles into her pillow a little to try to hide the sudden heat on her face. “Yeah,” she replies, with fully formed words this time. “You could.”

.

Welcome to THE GREAT BYRODEN BAKE OFF 🧁

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Production Delay

Episode 4

Technical Difficulties

[sheisraging]

Dana making Cinderella's carriage for chocolate week is giving me big GBBO AU chapter 7 feels.

[cha-melodius]

WIP Wednesday

Well it's actually Thursday but I was tagged by @three-drink-amy and I actually have something new to share, so here you go.

“Huh,” Alex says, still just watching, intensely, as Henry retrieves a container of black currants from the fridge. “I didn’t know princes could bake.” “I’d wager not many of them can,” Henry replies as he works, letting one corner of his mouth tug upward. He has to admit that it’s easier to talk to Alex when he has an excuse to keep himself busy. This is definitely the longest conversation they’ve ever had. “It’s a recent hobby. Picked it up as a stress reliever.” He pauses as he stirs the pectin into his jam, then huffs a soft laugh. “You should have seen the look on my equerry’s face when I asked for a full set of baking equipment for my flat in Oxford.” “Right, grad school,” Alex says, which surprises Henry. He may know all about how Alex is in law school—because he still reads every interview with Alex that gets published—but the last thing he would have expected is Alex keeping up with his life. He supposes it’s perhaps merely cultural osmosis. “You’re doing a Master’s now?” “Doctorate,” Henry corrects automatically. “Oh, Doctorate, sorry.” Henry very nearly winces, but when he looks up again, the smirk he finds tilting Alex’s lips is teasing. Almost playful. It’s actually terrible, because if Henry was already attracted to mean-smirky Alex (and he was, Lord help him), playful-smirky Alex is a thousand times worse. It’s enough to make his mouth go dry, and he has to direct his own gaze back down to the pot on the hob to keep from flushing, though he’s not sure he succeeds on that count. “So are you any good?” Alex prompts. “Sorry?” Henry says, furrowing his brow in confusion. “At grad school?” Alex rolls his eyes. “At baking.”

[friendandphoe]

TWO DAYS LATE BUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ahbonjour I LOVE YOU HAVE SOME NEW MOVIE HOUSE BRAINROT

also @museumlad and @creativeskull95 you may also enjoy this have fun

David calls Donnie at 2:37 pm on a completely nondescript Tuesday with a brisk, "I have a proposition for you," in lieu of a hello.

"Shit, babe, let me grab the condoms and the lube, I can be at your place in fifteen." Donnie says, because his mouth moves faster than his brain and both of them hate him.

David's eye roll is practically audible over the phone, but so is his smile when he responds, "I'd literally rather fling myself into the fires of Mount Doom than get anywhere near your dick ever again. No, doofus, I've got a work thing. Interested?"

"God, yes." Donnie groans. Thank someone David Peterson is his best friend before his anything else and is used to the shit that comes out of Donnie's mouth. "I told you about my new set, right?"

"I thought you said you didn't have anything."

"Because I don't, Dave. The new set is a whole lot of nothing. I've been tearing my hair out for weeks trying to think of stuff, my brain is, like, fully fried at this point."

David snorts. "What, our breakup didn't give you any material to work with?"

Donnie blows a raspberry, flinging an arm over his eyes even though Lark's been gone for, like, a week doing some business bitch shit and isn't around to see his dramatics. "Do me a favor and be more of an asshole so I can actually pull something out of it. There's nothing funny about an amicable break up."

"Statistically, between the two of us, you're more likely to be the asshole about it." David points out. "Write a joke about how you jumped on the chance to fuck as soon as you heard my voice."

Donnie has. Many of them. None of them have lived to see the light of day. "You propositioned me, motherfucker. You literally said, 'I have a proposition for you' and expected me to not take that in a fucky direction?"

David snorts again. "Go get laid and then maybe we can progress past two sentences without you thinking I want to bone down."

All half-formed jokes about this conversation immediately fly out of his head. "David," Donnie begs. "I will literally pay you whatever you want to have you never say the words 'bone down' in reference to sex ever again."

"I am only ever going to call it boning down from now on." David says immediately, because he's an asshole. Not enough of one to use as material for a good comedy set, but to be honest, Donnie thinks he can live with that. He’ll gladly settle for missing out on comedy gold because of a peaceful breakup if it means he gets to keep his best friend. "I think you should bone down so that you stop thinking that I'm trying to bone down with you. I’m just an innocent business boy trying to do my job—"

Never fucking mind, this man is terrible and Donnie hates him. "Oh my god."

"—and here you are sullying my good-natured intentions with thoughts of boning down—"

"Stoooop."

"—when all I've ever tried to do is live by the eternal words of our lord and savior Britney Spears. I just want to work, bitch. All my long nights at the office, all my running around trying to find you, my dearest friend, a well-paying gig, because even though our amorous relations have since ended I still hold you near to my heart, and yet! You scorn my kindness with advances towards boning down.”

"I'm dying. Literally dying."

“Distasteful behavior, truly. Horrendous. You’re a rake and a rapscallion and I shan’t do business with you anymore if you’re only going to lust after me the whole time. ‘Tis a futile endeavor, Donaldo. Your feelings are simply unrequited. I daresay you have transformed into what is known in some circles as a simp. Do you know what a simp is, D? I learned that one like a week ago. You’re down bad tremendous, as the kids might say. Bone down tremendous, even."

"I'm gonna — I'm hanging up, Peterson."

"Alright, fuck you then, I don't have a job offer for you."

Donnie whines. "Nooo, Davey my Davey, I didn't mean it, let me pay rent this month."

“Are you going to listen to me talk about internet slang.” David says, punctuating each word with a clap.

“No, because it’s, like, basically all AAVE and I bet you literally anything that Lark and my mom have been saying that shit for years.”

David snorts. “I would pay good money to hear your mom use the word ‘simp’ in a sentence.”

Donnie laughs. “Pay up, then, that’s Black 90s shit."

"Goddammit, internet," David mutters, and Donnie's phone chimes.

"Goddammit, internet," he agrees, pulling away to check whatever notification just came in. Venmo: David Peterson paid you $30. — Reparations — Your Venmo balance is now $30. "Alright, you're forgiven."

"God bless and goodnight," David says dryly. "Can I give you this goddamn job offer now."

Donnie waves a hand airily. David will sense it through the phone. "See, if you'd started with that instead of 'I have a proposition'—"

"Donnie."

"Shutting up now. Blow me away, Peterson."

David clears his throat and puts on his Business Professional voice. "Donnie Frasier, on behalf of Love Productions USA, I would like to formally offer you a position as presenter on the reboot of The Great American Baking Show."

Donnie jolts up, eyes wide. "Shut up. You're joking."

"I am not."

"DAVID."

"Mhmm." David hums, smug as hell. "We're location scouting right now, but once we have that settled we'll fly you in so you can get acquainted with the crew while we're holding baker auditions. Once we've found our twelve and they're signed on, you'll stay on-location for an additional ten weeks while we're filming. You're looking at a period of about, uh, maybe fifteen to sixteen weeks total? Just the one season for now, but, y'know, contract is open to renewal depending on ratings and reception. Food and board are included, and we're probably working with your regular rate, but I'll have to double check our budget with Jay. Obviously you know Lark has already signed on as a judge, we just got George Fox of 'the Corporal Cooks' on as the other judge—"

"DAVID!"

"I'm producing, natch, James Matsuki is with me on that — him and Fox have someone in mind for, uh. Shit, either floor manager or director, I don't remember, but Lark and I wanted to recommend you for presenter. We're trying to get Mags Taylor to go on with you—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP."

"—provided you accept." David finishes, like it would ever cross Donnie’s mind to refuse. "You wanna hear who else we have for crew? I've actually worked with a lot of them on other projects, they're good people."

"Absolutely fucking not, I'm in, I'm in, I was already in as soon as you opened your beautiful perfect mouth! David!" Donnie hollers, scrambling up and out of bed and down the hall into his kitchen, flinging his laptop open with feral desperation. "Did you — I have to — does Susan know, I have to email Susan —"

David huffs. "Who do you think I am? I emailed Susan about it like three days ago, she said to go to you directly."

"THREE DAYS?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Donald."

"YOU HELD OUT ON ME FOR THREE DAYS, DAVARIAH?" Donnie bellows, whipping through his inbox. There's a handful of offers from venues to host him for shows, an update on the ongoing thread from his tour manager — there! The sacred s.geller@vnsgrv.com, nestled right underneath what might be a fan that somehow got a hold of his professional email address.

"Tell Susan to respond to me faster, then." David says mildly, rustling something on his end of the call.

"Leave my poor sweet Susan alone, she's done nothing wrong ever in her life and it's not her fault you never loved me." Donnie fires back, scanning through Susan's summary of the offer — same shit David was telling him, minus any name dropping, thank you best friend/ex-boyfriend perks. He replies with a very enthusiastic ABSOLUTELY HELL YES, which will not surprise Susan in the slightest. "Not even Susan can warm the frozen tundras of your heart."

David sighs, long and heavy. "You're such a fucking drama queen. I'm going to write a guide for your next partner, so they know how to deal with you."

"That's — fair, honestly. Make a note on my fabulous ass and sparkling personality, though."

"What sparkling personality," David mutters, but clears his throat back into Business Professional. "So, Donnie Frasier, do you accept the offer?"

Donnie pauses. "Am I allowed to have 'fuck yeah' on the record?"

David hangs up on him.

~*~

They've only been separated for three weeks, but Lark's airport tackle makes Donnie feel like he's returning from World War 2.

"You're in!" Lark screams, ignoring the affronted looks they're getting from the other people meandering out of baggage claim.

Donnie squeezes hard around her waist and pulls her up, spinning her around twice for good measure. It never hits him just how much he misses his sister until they're reunited. "I'm in!" He yells back, and relishes the scandalized cough they get from the white lady brushing past them.

Somewhere off to their right, someone laughs. "Twinth, huh?"

"Twins," David agrees, and clears his throat. "Y'all ready to go?"

They're not, but Donnie knows how to compromise. He sets Lark back down in her feet and wraps an arm around her shoulders, grinning wildly at her as they set out. "Look at you!"

"Look at me!" Lark agrees, beaming back. She looks great — she's switched out her locs for twists and her blue sundress pops against her dark skin, and yeah, that's great, but underneath it all, she's glowing. She looks happy, she looks proud, she looks like a big fuckin' dead weight asshole has finally been kicked to the curb, thank God. There's a bounce in her that he hasn't seen in months, that he — and he would never say this out loud to anyone ever, not even their mom — worried she would never get back.

He loves her so much. He's going to vomit in all her shoes.

"Tell me everything," he demands, graciously letting her pull his suitcase out of his hands. "Did he cry? Tell me he cried."

David, whose relationship with Donnie overlapped the middle of The Brandon Saga, chooses this moment to start very loudly debating directions with the dark-haired guy he brought along. Donnie will give him the most platonic of high-fives for it later.

"Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy." Lark says airily, which means not here, not now. "How's it feel to have a big boy job, though?"

Donnie is a mature, upstanding, tax-paying adult and refrains from sticking his tongue out at his beloved twin sister. "I actually turned down Netflix to come do this dinky lil baking show with you, Birdie, so you better be fuckin' grateful."

"I've been blessed by your presence," Lark says immediately, bumping their shoulders together. "You should be on Netflix, by the way, it's total bullshit you're not. Like, I'm so glad we're doing this together, but—"

"No, you know what?" Donnie cuts in, giving her a little squeeze. "I'm excited about it. I'm taking a comedy sabbatical and I'm gonna do nothing but eat cupcakes and make you miserable on set and it's gonna be great. Netflix can eat my entire ass, honestly."

Ahead of them, David's friend snorts, breaking off the direction debate to walk backwards through the revolving door. Donnie is thoroughly impressed. "From what I heard, Netflix is more of a 'no lube no aftercare' kind of lover. Executiveth, you know? They jutht wanna fuck you over and then roll over and go to thleep." The guy eyes Donnie up and down in a way that makes him roll his shoulders back and stand up straighter. Lark what the fuck taps him in the ribs and he shut the fuck up bumps her knee. Sue him, he’s a disaster bi and weak to authoritative gazes. She knows this already. “Your work’th incredible, though, I thaw one of your thows a couple yearth ago and I wath crying laughing. If Netflix doethn’t want you, that’th their loth.”

Donnie responds in the only reasonable fashion: he fans a hand in front of his face and swoons heavily against Lark, who cheerfully ducks out from beneath his arm and lets him stumble into a trashcan. “Keep talking like that and we’re going right to the bathroom, stranger.” He purrs, and they laugh, clear and pleasant. “Normally I make people buy me dinner before rawdogging me in public, but I can always make an exception.”

David suddenly whirls around from where he'd been leading the procession, brows furrowed tightly behind his glasses. “I fully forgot y’all don’t know each other.” He says, like it’s inconceivable to exist in a world where his friends don’t all run in the same social circles.

Donnie shrugs and holds out a hand. "I just assumed you kidnapped someone with a bigger car, T-B-H. Donnie Frasier, he/him. What's up?"

The stranger takes his hand and shakes, but keeps a severe facial expression. "I'm actually airport polithe, I'm here to inthpect your luggage for ilithit thubthtanthes," they say seriously, holding Donnie's gaze for two, three, four beats before cracking a grin. "Ethan Thtone, altho he/him, head of wardrobe and rethident big car boy."

"Fuckin' rub it in," David mutters, and lets Ethan swat him.

"I don't wanna hear anything from the man who dethided to thqueeze hith theven-foot ath into a clown car." Ethan says, cementing his place as Donnie's new favorite. “Go be useful and get Karen, I wanna thmooze. My car,” he answers as Donnie’s opening his mouth to ask the question.

“Why?”

“Because she’s old and white and complains the entire time!” David yells over his shoulder, disappearing into the parking lot with Ethan’s keyring.

Ethan makes an affronted noise. “He’th thuch a jerk,” he mutters, but there’s something fond tugging at the corners of his mouth as he says it.

“He’s single, you know,” Donnie blurts out, because his mouth continues to move faster than his brain and they both continue to hate him. He lets Lark smack him in the arm with a gleeful “Donnie!” because yeah, fair.

Ethan goes bright red, and he laughs nervously. “Oh, uh  — yeah, I know. We, uh, actually worked together while, uh, y’all were thtill — a thing? Tho, uh. I know. I jutht think he’s cute, though, I’m not trying to, like, move in on anything—”

“God, please,” Donnie laughs, patting Ethan on the back. “He’s my best friend, but like. That ship done sailed, my dude. No hard feelings over here if you wanna, y’know.”

“Mount. Climb aboard. Cast off.” Lark supplies helpfully, grinning gleefully as Ethan turns redder and redder with every word. “Thank fuck you’re here now, Ducky, I felt like I was losing my mind watching them try to flirt.”

“We weren’t flirting.” Ethan protests weakly. Lark raises an eyebrow at him. “Honetht! I’m a terrible flirt.”

“So’s David,” the twins say in unison. Ethan groans and buries his face in his hands, muttering something under his breath that might be “abtholutely fuck me”.

Lark ignores him. “I’ve been telling him that Davey is available, too, he kept insisting he didn’t want to make things weird with you coming onto the project—”

Donnie emphatically waves his hands. “Fuck no! I mean, I for sure wanna get some popcorn and watch the show, but, like, from the point-five seconds I’ve known you—” 

“Yeth, pleathe, let’th talk credentialth,” Ethan says desperately.

“What? No.” Donnie says, gesturing at Ethan’s everything with a raised eyebrow. “You’re cute, you dress well, you like my jokes, you don’t let David intimidate you even though you like him, I trust you already. You’ll be great, I’m excited to work with you, blah blah blah. Like, feel free to stop me if you’re legit uncomfortable, but—”

“Remember what I said before, E?” Lark interrupts, patting Ethan’s back. “About Donnie being a professional meddler?”

Donnie nods in satisfaction. “I am a professional meddler. Please let me meddle, we’ll bond and become best friends and ruin David’s life. It’ll be so good.”

Ethan looks up at the sky. Donnie doesn’t know why; if anyone’s up there, they know better than to mess with Donnie Frasier when he’s on a mission. “If I thay yeth,” he says uncertainly, and the twins immediately swivel like sharks smelling blood. “Can we at leatht be thubtle about it?”

Lark winces, looking at her brother. “Tall order, Ducky. Think you can handle it?”

Donnie flips her off with one hand and holds out the other for Ethan to hesitantly shake. “Ethan Stone,” he says solemnly. “This is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Ethan still vaguely looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. “I mean it, though, I’m really a terrible flirt.”

Donnie looks at his sister. “Vibe check?”

“Drama club Peggy circa 2016.”

Donnie stares in horror. “Please tell me it’s not the same vibes.”

Lark claps three times. Donnie throws his head back and cackles. Ethan looks like he’s about two seconds away from climbing into the sewer and living his best ninja turtle life. “It’th not  — I don’t even know what that meanth, I’m not, like  —  thtop — thtop laughing, I’m theriouth—” But he’s grinning despite himself, because Donnie’s never once been able to hold a mildly uncomfortable conversation with someone without making them laugh, and he’s not about to break his streak now with all these fancy new TV people to impress.

“Ethan,” Donnie sighs, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes and slinging an arm over his new best friend’s shoulders. “I’m going to hook you guys up so hard. I cannot wait.”

A white Toyota pulls up in front of them, hazards on, and David climbs out of the driver’s side, half-jogging over to grab Donnie’s bags and shove ‘em in the trunk. “Everything okay?” He asks, mostly to Ethan, who’s beginning to match the color of the beret David used to wear in college. Donnie wonders if Ethan knows about the beret. Donnie desperately needs Ethan to know about the beret.

“Fine,” he and Ethan say at the same time, in wildly different tones of voice.

David gives Donnie A Look. “What are you doing to my wardrobe head?”

“Irreversibly changing the course of your lives,” Donnie says cheerfully, rubbing Ethan’s shoulder.

“Fucking delightful.” David sighs, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, I wanna get back to the hotel by five and you’ve still got a shitload of people to meet. Do not let Donnie bully you into anything you don’t wanna do,” he says to Ethan, just loud enough that Donnie can reasonably make a comment about it.

And he will. “You’ll thank me for this one day, boyos.” He says haughtily, and Lark laughs loudly, shoving him into the backseat of the Toyota and climbing in after him. She squeezes his hand hard as they’re settling in: I missed you. He squeezes back and grins at her. Missed you more.

David buckles himself into the driver’s seat and meets his gaze in the rearview mirror. “As long as you keep whatever shenanigans you’re planning off Jay and Alexa’s radars, I’ll do whatever you want, dude, I don’t give a single shit.”

Lark pulls out her phone to text someone. “Kinky,” she comments, grinning as David sputters in the front seat. “In front of Ethan and the entire airport and God, too? Fuck it up, my guy.”

“I’m in hell.” David deadpans, and pulls out towards the airport exit.