#I may or may not have access to some “cheese”

[peccatulum-b-gone]

Hunt halted

After an extensive stakeout, it seems that the Erlking has once again vanished without a trace.

No worries, though. The rat will show up again where there´s cheese to be had.

[normal-thoughts-official]

In the remote recesses of the world, north even to the great Maghreb, live a people with a weird and offputting cousine.

The French, as they're called, partake in the consumption of unique, and oftentimes alarming, ingredients, such as snails, frogs, fish eggs, and, on occasion, juice made of rotten grapes.

The most surprising part of this appalling cultural norm is that it is not, as no doubt thought our readers, the result of famine or lack of resources. Although mainly known for their violent culture, in which it is widely accepted to burn other people's cars, (and, before modern civilization made its way to the region, even take off helpless people's heads with a giant cleaver called the guillotine), the French also have access to rich resources often not exploited by the modern world. One such place is the Landes forest, home to the adorable rabbit, which recently has become a choice of pet for those leaning towards the exotic.

No, the French don't eat such slimy, questionable items out of necessity; it is by choice. As appalling as it may sound, they actually consider the foods derived from such ingredients to be high cuisine, and dishes containing them can be particularly expensive in the small region's economy.

With the blessing of my editor, and the guarantee that a medical team specializing in gastroenterology would be at the ready in case of an emergency, I agreed to travel to the faraway region to sample some of the so-called "delicacies". They were prepared by real, native Frenchs, although inspected by a health expert to make sure the hygienization was adequate. I've always been an adventurous eater, but even I must admit that the prospect filled me with aprehension. Would I be able to stomach the foreign dishes without getting sick, or worse, offending our arson-happy hosts?

My anxieties were initially heightened by the conversation with the French who hosted me; as is typical in their culture, he was offputting and rude, often commenting on the mistakes I made on the weird, twisting tongue I was doing my best to emulate. Still, in the spirit of cultural acceptance and not getting my head cut off, I accepted his socially inapt behavior with grace.

I must admit that the rotten grapes were what I was most curious about. The juice derived from them, known as wine, is considered a delicacy, and there are hundreds of different types of it. In French culture, there are even people whose entire job is to appoint the correct choice of wine to go with any given food; such men and women are caled sommeliers and held in high regard by French society.

I quickly learned that the making of wine is something of an art to the native Frenchs. As my self-important host dizzied me with endless descriptions of different wine varieties, I realized I may have gotten too deep into the turbulent waters of the unique region's palate. Out of the exhausting and oftentimes confusing technical detail, however, I was able to extract an important piece of information: the extent of the rot is important in the making of wine.

That's right, dear reader: they actually prefer it when the grapes are more rotten! Spanning not only decades, but sometimes whole centuries, the French's grapes are left to rot in humid wooden barrels - a tradition that's been kept alive since the Middle Ages -, becoming thoroughly ruined so that their juice may be extracted for the making of wine. And the longer they have been left decomposing with their local fungus, the more valuable the juice is.

I was simply too curious to wait. And even more delighted to find out about yet another culinary tradition I didn't know about: the social gatherings known as wine and cheese, in which wine is paired with a variety of solid, yellow, rubber-like wheels derived from fat extracted from cows' milk - the cheese.

Such unique, foul-smelling dishes are a frequent part of the everyman French's life, being consumed by rich and poor alike in a variety of different recipes from all sorts of French subregions. Among them, I found yet another that would delight my intellect and terrify my stomach: gorgonzola. To the reader not quite as deep in diving into the intricacies of French culture, I shall explain: gorgonzola is but a piece of the aforementioned cheese, left to mold.

I could not believe my ears. These people drank rotten grapes and paired them with rotten cow fat, and they enjoyed it. What to us would be a nightmare scenario in a case of extreme poverty, and a surefire way to earn a trip to the hospital, to them was a quite enjoyable meal.

I later learned that gorgonzola is actually from a neighboring nation close to the French - the Italians. Although officially considered a different tribe, Italians share much in common with the French, including the love for wine and cheese, a quite long border, and a language derived from the same roots - the long-dead Latin, ancient language in which their holy book, the "Bible", was once written.

I am happy to report that my experimentation did not lead to hospital trips, and the most I got was an unusually long carsickness. But I have taken with me much more than the curious experience: traveling to France has helped me expand my horizons, meet new people, and connect with cultures other than my own. Although violent and offputting, the French can be quite amorous, and I was even gifted a piece of cheese from a little girl. It is not an experience I would like to repeat anytime soon, but it's made for an interesting story that helped me grow as a writer, investigative journalist, and, most of all, eater.

I can only hope my stomach has taken some good lessons out of the experience, too.

Cremilda Castanho is a writer, cat-lover, and known foodie, with a knack for finding unexplored depths of cuisine across the world. Her book, What Weirdos Eat, was a Folha de São Paulo best seller, and paved the way for culinary exploration in journalism, earning her a Pulitzer prize.

[pillow-princess-diaries]

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙿𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍��� 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎…

Summary:- when cooking dinner takes a little detour

Pairing:- Atsushi x AFAB!Reader

Tw:-cunnilingus,fingering, oral ( M & F receiving and giving),unprotected sex???cum eating??giving atsushi a blowie through his pants??

W/C :- 1.3k ish i think

A/N:- the brief my friend gave me was ‘dry humping and stuff through clothes’ so this is what i came up with😭.I hope it isn’t too awkward and y’all enjoy it! Also this is totally in reference to the vine!

Imagine like you come home after a shift and start cooking dinner

A few minutes pass and you hear the main door click open and a very tired very drained little weretiger walks in.

Imagine you’re cooking some creamy pasta, and then you feel a pair of slender arms wrap around your midsection,their owner burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“hmm watcha cookin’ love….” Atsushi slurs against your skin.

“Oh just a classic,” you say “mac and cheese,’sushi”

You stir the pot a little to let him hear what you mean because you know he has his eyes closed.

Little did you know it’d remind him of something else.

“Hmm..” he sighs, “sounds good y/n/n”

As you stir the pot you can feel him behind you.

Lightly grinding against your ass,burying his face deeper and inhaling your scent.

You know exactly what he’s doin,but you wanna try something~

You stir the pot slowly,making sure he can hear it,and just as you’d thought,his thrusts become more pronounced,more defined.

You push your hips back just a little and feel something hard.

Just to mess with him you stir the pot faster and just like that his thrusts came at a faster rate.

Atsushi moans into your neck, “y/n…please…Hngh” but he shows no signs of stopping.

“What was that sushi?” You say,not stopping what you’re doing while you fein innocence.

He begins to lightly nibble your skin,making his way up to your ear,placing little kitten licks over the bites.

You lean your head back,allowing him just a little more access,and he rolls with it.

Placing open mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach.

And at this point,you’re not even paying attention to the pasta,stirring it out of habit.

As his hands grip your hips,you realise,actually you may need him just as much as he needs you in this moment.

You bring his hands back around your waist and turn in his arms,your hand reaching back and turning the stove off.

You bring your arms around the back of his neck and pull him in for a steamy kiss,your lips moving against eachother’s in unison,before you both pull apart for air.

“Dam…that was.”

“Hot?”

He nods in response.

You move your hands to his waist and lightly pull him closer.

He whines at the feeling and you trail you eyes down to his crotch.

You see the little tent jutting out and lightly palm his erection

his breath hitches as his eyes screw shut and he lets out a little mewl.

as you feel the wet material of his pants you have a thought and lower yourself till you’re at eye level with his painfully hard cock.

You trace it’s outline a few more times causing him to stumble back into the kitchen island,his hands bracing himself against the countertop.

You then begin to lick it throughs through the fabric,your hands undoing his belt and him watching as you do so.

Neither you nor him wants to stop what’s happening so you have absolute freedom.

After his belt is undone,youre met with his boxers.

Ofc he thinks you’ll pull them down too,but nope

You wrap your mouth around the material and his head falls back as he feels both the friction of his boxers and your warm mouth,rubbing against his sensitive dick.

And a few minutes later he realizes that you have no intention of taking that final barrier between you and him away,so he thrusts his hips forward,pushing his length just a little deeper into your warm,wet mouth,the fabric straining his tip and the combination stimulating him enough to cum.

Tiny droplets of the milky liquid seeps through the fabric much to your disappointment,and thats when you realise this isnt gonna cut it.

At this point, atsushi is panting from his orgasm. And you harshly pull down the final barrier of his boxers before you abruptly wrap your lips around him and he lets out a loud moan,eyes widening and gaze snapping to your smirking form.

You lick his tip and he jolts his hips into your mouth.

You nearly gag but quickly recover before you begin to bob your head up and down,sucking him off as you do so.

His grip on the edge of your kitchen island causes his knuckles to go white and then he thrusts his hips one last time before cumming down your throat.

You take it all in,drinking up and then pull your lips off his cock with a pop!

He then helps you up and you give him a kiss,he tastes himself on your lips and it turns him on again.

You turn back to the pasta and he pulls his pants back up,but the longer he looks at you,the more he wants you.

He taps you on the shoulder and you look back to him.

He directs his gaze to his re-hardened cock and you smirk with a little laugh.

“Want me that bad huh ‘sushi?”

He looks away sheepishly and you sigh before turning back to the pasta and putting the lid on the pot before taking his hand and heading to your bedroom.

He locks the door before taking his pants off, and when he looks back to you,your spread out across the bed,your skirt lightly ridden up.

He groans at the sight and looks back to his hardened sick.

He pumps his length a few times before climbing on top of you.

He kisses you passionately as his hand runs up your thigh and his fingers touch you through your panties.

You know he’s trying to get a tiny bit of revenge,but you also know he wont last long.

And true to form, about five seconds later he’s pushed the wet fabric aside and has already inserted his lithe fingers into your folds pumping in and out of you.

He rubs your clit with his thumb and you moan into the kiss.

You cum not long after and your slick coats his fingers like a fine glaze,breaking the kiss as your head falls back and you let out a tantalizing moan

He then pulls his fingers out of you and looks at them, pulling them apart to see the silky strands connecting his fingers like a spider-web he’d gladly love to get stuck in~

He sniffs his fingers before shoving them into his mouth and licking them clean.

You whimper at the sight and feel his tip graze your folds,you instinctively raise your hips and he takes this as his cue.

He places himself between your legs and lifts your hips,lining himself up with your pretty little pussy.

And before you can say anything he thrusts into you,burying himself deep before abruptly pulling out and going back in.

You both moan in unison and when he asks you how it feels, you pull him in by his tie and one of his braces,lightly choking him before loosening the knot, in response.

His thrusts becoming more erratic and the bed slightly creaking as your tongues explore eachother’s mouths~

After a very heated thirty seconds,you wrap your legs around his midsection and he pulls you closer by the hips.

You break the kiss before saying, “atsushi im gonna-hnghh~”

Cumming on his dick harder than expected,causing him to cum right into your cunt,white,hot and sticky.

He pulls out and You both look at each other while coming down from your highs.

“That was-“

“Amazing..” he finishes your sentence and you let out a soft,breathy laugh.

You give him a quick kiss and then you both peel yourselves off the sheets,heading to the shower together to help eachother clean up.

And once you’re done, you head to the dining room for dinner, and after reheating the now-cold pasta you sit down and share and eat together.

“This is really good y/n!” He says as he eats.

“Thanks sushi☺️, ive heard the sound it makes is what good pussy sounds like~”

“WAIT YOU KNOW THAT VINE TOO??”

Tag list(open):- @diagonal-queen @sapphic-serenade

All rights reserved © 2023 pillow-princess-diaries. Please do not repost, modify or claim as yours. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[twstowo]

I didn't see any mention of how many boys are acceptable for a single ask so feel free to do as many or as few as you want, though my favorites are the three fish boys and the two fire boys.

So, the way I show affection is I'll frequently give them small trinkets or snacks from my hoard that I won't miss and I think they'll like. If we're close enough and it's been established that they don't mind drinking after me and they like soda I'll even pass over the rest of a soda that I know I won't finish before it goes flat. Or if I made food like pasta or cheese sticks and I don't end up eating it all but they're nearby and like that kind of food I'd hand it to them. Often I'll let my sister 'steal' clothing I won't miss or borrow clothing I will, though I'd do the same for a close enough friend if they were interested.

(some of these examples are from how I treat friends and some are for people who are close family)

Anyways I'd like to see some of the boys react to a s/o or close friend who shows affection like this

♡︎That's a cool way of showing affection, I'm more into being annoying

♡︎Includes: Octavinelle and Ignihyde

⋆⋅☆Azul

He finds it odd that you're offering him the rest of your soda. After all, as the owner of Monstro Lounge, he could easily access an endless supply of that soda if he desired. The same applies to any snacks or food you offer him, he just can't grasp why you're doing it. However, over time, he comes to understand that this is your way of showing affection. Thus, he learns to appreciate it, albeit he may continue to politely decline. In return, he takes note of your favourite snacks and drinks, occasionally surprising you with them free of charge. Perhaps a couple of kisses in return?

⋆⋅☆Floyd

I feel like he would be similar, but he wouldn’t do it affectionately, he would simply get bored of eating or drinking and nonchalantly, he hands over the remainder to you. He always accepts what you offer unless it's something he dislikes, he might even toss in some Monstro Lounge coupons as a token of gratitude.

⋆⋅☆Jade

Politely declining each time, similar to Azul, he is unable to grasp the appeal of sharing partially consumed food or drinks. If Floyd is in proximity, he's quick to snatch the food from your hand and enjoy it himself. On the flip side, whenever you visit Monstro Lounge, he goes out of his way to bring you your favourite dishes. The gesture is offered generously, with no expectation of payment, as an act of kindness. At least for now.

⋆⋅☆Idia

The first time you did this, he felt a twinge of embarrassment, contemplating the idea of an indirect kiss, as your mouth had just been in contact with the soda bottle. However, as time passed, he found himself engaging in the same gesture. He began to relish sharing snacks and drinks with you whenever you came over to play or watch something together. The two of you enthusiastically explored and ordered new and weird snacks online, savouring the experience of trying them out together.

⋆⋅☆Ortho

He can’t eat or drink, but he does notice that you have this way of being affectionate. In a thoughtful move, he brings you snacks, cleverly sourced from Idia's stash. He memorizes your favourites and the ones you dislike, sharing this information with his brother. The next time you spend time with him and Idia, you find a generous pile of your favourite drinks and snacks, just for you.

[aguineapigcouldntdothis]

Disabled connection and joy is so so wonderful and im lucky i get to experience it. I want more irl disabled friends (more friends in general would be great) but i know friendships take time and I moved here less than 2 months ago. Those fleeting moments of connection, of knowing glances, of smiling to each other, of complimenting each other's aids, basically all that?? means the WORLD to me right now.

Me and the wheelchair user in walmart with bright purple hair grinning at each other because holy shit! we're both people with mobility aids and bright colored hair AND we are both buying cheese!

The person I see on the accessible pathway I take to class who compliments me and I compliment them back

The person in their power chair who always has the absolute coolest pants I've ever seen. who i absolutely love seeing around campus because i may not know their name but i know a cool person when i see them

The person who walks with a limp that I pass once in a blue moon on my walk home. every single time we smile to each other.

The cane user I saw walking around who without even knowing it, gave me the confidence i needed to actually use my cane in public instead of forcing myself through horrible pain

The person with hot pink decals on their wheelchair that i want to talk to more than anything bc there are not many things i love more than decorated mobility aids and hot pink

The person I keep running into who always looks at my cane with curiosity, but without any sort of judgement or hint of malice. and they always have something kind to say.

I think about these people so much! i hope they are having a good night and I hope tomorrow will be a good day for them. I might just be some guy in strange outfits that they see around every so often (i am that to many people). but they mean more to me than they know.

[shadowpeachceo]

Ninjago incorrect quotes I'm having too much fun

Nya: Alright, who’s hogging the Netflix account? I’ve been locked out all week!

Lloyd: Sucks to suck! I’m already on the 8th season of Friends!

Kai: Not me.

Nya: Don’t lie. I know it’s not Jay or Zane.

Kai: It’s not me, really!

Nya: …

Kai: …But it might be Ronin…

Nya: You gave Ronin access to our Netflix account!?!?

Kai: he wanted to watch Orange is the New Black!

Nya: I’m going to kill you.

*The team at Home Depot*

Nya: *pushed in the cacti display while wandering around the garden section*

Jay: *Shitting in the display toilets*

Kai: *Tokyo Drifting one of those flatbed carts down the aisles*

Lloyd: *Stealing paint chips for aesthetic purposes*

Zane: *Just wanted some goddamn lightbulbs and everyone ruined it*

Cole: *In the car sleeping*

*The team is asked what they would do with 5 children with only 3 chairs.*

Cole: Get two more chairs!

Nya: They can get their own chairs.

Jay: Make them fight for it.

Zane: You only need one chair to beat them all with.

Lloyd: I would never be near children.

Kai: Kill two.

Zane: A mouse!

Kai, pulling out a knife: Go back to where you came from or I'll stab you.

Nya, pulling out a frying pan: It'll make a nice meal!

Lloyd, giving the mouse cheese: You deserve a treat, little guy.

Cole, gasping: It's Ratatouille!

Jay: His name is Remi, dummy.

Zane: ...I was going to say to just trap it and throw it out the window... what is wrong with you people.

Lloyd: So, did everyone learn their lesson?

Jay: No.

Kai: I did not.

Cole: I may have actually forgotten one.

Nya: Also no.

Lloyd: Oh good, neither did I.

Zane: *Exhausted sigh*

Zane: We’re kind of missing something guys.

Kai: Cohesion?

Lloyd: Teamwork?

Nya: A general sense of what we’re doing?

Cole: And Jay is not here.

Kai: Oh, and that, yeah.

Zane: Stressed.

Cole: Depressed.

Lloyd: Possessed.

Nya: Obsessed.

Jay: Impressed.

Kai: Chicken breast.

Everyone: ...What?

Kai: I just wanted to join in.

Zane: You know, when Nya comes over, Jay can get a little…

Cole: Psycho?

Kai: Scary?

Lloyd: Drunk?

Zane: All three.

Before Lloyd joins the team

Jay: The floor is lava!

Cole: *helps Zane onto the counter*

Nya: *kicks Kai off the sofa*

Kai: *lays on the floor*

Jay: ...Are you okay?

Kai: No.

Jay: What's worse than a heartbreak?

Nya: Waking up in the morning and your phone wasn't charging.

Lloyd: Waking up in the morning.

Cole: Waking up.

Kai: Waking up in the morning...

Kai: And seeing Zane.

Zane: Hey! Rude!!

Squad reactions to being called straight:

Kai: The fuck, no I'm not.

Nya: Excuse the hell out of you?

Zane: Ding dong, you are wrong!

Lloyd: Who told you that? And why did they lie?

Jay: Rude.

Cole: *punches the person*

Jay: *standing at the top of the stairs* What are y'all doing at the bottom of the staircase?

Zane: I accidentally fell down.

Cole: KAI PUSHED ME down the stairs because I refuse to pay THEIR part of our rent!

Nya: Zane bet me fifty bucks that I couldn't reach the bottom of the stairs faster than they did falling down it, so I slide down the banister to get my money.

Lloyd: I don't know how I got here. One moment, I was sleeping in my bed, three floors up, and then suddenly I was waking up here, just in time to get crushed by Nya.

*The squad's reaction to being told they're the chosen one*

Nya: I will not let you down.

Zane: Sounds fun.

Cole: K.

Kai: No, I'm fucking not.

Jay: Do I have to be?

Lloyd: Please god, I am so tired.

*the team at mega monster amusement park, in the teacups*

Jay, Cole, and Zane: *spinning a little and talking*

Nya, Lloyd, and Kai: *flying past them, spinning as fast as they can, screaming*

Cole: If you got arrested what would be the charges?

Kai: Theft.

Nya: Disturbing the peace.

Jay: Aggravated assault.

Zane: Arson.

Lloyd: All of the above. In that order, probably.

Nya: Imagine if someone handed you a box full of all the things you lost throughout your life.

Zane: It would be nice to have my sense of purpose back...

Cole: Oh wow, my childhood innocence! Thank you for finding this.

Lloyd: My will to live! I haven't seen this in years.

Kai: I knew I lost that potential somewhere.

Jay: Mental stability, my old friend!

Nya: Jesus, could you guys lighten up a little?

Cole to Jay, who’s about to get married to Nya: Today, two families are becoming one.

Zane, in an ominous voice: Two families enter, one family leaves.

Kai: That sounds so threatening…

Nya: The Wedding Games…

Lloyd: May the bouquet toss be ever in your favor.

Jay: Beautiful.

Cole: Fuck all of you!

Lloyd: *dies*

Cole: Timer starts now! When are they coming back? I say two months!

Zane: Bullshit. One month.

Nya: Nah, half a month.

Jay, sobbing: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? LLOYD JUST DIED!

Kai, scratching chin in thought: One week.

Nya: I’m the smartest person in my friend group.

Kid Lloyd: You hang out with Kai, Cole, Zane, and Jay.

Kid Lloyd: It’s not as high a compliment as you think.

Zane: Throw lamps at people who need to lighten up, and throw handles at someone who needs to get a grip!

Jay: Throw a refrigerator at someone who needs to chill!

Cole: Throw scissors at someone who needs to cut it out!

Kai: Throw a clock at someone who needs to get with the times!

Nya: Throw matches at someone who needs to get fired up!

Lloyd: Throw a brick at someone to kill them.

*Everyone is standing around the broken coffee maker*

Nya: So. Who broke it? I'm not mad, I just wanna know.

Everyone:

Lloyd: ...I did. I broke it.

Nya: No. No you didn't. Kai?

Kai: Don't look at me. Look at Zane.

Zane: What?! I didn't break it.

Kai: Huh, that's weird. How'd you even know it was broken?

Zane: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken.

Kai: Suspicious.

Zane: No, it's not!

Cole: If it matters, probably not, but Jay was the last one to use it.

Jay: Liar! I don't even drink that crap!

Cole: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Jay: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Cole!

Lloyd: Okay let's not fight. I broke it. Let me pay for it, Nya.

Nya: No! Who broke it!?

Everyone:

Cole: Nya... Kai's been awfully quiet.

Kai: rEALLY?!

*Everyone starts arguing*

Nya, talking to Sensei Wu and Sensei Garmadon: I broke it. I burned my hand so I punched it.

Nya: I predict 10 minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

Nya:

Nya: Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.

*the team in the bad timeline*

Cole: So what have you been up to recently?

Nya: Leading a revolution with Zane.

Cole: Good for you two! Me, I've joined the mob.

Nya: *nods* Oh, how cool! That's awesome!

Cole: I know! Anyway, have you heard from the others? Jay?

Nya: Happily living as a hermit in the woods. Lloyd?

Cole: Wrongfully locked up in an asylum, which reminds me, we need to break them out later. Kai?

Nya: Cult leader.

Cole: Yeah, that sounds about right.

Zane: Doctor = $140,000 a year, Furry artist on patreon = $160,000 a year.

Lloyd: I think you’re lowballing the furry art amount tbh.

Zane: Sorry for the inaccuracies Doctor Yiff.

Lloyd: No matter how I respond I don’t look well, well played. I walked into that.

Nya: Well, furry artists are typically more competent and courteous than your average doctor, so I can see that.

Zane: Did you legitimately just tell me that a person who draws wolf ass is more competent than a dude who spent 8+ years in an university to give you a lung transplant?

Jay: Doctors are bullshit and furry artists perform an infinitely more valuable service to society compared to them.

Zane: You will die in 7 days.

Kai: It took doctors 10 years to diagnose what was wrong with me, some insisting I was faking it for attention while a furry artist I knew said “Sounds like Crohn’s” after hearing me complain once and ended up being right.

Kai: Besides I can’t go to a doctor and ask them to draw Rouge the Bat wider than she is tall with tits to match, now can I?

Jay: You could if you weren’t a fucking coward.

Cole: This was like 50 consecutive punches to the face, what the fuck went on here.

Jay: If you put 'violently' in front of anything to describe your action, it becomes funnier.

Jay: Violently practices.

Zane: Violently studies.

Nya: Violently sleeps.

Kai: Violently shoots pictures.

Cole: Violently boxes.

Lloyd: Violently murders people.

Nya: Violently worries about the previous statement.

[lorei-writes]

HC: Sneaky Silvio

Crack Content Warnings: none (?)

I am not sorry.

It is no coincidence that Silvio, striptease and Santa Claus all start with the letter "s".

Eleven out of the twelve months of the year, Silvio has to precede the act of sneaking with the act of disrobing, to remove all of his jangles and jingles. (As you can imagine, dear reader, one cannot sneak efficiently while channelling being a rattle to that extent.)

The visible, easily accessible, surface level jangles are of no issue. It takes around an hour to properly remove all of them -- a ring here, a pin there, a necklace of a necklace of a necklace of a cousin of an aunt of an uncle's neighbour's necklace far far over there, Silvio is rather well-acquainted with the entire ritual. After all, he has to practise it every day before bed.

(Some nights Silvio fails to practise it, in which case he wakes up with some rather colourful imprints on his face.)

The real adventure starts with the hidden jingles, the ones worn strictly for the purpose of sounding expensive.

What? You thought it was the jewellery that rattled so loudly?

IN THIS ECONOMY?!

Listen, he is rich, but a lot of it is just speculations. Silvio is first and foremost an esteemed businessman, and he would not come to his fortune were he a wasteful fool.

So, why waste money on impressions, when you can buy it for cheaper with but a handful of useful tools? Let me introduce you to Silvio's genius.

First of all, you lowly soul may disregard the spare change, but Silvio would never. As all things under the capitalistic sun, it also can be turned into a money-generating cog. No smelting required! Just sew it into pockets...

... and more pockets....

... and did I say that you could stop?

No? Then keep on going.

Job contract? No, do your sewing, we'll pay you and the government doesn't have to know about it, taxes are the real killer of entrepreneurship. Or are you lazy?

No? Good. Then back to sewing. I'll tell you when to stop.

...

...

...

...

...

...

Well, maybe that will be enough.

Here! You've got yourself a jingle cape! And trousers! And oh, my, my, a pair of jangly shoes as well! Now, each of your steps shall declare your wealth!

But you see, removing all of that can be rather troublesome. And no, Silvio cannot simply wear another pair of pants -- all of them have been tinkered with in a similar fashion, I'm afraid. A man can never jingle too much, after all.

... Except for when sneaking, but that's for peasants.

The one month Silvio is freely allowed to sneak around -- and when he must fulfil all of his sneaking fantasies -- is December. He is the sole reasons why Benitoitian children all faithfully believe in Santa Claus and his dear, jangly Rudolf.

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @starlitmanor-network @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather

@tele86 @rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @claviscollections

@queengiuliettafirstlady @sh0jun @lucyw260

(That is primarily for the mental damage.)

[acti-veg]

Veganism is a philosophy and way of living which seeks to exclude—as far as is possible and practicable—all forms of exploitation of, and cruelty to, animals for food, clothing or any other purpose.

Is the above statement true? And does it mean that someone who avoids dairy milks, but sometimes eats cheeses, etc, are still vegan? Same for a vegan who cut out all meats but still eats one type due to an issue such as ARFID or other ?:)

This is the most commonly accepted definition of veganism, and you won’t find many vegans who contest it, though it is open to some interpretation. As for answering who is or isn’t vegan I am no authority on that, it really comes down to whether or not they are meeting that definition - only they can really know that.

Being vegan is about doing your best to avoid animal exploitation as far as is possible and practicable for you. What that looks like may be different for some people, there are people who are not in control of their own consumption for various reasons, or who face real health, access or social barriers which mean they can’t adopt a 100% plant-based diet at this time in their life.

Keep in mind no one is avoiding all animal exploitation all the time, that is the nature of being a consumer in a capitalist society, and things like animal glues in manufacturing, animal tested medications etc are often unavoidable. As vegans we strive to cause less harm, but we’re very aware that we can’t cause none.

Veganism is not about purity or perfection, and the definition itself acknowledges this. So long as someone is genuinely doing their absolute best and avoiding animal exploitation whenever they have the option to do so, then they are vegan. This is what we mean when we say that anyone can be vegan, because absolutely everyone, regardless of their circumstances, can at least try their best. That is all we’re asking.

[petermorwood]

Here’s a dish from French Cooking Academy, another of my subscribed YouTube channels.

I like the business of stuffing each chunk of beef with a bit of garlic and bacon; I’ve done this with lamb, using garlic and lemon. Another interesting detail is the use of cinnamon, suggesting a way-back-when influence either from the Moors or having access to spices as they passed through from Dpain Spain or North Africa on the way to somewhere else.

Kokkinisto (Greek) and Tajine (Morocco) also use cinnamon - and cloves, and nutmeg, and ginger etc. etc. depending on recipe. I’ve made both, they’re really excellent.

@dduane​ and I got Very Interested because the use of what Mum used to call “cake spices” is also quite medieval and, in DD’s case, adaptable for the Middle Kingdoms project.

The Corsican one recommends rigatoni, cannelloni or similar large hollow pasta (presumably to hold lots of sauce!) For a more medieval approach I’d try Loseyns from late-1300s cookbook “The Forme of Cury” (that’s “cookery” without the k, so “coo’rey” not “curry”.)

*****

These are often regarded as Richard II-era ”lasagne”, though I wonder if there’s also an association with heraldic “lozenges”, easily created by cutting a sheet of pasta dough slantwise...

Either way, here’s “Tasting History with Max Miller” (subscribed of course!) having a go at Loseyns, which turn out like mac & cheese with extra spices.

Max ended up eating them with a stick because forks hadn’t been introduced yet, but IMO a better utensil would be the historical eating pick, like one of these.

...or even a spoon, especially if the loseyns were cut small with that in mind.

However eating pasta with the fingers - like many other foods - may have been done in the 1300s; it was certainly recorded in paintings from the 1600s...

...right up to the 1800s...

...though I don’t think these were dressed with anything more than oil or butter and some grated cheese, and the potential for messy eating was still pretty high. Eating small pasta rather than dangly strands with the fingers was probably much tidier, especially if diners knew the proper etiquette for doing it...

Finally, here’s something from our own store-cupboard, bought out of curiosity during a recent visit to Polonez in Dublin.

This is pasta cut into little squares; both the front and the back of the pack calls them łazanka...

...and according to Google Translate, this just means “pasta noodles”.

However...

Can any followers tell me if "łazanka” has any relationship to “lasagna” or “lozenge”? An enquiring mind wants to know! :->

ETA: @seriously-mike​ says “...łazanki were brought to Poland in 16th century by queen Bona Sforza (so) the relationship with lasagna might be there.” See his Reply for more info.

ETA (2): A little bell went off in my head about the shapes in the bag and I suddenly remembered seeing them as something call “torn pasta” - the Italian word is “maltagliati“ - which were made using re-rolled scraps of dough from “formal” shapes; more info at that link.

[chrismien]

Let's explore the negative association of milk in Tamriel's Nordic culture.

So, basically, from the dialogue and other sources, we know that drinking milk within Nord cultures is associated with a number of negative perceptions, such as:

Milk is for children.

Milk is associated with weakness.

Milk is not a manly beverage.

This is evidenced by the lines from numerous NPCs in Skyrim.

If you have a disposition of -1 or lower with an NPC, they may say to you: "What do you want, milk drinker?"

There is also the Taunting Adventurer NPC in Skyrim, who is a randomly encountered warrior in the wilderness or in an inn. He says: "What's a milk drinker like you doing out here? Go home to your mother."

But it is worth noting that some Nords such as Rigurt the Brash from ESO oppose the concept behind the insult saying: "Milk-drinker. Why did that become such a terrible Nord insult, I wonder. Milk is good for you! I love the stuff! Not as much as I love mead, but it's a close second. Maybe third."

With that, it is reasonable to assume that some Nords avoid drinking milk to prevent being perceived as a cry-baby or a weakling by other Nords, and potentially even by themselves.

As we know, even in real life, milk is important for bone growth. When we delve into medical aspects, calcium is an essential extracellular cation required for muscles to surpass the action potential threshold, enabling contractions and therefore movement.

Skyrim, the homeland of the Nords, also experiences limited sunlight in certain regions. UV radiation from the sun is essential for the activation of Vitamin D from cholecalciferol to calcitriol. This fat-soluble vitamin is crucial for maintaining bone strength and a healthy immune system.

Basically, calcium is important for nerve conduction, blood clotting, muscle contractions, immune functions, and healthy bones.

But how would a race centered around strength and possessing a strong warrior culture maintain their constitution?

Skyrim is abundant with cheese, which is directly made from milk and is also rich in calcium. Digesting cheese breaks it down into its components, facilitating the absorption of calcium into the body.

There is also a thriving fishing culture in Riften and Windhelm. Access to the Sea of Ghosts allows access to marine resources like fish and shellfish which could act as substitutes for calcium sources.

I understand that it's a fantasy world, but creating a believable fantasy world can indeed enhance the enjoyment of the experience. By grounding elements of the world in reality, it becomes more relatable and allows us to better connect with the characters and settings.

We can now conclude that Nords are able to maintain their warrior culture despite the cultural bias against milk, which is essential for numerous bodily functions.

[zorlok-if]

can I ask some of what youve been up to? (if its not overstepping) not just what have you been working on, but what have you been doing that you enjoy? what have you been playing? watching? reading? that sort of thing! glad to hear that youre back and okay ❤️

Sure! I don't feel like that's overstepping. Here you go:

(as far as writing goes) I've mostly been working on Zorlok but I've also done some writing for a sapphic novel idea I've been working on for a while, my other projects like System Processing, Hades' Kitchen, etc., a short interactive poem about misgendering/trans experience, and a couple other random things

What I've enjoyed? Spending a lot of time with my dog, going on long walks, chilling in coffee shops, baking, crafting, long-distance running and lifting, etc.

Playing: Baldur's Gate 3 (may have close to 500 hours in that game, but most of that's from Early Access, don't be too concerned), Octopath Traveler 2, Coral Island, Stardew Valley, Super Smash Bros. (that last one was for work though)

Watching: Jeopardy (always), everything on Dropout but especially Dimension 20, Our Flag Means Death, Youtube video essays, the BG3 cast playing BG3, 80s horror movies, film noir, that's all I can think of right now

Reading: The Locked Tomb series, Legends and Lattes, All Systems Red, The Wicked Bargain (specifically, the audiobook narrated by the Vico Ortiz), The Princess and the Grilled Cheese, Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone, and dozens of children's books

[keepingitformyself]

this is me praying that this was the very first page

synopsis: as the new year comes to an end all natasha could hope for was more of you.

parings: natasha romanoff x reader

genre: fluff.

warnings: none.

A/N: i think this is probably the cheesiest thing i’ve written and it’s kinda grossing me out.

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

————————————————

chatter fills the living space of the new york brownstone, the laughs and giggles of those occupying the space make their way onto the surprisingly quiet streets of the residential neighborhood.

and then across the street and a few streets over and throughout the entirety of the city that is new york, each person is celebrating the new year in their own special way.

whether it be with family over dinner, or with a lover watching a film, or even waiting in a crowd for a ball to drop in times square, even with all the noise and chaos outside the brown door that separates you from the rest of the world…

even if there may be other interesting things rather than spending the night with your dysfunctional family eating ham and cheese off of boards, the both of you still chose to be here with each other.

the clock counts down from ten to midnight and as you look at natasha with the biggest smile on your face all she can think is that holy shit i’m the luckiest fucker alive and god, i’m so glad i get exist in this life with you.

and the night continues for two more hours after that. the both of you continue to entertain your guests and drink the expensive spirits you had saved all year specifically for this occasion.

tony makes some joke about when to expect a baby from you in the new year and natasha throws something back at him that makes him cower behind pepper, but she doesn’t miss the blush that tints your cheeks.

she squeezes your hand that’s rested on her lap, an indicator that the joke doesn’t have to become a huge thing but that she’s open to the idea when you are. you kiss her near the ear and whisper that you can both talk when you aren’t a whole bottles worth of bailey’s drunk.

once everyone has finished off the last of the charcuterie board laid out in the kitchen and had a slice of your homemade tiramisu cake, clint is the first to suggest they start heading home.

although hesitant to let your friends leave at such a late time in the night you decide it’s better this way or else you’ll have a home filled with cranky men in the morning.

you walk them out the door to their designated rides and bid them ‘goodbyes’ and ‘get home safes’ as natasha follows closely behind you.

natasha let’s out a sigh of relief once the door closes and it’s finally just the two of you alone again.

you loop your arms around the redheads neck and stuff your nose into the frabic of her blouse. her scent becomes an instant anchor in bringing you back down to earth.

you stay in that same spot by the foyer until you finally muster enough courage to turn towards the stairs and lead you and natasha towards your bedroom.

the next morning is new year’s day. and although it’s entirely a new year natasha feels it as just another morning after a huge celebration.

she turns to you and smiles but it instantly fades, a small part of her crumbles at the thought of the end of your time together coming so shortly. natasha is only getting older as are you and the years are only going faster. at least that’s what it feels like.

and although the thought is completely all irrational and that you both still have all the time in the world left with most of your lives still left to live; natasha thinks that even with just that reassurance…all that time would still not be enough time to spend with you.

she soon forgets her worries when you wake moments later. you snuggle into her neck and place kisses there. natasha leaves you more access by tilting her head but you only giggle at her advances and kiss her on the nose before letting the sheet fall off your body as you move off the bed.

‘let me clean so i can get breakfast started.’ you say as you step into the restroom.

natasha follows soon after that.

glitter and confetti lay like a blanket over the hardwood floor. natasha catches the sigh you make at the mess and she’s already on her way to fetch the broom from the pantry.

as she makes herself busy cleaning up the bottles and wine glasses scattered across the room her eyes find a pile of polaroids laid out onto the coffee table in the middle of the living room.

she looks through them and smiles as the memories of the both you from the night before come to mind.

‘watcha got there?’ you ask when you notice her pause in movements. you walk up behind her throwing an arm around her waist and peek over her shoulder.

photos, of you clinging to the other while laughing over a joke you couldn’t remember now, one of you hugging natasha while she has her back to the camera and you smirking directly at it, and another of you that you remember her taking as you prepared food in the kitchen.

she turns her head to you and smiles. and it has become entirely too apparent now that even if she knows it in the bottom of her heart, she hopes you never reach the end. she hopes you still love her when you’re scared and she’s lost or if you’re tired and she’s wrong.

she wants every single midnight with you just like the last one. she wants to be there when the day ends and the new one begins, finally she wants to be the last one you see and the first thing she wakes to.

‘what are you thinking?’ you finally ask. you see the small quirk in her smile and she finally says,

‘i think that…you look like the rest of my life.’

[beguilingcorpse]

PLEASE tell me some of your favorite sandwiches...i work at a diner and i get one free sandwich per day and i almost always get the exact same thing. gimme something that will deeply bamboozle the kitchen staff

thank you for this ask. i am so sorry for the sandwich tangent that it inspired. this post is in fact so long that i have to put it under a read more tag so it doesn't reach Do You Love The Color Of The Sky notoriety. also this has been written as, like, a general cooking guide instead of Things You Can Order At A Diner, but otherwise feel free to show this post to your kitchen staff and watch their minds crumble

to build a great sandwich - a truly Fucked Up Sandwich - you must first understand that a sandwich is, at its core, just some bread with stuff on it. as a disclaimer, i don't mean to diss the classics. they're around for a reason. i just know that PERSONALLY i am a little bit sick of the same second grade lunchbox sandwich, and PERSONALLY i prefer to push the boundaries of simple food preparation into the realm of the eldritch and unknown.

the sandwiches i make are different every time. you may have heard the old adage "cooking is an art." that is partially true, sometimes, kind of. cooking, for me, is more like a four year old getting access to paint for the first time and losing their whole goddamn mind about it. i want you to let go of every rule you think there is. make things up. go crazy.

the bread of the sandwich matters only insofar as it can support its fillings. i tend to use plain ol whole wheat, but honestly, you can use whatever you'd like. my big piece of advice here is to think about the structural integrity of your design. much like a bread engineer, because that's what you are. if your fillings are wet or gelatinous (hold on, we're getting there) you NEED a crustier bread. sara lee won't cut it. some people like fancy bread with herbs and shit. i see the bread more as a canvas than as part of the painting, but like, there are no rules. go ham.

speaking of ham. this is the section where you expect me to disavow lunch meats. i shan't. pre-sliced meat is a brilliant (and cheap!) way to provide the basis of flavor for your sandwich AND to make sure you get enough protein. if you're vegan or vegetarian, you'll have to skip this step, but that's okay because it's not an integral part of the process. that being said, i think it lays a solid foundation for the whole sandwich's raison d'etre.

pairing with a good cheese is a classic for a reason. i stay away from american - it melts beautifully, which makes it great for grilled cheese, but it also has an artificial quality to it that i don't really vibe with. swiss, provolone, and cheddar are staples, but honest to god, any cheese can be made to work if you build around it. (side note: the best grilled cheese uses american, pepper jack, colby, and a tomato. season the OUTSIDE of the bread with butter, red pepper flakes, garlic, and a dash of oregano. fry up an egg and put it on top and oh baby. ham optional if you want some extra protein.)

ok. you have your basics. now i need you to take a look around your kitchen and GO WILD.

one of my Go To Combinations is turkey, swiss, and a fruit jam (i like apricot). it is EXTREMELY good and easy to make, and the jam gives it just the right touch of sweetness to complement to mellow flavor of the turkey. if you're like, "oh, wow, you put JAM? on a SANDWICH??? ARE YOU OK????" you need to stop reading right now. the shaggy-like combinations that i concoct may be too strong for you, traveler.

if you like sweet foods and want to lean into that, keep exploring Fruit Road. jams and preserves work wonders. fruit butters are also nice for a more savory touch, but can get expensive and/or seasonal. you can also go for Fruits themselves: thinly sliced apple + ham + brie (or swiss, if you can't swing a more expensive cheese) is a godsend. most fruits belong on a sandwich tbh. grapes, tangerines, bananas, pineapple: it's all about the right context.

if you want to go Even Further Beyond, Fruit Road takes you right down to Sweets Avenue. honey works on most sandwiches, and - hear me out - will cut the tangy, eggy flavor of mayonnaise. it's easy for honey to overpower, though, so i'd say to go for a little before tasting and reassessing. plain or vanilla yogurt also complements fruit really well without being overpowering. if you REALLY want to go sweet, i like marshmallow fluff + bananas + peanut butter for protein. i've yet to find good vegan alternates to these, unfortunately - agave nectar would work in place of honey, but play around and see what you can come up with.

if you want to go savory, then Aromatics Boulevard will make sure you get substance and flavor. basil is an underrated addition to sandwiches, as are green onions, garlic (jarlic works great for this, don't @ me), and cabinet spices. you might need to try a little to get the proportions right, but chicken + mozzarella + plain yogurt + curry powder is frankly a godsend. i also lovelovelove a good sauce; nando's perinaise is usually region-specific, but it's creamy and tangy and goes with everything and i'm obsessed with it. get creative with what you have!

ok. this is my secret ingredient. come here. lao gan ma is chili oil, but with chili crisps in it. it is the single best ingredient in my kitchen. it's not expensive, a jar of it lasts forever, and you can find it at almost every asian grocery store. it is the perfect kick of spice to add to a sandwich. plenty of heat but not overpowering, and with a mostly savory finish. god it's so good. i scoop it with a knife to avoid most of the oil and spread just the crisp over the sandwich. crunchy, spicy, savory. mamma mia.

those are the BASICS of what i can give you. if you've read this far and you actually make a Fucked Up Sandwich PLEASE tag me in it, because odds are i'll try it. be bold. make a potato salad + tangerine + tahini monstrosity. (i haven't tried that but maybe it's good???) anything is a sandwich if you're brave enough. if you're still looking for inspiration, i get a lot of ideas from traditional tea sandwiches, which are usually ~3 ingredients and can get absolutely hogwild.

if you want more specific recipes or combinations then reach out and i can send you a list, but i hope that this gave you the tools and confidence to go forth and wreak havoc. have fun stay safe eat sandwiches!

[shuttershocky]

Is DMC5 a good entry point for a complete beginner?

Story-wise perhaps not. 5 references the entire series from 1-4 and even the anime and some books, but if you don't mind being lost (5's story is real simple anyway) then in terms of gameplay DMC5 is the easiest place for a complete beginner to start.

In 1 and 3, Easy mode had to be unlocked by getting the crap beaten out of you (DMC2 is so poorly balanced the entire game is extremely easy mode), and only in easy mode can you get autocombo (where simply mashing the attack button will make you do combos rather than needing to train yourself into doing the inputs and proper timing). In 5 however, you can start with Human (easy) mode from the start, and autocombo mode is simply a matter of holding down R3 on your controller, meaning you can swap in and out of autocombo whenever you like, an improvement on DMC4's auto combo where you had to pre-select it before starting a mission.

Another thing people don't talk about when it comes to DMC5 as an entry-point is that it also has the most fair enemies in the series. The past games (DMC3 especially) have some excruciatingly punishing enemy designs that can feel incredibly uninteractive if you don't know what you're doing. 5's roster of enemies have verystraightforward rules, with the weirdest enemies probably already being the Hell Judecca and the Furies. If you don't know what you're doing, you can absolutely go through the whole game by just beating faces in.

(This has led to statements from people that 5's enemies are all punching bags without any strategy involved, but enemy behaviors are actually greatly varied too and if you want to actually score big on Dante Must Die you still need to study them, they're just made so that new players can actually fight them without getting frustrated)

The one caveat I'll give for DMC5 as a new player's first DMC game is Dante himself. You get to play Nero and V for the first half of DMC5, because when you finally unlock Dante, Dante's upgraded so many times in the past that by the end of 5 he's got the following:

4 styles that change his controls

4 melee weapons (7 after beating Son of Sparda mode), 4 range weapons, and 1 of the melee weapons swaps between two modes

Devil Trigger (a super mode)

A second Devil Trigger (an even stronger, separate super mode with unique attacks)

Dante's so hilariously complicated (and overpowered, once you get good) that even some experienced DMC5 players tend to shy away from fully exploring Dante beyond a couple style mechanics and their favorite weapons, but if infinite depth you can spend forever with and still keep learning new tricks hundreds of hours later is your kinda thing, then you'll have a lot of fun (and will also like Dante in DMC4 who is even harder there)

______ If all this text intimidates you, I promise Devil May Cry is actually a welcoming series to get into. The games offer you multiple difficulty levels and plenty of tools and get out of jail free cards likes orbs to revive you or a couple incredibly overpowered mechanics that you can spam to cheese your way through fights. making sure that the skill floor is accessible. Difficulty is something you challenge yourself with, not imposed on you as a requirement to pass.

But if you DO chase that ridiculous skill ceiling, then the likes of S-ranking DMC3's final bossfight on Dante Must Die will make even Sekiro look simple. The games won't kick your ass until you ask them to, but when you do then prepare for a beating like little else can give you.

Oh and one last thing: Playing as Vergil does in fact, feel that cool.

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 2

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Two: NY -> IL

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.7k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, selling drugs, being held captive, handcuffs, swearing, lack of privacy and autonomy, food mention, urination mention, death threat, knife mention, gun mention, passive and massive aggression

Notes: Let me know what you think, thank you for reading!!

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about this guy in the day or so since he abducted you, it’s that he’s quiet. 

Now, when you say he’s quiet, you don’t mean he shuts down your questions with one word answers, or that he’s timid, or anything like that. You mean he has not acknowledged your presence since locking you into the bucket seat in his sleeper cab yesterday.

He ignores everything you say. It’s not for lack of trying on your part, either. So far this morning, you’ve attempted:

“Is there a toilet in here?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“What’s your name?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“It’s Portland, isn’t it?”

“I have to pee.”

“Do you have a radio?”

“Like a music radio, not the CB.” 

“Don’t you get bored in here?” 

“I’m thirsty.”

“What’s your dogs name?”

“Can I pet him?”

“I’m gonna pet him.” 

“Seriously I think my bladder is gonna explode.” 

In response? Nothing. Radio fucking silence. He has talked to his dog more than he has to you. 

To be fair, his dog is very cute and lovable.  Probably a better conversationalist than his human, too. The white French Bulldog has been your only source of entertainment and socialization since coming onboard.

Meanwhile, all of your other needs are being pointedly rejected. 

You think that him keeping you locked in this five-point harness without access to food, water, or a bathroom might be punishment for your vitriol yesterday. At that point, you were still in the “anger” stage of grieving your freedom, and may or may not have spit at him after calling him a fascist fucking bootlicker. 

In your defense, he fucking abducted you. You’re 99% sure he’s bringing you to Portland to collect a bounty on your head. What did he say yesterday? 

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.” 

Dead or alive. 

If he doesn’t murder you before your arrival, that will come shortly after. You know it. All the people you went into that warehouse with are now unreachable. 

The last one you talked to was Cheese, and that was over two weeks ago. They told you everyone else was gone. Plucked off, one by one. Some of them turned up dead of an overdose a few days after disappearing. Others are still missing. Probably in the lost and found bin of a morgue or rotting under a bridge somewhere. 

If you don’t get the fuck out of here, that will be you. 

The truck rapidly drops speed as your captor hits the brakes and starts downshifting gears. Only a small slice of the outside word is visible from your place behind the passenger’s seat, but you see signs off the exit he’s taking. You recognize one as New York State Route 400. 

“Please tell me we’re stopping to use the bathroom.”

He doesn’t respond, so you stare daggers at his ear and cross your arms over your chest. Relief quickly melts your frustration when you see a Marathon gas station sign. 

The man parks his rig on the furthest edge of the parking lot. When he swings his legs into the aisle between the driver and passenger seat and rises, your whole body tenses. His eyes are concealed by the mirrored lenses of his aviators, but you can feel his assessing gaze. 

He takes a few steps towards you and crouches down, pulling the handcuffs from their case on his belt, then holds his hand out to you. 

“What?”

His head tilts to the side. Like he’s fucking annoyed or something. A flash of red burns your vision. 

“Oh my god I can’t with you,” you roll your eyes, then blink at him, “Just use your words, tell me what you want me t—hey!” 

He wrestles your wrist away from you, closing one handcuff around it, the other around a bolted-down grab bar on the wall beside you. All you can do for a moment is stare at your wrist and think: He is going to kill me. 

Before you can fully comprehend the thought, the man slides a key into the base of your seat and unlocks the harness, then stands.  

“Latrine under the seat,” he advises while clipping the dog’s leash onto his collar. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

He doesn’t react. Just plucks his dog off the passenger’s seat and leaves, slamming the door behind him. 

The second stillness settles in the cab, it dawns on you that you’re alone. 

You jump to your feet and pull your weight against the handcuff, trying to yank yourself out. The metal ring crushes the bulk of your hand, digging hard into your skin. It refuses to budge. 

If you break your hand, it could be possible, but you don’t want to resort to that just yet. You dig in your pockets and run your free hand through your hair, looking for bobby pins you could use to pick the lock, but don’t find any. 

Next, you wrap your hands around the cool grab bar and pull as hard as you can. Nothing. Even when you prop a foot on the wall and yank violently, using your weight, it holds solid to the wall. 

Your bladder aches from neglect and sends an urgent notice to you brain. With a frown of disdain, you open the drawer under the bucket seat. Just like he said, there’s a shiny metal latrine. An old-timey piss pot. 

If you don’t relieve yourself soon, you’ll have to pee your pants or pop a squat in front of the fucking lunatic keeping you captive. 

So… you piss in the pot. 

When he returns, he wordlessly trades the dog for the latrine and empties it on the asphalt, then slides it across the floor to you and slams the door shut. You put it away and plop down in the bucket seat with a huff. 

The pocket knife in your bra pokes into you, as if to remind you of its presence. It’s a fucking miracle he didn’t find it while searching you. You could try to pick the handcuff lock with its blade, but don’t know where he is and when he’ll be back. 

If you’re going to make it out of this alive, you have to play it smart. You have to be patient and wait for the right opportunity. 

The dog, who was busy whining for a bit after his person left, eventually joins you in the sleeper cab. 

“He’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?” 

His big satellite ears perk up. He jumps on the bed and looks at you. 

“You seem nice, though,” you smirk, holding your hand out to the little bug-eyed pup, who sniffs you enthusiastically, “What’re you doing with a maniac like him?” 

He lets out a huffy sneeze, then stretches his hind legs out behind him, flopping down onto the the thin mattress. 

“Are you being held against your will, too?”

He grumbles and rolls onto his back. His floppy jowls sag from gravity, pink tongue hanging out the side. You snort at him and scratch his belly. His hind leg start kicking and his eyes squint with delight. 

You fawn over him for a few minutes before the driver’s door swings open. Upon seeing him, the dog flips over and springs into the passenger’s seat, spinning in circles, letting out little sneezes of excitement. 

Your captor pulls himself up into the truck and swings the door shut. He makes his way back to the sleeper portion of the trailer and drops a grease-stained fast food bag on the bed. While he moves about the cabin, rummaging through overhead storage for a gallon jug of water and a dog bowl, you eye his broad frame. 

Sure, he’s stronger than you and faster than you, but if you had the element of surprise on your side, you might be able to take him down and escape. Maybe you could hit him in the head with the piss pot and knock him out. Or stab him. 

Your skin tingles where the pocket knife is hidden, and you think: I really could stab him. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself. 

The idea makes you shudder. It goes on the back burner for now.  

The dog jumps down to the floor and starts lapping at the water his person pours into the dog bowl. You stare at the water and suddenly remember how fucking thirsty you are. 

“Can I have some?” you ask.

The man rises and looks from you, to the gallon jug, then holds it out to you. 

You raise an eyebrow, “Straight outta the jug?” 

He doesn’t acknowledge the question, so you shrug and take it from him, muttering, “You know, usually when someone says something to you, it’s customary to respond. That’s how conversations work.” 

Once again, he ignores you. 

You roll your eyes and bring the jug to your lips with your free hand. The water is tepid and stale, but you guzzle it down like it’s the most refreshing beverage you’ve ever encountered. It streams down the corners of your mouth, but you don’t care. 

Panting, you hand it back to him. His dark eyebrow raise from over the frame of his sunglasses as grabs it from you. Before twisting the cap back on and returning it to the overhead compartment, he takes a few deep swigs. 

“Not afraid of my cooties?” you joke. 

Nothing. 

He snatches the fast food bag off the bed and lowers himself onto the mattress, pulling out a stack of napkins, then a few cheeseburgers. 

Another thing you’ve noticed about him is the way he carries himself. His rigid posture and concise movements. Everything he does seems practiced, competent, and strangely… proper, almost? 

It’s fascinating. 

The dog hops up next to your captor and stomps unceremoniously across his lap, diving headfirst into the crinkly bag. 

“Hey!” he tucks the dog into his side like a football and chastises him, “Just wait.” 

He pulls two boxes of fries out of the bag, slides one towards you, followed by a cheeseburger, then places the dog on the ground, “Sit.” 

The dog perks up and complies, his little tail stub wiggling against the rubber mat. 

Your captor unwraps a cheeseburger, gives it to the dog, then takes his food and moves to the head of the bed, leaning against the wall opposite you. 

“I don’t eat meat,” you inform him, “So if you want my burger, go for it.”

The man seems to consider this for a moment before he leans forward and grabs it, splitting it with the dog while you eat a few fries and try not to be completely obvious about your watching him. The dog whines while watching him eat. 

“Do you have dog food?” you ask. 

He looks up and says, “Dog food has meat in it.” 

You jerk back, shaking your head, “For the dog, not for me.” 

He stares at you. 

“Oh,” you blink, then scoff, “You’re trying to be funny. That was a joke. Hilarious. Ok. Well, your dog probably shouldn’t just eat cheeseburgers, it’s not good for him.” 

This is, predictably, met with no response. He raises his eyebrows and returns his attention to his food. 

When the man finishes eating, he opens the overhead compartment, pulling out a bag of dry dog food and another bowl. He makes a point to look up at you as he pours the kibble into the bowl. Your cheeks burn and you deflate for a moment before crossing your arms over your chest and muttering, “Good.” 

He moves up to the driver’s seat and starts tapping the screen of a tablet mounted to his dash.  

Din selects a southbound pickup approximately 30 miles out, drop off Nebraska. Off-course, but it pays enough. 

“Can I sit up there?” 

His jaw clenches. 

That’s if he can stand being in the same vehicle as you for that long. 

Normally when he picks up bounties, they’re either too scared to talk to him or get the hint after the first few unanswered questions. 

But not you. 

No, you are tenacious. 

And noisy. So noisy. 

It’s irritating enough that you ask him a question every five minutes, but on top of that, you make all these other sounds that never seem to cease. Toes tap-tap-tapping on the floor. Fingertips thrumming against the wall or the grab bar or your body. You hum and sing to yourself constantly. 

It is driving him crazy. 

He sets course for the pickup site and pats the passenger’s seat, “Come on.” 

“Are you talking to me or him?” 

You’re sitting there with this smart aleck look on your face, one arm dangling from a handcuff, the other splayed out on your thigh. Two fingers alternate pat-pat-pat-pat against your leg like you’re some kind of human metronome. 

The dog hops down off of Din’s bed and climbs into the passenger’s seat, spinning around a few times before curling into a ball with a hmph. 

“Buckle up,” he tells you. 

“How do you propose I do that, big guy? I have one hand.” 

Din sighs, then gets to his feet. While he’s hovering there, fastening you into the five-point harness, your breath scatters across his face. Your intense gaze burns his skin. 

He reaches for the buckle between your legs and you spread them further apart. Heat flickers at the base of his spine when he goes to snap the belt in place and his knuckles brush against your thigh. 

You say nothing. 

You don’t move. 

For once, you’re still. 

He clicks the seatbelt in place and locks it, then unfastens the handcuffs and returns  them to their place on his belt. 

You wring your wrist, cussing under your breath, and ask, “Can I have my guitar?”

“No.”

“Why not?” you stare up at him, chocolate brown eyes flicking around his face. Your sharp, almost boyish, features pinching up into a fierce expression.

Din bites his tongue and returns to his seat, while you let out an exasperated huff of, “Fucking asshole,” and cross your arms, scowling at the headrest in front of you. 

He stomps down on the clutch twice and shifts the truck into first gear. Tension melts from his muscles when he realizes the cab is finally quiet. Just the comforting roar of the engine struggling to generate torque as he slides from one gear to the next. 

When he gets to the highway and hits a sweet spot to cruise, the truck calms to a purr. Then he hears it. 

Tap tap tap tap tap 

The next exit your captor takes comes much sooner than you expected. 

You crane your neck to get a better view out the massive windshield and frown, “Where are we going?” 

Silence. 

You glare at the side of the man’s head and exhale a big sigh like you’re annoyed by his lack of response. 

But the truth is, your insides are humming. This is it. Your opportunity to get the fuck out of here. 

He’s picking up some kind of freight, you’re sure of it. Which means he’s probably going to get out of the vehicle to hook up the trailer. On the off chance that someone might peak into the cab, he likely won't handcuff you. You guess he’ll issue some kind of threat once the destination draws near in an attempt to intimidate you into not causing a ruckus. 

You check to make sure the blade hasn’t somehow disappeared and release a quiet, relieved sigh when your fingers rub against the hard object. The metal presses into your skin. That will stay put until you’re sure he’s occupied. 

You scratch the woven polyester of the harness strap. Throughout the years, you’ve found yourself in a variety of precarious situations, but have never needed to cut a seatbelt. Your mind buzzes with excitement. 

Do you stab it and let it rip? Or saw through the material? If you go with the saw technique, is it more effective to slide the blade against the flat plane of the strap, or go in at the edge? 

The truck drops a few gears in rapid, but smooth, succession, then turns into a factory parking lot. 

“It’s in your best interest to keep quiet while I do this.” 

So predictable. 

Out of curiosity, wanting to see if he has the balls to make his implicit threat explicit, you ask him, “Meaning what, exactly?” 

“Meaning if you talk to anyone, or try anything, I will kill you.” 

There’s no hesitation. 

You raise an eyebrow and scoff, but your mouth goes dry. Your throat gulps on its own accord. For a moment, you try to talk yourself out of this. Bargaining to try another route of escape. Another more concrete opportunity might present itself. Something that could give you more wiggle room. 

But a not-so-gentle reminder trickles down your spine: he’s delivering you to a fate worse than death. Under no fucking circumstances will you go there without a fight. This could be the only chance. 

You rub the knife through your clothes and eye the handle of the overhead compartment, mapping out where your pack and guitar are stuffed, contemplating whether or not you’ll even have time to get them before you bail. 

The man makes quick work of backing the truck up to the facility. He flips a few switches and shifts into park, then turns to face you, “Are you going to behave?” 

His voice is low and serious. The question, regrettably, makes something flutter at your core. Part of you wants to tell him no, just to see what he’d do. 

“Yes,” you lie. 

He tilts his head and stares at you for a moment, then holds out his hand, “Give me your knife.” 

Fuck. 

“What knife?”

“The pocket knife in your bra.” 

You snort and shake your head, “Pocket knife in my bra?” 

“I’ll give it back to you. But for now, I need you to give it to me.” 

You clench your jaw and cross your arms. 

“Do not make me take it myself,” he warns, “Neither of us want that.” 

Blood rushes to your head with a hot wave of anger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, “Do you know what they’re going to do to me? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of a death march you’re leading me down? If you kill me before we get there, I’ll consider myself  fucking lucky.” 

The man doesn’t even flinch. His outstretched hand holds steady. Expectant. 

“Fucking piece of shit goon,” you mutter, but slip a hand under your shirt, under the elastic of your sports bra, and fish out your blade. With a flick of your wrist, you toss it on the floor, “I fucking hate you.” 

He picks the knife off the ground, slides it in his front pocket, then turns and opens the door. 

For what it’s worth, he returned the knife like he said he would. 

And the next time he stopped for food, after handcuffing you to the grab bar and giving you some private piss pot time, he brought you protein bars, french fries, and a chocolate milkshake. 

It’s not enough to make up for your complete lack of autonomy, but it’s more consideration than you were expecting. 

The sun set a while ago. Your sense of time is totally fucked, so you’re not sure exactly how long it’s been dark out, just that it feels like forever, and every time you try to look out the windshield or side windows, all you see is a a black void or the red glow of taillights. Sometimes you spot signs that give you clues to your location: Cleveland, Toledo, Chicago. 

The last one you saw was Davenport, shortly after you were ripped from sleep when the 18-wheeler hit a rumble strip off the road’s shoulder. Your captor jerked the wheel, then regained control, steadying his course. 

“Did you just fall asleep?” you asked him. 

He didn’t respond. 

“Hey,” you called, tossing a protein bar at his shoulder, “If you’re tired, you need to pull over and sleep.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit.” 

Silence. 

So now you’re wide awake, unable to move or do anything about the fact that the mad man driving this giant fucking machine might drift off into dreamland at any moment. All you can do is watch him.

It’s hard to be sure, with the cab being so dark, but eventually you swear you see his head drooping. 

“You know, if you’re really insistent on driving, I have some uppers in my bag,” you tell him, “Rather have you a little too alert than falling asleep at the wheel.” 

“If you wanted me to get you your fix, you should have asked at the last stop.” 

You snap your head back and scoff, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

He doesn’t respond, but you see his backlit hands gripping and releasing the steering wheel. 

“I don’t need a ‘fix’, jackass.” 

“So, what, you just deal speed out of the goodness of your heart?” 

His tone is snarky. You bristle even more. 

“I deal speed because, as you probably know, I happened upon a fuck ton of speed back in Oregon. I sell it for dirt cheap, just enough to get what I need, never in large quantities, and only when I have no other options for money. I rarely even—” you stop for a moment, tempted to drive into this man about the obvious flaws in his moral compass, but shake your head, “No, you know what? I don’t owe you, of all people, an explanation. So fuck you, man. Get off the fucking road and sleep before you hurt someone.” 

Silence falls over the cab, except for a brief stint of whining from the dog. 

When the man comes up on the next exit, he takes it. 

Din finds a place to park for the night. 

After giving everyone a bathroom break,  he secures the cabin by fastening a ratchet strap to each door’s hand hold, tightening until the strap is taut, then locking it in place. He tucks the key in his front pocket and turns to face the sleeper cab. 

The dog is laying on the mattress, propped up against the back wall with paws curled up in the air. Din looks at you, only to find you already staring at him. Well, actually, glaring might be more accurate. 

Between that and the way you’re strapped into the five-point harness, arms crossed tight over your small frame, you remind him of a sulking child. 

He approaches the overhead storage and pulls out your backpack. For a moment, he considers handing it over without further investigation. The bag is plumb full, and it’s apparent from a glance that you developed a particular system to get all your equipment to fit inside. 

But he has a hunch you’re carrying more than a pocket knife. The road can be ruthless to pretty women like you, regardless of how ferocious you actually are. Considering how adapted you seem to be to this lifestyle, he’s positive you know that and pack accordingly. 

As Din sorts your green rucksack’s carefully organized contents into two piles, he sees you out the corner of his eye, shifting in your seat and pursing your lips. Your rage is palpable. It’s mildly amusing. 

In one side pocket, there are dozens of small ziplock baggies, each containing 6 blue tablets. They go into the things he will keep for now pile. Everything from the other side pocket goes into the things you can keep pile: a few guitar picks, a pen, and a wallet. The wallet contains $54, a faded photo of a little girl and boy hugging each other, and an Iowa Driver License. He’s surprised to see the name Charlie Wanderlust printed on the ID. 

From the main compartment, he puts the following in the things you can keep pile: a tightly-rolled tent and similarly condensed sleeping bag, a few changes of clothes, a small bag of personal hygiene items, two notebooks, camping supplies, a tarp, and a bundle of dirty nylon rope. 

All the way at the bottom of the bag, he finds a pistol and some 9mm clips. He holds the gun up to examine it. GLOCK G19, semi-auto. It looks to be in good condition and well-maintained. 

Like he was with much of the rucksack’s contents, he’s surprised you’re carrying something so high-quality. The few hitchhikers he has encountered seem to be living off threadbare, secondhand equipment. But not you. 

It piques his curiosity. 

He releases the loaded magazine and tosses it to the side, along with the clips, in the things he’ll keep for now pile. The gun itself goes in the things you can keep pile. 

Once satisfied with his search, Din crouches down and puts the ammunition, pills, and ratchet strap keys in the safe under his bed, then slams it shut. 

He turns his attention back to you and finds your gaze still locked on him, dark eyes narrowed to slits. 

In his experience bounty hunting, he exclusively deals with men. 

Most bounties put out on women in the private sector are malicious in nature. Posted by jilted, often violent, men, looking to take back what they think is theirs. Even when there seems to be a morally acceptable reason for the bounty, it rouses his suspicion and leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

He supposes there’s always an exception. From the information he was given, you are that exception. A lucrative one, at that. 

Some of the things you told him today are nibbling at the edges of his mind, though. 

“Do you know what they’re going to do to me? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of a death march you’re leading me down? If you kill me before we get there, I’ll consider myself fucking lucky.”

Granted, bounties tend to make a number of outlandish claims while trying to negotiate their release from custody. He has heard almost every sob story in the book. Lame attempts to appeal to his sense of humanity. 

He’s trying not to lend it too much credibility, but you seemed so genuine, so righteous, in your anger. 

Then there was the outburst that preceded him stopping for the night. 

Part of him feels guilty for making assumptions about you. Another part of him knows you might be lying, given the circumstances. But it seemed to come from deep within you, dredged up with a sense of disdain, like you didn’t even want to tell him. 

It was contrary to every experience he’s had with bounties trying to talk their way into freedom. 

After taking everything into consideration, he determined you are not likely a threat. A flight risk, sure, but not a threat. 

He unlocks and unbuckles your harness, then goes about his nighttime routine. You narrow your eyes and watch him. 

“What are you doing?” you ask eventually, the question bursting out of you like you can’t hold it in any longer, “What is this?” 

Din squeezes a line of toothpaste on his toothbrush, “Take the bed.” 

“I’m keeping my knife.” 

“I know.” 

He thrusts the toothbrush in his mouth and starts scrubbing in vigorous, concentric motions. 

You huff, then turn to your pile of worldly possessions and dig out the toiletry bag, asking him, “What makes you think I won’t stab you in the middle of the night?” 

Din spits blue foam into an empty bottle, then says, “You don’t seem like the type.” 

“Hell of an assumption,” you raise an eyebrow as you unzip your toiletry bag and fish out two elastic hair ties, sliding them around your wrist, “What if you’re wrong?” 

“If you try to kill me, you won’t succeed,” he stares you down to make sure he’s understood, “But I will.” 

“Ok, pal,” you snort in condescension, pulling half of your white blonde hair over one shoulder. As you start to weave the long strands into a braid, you say, “I don’t want to kill you. But,” your eyes snap to his, “If you try to touch me while I’m sleeping—or at any point in time, for that matter—I will sink that fucking blade into your eyeball without hesitation.” 

He nods. 

“Good,” you smile, “Then we understand each other.”

[marcusrobertobaq]

Case given to Hank:

"investigate the android cases and see if there's any link"

What deviancy is about:

rA9 clues are present in almost every case, likely a myth or savior figure

All cases involved androids having emotional shock, often being self-defense or witnessing androids being treated like androids

The answer is: YES, the cases GOT A LINK. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Apart from Connor giving CyberLife info they already have the mission is OVER. They already know what deviancy is and when it happens and what causes.

Then we got Markus speech

There's an organization made of deviants

rA9 points at this organization

(Connor finds out the relation between the leader, Kamski and his own series)

It's just a matter of checking evidence if these deviants point towards anything related to this org, a HQ or anything - something they would find.

What may be the issue with this whole thing:

Connor ain't working with the DPD at all, the case assigned to Hank ain't the same.

Connor was sent to hunt deviants, not assist DPD in 'em case. They needed do it in a legal way so they assigned the guy to a lieutenant that could give him access to crime scenes and evidences. So this "finding the cause of deviancy" or anything related to "finding if the cases are related" was never Connor's mission. He's there to take deviants out of the streets from start and they just needed a excuse. The cases started becoming more alarming and frequent with time, after all.

So, "solve the case" what case? The "excuse" case was already solved, mf even discovered CL got something to do with all this. It was all just a matter of finding this "organization", something they could've done before the feds took over or even before the org itself grew up.

Conclusion: the investigation arc is about 3 things

Finding out CyberLife was lying and they got something shady behind all this shit

Finding out Markus relation with Kamski, which also involves Amanda and Connor himself

Finding out deviancy is related to emotional shock and rA9 - presumably a savior basically all androids seek

None of 'em are related to DPD, but Connor needed access to some shit and the legal way was using DPD. It's Connor's mission (only) finding a way of stopping the deviancy issue, either by collecting all androids to disassemble or killing 'em. It includes Jericho rebellion (later).

So no, idk wtf Hank was talking about related to almost solving the case. They got both the knife and the cheese in hands.

I know investigations like these ain't a week thing, some shit are just slow normally cuz we're dealing with humans. But here we're talking about androids in a case that needs to be dealt with asap - another reason they got an android like Connor there. Idk if it would be a month thing if Markus didn't started a revolution, they were concerned with solving the cases before the shit hit the fan, similar to Amanda needing it done asap before the media finds out. The problem is: EVERYBODY KNEW THERE'S SOMETHING HAPPENING, INCLUDING THE MEDIA.

It tells me 2 things:

Either CyebrLife knew there were a possibility with the numbers rising exponentially a rebellion would start and a group like Jericho be formed (meaning they know the deal about rA9) and that's the only concern they had and the reason they wanted Connor to deal with all androids

Or the hurry they had with the case was to find out about things quickly before it became a federal thing, something that catches even more attention and rumors.

Maybe both.

All this big ass post to explain why DPD's case not being solved is super weird like they were just waiting for something to happen even tho they already had answers and was just a matter of telling people what to do. And what to do? Find this place where androids are reuniting after analysing the clues and working with CyberLife a way of tracking missing androids. How to stop deviancy once and for all? That's a good question I bet nobody can answer, maybe cuz ain't got an answer, maybe u just can't. What u can do is try collecting these "defective" androids, destroying generations and replacing with better systems, preferably if away from Kamski's design.