#culinary fuckery

[witchofthesouls]

There's so many variations of "Things about Humans/Things Humans do that gross/creep out the Transformers". What would they find interesting about humans that we may not necessarily think much of? Hair is definitely up there I'd say.

That humans can't see their own stripes since they are only visible under ultraviolet light.

They're called Blaschko lines, and they're as unique as fingerprints. They can be visible with skin disorders.

Some people can figure out their pattern if they have a tendency to freckle from sunlight. Others claim they figured theirs out by following mole placement.

So Cybertronians would be absolutely fascinated by humans walking around with their markings and completely boggled that they can't see them. At one point, they thought flannel, zebra stripes, cheetah print, and other fun patterns were some sort of fashion statement along with their Blaschko lines. Cybertronians thought it was abstract art that delighted some and infuriated others because of incongruent matches.

Hair wouldn't be too strange to them as long, thin strands of wires were a fashion statement and a status symbol at some points. It's just that human 'fur' doesn't fulfill its primary function of warmth. It's the secondary functions that humans fuss over. Some hairstyles are absolutely wild to them, like the pouf style of Marie Antoinette's era with ships and bird cages with live specimens.

Cybertronians are rightfully concerned over humanity's collective urge to adopt dangerous fauna as pets or to keep in their household. Canines and felines are popular, but so are reptiles, arachnids, avians, and sea predators. Humans have no fangs, claws, or exoskeleton, but they feel compelled to take poisonous, venomous, and/or proficient hunters into their arms.

Humanity's history of agriculture and culinary explorations are multi-tiered mental fuckery mazes. It brought many mechs to tears trying to trace the impact of the cabbage family across the world. Fungi is another field that the less is delved into, the better their mental health. (Who!? Who the Pits came up with Hákarl!?)

What's really fascinating about human biology is just how resilient they can be. Sure, they can squish one with their foot, but humans manage to figure out how to survive without major organs with medical intervention, which is far more metal than some other organic species they deal with. What's really gross-curious is the extent, like how a bone graft will attempt to match the skeleton of its new host or how their resiliency can backfire with medical conditions, like autoimmune diseases and cancers. (Teratoma was a freaky thing to them. An unwanted extra mass that could grow teeth, bones, and hair within it!?)

Food intolerances confuse them. Especially since individuals with lactose intolerance have no fear of any culinary deity. Whatever sins committed is a wretched pact between that human and the toilet.

Another confusing aspect is the constant debate of a soul among humans. Popular arguments are the heart, stomach, and brain/mind. Meanwhile, the Cybertronian 'soul' isn't a philosophical debate. It's a physical reality with their spark.

[inthebeginning-rebellion]

fuckery+jeff's inn by the sea+blackbeards bar and grill+stede's natural hostess talent+roach's genuine adoration of cuisine+the crew's artistic talents+the revenge being home=

The Revenge! Roaming Dinner Theatre on the High Seas! Captained by dashing Gentlemen Pirates and Dedicated to a Thrilling Theatrical Culinary Experience! Makes stops in Jamaica, Florida, Barbados, and the Republic of Pirates, no shirt, no shoes, no service.

[quiet-compassion]

OFMD Fluffvember Day 14: Friends to Lovers

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51779614

“Roach, you’ve really outdone yourself with these, man!”

“Yeah, you’re like some kind of culinary genius!”

Stede hears a chorus of agreement as he painstakingly makes his way down to the mess hall.

“Ah well, I just figured it’s a special occasion. We pulled off our first-ever fuckery! That’s reason to celebrate!” Roach declares to a round of raucous cheers from the crew.

Clutching at his still very much punctured left side, Stede finally lumbers in.

“There you are, Captain!” Frenchie says, mouth half-full. “Glad to see you up and about. We were worried you might have died.”

“Nope, not dead. I was just having a lie-down and must have drifted off,” Stede explains somewhat bashedly.

Ed rises from his spot at the table, crossing to Stede and helping him into a chair. “You lost a lotta blood, mate. I reckon you’re entitled to a good nap. Plus with all that sword fighting, defeating Izzy, you must have been knackered!”

His words wipe away the embarrassment Stede had been feeling. He sits up straighter, only to sag back down when his stitches twinge in protest. “Yes, I suppose so. I have worked up quite an appetite! What’s all this I hear about your culinary genius, Roach?”

The crew exchange somewhat guilty looks.

“Uhh, you missed dinner, Cap,” Oluwande says apologetically.

“Yeah, and we worked up appetites too, with our performance and all.” Black Pete gestures around the table.

“Real hungry,” Frenchie agrees.

Oluwande tips his head towards his empty plate. “We’d already moved onto dessert.”

“Ah.” Stede’s stomach gives a rumble of disappointment. “Well, that’s alright! I could do with a sweet little pick-me-up. What’s for dessert?”

“Roach made these ginger biscuits. But they were shaped like little men,” Wee John explains.

“Ooooh! That’s maudlin, isn’t it?” Stede says appreciatively.

“Yeah, but they’re all gone Captain. Sorry.”

As much as he tries to appear unaffected, Stede’s dismay must be clear. Ed gives a small chuckle and claps him lightly on the shoulder.

“No worries, mate. Here, take mine,” he says picking up his biscuit and handing it to Stede.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Course I am. What are friends for?” Ed assures, shooting him a small smile and a meaningful look. Stede stares back at him, sure that they’re both replaying the same moment from last night in their minds.

“...That’s why I don’t have any friends.”

“Hey, I’m your friend.”

He accepts the proffered cookie from Ed and says, voice small, “Thank you.”

All around them, the chatter of the crew resumes. An hour or so later, as Ed helps Stede back to his cabin, he’s still thinking about it. He sits on the couch as Ed pours them each a brandy, lost in thought and savoring the taste of ginger that lingers on his lips.

“Ed?” he ventures, softly.

“Yeah, mate?”

“Earlier…that is, before…you offered me your dessert and you said ‘What are friends for?’”

“Did, yup,” Ed nods dropping into the chair beside the couch.

“Well, it just occurs to me…I don’t actually know.”

“Know what?”

“What friends are for,” Stede confesses.

Ed looks up at him, mouthing falling open in surprise. Stede forces himself to continue on.

“Last night, I told you I’m your friend—and I am! I want to be. Only, it occurs to me now…I’ve never really had a friend before. So, I’m afraid that in spite of my best efforts and intentions, I may prove a poor one to you.”

He’s flushing, he can feel it. The room is warm and the longer Ed goes without saying anything, it seems to Stede that the temperature is rising. Thankfully, after another moment or two Ed breaks the silence, clearing his throat.

“Well, the first thing you did after calling yourself my friend was forgive me for planning to kill you. Pretty top-tier shit if you ask me. If anything, I’m sorry for you. You deserve better, especially from your first friend.”

“Nonsense!” Stede says immediately. “You’re excellent. You shared your biscuit with me! And you’ve taught me so much about piracy. And you put up with all my idiosyncrasies. No one else ever has.”

Ed scoffs. “I don’t put up with them. They’re one of my favorite parts about you, man! What did I tell you when we met? You’re doing things your way! Fucking fascinating!”

Stede’s blushing again, though this time it isn’t out of embarrassment. 

“Well,” he says with a pleased smile, raising his glass, “to friendship.”

“To figuring it out as we go,” Ed says with an answering grin.

…

It takes some persuading but, eventually, the crew agrees to let Ed back aboard the ship for the night.

“Just keep him the fuck away from us!” Jim hisses, one arm around Oluwande’s shoulder, the other around Archie’s waist. Together, they leave to head below deck; the rest of the crew disperses in their wake. 

“That went well, all things considered,” Stede says cheerily.

Ed gives a noncommittal hum, looking over Stede’s shoulder to where Lucius is once again flipping him the bird.

“And I’m sure the tension will thaw even more after a good night’s rest. Speaking of, shall we turn in?”

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees with a nod, following Stede through to the captain’s cabin. It’s the first time they’ve been in here together since…everything. Ed feels a tangle of emotions well up inside of him. He is at once abashed by the dismal, derelict state the room has fallen into and childishly glad that Stede is being forced to see just how much destruction he had inspired.

For his part, if Stede is bothered by the loss of all his fine things he doesn’t show it, except to remark, “I’d offer you a brandy, but I don’t seem to have any.”

Ed shrugs.

“Listen, I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but I’d quite like it if you stayed aboard. Beyond just tonight, I mean.” Stede eyes him with that nervous slightly skittish expression he gets when he really wants something he thinks he might be denied.

“Could do, I guess,” Ed says looking down at his boots. “I mean, I don’t have any other plans really.”

Stede beams then struggles to school his face into something more neutral. “Right. Good. But uh, in order for that to work, I think you’ll probably have to address the crew. Clear the air.”

Ed feels as though a bucket of cold seawater has been upended over his head. 

“Shit,” he groans running a hand over his face. “What do I—I don’t know what I would even say.”

“Well, I can help you. We can have a think together about it tonight and get something scripted out. That way you feel more prepared when the time comes,” Stede offers kindly.

“You’d do that? Really?”

“Of course!” Stede says at once. “What are friends for?”

Ed’s eyes snap up to Stede’s at the turn of phrase. Stede offers him a shy smile.

“Are we still friends?” he hears himself ask, pathetically.

“We’ll always be friends, Ed.”

And really, what can Ed say in the face of that? 

They sit together (on the floor, what with the room’s distinct lack of chairs), scribbling down notes and pitching each other lines, collaborating to craft the best possible apology. In some ways, it feels exactly like it was before. Stede scooches in closer at one point to get a better look at the paper between them and their knees touch. Even though it’s a breezy night, the room suddenly feels warm.

“See? I told you we’d figure it out!” Stede says, reading over their finished draft.

Ed watches him fondly, an ember of hope glowing in his chest. “Yeah, mate. I think we will.”

[heardchef]

Im interested to see how they handle the opening of “The Bear” in the next season. A new restaurant by a chef of Carmys stature would surely warrant attention in the culinary world and i wonder if theyll play with how that could affect his mental

yes!

i'm begging for just a little exploration of the mental fuckery that would ensue when things inevitably go wrong, or carmy fails to exceed expectations and he has to accept that it's because of him this time? we saw carmy 'succeed' except that journey was fueled by spite. i rlly want to see carmy's reaction to failure/stress when he's starting with a semi-blank slate and support.

i want to see him react to something where the fault lies solely with him. there are no empty pill bottles stashed away in the office this time. mikey isn't looming over every inch of the kitchen. carmy has people in his corner and things are still crumbling. even if it's just for a second, i think that'd be interesting to see carmy grapple with that.

[hartshorn-and-isinglass]

Gelatin!

The Great Gelatin Revival: Savory Aspics, Jiggly Shots, and Outrageous Desserts

I've been a Ken Albala fan for a while, so when I saw he'd gotten into aspics and was writing a recipe book focused on gelatin I hit that 'preorder' button like the fist of an angry god. Being a food historian, of course Albala talks extensively in this book about gelatin's role in civilizations across the ages. The recipes he's created range from gelatinized cocktails, to upscale versions of jello salad, to some rather avant-garde fuckery that makes me slightly scared--which is no small feat since I'm a huge fan of aspic and an even huger fan of culinary trolling. My blog handle, "hartshorn and isinglass", names two ingredients used to make instant jellies and is meant as a reference to the jelly houses of England that gradually fell out of favor over the course of the 18th century (which Albala talks about in his history section). So hell yeah, I'm on board with aspic's comeback.

ETA: the recipe where he encases onigiri in tonka bean aspic now lives rent-free in my head. I can't decide if it's a bridge too far or if I'm going to have to try it.

[bolters-and-rivets]

Adding this under examples of healthy masculinity.

I mean, the environment itself is probably physically toxic from all that trash they brushed off the table, but frankly that's a minor concern.

Do I watch this video and want to be involved in this culinary fuckery regardless? Hell fucking yeah.

Keep a can in the cooler for me, boys! this Non-binary is off to embrace their inner man and turn into a walking booze fountain and teach them about Bin-Jousting

[returntosaturn271995]

Monday, November 6th, 2023: They don't make a pill for this (or, a non-addictive one at least)

Welp, it's currently day three-post the Makenna/Nate split. (yes, that's his name too not my ex or the guy who asked me out on the Southwest flight.) We have crossed from numbness into some pretty strong denial which is only fair because this dude BLIND-SIDED her which is some bullshit that we apparently can just expect from dudes.

I'll be jaded for a lonnnng time and I'm just a witness to this.

Other things in life: I refuse to be sick or have a shin splint before Europe so I made the world's weirdest and healthiest smoothie and chugged it for most of the day.

Also made pumpkin bread. (Just a shining star of culinary talent).

Meditated Outside: The focus was on having planning as a compass without forming too attachments to outcomes as this invites unneeded stress when life eventually adds a little fuckery to the mix.

Looking into puppy volunteering. Is that a thing?

Thought about having a glass of wine but decided to smoke a very much-needed joint, watch trash TV (Love Island Games. Outstanding so far. Vibing. No notes).

Something I read today stuck with me: Making better choices in the present will always be difficult. Everything else will get easier.

Weird fact: Blue eyes don't have blue pigment, it's the lack of melanin that leads to what's known as the Tyndall effect. Same reason the sky appears blue, the Raliegh effect. This is courtesy of the Ologies Podcast with Alie (spelled with one L but with an E for some reason) Ward.

So yeah: I have a cold, on my period, leg pain, daylight savings sucked sunshine directly from the sky, I'm peeing what feels like constantly due to a shoving spinach, overnight oats, beet juice and greek yogurt in to an unholy cocktail of "wellness".

Also known as: Gross, ick, OW, bleh, aw :/, and COME ON.

I'M TRYING TO BE RESPECTFUL BUT EVEN WORK IS VERY PROFESSIONALLY GRINDING MY LITTLE BONES TO DUST. I MADE CORRECT TODAY, EVERYTHING ELSE IS STILL KIND OF SUCKING.

Still, today was decent in comparison to all the days where I didn't make choices.

Seriously though I refuse to get sick before Europe.

Like. Refuse.

[canalstreetbaker]

Tis the season.

[sunneinsplendor]

UUUUUGH

Been a long week.

Yes I know it’s a fucking Wednesday.

Days have no meaning any more on a seven day work week. 

Had two people call out of the line on Monday, the day we have only three people on the line to fucking begin with and no dishwasher. Our bar manager (gods bless and fucking keep this woman I swear to christ she’s worth more than the other four managers combined) came in to do counts, saw we had one person to open the line, a prep in the dish pit and the other trying to actually prep what we needed to open, threw everything down, stole a spare chef jacket and proceeded to set up and run the wheel during lunch rush. This is the same bar manager who gets me bananas from the Amazon banana cart every morning we work together because she knows I’m in before the cart opens and I love bananas. After this week I would take a fucking bullet for her. 

I worked two line stations simultaneously on Monday while running dish and doing prep. And then did it again Tuesday because two DIFFERENT people called out. There is both an illness going around and a bunch of people who are just done with this shit. 

My head chef is actively but subtly encouraging me to rage quit at our GM more and the dumbass is really making it easy to do so. None of the servers can stack dishes in anything resembling a logical order and I have stabbed myself in the hand no less than three times because they keep sticking sharp knives in the silverware soak. Today I threw a ramekin at one of them while shouting at them to “unfuck their shitty stack job or so help me christ I’m going to choke the life out of you.” Not sure if I should take my head chef laughing at my rage from the other side of the kitchen as a good sign or not but at least he knows who’s going to be to blame if one of these dumb twatwaffles ends up dead. 

GM came in today bright eyed and bushy tailed with cheery good mornings for everyone. He clearly got more than five hours of sleep. We hate him. He made the mistake of asking how today was going and got yelled at (literally yelled at, mind you) by three people in two different sections of the restaurant that they have officially cut down the staff too goddamn far. We have had a minimum of two call outs a day this week because people are sick and they don’t have anyone working for us that can cover a shift because they are ALREADY FUCKING WORKING.

Two call-outs today as well. And the news that our sole dishwasher has found a new job at a sister restaurant and isn’t coming back. Same with two line cooks. Head chef has the decency to look guilty about this cuz he’s the one who moved them to new restaurants. Head chef has been forcefully told that if I don’t have a raise by the end of the goddamn month he’s going to have to find a new goddamn MacGuyver and good fucking luck with that. I’m expecting a decent raise. Frankly whatever I ask for is still going to be cheaper than paying three other people to do my fucking job. 

My other prep girl told me if I didn’t call out tomorrow so I could get some goddamn sleep she was going to throw me out into the street when she saw me. I double prepped the other half of our spec list and told chef that I needed at least half a day off to stop me from cutting someone. He spent ten seconds in the walk in and came out to tell me I have tomorrow off now. He’s a good egg.

I haven’t had a full day off in long enough that I genuinely don’t know what to do with myself. What do people DO when they have 24 hours to themselves? Does anyone actually know?

........Oh. And the hot-sheet menu is basically mine, as only one other line guy had any incentive to submit a recipe. So there’s that. 

[fluffmugger]

ok look, there's a reason why the saying is 'you can't outrun a bad diet'

Cico is the general way to lose unwanted weight. Expend more energy than you consume. No, dieting is not the way to go because deprivation is a horror, and once you reach your 'ideal' you think the long national nightmare is over and start rewarding yourself. It's a cycle.

You need to rethink your relationship with food, why you eat what you eat and sort that out. If you are a culinary hedonist, accept that fact these delicious fat filled goodies will become your armour. Look at your access to food and who is controlling that and why it's easier to eat a bucket of kfc than find time to cook something else. Stop chasing food dopamine and confront your demons, embrace the hedonistic fat fuckery or pick up a torch and start setting fire to capitalism.

Me: Exercise does not cause weight loss. This is a fact that has been demonstrated so robustly in research that even doctors, who hate and fear evidence, are grudgingly starting to admit this.

Someone reading that post: Cool, but have you considered that exercise leads to weight loss?

Me: I am going to eat you

[pleasant-boi]

After Shido dies he actually leaves Akechi quite a large amount of money. Akechi doesn't want anything to do with it at the beginning, but he ends up using it to fund a group home and resources for abused children.

Akechi, around his late 30's - 40's, making (slightly burnt, uneven) pancakes for a group of children he refuses to let scrape by with cup noodles and pre-packaged meals, lively chattering and teasing that in some institutions wasn't even allowed when he was a kid echoing through the house, a radio playing some cheesy pop song he hates, but the kids love it, some even singing along so he leaves it on, waving a spatula around as he's breaking an argument, the kids jokingly talking back and sticking their tongues out at him, the loud goodbyes as they leave for school after eating, finally find a purpose in his life being someone he desperately needed when he was a child.

[abramsbooks]

RECIPE: All the Tomatoes Tomato Salad (from Matty Matheson: Home Style Cookery)

Tomatoes rule and should be eaten at room temperature, and they should never be kept in the fridge. Tomatoes are the greatest fruit in the world. This tomato salad with lots of cornbread crumbs is one for the books. If you don’t have cornbread, just fry lots of torn day-old bread in olive oil until golden and crunchy, then throw in garlic and some herbs and place it all on a paper towel; let the oil drip and then pulse in a food processor. Or really, you should just be eating these tomatoes with some good olive oil and sea salt. But that wouldn’t be a cookbook recipe. Imagine if we just actually left everything alone and ate things at the highs of seasons with no fuckery and enjoyed the real sensations of the purest of pure.

Serves 4 to 6

Prep time: 35 minutes, plus 45 minutes inactive time

1 pound (450 g) heirloom tomatoes (different varieties)

1 pound (450 g) cherry tomatoes (different varieties)

4 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon (65 ml) olive oil

2 tablespoons lime juice

Zest of 1 lime

2 teaspoons sea salt

1 teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

1 cup (200 g) crumbled cornbread

1 garlic clove, peeled

½  cup (140 g) crumbled feta cheese

1 cup (30 g) chopped basil leaves

Slice all the tomatoes in different shapes and sizes; arrange them randomly on a serving plate. Brush the tomatoes with 3 tablespoons (45 ml) of the olive oil, then drizzle with the lime juice and sprinkle with the zest, salt, and pepper. Allow the tomatoes to marinate for 45 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 300°F (90°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Put the cornbread into a medium bowl. Grate the garlic into the cornbread and splash in the remaining 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon (20 ml) olive oil. Spread the crumble mixture evenly onto the prepared baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes, until the cornbread is dry and crunchy. Take the cornbread out of the oven and let cool.

Lightly sprinkle a thin layer of the cornbread crumble over the tomatoes, then crumble the feta all over the salad and finish with a handful of the basil on top.

Chef Matty Matheson follows up his New York Times bestseller with an even bigger book that is all about quality home cooking.

Matty returns with 135 of his absolute favorite recipes to cook at home for his family and friends, so you can cook them for the people you love. Home Style Cookery is his definitive guide to mastering your kitchen, covering everything from pantry staples (breads, stocks, and pickles) to party favorites (dips, fried foods, and grilled meats), to weeknight go-tos (stews, pastas, salads), and special occasion show-stoppers (roasts, smoked meats, and desserts). It starts with basics like Molasses Bread in an Apple Juice Can, Beef and Bone Marrow Stock, Kitchen Sink Salad, Thanksgiving Stuffing Butternut Squash, and the tallest Seven-Layer Dip you have ever seen. Next it covers comforting recipes like Littleneck Clam Orecchiette, Pho Ga, Sichuan Newfoundland Cod, Double Beef Patty Melt with Gruyere and Molasses Bread, and Matty’s take on the ultimate Submarine sandwich. And it closes with bangers like Fish Sticks with Kewpie Tartar Sauce, Salt Crust Leg of Lamb and Yukon Golds with Creamed Spinach, Texas-Style Prime Rib, T-bone Steak and Fine Herb Chimichurri, and Lobster Thermidor with Bearnaise and Salt and Vinegar Chips. It even has desserts like his wife Trish’s Chocolate Chip Cookies and Creme Caramel.

In Home Style Cookery, Matty shares his bold style of cooking. Along with beautiful photographs of Matty’s dishes and his farm, this book is filled with signature recipes that are equal parts approachable and tasty. Matty’s first book shared his culinary story, Home Style Cookery will help you build yours.

For more information, click here.

[ms-maj]

For @theheavycrown​ on her birthday. Sarah, thank you for all the laughter, support and friendship and for being an all around awesome human being. xoxo

It’s not that he doesn’t like mornings, he does, it’s just that Jughead Jones has come to learn that few good things happen before nine a.m. Yet here he sits at seven, a fine layer of silt covering his beloved Honda, his leather jacket, his helmet (next time he’ll make sure the route he takes avoids as many of those dirt roads as humanly possible; he really wishes he’d stuffed his backpack in the saddlebag instead of wearing it on his back.) The goggles he’s pulled down rest under his chin as he slides his helmet off, his hair feeling heavy and hot in the already building humidity. The helmet clanks against the steel frame as it hangs from the handlebars, dust kicking off in a little cloud as it sways. 

He sighs, peeling the filthy eyewear off his head and wipes the lens across his dirty jeans before hanging them on the opposite handlebar. This is not his scene. Well, it’s not not his scene, Jughead is pretty well known as the patron saint of all things forgotten and bygone,  so the flea market isn’t too out of turn but taking time off his life to pursue nothing but leisure? Not so much. So when he heard tell of the best collection of antique cast iron this side of the Mississippi he knew he’d be remiss if his cross-country culinary trek didn’t at least find him some new pieces to add to his ever-growing collection. The one that personally threatened to take over another corner of his small house, and the one he’s building a culinary empire on. He exhales forcefully, lifting his coffee from the holder, thankful he opted for the tall, solid cupholder as it somehow managed to save his necessary caffeine from the horrors of the open country road. 

Finish below or on AO3

Sipping on his "coffee" he watches as the vendors turn into the old yet still operating drive-in, the name Sunset peeling off the ancient sign. This weekend’s fare, Jaws and Jurassic Park, piecemeal spelled out in crumbling letters on the old marquee. Truck after truck, some with trailers and others just loaded to the brim, turn in a steady stream and supposedly have been doing so for the last hour. There’s a strange excitement that simmers just under the surface, it’s as if he knows he’s going to find exactly what he wants today, maybe even if it’s not at all what he’s been looking for.

Jughead likes to think he’s lived. In his—some glorious and others very much not—thirty-four years on this earth he’s eaten, what he thinks, is the finest food on every continent. He’s trained under classic French chefs in Michelin starred restaurants and with street vendors from Thailand to Peru. His own restaurant, a quaint throwback bistro in the heart of upstate New York is the culmination of those years and years and years of hard work. His passions, he’s come to find, cannot be confined, nor defined, simply by the walls of a kitchen. They’re in the pages of his acclaimed cookbooks and the mystery series he’s been stringing together since high school that he was sure would never amount to anything. 

But it did, and here he is. The very definition of latchkey, Jughead Jones grew up the poor son of a couple of addicts and con artists. The ones he hasn’t seen since he got his high school diploma. The moment that piece of paper was in his hands, he loaded his rucksack onto his rusted out Kawasaki and never looked back. 

He’s lived in trailers and dorms, in cramped studios and lavish flats, and once, in the projection booth of a drive-in theater. Very much like the one he assumes is in the middle of this one. He sighs, leaning back against his bike, forgetting the heat from the muffler until it starts burning beneath the heavy denim of his jeans. 

“Shit,” he mumbles as he shifts uncomfortably away, dislodging his near burnt calf but manages to spill the bitter, gas-station coffee he’d been absently cradling down the front of his white t-shirt. The next expletive out of his mouth is not so quiet. “Fuck me!”

The cup drops to the ground as he wipes at the seeping stain barehanded. “I might have a tissue,” he hears. Instantly he stops the futile attempt to clean himself, looking up when the laughter reaches his ears. “Though I can’t imagine it would be much help.”

The corner of his lip pulls up despite this recent bout of bad luck. She’s in a bold, floral print sundress with the kind of soft hem that dances with the breeze as it blows across the nearly empty lot. The sunhat is floppy, almost too big over the cascade of soft waves that hit her shoulders, she smiles, warm and amused before she takes her lower lip between her teeth, eyes darting from his to the growing spot of wet fabric sticking to his chest.

“I would say I’m well prepared,” he gestures back toward his bike with its ample enclosed storage, and his dust-covered backpack draped over the rear seat. “But apparently I wasn’t thinking this morning. This is also my last clean shirt, so, really batting a thousand today.”

Pink tongue peeking between her teeth as she laughs her eyes narrow as her head dips to the side. “Hmm,” she runs that tongue over her lower lip, looking at him with hooded eyes before seemingly catching herself; clearing her throat she starts again. ”I just pulled my car out of storage, I might have something in the trunk if you want me to take a look?” She half turns to follow where she’s absentmindedly pointing, and he sees the very moment her left foot doesn’t seem to get the memo. If he waits another second she’ll be in the dirt and without even consciously thinking about it, his arms wrap around her waist and keep her from toppling.

She lets out a shaky breath, fingers digging into the leather that encases his bicep. “Sorry, I, uh,” her head darts from side to side before she rights herself and extricates herself from his grip. “I wish I could say I wasn’t normally this klutzy but that would be a lie.” She sweeps the dirt and imaginary wrinkles from her dress and adjusts the hat that now sits just askew on her head.

“Glad I could be of assistance,” he drawls, watching as pink colors her cheeks. “So, a shirt? Maybe?” 

Nodding, she turns (with a skosh more grace than before) and walks to the end of the makeshift aisle. “Right this way.”

 “You’re not trying to lure me behind an abandoned building so that you can murder me, right?” He thinks it sounds playful, flirtatious even, though both things are patently out of his wheelhouse, but he can’t help but wonder why this gorgeous woman even stopped and looked in his direction.

“Oh, no, see this building might be abandoned, but these grounds aren’t going to be for too much longer. And I have a feeling you might be a screamer.” 

Choking a little on his own spit, he slows, swallows, and drags his eyes back up to find hers looking back over her shoulder. She winks, then stops between the fins of some powder blue oddity Jughead has never seen the likes of before. 

“I don’t usually find myself at a loss for words but you seem to have found my weakness.”

“And what is that exactly?” She questions as he moves next to her, almost too close, he can feel her breath shuddering against his skin as she places an oddly shaped key into the opening on the trunk. 

“Klutzy green-eyed blondes,” he can tell he’s caught her off guard when she gasps as the latch lets go on the trunk lock. 

“Okay then,” she’s smiling back at him, that lip caught between her teeth again when he realizes he’s already mapping out their future and he doesn’t even know her name.

“Jughead. Jones.” he supplies, voice cracking like he’s all of sixteen again. He wasn’t nervous, not before this simple moment in which he provides his chosen name and she either laughs or…

Her dainty hand hangs between them. “Pleasure to meet you Jughead, I’m Betty Cooper."

His large, calloused hand engulfs hers, happy to find the spark he thought he felt before was very real, and much, much more than a spark.

Their clasped hands hang between them, neither too eager to drop. Betty finally pulls away with another one of those flustered head shakes, before she starts to rummage through the cavernous trunk. It’s fairly empty, save for whatever Betty is looking for, and it's clearly all the way in the back.

 “Okay, but really, you can’t tell me that you haven’t thought, you know hypothetically of course, about how many bodies you could actually fit in this trunk,” he’s taken a step back to get the full picture, which is mostly just Betty stretching the entirety of her gorgeous frame into the depths of the unknown to find him a shirt, but his writers’ mind can’t help but wonder.

She stops her scavenging and with a triumphant grunt, she’s righting herself, the strap of a black duffle bag between her fingers. “Aha! And honestly, who hasn’t seen an old car and thought about the sheer amount of fuckery one could get away with simply based on interior cargo space.”

He knows he’s staring, gaping really, but he can’t seem to help himself. Betty shrugs, unphased, and goes to open the bag. She rummages around for a few seconds then pulls out a Johnny Cash t-shirt. 

“I know it’s a little wrinkled but it doesn’t seem to smell,” she pulls the aforementioned garment from her face and hands it to him. 

“Even if it did it—anything is an improvement over,” he waves his hand over his sticky shirt and worries she can tell his heart straight-up skips a beat when she laughs. 

Jughead takes off his leather jacket, passes it wordlessly to Betty who tries to clean it as best she can with a small rag from her car. He slips his arms inside of his soiled shirt and pushes it up around his shoulders, sliding it off as he pulls on the clean one. When he looks back at Betty she looks a little perplexed.

“What?”

“Just wondering what prompted the middle-school locker room style shirt change. If my seeing you topless would’ve been too much for your delicate sensibilities than perhaps I’ve misjudged—”

“That is quite enough out of you,” he points a menacing finger in her direction but is laughed down. His glare breaks quickly and the smile that takes over almost hurts. Has he been that out of practice with even smiling that the muscles in his face don’t know what to do about it? It’s a definite possibility. It just seems to come so naturally around Betty that he doesn’t want to question, and subsequently, jinx it.  

“Oh yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?" Eyebrow raised, she leans closer, arm outstretched with his coat.

He reaches to grab it but he misses the jacket altogether and brushes his fingers against hers. "Sounds like you'd love to find out, " it's from who winks this time. Betty's grip falters and the leather falls into his hand. Words form on his tongue but before he can get them out a shrill ring cuts through the ambiance of the morning. 

The trunk is slammed close; the moment is gone. “Shit, it’s a client, and a big one so I have to take this. I, um, I’ll see you in there? Hopefully?” He knows the disappointment is etched on his face, but he tamps it down and nods in her direction. Her smile back is enthusiastic, she looks sanguine; before he turns around he hears, what he assumes, is a happy lilt as she greets whoever is on the line.

He stuffs the jacket and his soiled shirt into one of the saddlebags, slides on his trusty (and dusty) grey beanie, grabs a few canvas tote bags, and heads into the flea market. There’s a moment he thinks he hears her voice but when he turns he's met with the endless drone of tires as the lot begins to fill.

It seems silly—feels silly—to be missing someone after such a short time. Not only just since you’ve seen them but also because you’ve only exchanged a handful of words in the entire five minutes that you’ve known one another.

There’s a small line at the gate. As he waits to pay his admission, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and tugs at the edge of his hat, trying to keep this weird, swirly sensation inside instead of letting it bubble out lest he ends up skipping through the lanes. 

He lets out a mirthless laugh, the kind he finds usually echo throughout his empty home only this time it's met with the hustle and bustle of the early-bird crowd. There's no time to dwell, no reason to wait; just the time (and patience) to find himself that thirteen-inch Spider skillet, and maybe a new Dutch oven...or two.

Or, he remembers after he's grabbed new forty-fives for the jukebox, old carnival prints for Toni, a snake ashtray for Sweet Pea that he knows Val will hate but it's so ugly he can't help himself, that while he may be able to mail himself whatever he can't carry across the states...he still has to get it there in the first place.

It's why he talks himself out of the awful Rocky poster. It's not for him, of course, but rest assured it would be most appreciated by Archie and Reggie. Jughead can actually picture exactly where in their apartment where they'd hang it. Their housewarming present would have to wait until the next flea market.

He hasn't even made it to the small cluster of more upscale dealers before he's at the snack stand, walking away with a blue icee and cotton candy like the grown man he is. While enjoying his treats he's only half paying attention to the stalls and tables that line each of drive-in’s aisles, surely missing out on some choice vintage toys and housewares that he has no use (or room) for.

Mostly, his mind wanders as he weaves through the ever-growing throng. He’s been looking for a floppy sun hat but, unfortunately, many, many people seem to be concerned about the adverse effects of UV rays. Not that that in and of itself is not unfortunate, it’s just not helping him at the moment. If he couldn’t look down and see the physical evidence of their interaction, he’d believe he hallucinated the whole thing. The universe doesn’t just drop his idyllic dream girl into his path, well, it absolutely would allow him to see her once and then never again. But he doesn’t want that…

He wants to know what it feels like to have her legs wrapped around his waist, on the bike, in their bed. He wants to see her tangled in their bedsheets or sitting at the counter as he feeds her his latest culinary creation. Not that he’s ever been one to live inside the delusions, his upbringing has forced his ‘manifest your own destiny’ lifestyle to never rely on the dreams, just use them as touchstones for achieving said ruminations. But these, the daydreams are so vivid, so real that he almost walks right past the intended object of his affection.

And it’s only the melodious cant of saccharine condescension that brings him back to the moment. 

“I realize that I’m here later than we discussed, but that shouldn’t affect the price we agreed upon, right?”

Betty’s arms were crossed over her chest, head cocked to the side, the sunhat effectively obscuring her beautiful face, which by her tone, Jughead assumes is sporting a proper scowl. 

“It shouldn’t, no,” the vendor starts. He stands a good foot and a half taller than Betty, broad-chested and fully bearded, he runs a calloused hand over the gray whiskers. “It’s just that this is a highly collectible item—”

“Which you are being more than fairly compensated for! You acquired it for me, I don’t understand why you’re being so obstinate now.”

“C’mon Betty Boop, you know exactly why. You’re looking so pretty today, go on a date with me and I’ll throw in that Griswold trivet I’ve seen you eyeing up,” Jughead sees the man's hands come down on the table as he leans closer to Betty. He watches her body swell with a deep inhalation that releases as her hands hit the table to mimic his pose. 

“Not if you were the last man on Earth, Andrew. Just sell me the damn dutch oven and I’ll be on my merry little way.”

The vendor sucks air through his teeth so loudly it whistles. “Doesn’t sound like I’m getting anything out of this…”

Jughead is practically standing over Betty’s shoulder now, the tension and frustration rolling off her like waves. “Andrew, I swear to all the gods in existence, if you don’t take the agreed price and put my dutch oven in this fancy bag here I’m calling your Gran.”

Jughead isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone deflate so quickly. The man grunts holds out his hand and in it, Betty presses a neat stack of cash. The large, lidded pot makes its way to the table and from his vantage point can tell it’s a Wapak and in pristine condition.

“Nice looking piece of cookware you got there,” he says loudly behind her. She startles straight, turns slowly, and greets him with the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen.

“Jughead!” Her arms are around his neck and face pressed against the planes of his chest before he can blink. She seems to realize herself and is out of his arms and standing in front of him within the second it takes to realize how much he misses her warmth.

“What, did you think you could get rid of me that easily? I still have your shirt,” his hands rest on her waist, he hasn’t dropped them, and she hasn’t moved further away so he’s going to assume it’s not unwelcome.

She hums.”Well, it looks much better on you than in did crumpled up in my trunk

“Everything okay here?”

“We’re just peachy, right Andrew?” Betty questions, turning away from him and out of his grasp. She grabs the bag he’s placed on the table and with a most unrefined grunt, hoists it over her shoulder.

“We’re good, Coop. Just try to be on time from now on, it’s not very,” he pauses. Jughead can feel the man’s eyes slide from Betty to him, looking him up and down with a displeased expression. “Professional.”

“Oh, Andrew. Green is not your color. If you weren’t the only person in the tri-state area who could get me this stuff then I would never give you my business, ever again. But since I clearly work for sadists who love forcing me to interact with you, we’re at an impasse,” she shifts the bag on her shoulder and continues. “However, you make any more assumptions about my professionalism or personal life, then they’re going to have to find a new liaison.”

Andrew groans. “Don’t be like that, Betty! You know it all comes from the heart,” he crosses a hand to his and pats, and then he’s reaching under the table. “Here’s that trivet you had your eye on.”

Jughead moves up next to her and takes the trivet before it reaches her hand. “Is this a 1739? I’ve only been able to find pictures of these!”

He holds the metal piece reverently between his hands, long fingers tracing the intricate lace pattern, running over the feet, brushing against the logo that was stamped into the bottom some seventy years ago. “You know Griswold?” Betty’s tone is more than just surprised, there’s a slight breathlessness he can’t quite place as he places the trivet into her hands. 

“Oh, uh,” his head shakes a little with the chuckle. “Yeah, cast iron is pretty much why I’m even here. My best friend told me that if I was looking for something special, this would be the place to find it.” Suddenly feeling very shy, he rubs nervously at the back of his neck.

“Interesting,” Betty’s eyes narrow and fix on him, but it doesn’t make him feel as uncomfortable as he thought it would. Maybe it’s because an hour ago he was flirting like a lovesick teenager and he’s merely happy to be the object of her attention. He hears her bag hit the ground with a heavy thud. “If you’re looking for something in particular, this is your guy. I wasn’t being hyperbolic when I said he had the best. And if he doesn’t have it on-site, he’s usually able to procure it in a very short time.”

Andrew smiles at her praise and nods along. “Yeah, man, if you’re a friend of Betty’s you must be in the know. What tickles your fancy?”

Not really sure how to process, or address, any of what the man in front of him has just said, he locks eyes with Betty and lets out a sharp breath. She’s got the kind of smile that they used to write poetry about and he knows he’s done for. He’s smiling himself now and with a quick turn of his head he’s looking at Andrew again. “What do you know about Spiders?”

They’ve managed to walk the rest of the flea market, Betty picking up a few random items along with the (many) client requests. He learns she owns a small but successful antique shop in western Mass but she's rarely there. Mostly, she travels and he wonders what she's running from. She says it's to procure the things people want versus the things she thinks they would want to buy. It's not about the money, although it seems to pay well, she insists it's the history, the adventure, the joy it brings when she tracks down a vase-like what was on Grandma's table or an album that your grandfather taught you to dance to. She talks about antiques like he talks sous vide, the process, the art, how when it all comes together...life is magic.

"I can’t believe he’s going to find me a thirteen Spider! Do you have any idea how rare…oh, well, I suppose you do being an antique dealer and all that,” he bumps his shoulder (the one not carrying her stupidly heavy dutch oven) against hers, her head ducks in response but he can see the rosy hue on her cheeks. 

“If you’ve known each other for so long why all the shit for being late? And if I’m what made you late I apologize—”

“No, Jughead! Not even a little,” she grabs his shoulder and pulls him to stop beside her. “Andrew was just being a dick because that’s who he is as a person. Yes, I was late to meet him but that was because I was having a little car trouble this morning.”

“What, the marvel of modern engineering you’re tooling around in is finicky? Who’d have thunk?”  He holds out his (second) icee, offering Betty the last sip but she politely declines. He shrugs as best he can and finishes the cold red syrup in a quick gulp. The sun is blazing, scorching them from on high before he knows it. Jughead feels the sweat beading on his brow, threatening to drip down his face in the most unbecoming of ways. He's thankful they're heading back toward their respective vehicles. It's not that he wants this day to end, in fact, he's kind of hoping he can repeat it forever, but he really would like to get out of the sun. 

She smacks his arm playfully. “Don’t talk about Edie that way!”

“Edie? She’s even got an old ladies' name, Betts,” they finally reach said car and Jughead heaves the bags from his shoulder and drops them in the dirt.

Betty sighs as the lock clicks, trunk springing open. "She's an Edsel. You're not wrong about her being an old lady but trust me when it comes to classic cars Edsels are…"

Jughead scoffs. "I might have a proclivity for two-wheeled machines but I do know a thing or two about the four-wheeled varieties as well. The Ford Edsel, only produced between 1958 and 1960, was an ode to Henry's wife but was too modern and impractical to gain popularity. What?"

Jughead Jones knows a thing or two about food, and how people look when they're truly enjoying something. At this moment he'll tell you he feels like braised short ribs or a perfectly cooked steak or a decadent slice of dacquoise, with the way Betty is looking at him.

She swallows, audibly. "No one knows Edsels. No one knows they exist let alone know actual details about their launch, and subsequent failure."

"Hmm, sounds to me you just haven't been meeting the right people," he hoists her heavy bags off the ground and puts them in the trunk. 

Betty's hand reaches for the lid and lingers for a moment before she gently closes it. "You might be onto something, Jones.”

He steps forward, careful not to invade her space too badly but unable to resist the urge to be closer. “Do you maybe want to grab a bite to eat?”

The diner is nice, albeit the interior leaves a little something to be desired. It’s cliche in the way you want a retro establishment to be; walls lined in old adverts, gas and oil cans on shelves, kitschy to a fault. They're tucked in the corner, in a  red, squeaky vinyl booth and had to cross a very large expanse of cheap, sticky linoleum. He just hopes the food makes up for the fact he had to peel his feet up with every step. That’s not a sound one wants to hear in the place where they’re going to eat.

He explains as much to Betty, how atmosphere can change and engage perception, how the menu is designed to make you want the items that make them the most money, and not necessarily the ones that they cook well. After their food comes and he samples the fare he raves about the milkshakes but is unimpressed with everything else. 

“This is farmland, Betty. I passed not two, but three farms coming back. And at least one of them had Angus! Why are we being served frozen burgers?”

Betty eats a fry and pretends to look thoughtful.“I guess it never crossed my mind, Jug. You certainly have strong feelings about food.”

“Yeah, and that’s about the only thing,” he leans back in the booth and lays his arm across the back. “It might align very closely with what I do for a living.”

“You’re a chef,” Betty says matter-of-factly. “That explains your love of cast iron cookware and,” she vaguely gestures around the room. “How you know so much about the business. Still doesn’t answer how you know about Edsels.”

Jughead chuckles in response. “Misspent youth” When she shoots him a questioning look he sighs. "There may be some less than savory characters in my past. I wasn't one of them per se but I could have been described as gang adjacent."

Nodding, Betty takes a sip of the cold confection in front of her. She starts to speak and pauses like she's rolling something around before she says it. Next, she's looking at him as though a lightbulb has gone off. "Wait, wait, you're not a chef you're the chef! The author," Betty’s eyes narrow ever so slightly before going wide, her mouth gapes a bit before she produces words. "You're Forsythe."

How the fuck? "How the fuck?"

"My client from earlier was looking for a dutch oven for her partner's friend, a chef, whose niche is cast iron cookware. This same friend has also authored a series of cookbooks and a youth mystery."

“And what about any of that makes you say my name is Forsythe?” His voice comes out lower than he expects, a harsh timbre colors his words. "And it was not a youth mystery. It sounds like some Tracy True or Baxter Brothers nonsense when you say it like that."

“You are. Holy shit! And they set this up! Oh, those sneaky, brilliant, beautiful women,” Betty buries her face in her hands and groans. 

“Would you please fill me in because I am feeling ten ways of lost and, if I’m being honest, a little creeped out.”

Betty looks up, soft eyes, and smiling. “Oh, Jug. Apparently, our friends have finally gotten sick of our wallowing.”

“What friends? Who has friends?”

She rolls her eyes. “It would seem we do. You see, Cheryl is my cousin and Veronica is my best friend from high school."

"Wait, Cheryl, as in Blossom? And Veronica Lodge?"

Betty nods in affirmation. "They were oil and water through most of our formative years and then after their first year at Sarah Lawrence, well, they came back together. Fast forward two years and enter Toni Topaz, who I'm assuming is the missing link here, yeah?"

"Toni would be one of the three people on this planet I consider family, " he's leaning across the table, elbows making divots in the surface when suddenly he has his own lightbulb moment. "Elizabeth? The itinerant eccentric antiquarian?"

“Wow, is that a Cheryl or Veronica description?" She rubs the bridge of her nose, head shaking as she takes it in. "Doesn't matter, but with a title like that, it's no wonder that you were never around when I was. Oh, and surprise! It would appear your pseudo-sister and her girlfriends are giving you a dutch oven for your next birthday. Congrats.”

Jughead is trying to process, though it feels an awful lot like failing. Until suddenly, it all makes sense. “She's the one who told me I needed to stop here and check out the cast iron. Insisted there was something I needed, something she was certain I would find."

"Well, " Betty looks up at him from under the thick veil of her lashes. "Was she wrong?"

 For years he’s traveled from place to place; running from anything and everything. Even when he decided to put down roots it was relatively far from even the best of his friends. No one could just ‘drop by’, it’s not like he’d have been home anyway. He’s buried his loneliness in new recipes; it’s scratched into the margins of his favorite books, in the words poured from his own hand. He looks at the woman sitting across from him, strawberry milkshake in front of her, glowing under the harsh neon lights that contrast so glaringly will all her soft edges. 

The realization comes easily. He doesn’t have to think about anything more than ‘do I take this risk’ and he’s never been one to say no to risks before. 

He drops his arm, reaching across the table, and before it can rest on the Formica Betty slots her fingers between his. “She has never been more right in her life, but please don’t tell her that."

Betty’s laughter peals through the restaurant. He smiles despite himself. For the first time that he can recall, something good came before nine am. As a matter of fact, when her thumb traces the back of his hand, he’ll even go as far as to say it's something great. 

[britcision]

How DARE you imply Alfred would let disgusting chicken soup into his house

It is the most delicious and very best chicken soup with all of the best nutrients and cold fighting elements for his baby boy

If Bruce makes the sad eyes when he smells it Alfred will commit culinary crimes and make it taste like anything else he wants even if everything is a struggle to keep down

He will also make this soup for the kids and it has therefore tasted like:

- fruit loops (Dick)

- chilli (Jason)

- cake (Tim, to prove he could)

- mushroom soup (Steph, craves chaos)

- a special vegetarian version for Damian, still somehow tasting of chicken soup to see what the big deal was

Cass does not request flavours except by vague charades but Alfred will do his damnedest to make it perfect and he could match the Mythical Kitchen for culinary fuckery no matter how little he approves

And the kids all have to drink the soup too when Bruce is sick (Damian’s is the veggie one and the others can choose that if they like but they taste the same) cuz they can’t leave him alone

If the sick gets REALLY bad and Bruce can’t count the kids himself he’ll ask Alfred in the saddest voice and Alfred will dutifully count each and every one of the little bastards for him

Y'know what I want? I want sick Bruce Wayne.

I want a Bruce that babies his kids when they're sick. He goes all out. 6'4 muscle-bound Jason Todd is getting tucked into bed with a kiss on the forehead to check his temperature and whines if Bruce forgets.

As good as his memory is, Bruce can't exactly remember what Thomas and Martha used to do when he was sick. They had a routine but the intricacies of it constantly escape him. As little as that may be, it does pang every now and again that he's forgetting them, forgetting how they loved him. He doesn't want that for any of his kids.

So he babies them, treats them like the little kids he knows they aren't and rarely if ever got to be. He deals with any vomit, tears or just general irritation that comes with being sick. It gets to point where when the kids are sick and Bruce isn't home, they can barely function.

Dick: THIS IS IT- THIS IS THE END

Wally: dude you just have a cold?

Dick: JUST A- JUST A COLD?!? WALLY, ARE YOU INSANE?? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MANAGE WITHOUT MY HOT CHOCOLATE AND HOME MADE BUNNY MARSHMALLOWS??!?

Wally: ok one, bunny marshmallows? adorable. and two, i've seen you walk off a fractured collarbone, two bruised ribs and a twisted ankle???

Dick: ....yeah but the marshmallows

Wally:

But Bruce? Oh when Bruce is sick, he powers through. But when he's so sick he considers himself a liability, he curls up in a small, dark room like a pregnant cat. It's practically instinct for him – when he's compromised like that, he needs to be in a place that he's knows is safe.

Very Sick Bruce also goes into Mama Bear Mode. He wants his kids in his sight at all times or he's practically inconsolable. If they're not with him, then they might be in danger, anything could happen – how can he protect them if they're not there? Just anxiety out of the wazoo.

I can see him trying to drag his 7 kids into one room so he can keep an eye on his babies.

Damian: baba we cannot all possibly fit-

Cass: -we will

Damian:

Damian: who's going first?

The kids do make things more comfortable. Fluffing his pillows, getting him tea and making sure he has his stuffies. Bruce appreciates it but he just says that all he needs are his kids. That always has them sobbing.

(happy holidays to my cold twin @bruciemilf i was inspired by our mutual sickness lol)

[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (eventual Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four

chapter 4 - the hag’s cabin

SFW, mentions blood and mutilation, around 2K words.

It was like he had snapped out of a bad dream.

A flash of red blinded him for just a moment, hand shooting up to cover his eyes as he stood up straight, fingertips dripping with blood that wasn’t his. He opened his eyes to a much clearer view of the woods, a pressure relieved from his shoulders, and a strange yet friendly face staring down at him with avid curiosity. Blood-tinted eyes watched him closely, an amiable smile on her wrinkled face. The hag’s skin was light enough to glow in the scant moonlight, spindly silver hair wild and framing her face in the most awkward of ways. He was reminded of Mother’s little game of disguise, the unassuming crone of riddles and wisdom.

Maybe it was Mother all along, and in that case, he better be on his best behavior. She was surely capable of it all, confusing him on the path and assuming the form of some horrible abomination; but why would she bother? She did seem genuinely surprised, perhaps even wary. Was this another one of her games to keep them all on their toes? To ensure obedience, another way of displaying her powers to remind him that even at his best, he was not an omniscient near-god. In her eyes, he was a second class citizen with a thing for tinkering that she kept around. A dangerous, homicidally inclined one, but a second class failure nonetheless.

The hag’s dirty clothes fluttered in the wind, the smell of death seeming to emanate from within her bones, strong enough to choke him. For a moment, he expected her to cackle, conjure up a staff made of bones to wave at him while she spoke her nonsense, telling him to repent and surrender to the Black God. Instead she laboriously extended a frail hand to help him up, blackened fingertips offering him no comfort.

“Come closer, dear, let us have a look at you.” She spoke at last, tender, almost motherly, her voice sounding like a legion of disjointed souls pooling together to form a sentence. She took a step in his direction when he did not answer, bones cracking with effort, frame barely supporting her own weight. It looked to him as if her every movement was torture, like she had been living on borrowed time for far too long and the earth had grown tired of waiting to reclaim her to dust. “Let us bathe you, take care of you.” Her words were sweet, her tone malicious. “Everything will be fine.”

Oh, yes, naturally. She looked like she had come straight out of a fairytale book, but surely it would all end up alright. It would all be fine, surely, him being bathed in a large bubbling cauldron with herbs and salt for soap, trapped inside a cage being fattened for later use in culinary endeavors. The fat on his body would be used for tallow, the skin for the shade of some lamp, the heart to power said lamp.

“Think I’ll pass.” Was all he could say through gritted teeth, barely a whisper in the dissonance of his thoughts. Her snicker was low and delighted, form fading away in a cloud of crimson mist.

The terror that had consumed him had disappeared just as quickly as it had taken hold, his racing heart and staggered breathing giving way to the burning rage and overconfidence he usually carried with him. He looked around for the yellow flowers Donna used to trick people’s minds, for any sign that what he had witnessed was an illusion. The snow felt real as he crushed it with his fingers, the wind caressed him just so to keep him alert and awake. Heisenberg looked down at himself to look for anything that might be amiss, a misshaped piece of fabric, a hue that looked off; he counted ten fingers, pulled back his sleeve to look at his wristwatch, numbers crisp and clear. Not a dream, not a hallucination. Sheer terror, like he had not felt in years, adrenaline pumping in his veins to make him feel alive after decades of keeping his nose just above the water. Despite it all, he felt light as a feather. In a way, he felt free.

He rose to his feet to take the path ahead, ducking to miss the arch of the twisted tunnel, holding onto branches and feeling like they held onto him in return. A mere couple of meters away, a crude fence and wooden gate separated him from a clearing he had never seen. Slabs of stone marked the way towards it, visible despite the icy landscape, their surface well-worn and freshly disturbed. Had the hag come this way? Would he meet a series of monsters that made him offers he could not refuse, like the tales Miranda had concocted of him and his siblings?

He knew the mountain held a multitude of paths and clearings, nooks and crannies untouched by man and lost to time, mazes and caves and all manners of things he had only read in old books of fiction. The villagers would always say there was much that surrounded them, not altogether pleasant, older than them, older than the bones of this earth. Monsters and spirits, legends lost just beyond the village gates. Even as a child, swallowing his fear like a bitter pill, he labeled them all fools, pawns in the hands of a cruel bitch who kept them isolated, a flock of tarnished sheep that would never break free of their bonds. And yet it seemed the joke was on him, was it not? Here he was, mother’s prophecy fulfilled, standing alone in the forest deep, lost like the child who ran away to pick berries, having just witnessed something he could not explain.

Heisenberg peered into the trees in silence, breathing labored and pulse too loud in his ears. He watched for eyes in the forest, long fingers that camouflaged in the tree bark. Silver hair mistaken for spider webs, humanoid shadows that tricked the unwary. All he sees is a curious hare that stops to stare at him before going deeper into the woods to find its den, all he hears are the sounds of the night and the forest alive at last.

The smell of rotting carcasses inundated his nostrils as he walked, a series of carefully placed, crusty wooden stakes protruding from the ground like sickly trees that refused to wither. Blood dripped and congealed at its base, the decapitated heads of lycans and samcas and moroaicas neatly impaled, but looking so alive. He could almost hear it, the groaning and stretching of broken jaws as they tried to break free. 

An incredulous smile crept up to his lips as he reached out to touch a nearby lycan’s head, skin soft and clammy underneath his fingers, veins protruding on swollen flesh. Sharp teeth and exposed gums, no doubt a lycan, and he is too slow to react when the creature bites down onto his hand and all but tears the skin between his thumb and index fingers. It tries to finish the job but cannot break free, just enough movement to open and close its jaw, and Heisenberg looks down in disbelief to his bleeding hand, to the monster that should have turned to dust.

He reaches for the hammer in a half-horrified haze, swings with full strength to knock the stake to the ground, amazed when all heads spring to life and groan at him in a last breath that would never end. His morbid curiosity has him bring the hammer over his head and down onto the earth, bones cracking with the impact as the failed experiment finally crumbles to dust beneath the metal. What kind of fuckery was this? The pain in his right hand felt too real to be an illusion, the blood dripping onto his boots too viscous to be a trick of the mind. His mind spun with theories, with curiosity. Before he leaves, he should confiscate one of these for further study at the factory.

Heisenberg could hardly contain his excitement as he vaulted over the fence, anxious for the next chapter of this night full of surprises. He expected a gruesome display; an altar proudly displaying a sacrifice, the hunched over beast he had met before munching on an animal corpse. The hag kneeling by the stream, washing bloody clothes as a presage of war and death. A circle of witches chanting in tongues and cursing his entire, nonexistent bloodline for generations to come. An enchanted maiden with a delicate bosom and sinuous form inviting him to ravage her innocence, only to eat him alive liver first in a fit of madness.

Instead he was greeted by a curious chicken peeking at him from a hole in the trellis of its coop, a tiny goat grazing by his feet. There was a horse, real this time, penned in and cozy for the night, oblivious to his presence. 

The small hoofed animal doesn’t seem bothered when Heisenberg grabs it unceremoniously, inspects its fur and hoofs and horns, pinches at its flesh for any hint of supernatural. On the contrary, the goat seems to enjoy it, tiny tail wagging rapidly as Heisenberg stares it down like one would an annoying baby that is too cute for one to be angry at. It seems almost sad when it is put back down onto the snow, gives Heisenberg a tentative headbutt and walks away in defeat when he ignores it to investigate the rest of the place.

A small cabin stood just beyond, green shingles on the roof and walls covered in clay, narrow porch and swinging front door, a light bleeding out into the night through the narrow window of the attic. Suspiciously innocuous. There were no chicken legs, it was not made of sweets, and instead of decay, what he smelled made his stomach growl in response. He would eat that damn black horse the moment he saw it again, leg first as he moved up his feast.

A delicate wreath of wildflowers adorned the red door, slightly ajar to encourage his exploration. He did not recognize the symbol drawn just beneath his feet at the threshold - was it a warning? A welcome message? Heisenberg made sure to remain perfectly quiet as he stepped inside, taking care that his boots would not squeak against the wooden boards. The warmth of the house was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, the colorful woven rug a pleasant change from the bleak scenario of ice and death. He pushed the door all the way to reveal a room that was equal parts cozy and mysterious.

To his right was a wood stove, a bucket of firewood resting beside it, white ceramic kettle embellished with blue flowers whistling loudly on top. A shelf stocked with grain and spices stood just beyond, hooks with a multitude of pots and pans beneath it. The small kitchen also had a rustic counter and ceramic sink, cutting board and bone-white knife abandoned halfway through a large carrot. The small dinner table was set for two, a pair of teacups resting at the end of it. There was no sign of electricity, candles and lanterns of wrought iron working double time to ward off the dark of night.

He walked further in to to look at the rest of it, the diminutive living room that was also kitchen and dining area. The couch was a wooden skeleton covered in coarse fabric, cushions looking like they had patched a thousand times over. Somehow, they looked leagues more comfortable than any of Alcina’s fancy armchairs. Dusty tomes fought for space on a wooden stool beside it, candle wax frozen solid halfway over the edge onto the ground. A rickety ladder was almost hidden next to it, woolen socks overhanging one of the steps.

Right in front of him, on the far wall, was a sturdy brick fireplace, cast iron pot hanging over it, the tasty looking stew he had smelled from outside bubbling invitingly. A soft whimper alerted him to the presence of a furry creature curled up in front of the fire, looking compact despite its real size, oblivious to his presence and sound asleep. Heisenberg chuckled as he walked closer and bent down to pet it with a little too much force, the shaggy shepherd hound lifting its head to look at him in annoyance before busying itself with its nap once again, too tired to give a fuck about anything else. Craning his body to the left he peeked at the mezzanine, candle lit but bed empty. No one home, it seemed.

It was difficult to remain quiet when anger bubbled under the first layer of his skin; he was furious at his Mother and sister, at whoever had pulled the stupid prank earlier. He had been sent on a wild goose chase, had gotten lost in the woods, had bled his own blood and now stood inside a poor soul’s shack doubting every single thing that had happened this far. Even a man like himself had limits, however, and if he had simply stumbled upon a well-kept homestead of a peasant trying to live their life alone in the middle of the woods, he would leave just as quietly as he had entered. It was only fair, considering he, too, would do the same if given the chance. Perhaps his prey still wandered somewhere and he had gotten lost along the way, but it was time to go back to the road and hunt down the motherfucker who had almost made him piss his pants.

A couple more minutes and he would leave the forest, march up to Castle Dimitrescu and give Alcina a piece of his mind. Maybe he should climb up to the belfry, call everyone over and proudly display his limp dick as he twirled it around like a helicopter blade. Imagining the look of disgust in his sister’s face brought him some comfort.

“So this is the monster that lives in these woods, huh?” He asked the dog, half expecting an answer, with his back turned to make his way out.

“Oh, I am afraid that would be me,” said a woman’s voice somewhere behind him.

[canalstreetbaker]

Prompt #10: Foster

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

What happens when the podcast EP I’m editing goes effects heavy?  I have to write less, that’s what.  Augh.

---

“First,” C’arliani said as she pushed back her sleeves, “I am going to make you something that no one else in Eorzea has seen.”

It was not long after Houli’s decision to leave for Eorzea that C’arliani nodded to herself, stood up, and started preparing to make something.  

While she was originally of Gridania when she’d started this crazy journey what seemed to be aeons before, the Miqo’te’s heart was in Limsa Lominsa with its piracy, questionable acquisition of goods, and, above all - its cooking.

And C’arliani Khilo was a deft hand at the Bismarck.

“What is it that you are making?” Houlikhan asked, hand searching the buuz basket for food that was no longer available. 

“Let’s see,” C’arliani mused as she dug through her bags.  “Butter, sugar, cinnamon...little bit of this, some of that, and...some frost magic...”

It began with two plates.  The Miqo’te had unleashed some wicked frost magic on a jar she’d shaken, then used a long spoon to place the contents on those plates, two portions each.

A pan.  Butter, sugar, cinnamon.  An otherworldly heat that seemed to radiate from C’arliani’s very hand as the pan glowed red.  A fruit, sliced four ways tossed in with some sweet-smelling alcohol.  

Houlikhan watched as C’arliani bit a cork out of a bottle and the distinctive scent of rum washed over them both as flames erupted from the pan.  

Houli was shocked.  Arliani was...gleeful.  It took her no time to split the servings of fruit in the pan onto the plates, topping it with the panned sauce.

“And now,” Arliani said with a wicked grin, “We eat.”

“Eat...what?” Houli asked, aghast.

“A dessert called Bananas Foster.”