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thescarletwitchsapprentice · 1 month ago

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Imagine: You and Rio are at the Avengers Compound for Thanksgiving and you’re in charge of baking pies….this can only lead to good things. (Rio Vidal x gn!reader)

Author’s Note: I really wanna get back into writing stuff like this. Like…I just LOVE Rio.

Now I’m wondering if I should do crossovers…like putting Anya in the Avengers universe and whatnot.

(CW: I don’t think any are applicable? Lmk if there’s one I need to put)

You still honestly don’t know how she did it.

By some miracle, your girlfriend Rio had managed to contact the Avengers and get them to invite you for Thanksgiving, or rather the day before. Sure you’d been an intern at the Compound, but it wasn’t for that long, and they likely didn’t know Rio.

And yet here you are, standing in the kitchen as Rio searches up pie recipes; while Tony is out getting some food at the last minute, Wanda, Vision, Peter, and Steve are all watching The Dick Van Dyke Show while Yelena, Nat, Pietro, and Kate are attempting—and attempting is very much stressed—Clint and Bucky how to play Cards Against Humanity; it’s honestly really funny to watch.

“Okay,” Rio huffs, breaking you out of your thoughts. “I found a recipe for a pumpkin pie.”

“What else?” you ask.

Rio blinks. “Is that not enough?”

“You’re sleeping on pecan pie,” you scoff.

“Pecan?” she asks, her face scrunching up in confusion. “Like the nut pecan?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “What else do you put in it?”

“…Fruit or pumpkin,” she exclaims in disbelief. “You put fruit or pumpkin in it. Who puts nuts in a pie?”

“I do!”

Rio huffs. “What’s next? Are you gonna tell me you put chocolate in it?”

“Yeah, actually,” Kate replies as she looks through her stack of cards. “French silk pie.”

“There’s also meat pie,” Yelena adds. “I love putting hot sauce on mine.”

Hearing this, Rio is in shock. “You put MEAT? In a PIE?”

“Yeah? Is this really such a novel concept? I mean, in Russia, there’s a pie with a filling or salmon or sturgeon, rice, hard-boiled eggs, mushrooms, and dill.”

Now both of you are shocked. “What?” you both exclaim.

“Who puts fish in a pie?” you stammer.

“Russians,” Nat shrugs.

“All pie is good pie,” Steve says, “But nothing beats a classic apple pie.”

“Pecan,” you insist. “Pecan beats it.”

“That’s up for debate,” Clint says as he looks at the cards that people submitted. “Who put down ‘Object permanence’?”

“That was me,” Kate says.

“How does ‘object permanence’ fit this?”

“It’s about abstract connections,” Pietro shrugs.

As they continue the game and sitcom, you and Rio ponder what to do about the pie selection.

“Maybe we could make small pies of everyone’s favorite pie?” you suggest.

“I don’t think we have enough ingredients for that,” Bucky says.

“Or we could just make a pie with everything in it,” Rio suggests.

Silence.

“….I’ll pass,” Kate gags.

“Remind me not to leave you in charge of the pies next year,” Steve says.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind seeing what that tastes like,” Yelena shrugs.

“I think you’re gonna end up regretting it,” Nat chuckles.

“How much of the pie dough ingredients do we have?” Wanda asks.

“….Some,” Rio answers with a shrug.

“….Not very helpful,” she sighs. “(Y/N), any ideas?”

You blink. “What she said.”

Vision seems to be calculating something, “Hmm….”

“Vis?” Wanda asks.

“If I can recall, we have precisely enough for…..three pies,” he says.

“Great, so we choose three kinds,” Peter says.

“But which three?” Bucky asks.

“We have to have pumpkin, no questions asked,” Rio declares.

“I’m not sitting down to eat without a pecan pie,” you say.

“Wait…how did you say the name of the nut?” Steve asks.

“PEE-cahn,” you answer.

“I think it’s supposed to be pih-CAHN,” he says.

“No, it’s a long E sound,” you argue.

“Not a chance; it’s short E.”

“Who in their right mind puts an emphasis on the SECOND syllable?”

“Pretty sure it’s PEE-can,” Kate says in confusion.

“Don’t even start,” Clint groans.

This goes on for….about five minutes until Rio finally puts it to rest.

“Forget the pronunciation. Let’s focus on the pie.”

“So….pumpkin, the nut pie, and….what else?” Peter asks as Tony walks in, carrying a turkey.

“You’re still not finished with the pies?” he asks in disbelief.

“We haven’t exactly started,” you say sheepishly. “We’re still deciding on the flavors; we have pumpkin and PEcan, but we need one more.”

Tony huffs. “I don’t know, how about you surprise us?”

Immediately the compound goes silent, Rio’s grin slowly growing.

“How about you go sit down with them, my love?” she suggests in a voice that’s way too sweet. “I can handle it from here.”

“A….are you sure?” you gulp.

“No. No, we’re NOT sure,” Clint objects.

“Just leave it to me,” Rio says.

And after a lot of insistence, and complaining from Tony, you let her.

Later that night, after the main course and sides are finished, Rio serves up the pies. None of them are labeled, though. And they all look the same. You decide to pick one at random and Rio cuts you a slice.

“Close your eyes,” she tells you as she sets down the slice. “And take a bite.”

Foolishly, you decide to put your trust in her baking and take a bite.

Almost immediately, the taste hits you; it’s fruity, savory, cruciferous….a bit of everything, especially spicy. But not in a good way.

“Rio?” you ask as Yelena takes a slice of the same pie. “What kind of pie is this?”

She shrugs. “I just kinda used a bit of everything. That’s what you put in pies, right?”

“….Did you put hot sauce in this?” Yelena asks.

Rio smirks, nodding and also handing her a bottle of hot sauce.

“Yes!” she exclaims as she practically shoots the sauce onto her pie.

Tony sighs and Rio shrugs once more. “Hey, you said to surprise you.”

#rio vidal x reader #rio vidal #agatha all along #avengers #marvel #rio vidal fluff #thanksgiving

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flowerishness · 5 months ago

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Foeniculum vulgare (fennel) and (Dolichovespula maculata (bald-faced hornet) plus Ammophila procera (common thread-waisted wasp)

We planted this fennel three or four years ago so this short-lived perennial is probably at the end of it's natural lifespan. Fennel looks much like it's relative dill (Anethum graveolens) but fennel is usually much bigger and twice as tall (up to eight feet). Both fennel and dill impart a liquorish flavor to food and both have edible bulbs.

Fennel is a member of the carrot family Apiaceae and in early August, it's like an insect magnet. Like bees, these wasps drink nectar to generate the energy to fly. But, unlike bees, wasps are also voracious meat-eaters and provide your garden with a form of natural caterpillar control.

#flowers #photographers on tumblr #fennel #wasp #hornet #fleurs #flores #fiori #blumen #bloemen #our garden #tinman #Vancouver

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neighbourscat · 2 months ago

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𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄 , spencer cassadine

EVERYONE HAS A QUIET ESCAPE.

𓈒 ˙ ꪆৎ ꣹ ۫ 𖨂 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 . .. . estate owner!spencer c. X estate chef!black!fem!reader. || second person ( you, yours, you’re ) + lowercase intended.

+ synopsis. making breakfast was your way of reaching out, of letting him know, wordlessly, that he wasn’t alone. it wasn’t about the food itself but about giving him a moment of comfort, a pause from everything weighing on him .. a quiet escape.

+ cw. mature language! & indications of social status difference between spencer cassadine and black!reader. || other than that, no warnings! ( a lot of italics! & sorry if my writing of spencer cassadine is poor and inaccurate, i haven’t watched general hospital enough. the storylines are so confusing to follow /: )

+ nali’s notes; food is a love language! reader is heavily inspired by ayo edebiri || sydney adamu from the bear! reader is three flowers tall! so gen-z, so hilariously awkward, so silly, so dorky, so sweetie & so patient with cranky spencer cassadine. such a doll! reader loves sza & chappell roan & beabadoobee! i love writing a reader who rambles a lot. wordcount :: 4.0k+

+ more; short does not follow any specific plotline of general hospital!

+ to be played: normal girl, sza. || alternative: there she goes, the la’s.

EVERYONE HAS A QUIET ESCAPE.

LAWRENCE, NEW YORK || DECEMBER 4, 2023

the king’s market stood at the very edge of lawrence; a small town within a big city .. . where the paint peeled off old brick buildings, and faded signs creaked in the december wind. yet, despite its weathered exterior, the supermarket was lawrence’s unexpected gem ( as was shawnda’s boutique, toni’s kitchen, minnie’s nails, the sullivan community college, that dunkin’ on mccarter road, brunch box, and express deli ) — a place that managed to thrive against all odds. its large windows glowed warmly under flickering neon lights, as if the store itself were proud of what it held inside.

you skid to a harsh stop — your brother’s old navy blue bicycle croaked with each pedal, it practically begged to be thrown into a junkyard — and immediately lose balance. you caught yourself before the tumble could come; the bottoms of your ragged, black vans scraping at the concrete and your thumbs accidentally brushing against the bike’s bells . .. . the scratchy ringgg alerted the cluster of pigeons, causing them to flap away, and made the mother pushing her big-enough-to-walk-on-his-own toddler side-eye you.

“mornin’ . ..” you raised a shy hand in apology, leaning your brother’s aged bike against king’s dried bike rack. you snatched up your bundle of reusable tote bags from the screwed-on basket and dug into the jumble for the bicycle’s lock; the new one ordered from amazon. “o .. kayyyy,” you sung to yourself, wrapping the chain link over a rack pole. hearing it click and seeing that it remained in place, you let out a deep breath .. relieved.

king’s market is quiet, but it’s a comforting quiet, broken only by the hum of old refrigeration units and the faint rustle of a distant shopper. sunlight filtered through the small, high windows, casting a soft glow over the shelves and illuminating specks of dust floating lazily through the air — king’s market was different from what was expected. though the aisles were narrow and the checkered linoleum tiles were cracked and crumbled and lifting out of place, each row and shelf was organized perfectly.

a faint scent of earth and herbs drifted from the produce section, where vegetables sat stacked in bright, fresh columns. local greens glistened with a crispness that rivaled any high-end market over in port charles ( you believed ), their colors vivid against the worn wooden bins. tomatoes were perfectly ripe, their skins taut and glowing, and bunches of parsley and dill leaned together like old friends, filling the air with a sharp, green fragrance.

in the far back, there was a small bakery nook filled with golden loaves, round bagels, fluffy croissants, beautifully-decorated cupcakes and soft cookies made with old-fashioned love, managed by antonella cardenas. beside it, a mini flower-shop section . .. . you’ve made it your business to circle by during your early morning grocery-runs.

you ripped the bud from your ear and let the wire hang down your front, dangling and brushing against the puff of your dark-green winter jacket. “tev?” you gave the worktop a knock, not too loud but hard enough to be heard throughout the mini-kitchen. tevin’s butcher counter was simple but spotless, manned by an old man who knew every cut by heart, arranging steaks and chops with the precision of an artist.

“tee-tee?!” still, nothing or no one came to you — you knew the mini-kitchen was open. the lights were on and the faucet was running. “i’ve got some .. fucked-up, jacked-up, cracked-up shit to tell you, tev.” you were careful with your curses, not giving them their regular intensity and over-exaggeration. “tevi?! it’s work shit!” crickets. that usually worked. you stopped knocking on the cold counter and dropped back onto your heels. “i know you can hear me, tevin,” spoken under your breath and while you were unraveling your wired-headphones.

and you started onward . .. realizing that it might’ve been a good thing tevin wright hadn’t come out to the register. you weren’t the best at lying on the spot. you had a little tell of it; while for many, it was laughing or evasive smiling or rapid blinking or coughing and clearing their throat, avoiding eye contact; like looking up at the ceiling, or those self-soothing gestures or being too fidgety with their fingers and clothing, you overused defensive phrases: like “honestly,” “to tell you the truth,” or “believe me”.

with sza’s ‘sweet november’ playing faintly in your ears .. you stand in the center of a narrow, softly lit aisle; shelves of hand-drawn packaging designs, others in plain jars that let the rich red or green hues of their contents do the talking. your hands hovered over two jars — one labeled locally-made marinara, the other a small-batch pesto. your fingers grazed the cool glass of both as you considered them, your full brows knit in thought. it’s just .. fucking pasta sauce, you could hear your mother’s grating voice. pick up a jar and go.

you lifted one jar, squinting at the label, as though weighing the memories each flavor might stir up. a faint smile tugged at your lips as you remembered how your father would make a whole affair out of selecting ingredients, debating over spices and sauces as if it were a high-stakes decision. are you kidding me? this is ridiculous. you are just like your father. half-insult.

you set it back down, you reached for the other choice, your gaze thoughtful as you further debated which would give your evening dish that extra something — sza’s song of past experiences fading into chappell roan’s love me anyway — you set that jar back into place and grabbed the third option. the one with the hand-drawn design. it was cute and you made a mental note to peel the wrapping off before use.

PORT CHARLES, NEW YORK || DECEMBER 4, 2023

the kitchen of the cassadine estate was a masterpiece of traditional russian design, combining rustic elegance with a sense of historic charm. the kitchen was a vast, open space dominated by an enormous central island, topped with dark, veined marble that has been polished to a mirror-like finish. cabinets of deep, rich wood line the walls, their surfaces gleaming under the sparkle of hanging iron chandeliers with exposed filament bulbs that cast a golden light over everything.

every detail exuded craftsmanship: the hand-carved moldings, the wrought-iron handles on each cabinet, and the aged brass fixtures that gave the room a touch of vintage grandeur. pots and pans of shined copper hung in neat rows from a ceiling rack, their warm glow offset by the cool, tiled walls in muted creams and grays, which add a subtle neatness.

a massive stone hearth sat against one wall, its archway adorned with intricate, hand-laid tiles. within, a wood-fired oven emitted a faint, smoky scent. to the side, a marble-topped counter held a selection of oils and aged vinegars kept in glass jars, each label handwritten in russian script.

large windows near the farmhouse sink overlooked the estate’s gardens, letting in natural light that poured across the butcher-block counters and casted shadows on the tiled floor. this floor — worn but immaculate — was ice cold underneath your soaking wet polka-dot socks. in one hand, your pair of vans ( fiona mccall, the estate’s lead-housekeeper, and her team were stern and meticulous in ensuring that the grand halls, ballrooms, libraries, staircases, and more importantly, the floors remained pristine ), your phone with the letterboxd app still open and dropped into a shoe, in the other hand; your grocery tote-bag you were to keep in the employee mini-fridge.

you faked a bad cough, in attempt to fake clear your throat — “sorry, goodmorning .. mr. cassadine.” — still, you grabbed his attention. spencer cassadine stood at the central island with his elbows resting on the chilled surface, his head lowered, lost in thought. the weight of family expectations pressed heavily on him, and the stillness around him offered a brief moment of respite .. before hearing your voice, of course.

your presence filled the room with a sense of . .. . play and awkwardness. spencer studied you: your winter jacket over a simple, faded-once-graphic t-shirt, wrinkled mom jeans, hints of gold jewellery, your box-braids loosely tied back with baby pink crochet yarn, giving you that .. ‘relaxed’ look, he guessed you were going for. it wasn’t effortless, it was messy. spencer’s gaze switched to your shoeless feet .. as did your own eyes — you took one large step to the left and landed behind a counter, only letting your upper half show.

“fiona-ms. mccall, i mean,” you began, your shoulders tense and your arms cramping from the hanging shoes and bags of groceries, “and those-sorry, your floors, sir. she’s serious ‘bout ‘em, that one. i mean, her team too. they’re like .. so serious about th’ floors .. i had’ta walk around in my socks-“ you stopped before continuing on. seeing him stand there with that signature blank, cold look on his face only shut you up ( you opted not to speak on how you dropped your dunkin’ coffee on the way here ) and drove sickness deeper into your heart.

you looked away from a moment, taking a shaky breath. “i should, uhm ..” you faced him again, “sorry, mr. cassadine .. my arms are, like, getting ready to snap off. like, actually.”

spencer watched you waddle off into the shared-employee closet. he straightened a bit, his fists carefully drumming at the marble surface as he waited for your return — though, he wouldn’t admit to anyone that he had been ‘waiting’ for you. after a moment, he took a step aside and tilted his head slightly, giving himself a clear view into the employee closet; with its array of lockable, highschool-style cell phone lockers . .. . you were shoving your winter jacket into the available top shelf, struggling on your tip-toes.

when you landed on your heels again, spencer took his previous position; leaning against the central island — “so, um . ..? sorry, but why are you back here, anyways?” you called out, but gave spencer not even a second to process the question. you peeked your head out of the employee closet, braids no longer tied back but cascading over your shoulder. “sorry, this is your family’s kitchen. you have, uhm .. every right to be back here. sorry.” you disappeared into the employees’ closet again, leaving spencer to be alone and to .. somewhat try and understand you.

“you apologize a lot?” he asked, his voice steady and even. not a question, but more so a statement.

dropping your hands from your braided bun, you moved away from the wall mirror and out of the closet saying: “trauma response,” unapologetic and freely, fixing your white button-up and fresh apron, “i can’t help but feel bad for a person literally every-time i-“

“what?” a deep grumble. too forward. he’s not one of your friends, you reminded yourself. you can’t speak to him like he’s on your level — rather, like you’re on his level. “sorry, mr. cassadine.” again with the sorry.

spencer huffed and in a low tone, “you can stop with the ‘mister’.” not a request, but an instruction. unsure of what to say next, in bad habit; “i’m sorry?” his eyes narrowed and you bit down on your lower lip, stopping yourself from the ‘m’ word and the ‘s’ word. “i actually get asked about that .. like, a lot. the ‘s’ word, thing. i’m kind of working on it. kind of.”

“kind of?”

“mhm-yeah. takin’ it day by day . .. . kind of. you know what i mean?” no comment, no further movement. your shoulders drooped, but you were okay. you were in an okay mood this early, december morning even after dropping your dunkin’ coffee. you had on new, warm socks and had beabadoobee in one ear — “you still use ..” with a hand, spencer gestured toward his own ear, “wires?”

you stared down at your phone, the adapter snug in the charging port; ‘pictures of us’ by beabadoobee at its first full minute. the slander on ‘wired headphones’ was so unnecessary and so childish. without thinking: “i’m sorry?” you paused a moment to recollect and what looked to be a smile began tugging at spencer’s lips. “i mean-who doesn’t? .. who doesn’t like wires?”

“many people.”

a weird chuckle, “what? literally so many people like wires. i don’t-? what is so wrong with wires?”

“what isn’t wrong with wires?”

“i don’know? that’s why i’m asking you ‘what’s wrong with wires’?

“everything.” and that was that. spencer had the last word, though you disagreed completely. silence fell for eight seconds, maybe nine, before he asked; “what are you, uh ..?” shoving his veiny hands into the front pockets of his dark jeans, “who are you listenin’ to, anyways?”

“beabadoobee.” you paused the song. “her beatopia album. it’s so good, seriously.” a part of you considered sharing the unused earbud, but that would require closeness and sharing wired headphones was an intimate gesture, a chance to bond with another — that couldn’t be done with airpods or those chunky beat headphones. “i’ll come over to you-you just stay there.”

spencer met you halfway around the marble island, going against your statement without a second thought. the gap between you and spencer was intentional, on both ends. he kept himself from standing too close, as did you. “okay, so, if bea’s not your cup of tea, or, uhm, you don’t like her sound or somethin’ .. justttt, uh, don’t say anything-y’know?” spencer listened intently, hands at his sides and the soft skin of his fingers rubbing the stitches of his dark jeans. “sorry, that wasn’t exactly ‘polite’-“

“play the song.”

“mhm. yeah.” your index finger tapped down on the rewind button .. pictures of us started, the acoustic guitar entrance soothing and inviting — “the words take awhile to, um . .. actually begin, sor-nope.” spencer smiled faintly at your effort, giving a light thumbs up. you appreciated the gesture, warmth slowly growing within your chest, causing you to chew the inside of your cheek.

with the pad of your thumb, you dragged at the progress bar, watching the thin line skip forward in small jumps, stopping at the right mark. you let your finger rest, satisfied as bea’s lyrics finally filled the air.

“i’ve watched that.” right under the music widget had been a notification from letterboxd: w-katie02 liked your review of the elephant man ( 1980 )! “it’s one of my favorites,” he continued, almost hesitant. “yeah?” a little, genuine smile as your fingers brushed the edge of your phone. “yeah.” spencer ended there, seemingly restricted; as if he’d just given something away he hadn’t meant to.

“do you have letterboxd?” just the most important app on your cellular device. well, one of them, certainly. by the glint in your eyes, spencer could feel the unmistakable love you held — because for you, it was so much more than just a platform; it was like a never-ending journal of emotions, insights, and memories. your perfect profile was filled with entries — some thoughtful and delicate and passionate, others scattered and messy and raw, like snapshots of your silly life in film. you’d spent many hours logging your thoughts after each movie, capturing how it made you feel, who you’d watched it with, what kind of day it had been . .. . you never missed a detail.

“what’s a .. letterboxd?” you unlocked your phone in under a second — “it’s like goodreads, but for movies,” you said as you clicked the app open. spencer, though confused and having never heard of goodreads, kept his lips locked and waited for your explanation: “letterboxd is immediate, like no other platform.” you held out your phone and he took hold of it; mindful of the need to avoid physical contact.

“social media in a way that’s like-“ spencer’s finger swiped up and you inched inward, lifting onto your tip-toes to watch as he did so. “-ultra safe and super cuddly. there’s no politics, close-minded straight men, or mentions of global crises, the sad stuff essentially, y’know? .. well, okay, actually-i guess, if you’re on the wrong side-“

“there are sides?”

“so, it’s . .. . yeah.”

“mm.” — pictures of us faded into don’t get the deal — your gaze shifted between his working finger and his face. you didn’t know what he’d been doing exactly, but you paid attention to how his eyes zipped side to side under his eyelids and how his brows lightly scrunched and how he sniffled softly every now and again and how his tongue darted out to bring moisture back to his lips. and in this very moment, this quiet moment of, what you assumed was nothing, he looked . .. . approachable. it surprised you how easily he fit into this small moment, his attention focused on something so trivial.

spencer cassadine — extra polished, effortlessly confident, someone who belonged to a world you’d only ever seen from a distance — handling your phone as though you and him were two equals. the four fingers of his right hand nearly covering every collected sticker.

to you, he really was someone you had heard about in passing, the kind of person with a surname people spoke of in hushed tones, heavy with history. he seemed so different up close, less like a distant idea of wealth and reputation, and more like just .. a person, with his own subtle quirks and quiet intensity — it felt like a rare glimpse beyond his guarded expression, easing the image you’d carried of him.

you tried not to overthink it, letting yourself just be here, grounded by the purr of the kitchen and beabadoobee in the background and the heat of his presence . .. .

then came a muffled ping; spencer returned your phone and retrieved his own from his back pocket. that dry, somber demeanor was back and whatever that quiet moment was, was long gone. you clicked off beabadoobee — your eyes searching his face for a hint of what could have been troubling him. “can i make you something?” a sweet offer. a sweetness that spencer cassadine had not known, or been at all familiar with.

he blinked up from his screen. “what?”

“have you eaten breakfast yet?”

spencer shook his head.

“food always helps.” just as you pivot and circled the counter, he spoke: “i’ve already taken too much of your free time. i’ve interrupted your routine,” clearly trying to brush off your sweet offer, though his stomach growled in response to the idea of food.

“it’s fine.”

“i can’t let you ..”

“seriously?” you stopped in your tracks, barely smiling. “come on, seriously. c’mon. i can prepare somethin’ quickly. i don’t mind, really,” you reassured. and spencer felt a flicker of thankfulness at your inclination; you weren’t offering to impress him or because he was who he was, but out of the kindness of your heart. “thank you.”

with a nod, you moved to the large refrigerator, opening the door with purpose. you pulled out a few eggs and some vegetables, your movements deliberate and calm. the rhythmic sounds of your chopping and sautéing completed the kitchen.

as you worked, spencer was leaned over the counter .. having just downloaded letterboxd and putting together his own movie lists. he found your account, remembering the username in the top left corner, and added a few of your saved movies to his new “to watch” list. “how long have you been cooking for?”

“mom put a knife in my hand at five, so i’d say since then,” you replied, glancing up briefly and laughing seeing the concerned look on his face — you weren’t joking. “it’s therapeutic,” you said then, eyes down again. “i find real comfort in it-a quiet escape, like my letterboxd. plus, feeding people is a nice way to show you care.”

your words struck a chord with him. he could see how the kitchen was your sanctuary, just as it had become a momentary refuge for him. “i can understand that,” he admitted, his gaze wandering to the window, where the light falling snow touched down and melted. “i’ll find my ‘quiet escape’.”

“you don’t have one now?”

“unh-unh.”

“that should be impossible. what do you look for when you need a moment?”

“i walk around and sit in silence.”

“that sounds awful.”

“it’s not the worse thing ever.”

“no, i guess not. but what do you love to do? like really, truly love to do-imagine, ‘kay, it’s your very last hour alive .. ‘nd you’re trapped in a dome with only th’ materials needed for your number one hobby, what is it?”

spencer’s mind went blank for a few seconds. he didn’t write, he didn’t read, he couldn’t draw, he couldn’t paint — “i like the gym.”

“okay .. cool.” you smiled and scratched at an eyebrow, “um, but seriously. what’s the hobby?”

“.. nothing.”

“-shit.”

“yeah.” a hopeless shrug. “i never got into an art or instrument. nothing that requires serious skill and talent.” spencer turned off his phone and held his hands together, fingers interlocking.

“well . .. a hobby doesn’t have ‘ta require serious skill or talent. and it doesn’t necessarily have ‘ta be an art.” you told him, matter-of-factly; knowing and practical. “like bird-watching. don’t have’ta be in your sixties to do it.” dropping your spoon onto a paper towel, you went for one of the five spice cabinets and dug inside. “i collect cool things.” you were a collector of very fine whatchamacallits, doo-dads, and trinkets; which ranged from mail stamps, pink paper clips, buttons of all shapes and colors and sizes, unique beer bottle caps, and stickers — your junk-sticker phone case is evidence.

“what-like rocks?”

“sometimes. marbles too.”

“marbles?”

“marbles.” firmly, “mancala pieces.”

“what’s a mancala piece?”

“y’know ..? mancala?”

“what’s mancala?”

“what’s mancala?” in disbelief, you released a defeated sigh and shook your head. “i have a mobile version, i can explain the game after this.” yyou stretched your arm over and with a knuckle, tapped down on your phone screen; you had little over an hour left. “jus’ta confirm, i will be explaining the game.”

no objection.

“but back to hobbies-“ spencer heard your voice and instantly flipped his phone back over. “-what’s an instrument you’ve wanted to play?” piano, there was no need to think about it. the first time spencer had heard a piano, the melody was soft and almost a whisper, beckoning him away from the clamor of the gala crowd. he drifted toward the sound, drawn in as if by a spell —

— he saw the grand piano in the corner of the room, its sleek black body gleaming under the warm lights. a man was seated there, his fingers gliding over the keys with such fluid grace that spencer could hardly believe it . .. . and in that moment, he felt an overwhelming urge .. not just to listen, but to touch the keys, to know how it felt to draw out a sound so moving and pure. but he was only a child, and the instrument seemed impossibly large, as if it belonged to another world.

and years passed .. life had filled up with other obligations and distractions, and the closest he’d come to a piano was brushing his fingers over the keys of one owned by a close friend or at another sprawling event. but every now and then, when he heard the low throb of a piano in a restaurant or wherever, he felt that same pull, that longing that had begun in the corner of a crowded room so many years before, waiting patiently for him to return.

“piano,” he answered. though he had no idea what happiness looked like for him, he was sure that starting with piano would make that discovery easier — he was so incredibly detached from himself and the more you spoke to him, you could tell.

“i know you can learn,” you said, kindly.

“i don’t have the time.”

“not even five minutes? you can download an app and start slow .. memorize piano stuff.”

“you have a piano app?”

“no, but i can find one for you.” his dark eyes brightened imperceptibly. “i bet there’s a lot. there’s an app for everything .. unfortunately .. kind of.” you mumbled the last bit, plating his breakfast with care. “.. here. simple, but it’ll help.”

in grabbing himself clean silverware — for the first time, he felt the possibility of letting someone in, even if just a little.

#nali’s ᡣ𐭩 #black writers #black reader #black women #short stories #spencer cassadine #general hospital #spencer cassadine x black!reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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bumblesimagines · 6 months ago

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On the Mountain

Request: Yes or No

Summary: An injured songbird finds herself unable to fly for much longer but her luck seems neverending when she's found and nursed back to health.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical Hunger Games warnings, mentions of the 10th Hunger Games, implied PTSD/PTSD induced nightmares, mentions of Coriolanus Snow

~~~

Her breathing came out in short, wheezy gasps, her trembling legs threatening to buckle and give out from underneath her with each step she took through the brush. Her lips quivered, whether from the pain or the cold clinging to her wet body, she couldn't quite tell but she knew she had to stop running eventually. Her legs stung from scrapes and cuts sustained from the branches and twigs of the bushes she'd ran through, the bottom of her skirt torn up and cold to the touch from rainwater.

She had to keep going. She had to. He'd kill her otherwise.

Through her blurry vision, she missed the log resting along the ground and tripped over it, her body tumbling to the ground and a shriek of pain leaving her lips. She clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, silencing herself and praying Coriolanus Snow had given up his hunt. Lucy Gray rolled over onto her back with a wince and a choked sob, her shaking hand lifting from her side and lifting to hover over her face, a droplet of blood splattering onto her cheek.

It'd been stupid, she knew that well, to wait and see if her trap had worked. All her time in the meadow, all her time learning about snakes and how to avoid them had paid off nicely. She'd almost felt guilty, listening to his worried and desperate shouts, until she watched the concern crumple into fury faster than a lightning strike. The snake had been non-venomous, of course, just a mere distraction to keep him occupied while she debated what to do. He hadn't given her much time to think after putting a bullet in her side, though.

Lucy Gray dropped her arm down onto the forest floor, her glassy eyes staring up at the sky above her. Each breath she took felt like fire coursing through her veins and she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps... it'd all been for nothing. The singing, the desperate measures to make money, surviving the Hunger Games, accepting Coriolanus into her life... leaving her friends and family behind. She wondered what they'd think, what they'd say when they figured out she'd fled... when Coriolanus returned without her. Would he lie to them? Claim she'd gone and left them behind to suffer in 12?

"Damn you, Coriolanus..." She exhaled shakily, her features contorting tightly together as the tears slipped freely from her eyes.

Lucy Gray lied there, on the forest floor, weeping until her body gave into exhaustion, weeping for death to come quick and be more merciful than her lover had been.

Back in the godforsaken arena where she stood on the pile of fallen debris from the rebel bombings, the ground around her covered in a sea of colorful slithering snakes that almost resembled waves. She stood there, paralyzed and motionless, her eyes flickering about to ensure none of the lethal creatures slipped toward her. They'd liked her during the Games, curled around her as if seeking out her warmth rather than her death, but her heart still pumped with fear.

"Songbird," A voice wailed, one she recognized to have once been filled with malice. Her head whirled around, eyes wide and breath catching in her throat at the sight of Carol near the edge with her arm extended out toward her pleadingly. The young girl sunk deeper and deeper into the sea of snakes, desperate wails and cries for Lucy Gray to help her falling for her lips. Lucy Gray remained frozen despite every inch of her wanting to spring into action and drag the poor girl out, forced to watch her disappear beneath scaled bodies.

A wheezy cough came from her left and she spun her head around toward the source of the noise, a quiet whimper leaving her at the sight of Dill sitting by the edge with her back turned toward her. Another cough tore through her frail body, leaving her breathless and heaving. Lucy Gray's legs gave out from underneath her, her ruffled dress sprawling out around her like a halo. Her eyes refused to tear away from Dill, only watering with tears that fell as Dill shifted to face her, mouth bloodied from the poisoned water she'd drank. The water Lucy Gray had poisoned.

"I'm sorry." Lucy Gray whispered, her shoulders shaking with hiccups and sobs. She hadn't meant to kill her, truly she hadn't. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm- I'm so sorry." She sobbed, her body leaning forward and hands entangling themselves in her hair. She continued weeping apologies, continued begging for forgiveness until she had no tears left.

A slither of color caught her eye, her head lifting to search the sea of constantly moving snakes, their colors shimmering with the dim sunlight pouring in. Her breath hitched again, her heart threatening to hammer out of her chest when a pure white-scaled snake slithered out from underneath the bodies and made a direct line toward her.

Coriolanus.

She barely had time to scream before the snake flashed its fangs and lunged for her.

With a frightened gasp, Lucy Gray shot upright, her chest rising and falling rapidly with quick breaths. Her eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, taking in the wooden walls with paintings perched on them and the wooden floor. The only thing she recognized was her bag draped over the chair by the desk, the same bag she'd taken when she and Coriolanus planned to leave 12. Lucy Gray's brows furrowed and only furrowed further when she looked down at herself, noticing the baggy shirt she wore that she certainly hadn't packed.

The wound, she remembered sharply and fumbled with the shirt before tugging it up and near her ribs. She blinked down at the bandages wrapped just above her hip, her fingers tracing over them curiously. Someone had found her, taken her into the room, changed her, and cared for her injury... but who? Had the Covey figured out what Coriolanus had done and searched for her? Had the violent man himself done it after a change of heart? Even if he had, she needed to leave.

Pushing the covers off her bare legs, Lucy Gray planted her feet firmly on the floor and stood up, only to plop back down when her legs wobbled. "Come on, don't fail me now." She murmured, slowly rising from the bed and extending her arms out to balance herself. Her legs wobbled and shook but nevertheless, she took a step forward and immediately stumbled right into the desk. Progress was progress, she supposed, and stumbled toward the window like a baby deer learning to walk.

Lucy Gray braced herself against the wall and took in a breath, allowing herself a moment to gather her bearings before she peeked out the window. Her eyes locked on the figure crouched down by what appeared to be a garden, gloved hands tugging out carrots from the soil and tossing them into a basket nearby. She squinted, trying to make out their bowed head to see if she recognized them but the shadow casted over their face only blocked their features.

Perhaps against her better judgment, she headed toward the door, still staggering but each step helped her get reacquainted with walking again. Opening the door and stepping out, she found herself in a short hallway with two doors near each other and one at the end of the hallway. More paintings hung on the wall, along with strung-up plants and leaves in what looked like small hand-made baskets. When the hallway opened up to a bigger space, she noticed a quaint kitchen on one side and a living room on the other. It all appeared homey and inviting, many things seeming to be crafted by hand with love and care.

She spared glances around on her way to the front door, searching for pictures or anything that could inform her of the residents' identity but she found nothing. She reached the front door and looked down at her bare feet, her gaze drifting to the big boots by the door. Lucy Gray pursed her lips and then shrugged, sticking her feet into the boots and tying the laces as hard as possible so they wouldn't slip off before she stepped outside.

Lucy Gray half-expected the hustle and bustle of 12's workers and distant machinery to fill her ears but all she heard were bugs, birds, and the occasional rustling of tree branches brushing together with the breeze. All around her were trees, tall and towering over the cabin but no signs of any nearby homes that could plant her on the outskirts of 12. She took a deep inhale of the fresh air and stepped off the porch, making her way around the cabin to the side where the garden was.

"Hello, stranger!" She greeted, likely sounding too cheery for someone who'd been shot and left for dead. The person - her savior, she assumed - paused, his head turning to peer over his shoulder at her. He stared at her in confusion for a beat before seeming to recognize her with her.. out of place attire. He peeled the gloves off his hands and tossed them into the basket along with the vegetables, rising up to his full height and perching the basket against his hip.

"You should be dead." He stated, carefully stepping over rows of soil. "But you're not."

"That's hardly any way to greet someone, friend." Lucy Gray laughed, swallowing down the chill that threatened to slip down her spine. Coriolanus almost killed her, after everything he'd done to help her win. "I'm Lucy Gray Baird! May I have the pleasure of knowin' your name or should I refer to you as 'my hero', hm?"

His head tilted, likely rethinking his decision to help her. "(Y/N)."

"(Y/N)... I like the ring of it." Lucy Gray smiled brightly, blinking when he side-stepped around her and headed toward the porch, hardly sparing a glance over at her. She followed him, careful not to trip over the heavy foots weighing her legs down, and mimicked his movements of kicking the bottoms free of dirt. "Now, could you possibly tell me where I am?" She asked, shuffling after him into the cabin once more.

"The forest." He answered simply.

"Well, I guessed as much. Anywhere specifically?"

"North, some miles off the coast. Close to Districts 12 and 3." (Y/N) told her, setting the basket on the counter and beginning to wash the vegetables he'd picked free of dirt. Lucy Gray ripped a paper towel from the holder and dried them as she listened, her actions garnering her a glance. "You've been out of it for a few days. I found you, or- well, I heard you and Thistle tracked you down. It looked like you'd been out of it for almost an hour, I'd guess. Your wound was getting infected by the time I brought you back here. You've woken up here and there, long enough to get some food in your stomach, but that fever you had until yesterday morning kept making you pass out."

"A few days..." Lucy Gray repeated quietly. Coriolanus had likely presumed her dead, then. And the Covey, too. She swallowed thickly at the thought of them mourning or searching for her and let out a soft sigh. "I assume taking care of half-dead girls isn't exactly your normal day-to-day?"

"Depends. We've had a couple people fleeing the Districts come here seeking shelter or in need of food, mostly 12 and 6 but sometimes 3, too. Sometimes they come with cuts and scrapes or wounds from Peacekeepers. Once they have what they need, Mom or I will take them further up north to the settlements around there. The closest one is District 13 but they're still working toward repairing what was damaged during their war and primarily live underground."

"District 13? Wasn't it bombed?"

"Humans have a terrible knack for somehow managing to stay alive despite circumstances." (Y/N) shrugged, tucking the basket away underneath the sink and retrieving a pot. He filled it with water and set it over the stove, lighting a match and using it to get a flame started beneath the pot.

"Thank you for helping me, (Y/N). I hope I can return the favor someday."

"You can return it now by taking a bath and helping me start dinner. Mom's visiting 13 to trade with them and should be back before sundown just about when the stew will be finished." (Y/N) told her, the corner of his lip quirking. "I'll get a towel and some clothes for you."

Lucy Gray grinned and straightened her shoulders, giving him a nod. "Anythin' for my hero." She laughed at his eye roll and followed him to the bathroom, feeling a weight lifted from her shoulders at the realization she was fine; safe and far away from Coriolanus Snow.

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queenendless · 4 months ago

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SMUGLY

A/n: SHORT 🔞 PIECE. Watching video of Vtuber Shoto simping over Dill from Cat Boys Paradise is basically me dying to go hard on this green eyed bastard. I ❤️ him. Also, @catgirlxox this is for you and our fellow Ben simp gurls~!

Your touch starved, sexually deprived self wants to wipe that smug ass look of his smug ass face. His precious, adorable, beautiful face. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME! And this young man lover of yours is more than willing to fulfill your urges. This cocky, stubborn, showboat that is Ben would be gluttonous for his favorite drink besides smoothies.

"Imma about to bust a nut all over~" Your breathless, heated words made him stand upright and leak like a waterfall. His muffled whines were stuffed from your just as gushing pussy, sucking and slurping like the ever parched man that he truly is. Your unhinged, pitched moans got him writhing beneath you. "Don't ever stop, beloved~ Never stahp~!"

Stroking and clawing at that thick veiny cock of his had him groaning harshly, kneading and clawing at his handful grasp of your phat cheeks smothering his already beet red face, pulling them apart enough to spread your folds farther, angling that skillfull tongue to hit from a new point, all to traverse each inch of you inside. As per usual.

Gorging down that meatstick fully, your neck throbbed as your throat got stuffed, suckling on that head with much gusto. Your hand kept their support on his hip as you went up and down his dong, manhandling his nutsack with gusto. His orgasmic yells reverberated through you as he squirted his thick creaminess for you to chug down. Your own muffled aroused moans around his dick you stroked feverishly came from his tongue hit that special bundle of nerves persistently had you busting down all over his face and neck, drowning him in bliss.

"Fuck, angel~" Benjamin Kirby Tennyson – your beloved Ben – panted out as you finally got off him, sliding him right outta your mouth, letting you both breathe, your cum coating his brusied lips, his eyes hazy with lustful endearment, as your face leaned down to his heaving one, kissing him breathlessly, smirking through it all.

"Whose smug now~?"

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petermorwood · 1 year ago

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Wow-Wow Sauce

For @redwineand12gaugeshells... :->

In fact that bottled sauce (and nervousnigels) no longer exists, and in any case its principal ingredients of (squints) horseradish and mustard are way off base.

Wow Wow sauce was meant to go with boiled beef, and since a major ingredient was the meat's broth *, it was more like a pan gravy made at the end of cooking, than something intended to go into / come out of a jar in the preserves cupboard.

* 1817 was well before stock / bouillon cubes, however "portable soup" was a Known Thing and could be a possible alternative. The recipe is specific about using fresh broth, but here's how to make portable soup, because You Never Know.

youtube

Real Wow Wow sauce had no hyphen, no sulphur, no saltpetre and definitely no grated wahoonie, though some "real" ingredients of the Discworld version - mangoes, figs, asafoetida, anchovy - suggest Terry was taking inspiration from labels in his own kitchen, such as those on HP Sauce, Worcestershire Sauce and Yorkshire Relish.

*****

Dr Kitchiner's "The Cook's Oracle" is available online from Gutenberg (the 1833 American adaptation) as well as a PDF of the 1822 UK Third edition from Internet Archive.

Here's his recipe - whose title, for extra interest, includes the original name for what became "Bully Beef":

The good doctor's "pickled cucumbers" would have been vinegared like cornichons or gherkins, not brined like dill pickles. In addition, pickled walnuts are easier to find than they used to be; even the Tesco supermarket chain carries them...

...as well as mushroom ketchup.

You'd probably still need to make the other herb vinegars and the shallot wine (based on dry sherry), but those are easy, just a matter of steeping the herbs in the liquid for a week or so then straining off and bottling the flavoured fluid.

Another useful ingredient for period cooking is anchovy sauce, which is less, er, emphatic than full-on anchovy essence. You could always scale up if you like the taste.

This also has the advantage of being a pleasant - if you like fishiness - sauce in its own right; try a teaspoonful in a tablespoonful of EV olive oil then tossed with hot pasta. Yum...!

This one's from the same company as the mushroom ketchup and the packing clearly emphasises their "period-ness" (is that a word?) The anchovy sauce is a bit harder to find, but well worth tracking down.

*****

Finally, here's a Youtube short of Wow Wow sauce being made and sampled. It looks entirely acceptable, like a cross between a thin chutney and a thick sauce, and would be, to use Dr Kitchiner's own word, "piquante".

youtube

As a side-note, that by-play with tinned corned beef was a bit pointless, since its texture and flavour are both utterly unlike beef that's been slowly, gently boiled (simmered, TBH) with halved onions, carrots, root veggies etc.

Use shin or silverside; the magic tenderiser for those cheap cuts is Time (or a pressure cooker) - though you can also add a sprig or two of Thyme if you want...

#food and drink #wow wow sauce #wow-wow sauce #Dr Kitchiner #The Cook's Oracle #historical food #GNU Terry Pratchett #Youtube

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waterloggedsoliloquy · 1 year ago

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mutual 1: sorry the update for my webcomic this week is a bit late! i really had to rush it so it prolly looks really sloppy lol [some of the most sophisticated comic art ive ever seen]

mutual 2: call me uterine lining the way astarions cervix got me bleeding profusely

mutual 3: do you think nanowrimo will give me a posthumous pity publishing deal if i mention it in my suicide note

mutual 4: okay fine i finally started revolutionary girl utena

mutual 5: does columbo know the service he did for butch lesbians. for all of us

mutual 6: wish you were here [blurry picture set of conifer woods in early autumn evening, taken as if frantically running down a winding trail]

mutual 4: im pretty hardy i dont need the trigger list but thanks for looking out for me guys

mutual 7: good morning lovelies another day the wizard tried to best me and another day i successfully locked him in the spare bathroom lol hope u like drinking shampoo fucker

mutual 8: here is a zip of every yuri manga scan i have and here is a backup in case i get dcma'd. the himejoshi lifestyle will never die

mutual 9: i wish i could go back in time to the shinzo abe assassination and ask to hold the doohickey

mutual 10: here's my essay on how wanting to be loved is the same as wanting to be eaten. three paragraphs in you'll find out that this is 100% tied to an obscure beauty and the beast manga i've been reading lately and how much i want to fuck the beast

mutual 4: oh thats why there was the trigger list.

mutual 11: YOU CAN'T LOCK ME IN THIS BATHROOM FOREVER

mutual 12: why do i have to defend my thesis to people i dont even respect. im not dickriding you just give me the degree

mutual 13: its just me and this scab ive picked into my scalp against the world

mutual 14: my little dragon got glazed and is ready to go into the kiln! everyone wish him good luck!

mutual 3: nvm i am a beautiful genius. perhaps the most beautiful genius of all

mutual 15: i think we should give david lynch rpgmaker and whatever happens happens

mutual 16: kpeyboaatrds brpokem gpuys

mutual 17: also heres my work in progress glossary of mixtec words! i still have a long way to go but i love being able to preserve my roots even in this small way

mutual 4: i just finished the black rose arc. question: what

mutual 18: i need emet-selch to be my wife

mutual 19: i need glados to be my husband

mutual 20: visited the ocean today!!! <3 beach pics!!! there is a darkness growing within me

mutual 21: the forms for my legal name change came in. pls vote in this poll of what my middle name should be: Dill Pickle (Dickle for short), Optimus Prime, Tumblr User Gorgonicteratologist, Smeve

mutual 22: just finished my 100th book of the year! this weeks read was the uses of enchantment by the psychologist bruno bettelheim,

mutual 23: reeses penis butter cups lol

mutual 4: i need to hunt akio for sport

mutual 24: oouugghhrgh. hot. dog.

mutual 25: your favorite character or fictional other would want you to brush your teeth and wash your face so you're well rested and wake up feeling refreshed! make them proud!

mutual 26: being a delivery driver isnt the worst job ive ever had but i do keep wondering what itd be like to drive off into the wild blue yonder one day and not come back

mutual 27: weird dog? [phone picture of critically endangered stork]

mutual 28: i think the two phone line polls in front of my house are having a lovers tryst. no way to prove it tho

mutual 4: WHAT

mutual 29: while you bitches are balduring your gates or finalling those fantasies im doing what a REAL gamer does. playing a b tier rpg that came out in 2004 for the 18th time

mutual 30: ^ real. hamtaro ham ham heartbreak is a masterpiece of interactive art. im not even going to call it a video game at this point

mutual 4: THAT'S HOW IT ENDS?! ANTHY?

mutual 31: can you help me pick which drawing looks better: 34% overlay or 36% soft light?

mutual 32: new video essay out. its called disability in video game narratives: final fantasy 14's most reliable fault. i churned the script out over an all-nighter and my mic crapped out halfway through but by god i did it

mutual 33: my new zine bundle is out! if you buy it you also get a discount on all my game jam games! i really cant wait for you to play them!

mutual 4: yall should watch revolutionary girl utena

#cecil drawls #long post #i love you guys

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tetheredfeathers · 9 months ago

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A little something I wrote inspired by this line.

Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents, the way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods.

She always brought him something from the woods.

The first time she brought him a single dandelion.

It had been a long winter, and the sun had only begun to peek through the cold shadows. It had been a good hunt today, with 2 rabbits and a squirrel shot right through the eyes. Her short dark hair tickled her neck as she practically skipped back home.

That's when she saw it – the first spring flower, a lone dandelion lurking between the wet shadows. She scurried towards it and quickly plucked it, almost afraid it would run away if she wasn't fast enough.

"Peetaaa," her voice rang through the house as she peeled off her shoes and hung her father's hunting jacket on the hooks Peeta had installed for her.

"In here," Peeta called from the kitchen.

She found him all serious, wrinkle between his eyebrows as he kneaded some dough. She skirted towards him wanting kiss the lines between his eyes.

"Hi, bread boy," she whispered sweetly before kissing the frosting off his lips.

"Hi," he said in between kisses

"Mhm, vanilla." Katniss breathed licking his lips.

"Here, try this," he said, spreading a thick layer of icing on a cinnamon roll and handing it her.

"Mhmm, so good. Thank you baby," she said between huge mouthfuls.

"I got you something from town today," Peeta sang, reaching into his pockets.

"Show me, show me," Katniss almost begged.

"You know Thom's little sister, Darlene," she nodded. "Yeah, well, she was really happy with her birthday cake and wanted to give me something in return."

He pulled out a long strip of transparent lace.

Katniss' face broke into a huge smile. "A ribbon? What does she think you're 12 to go around wearing ribbons?" she teased.

"Be nice, Katniss, she's only five. I doubt she knows how to gift a grown man," Peeta said.

"You do know she has a crush on you, right?" Katniss said, grabbing another cinnamon roll, stuffing her mouth once again.

"Who doesn't?" Peeta sassed, swaying his hips.

"I don't," Katniss rolled her eyes.

"Oh really?" he eyed her mischievously before grabbing her arms, leaving all but an inch between their sugary lips. "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

She shuddered involuntarily. Even after a year of being with him, just being near him made her weak in the knees. His warm hands slid down her arms before gently turning her around so that her back faced him. Slowly, he brought his hands up to her hair, bunching half her hair into a ponytail and tying the flimsy lace into a bow.

She turned around, beaming in his arms, peering into those blue eyes.

"Wow, birdie, look at yourself."

She blushed bright red before pulling out her dandelion from underneath the table.

"For you," she said shyly, holding it right under his face.

"Thank you, birdie," he said, delicately taking it from her hands as if it would slip from his grasp like water.

Her blush deepened. She loved it when he called her that. It reminded her of her father, that he was still a part of her, and just like him, she still sang wild and free. A bird that's what she was.

"You're my dandelion in the spring, you know that, right?" she whispered.

"I know," he whispered back, burying her mouth in long, warm kiss.

After that, she brought him something every day. Sometimes it would be tufts of dill or rye. Other times, she would bring him shiny stones that reminded her of the color of his eyes. Sometimes a feather or a leaf, but mostly she brought him flowers. She brought him wild onions because it reminded her of the day she broke her heart. She brought him daisies because they were as pure and white like his soul. She brought him sunflowers because he was her sun and followed him everywhere he went.

He kept a whole shelf dedicated to her gifts and pressed the flowers inside his notebook. It helped remind him that all was not lost on the more difficult days when she could not get out of bed or talk to him.

And on the night they conceived their first child, she whispered into his arms.

"I'm going to call her Dandelion."

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lxvvie · 10 months ago

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I'm sorry but i can't help but think about short d!ck gravess like him being an all proud and egocentric man, but tries to maintain his pride while his girlfriend tells him he's so small that she doesn't even think that little thing can even get her pregnant (at least it gives her some pleasure but still...)

PRETTY PLEASEEEEEE

Not Lil' Dill Phil, anon!

He's a prideful bastard through and through, and best believe a round of orgasm denial is happening when you start mouthing off about his dick (girth over length, okay?!).

And you sure as fuck weren't complaining about it last night either, darlin'.

#fyi: even though the anon uses she/her pronouns i'm writing the reader as gender neutral.#nsfw.#call of duty #call of duty modern dickfare.#call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #cod x reader #cod x you #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #x black reader #x poc reader #x plus size reader #shadow company

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shirefantasies · 8 months ago

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Idk if/what you’re open to writing right now, but can you possibly write something focused on pippin? Maybe fluff or headcannons or oneshots, whatever you want. I’ll put my trust in a fellow pippin girlie 😉❤️

Ahhh I definitely was not when this very first rolled in but barring any more grievous wounds I am always down to write about my beloved 😌

Pie in the Sky- Pippin x F!Hobbit!Reader

(Gif by @lotrcolors! Didn’t see rules about not using them but will take down if they prefer!)

Perfect dough never fails to put a smile on your face. Sticky as it is, even the feeling of it beneath your hands as you knead it is pleasing. Flames to your left tell you the oven is more than ready to receive its eventual bounty. A few rolls beneath your pin and there you have it, a beautiful drape on the tin before the real treasure is stowed away. Twirling in your flighty joy, you turn for the stove, taking up your pot of wonderful sparkling scarlet raspberry filling. Pouring it in, you see you’ve made a bit extra- muffins might just be in your future, too! Last step is cutting the lattice and then your oven is finally presented its trophy.

You already pulled out the right size hourglass when you got your start, so all there is to it is giving it a flip and you’ve got a little time for inventory.

The fishers had a wonderful haul: bright, shiny salmon you had filleted earlier in the afternoon, leaving only the need to coat them in lemon juice and seasoning. Potatoes as well, potatoes fresh as the salmon, though they are to be fried into chips, not grilled. A plate of roasted zucchini and carrot to say you’re getting your vegetables in. Not to mention the pie.

Every voice in your head had told you to just make enough for yourself, but having a visitor is likely enough, is it not? May as well make a bit extra, you think as you reach for a tin of dill weed.

Foolhardy, they say. Foolish indeed to leave a pie cooling upon the sill of your hole’s window lest some rapscallion make short work of it. But what is life without a little chance, you ponder as you check up on your treat, glancing out to the passing road…

“Well, that is about as fine a pie as I’ve ever seen! What’s the occasion?”

Peregrin Took. Pippin, just about the whole Shire calls him. Sprightly, smiling, and green-eyed, the young hobbit comes from quite the family. He is the only one you know of so well, though. Oft is he seen alongside his cousin Merry, particularly for goers of the Green Dragon. You are not quite in that guild, though it has been tempting enough of late.

“No occasion, really,” you reply with a smile, glancing up at Pippin through your lashes, “to be honest, I just felt like it.”

“I can see why," he muses, tone dreamy.

"I made extra. Care to join me for supper?" Leaning further upon your sill, you rest your chin upon your hand.

"If you insist," he answers quickly, "then who am I to say no?"

He slips around the remaining perimeter of your yard, disappearing from your view until you hear a knock at your door. At once you abandon your pie, crossing through your kitchen and hall to open it.

"Well, hello there," Pippin jokes with a wide smile, arms outstretched and heels rocking, "fancy meeting you here!"

"Master Took," you play along, waving him in, "what a pleasant surprise! Please, come in."

Hands running over his shoulders faintly, you help him out of his coat, taking notice of how eager he is to strip himself of the extra layers, unwinding the scarf in record speed and glancing around the entry of your home.

"The kitchen is this way," you wave a hand, "Shall we?"

You take the way he practically trips over his feet on the freshly polished floorboards going forward as a yes, holding out a quick hand to steady him, thinking better of it, withdrawing shyly. Leading him to the dining table, you sit him down at the head of it and make for the kitchen to procure all your supper fixings. One by one you set down steaming platters, Pippin's eyes tracking your every movement before landing on the offerings themselves. You hear his stomach rumble as the smell of the first platter of chips fills the room, say nothing but smile and simply compound the feast until his eyes are wide as saucers.

Master Peregrin Took had caught your eye some time ago, from what day you cannot even say, but at that moment and beyond his wide, wonderful smile and lovely singing voice permeate the back of your mind far too often. Often enough, in fact, that you've taken up the peculiar little habit that finally serves you so well, making far more of anything than you need lest you ever are gifted the luck of the Shire's jolliest soul at your door. And as he sits before you, so close your arms brush as they reach for cups and utensils, engrossed in sharing a story his cousin's gardener told him about the Proudfeet's pumpkins, all you can feel is a glow of warmth and satisfaction.

"Mmm," Pippin hums in pleasure between forkfuls, "how did I never know what a good cook you are?"

You shrug, suddenly feeling a little shy. "I suppose I never labelled my creations all too well at any festivals."

"Well, if you keep this up," he teases, "I may just have to keep coming to call."

"Be my guest," you wave a hand and smile widely, eyes remaining upon his, "it isn't often I get company."

You barely trust your ears at his next words. "I can hardly believe that! But I'm more than happy to take up the task."

Wit utterly fails you at that, words lost in the fluttering of butterflies filling your entire being and a smile you cannot have hidden for all the gold in the Shire.

Pippin greets you by name this time, leaning into your window with eager familiarity. “You wouldn’t happen to be baking, would you?”

“Why, yes,” you smile back even wider, bending down for a moment to collect proof in the form of a steaming yellow cake before you tease, "if you don't mind waiting for it to cool and get frosted I'd be happy to share. Unless you were just hoping I was busy."

Pippin practically runs around to your gate, bringing yet another smile to your lips as you turn from your cake to the strawberries you'd been slicing.

“Excellent party, no?”

Glancing up from your tankard, you see Pippin has slid up to your side, leaning an arm casually upon the edge of the table and giving you that easy smile that makes everything within you flutter. His sandy hair is sprinkled with tossed flower petals and falls about his face, which flickers beneath the lanterns set all about. He’d undone his ever-present scarf, this time letting it hang loosely about either side of his neck and down onto a green velvet waistcoat that brings out those eyes of his.

Nothing else but a smile could have broken across your face at such a sight, joy alongside warmth you can luckily blame upon lanterns and the fires on which spits had been roasting and sheer proximity to all the dancing couples whirling by and other hobbits stopping at the table and idly chatting.

“Just grand,” you reply, only aware in post the surefire dreaminess of your expression, “the music's wonderful, everyone is in such cheer, and the spread is great, too! And now I've got fine company as well!"

"As have I," Pippin replies, glancing away from your gaze, then back to it, "and you are so right about it all. I can't wait to dance the night away! And I've just had about the best cookies of my life!"

You giggle at that, fingers tightening around the wooden mug you held. "Oh yes? And what kind were they?"

"Lavender sugar."

"Ah," your eyes light up, "those would be mine! See what I mean about the labeling? Oh, I'm so glad you liked them!"

Seeing as how it's the sole reason you made anything at all for the birthday of someone's aunt you didn't even know too well.

"Liked them?" He leans closer. "I loved them! But enough of that: how would you care for a dance or five?"

Nothing would have gotten your hands off your tankard with greater haste, its base hitting the red tablecloth at your back faster than he could say "South Farthing".

"I would love that," you tell him, and without a moment's hesitation you are swept up into his arms.

Pippin's hold about your waist is tighter than you'd have expected, but you don't complain a mite at the feeling of his hands on your hips, even the twitch of a finger you'd almost suspect to be the beginnings of roaming if you were any more full of yourself. He goes fast with you, something you hadn't doubted for a moment, and you get a thrill from the way he pulls you in so quickly from a twirl, sending you flying into his chest and caught with his other arm each time. Perhaps you aren't so graceful as some of the other, older or more leisurely pairs out on the open grass, but you know as your bare feet struck the soft ground again and again that you would have it no other way.

“Oh, now it’s shortbread?”

You put the hand that isn't holding the basket on your hip, fixing the younger hobbit with a look. “Do you want some or not, Marigold dear?”

"Oh, yes," she replies, golden head bobbing and petite hand reaching to loosen the cloth you've wrapped over the bars, "and I will take one for the old Gaffer, too.”

“Oh, he should enjoy them. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, after all.”

“And who else shall?” Marigold muses, fixing you with a positively catlike smile. “How is my advice about a man’s heart going, then, with Mister Peregrin Took?”

Your easy smile melts into something dreamier, grip on your basket relaxing slightly. “Well, all my baking certainly is bringing us together more.”

“And showing him what a good wife you’ll make him, too. He looked very happy there dancing with you at old Violet’s birthday!”

Before you can stop yourself looking a fool, your smile is widening tenfold. “You think so?”

“Oh,” Marigold waves a hand, “you’re incorrigible! Next time you two dance, just lean in for the kiss!”

“Easy for you to say,” you shoot back, crossing your arms and nearly, but not quite, upsetting your shortbread basket, “I could tell you the same about Tolman Cotton.”

Paling then reddening, Marigold gapes at you and sputters. "Now that is quite different! Tolman is a family friend, after all! If I were to- Why, that friendship might-”

“Uh-huh,” you nod in mock sympathy, a sardonic smile upon your lips, “well, then, perhaps you ought to bake him something. After all, a good friend told me the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Marigold grins. “Yours, maybe! Tolman cares much more about a good spot of fishing than all that.”

“Then you come over to sit in my kitchen and make him a new lure while I muse over what Pippin’s favorites might be. I’ve some dyed feathers I could spare.”

“From what?” Marigold asks, tilted head and smile incredulous as you make your way down the lane.

That is all Pippin catches of the conversation, but it is more than enough, he reflects with a brief proud smirk that quickly melts into a wide, dreamy grin as he glances down at the pair of chocolate-covered shortbread bars in his hands. Your grandma had some good ideas, but she’d never get his heart beating like you did.

It is not the most common occurrence in the world to hear your bell ring, so to say you shot up from your sewing is an understatement. All but tossing the shirt whose sleeve you’re repairing down, you pad across your planks to the door, mouth widening into an ‘o’ at the sight of Pippin at your door, a bunch of daisies in one hand and a basket slung upon the opposite arm. Today he is wearing a lavender vest; you don't think you've ever seen him wear lavender before, but of course it suits him.

“Hi there,” he said your name, voice lowering, “I thought I could maybe…take you on a picnic.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, habitually glancing down at your dress and feeling a hand shoot up to your hair. “Well, I don’t know if I’m picnic ready, but-”

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he remarks with a shrug and the most casual smile, as if he’d commented upon the balmy state of the weather.

“Well,” you glance down toward your feet and fiddle with the end of your sleeve, one arm shyly across your chest, “how can I say no to that? Of course I will go, then. Do you need anything for your basket, though? I admit I haven’t made much fresh today, but I can always-”

At that, Pippin shakes his head, curls flying about his smiling face. “This one is my mother’s treat. It’s about time I pay you back, after all.”

“Oh, alright. Because I do have a leftover pie in the-”

“Yes, bring that.”

You giggle as Pippin continues. “Don’t you worry, though- my mother’s cooking is almost as good as yours! Just don’t tell her I said that.” Punctuating his joke with a wink, he extends his arm and beaming, you take it.

Pippin leads you down to the bank of a stream and spreads out a blanket you hadn’t noticed him carrying before, probably due to being too occupied looking into those sweet green eyes and fluttering your lashes at any affection that potentially swims within them. The ground is soft already beneath the blanket, making it quite easy to settle upon your little spot across from Pippin and his basket. Water babbles tranquilly at your side by your feet, glistening in the spring sunshine.

Your companion offers quite the spread, for on top of your pie there is cold chicken and hard boiled eggs, sandwiches with salted meat and cress, cheese alongside the end of the sandwich loaf, fresh red raspberries, and turnovers.

“I hope this is enough.”

“Are you joking?” Your eyes light up, glancing from Pippin to the array of food to the sunlight filtering through the greenery at the stream’s edge. “This is perfect. All of it.”

"It had to be," he says, "I wanted our courtship to start off right."

Falling suddenly deaf to the chirping of birds and babbling of stream, you looked up from your sandwich with wide eyes, again seeing Pippin smiling at you like he'd made the most natural conclusion in the world, this time before tilting a fistful of raspberries into his mouth. Blinking, you search for words, failing momentarily in favor of just grinning over the way Peregrin Took never fails in his unwitting quest to always surprise you. Heat creeps to your face, heat beyond even the beating of the sun down to your head.

Pippin, it seems, takes your silence as a form of denial. All but dropping the plated slice of pie in his hand, he wipes one set of fingers off on the edge of a napkin before waving both hands hastily back and forth.

"Unless I heard your conversation with Marigold wrong. I just got so excited thinking that we could be everything I'd dreamed of and that what you were doing was working. Not that you needed to do it because I already thought you were the prettiest thing I've ever seen and why am I saying all this?"

"Because you're cute," you gush, heart still flip-flopping at his words, at the way the sunlight dances off the curves of his sheepishly smiling cheeks, "and you're always managing to find new ways to steal my heart."

"Me?" His voice is so quiet it's all but a whisper of joy. "You think I'm... Well, I think you're just sweet as this pie here. No, sweeter. Besides finding new ways to steal your heart, might I find new ways to kiss you?"

"Smooth," you tease, shaking your head playfully, gleefully, "you might indeed."

If Pippin is thinking anything you made was sweet, not a single delight you could have whipped up in your kitchen stands a chance against the feeling of his lips on yours, dancing lightly against them in the springtime breeze.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 | Reply/Message/Ask to join 💕

#lotr #lotr imagines #lotr x reader #pippin took #pippin #pippin x reader #pippin x female reader #female reader #ask #anon #requested

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fuckkbrunch · 4 days ago

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The final recipe! I saved it for new year's eve dinner. The one that isn't even really a recipe, but if I didn't do it, it would have felt unfinished.

In the very back of the book, there's a 3 page fold out poster on how to make the perfect Bourdain approved burger.

I won't lie, I don't own a meat grinder attachment for my KitchenAid mixer, and wasn't going to buy one just for this. He suggests grinding your own meat, specifically a combo of rib eye, short rib and hanger steak. I settled for a high quality pre ground beef chuck, and a frozen veal cutlet that I chopped up real small by hand.

He claims that the flavour is best if you salt the meat one hour before cooking. There's also no mention of fillers or binders like egg or breadcrumbs, or any seasoning besides salt. So, that's what I did. Just meat and salt.

Other requirements were a store bought bun that wasn't a brioche or ciabatta (too soft and too hard, respectively). Sesame seeds are optional according to taste. A single slice of a large tomato, like a beefsteak. Specifically shredded iceberg lettuce, so that it doesn't yank out when you bite it and slap you in the face.

American cheese. The thin, individually wrapped kind that melts if you so much as look at it. Melt factor is crucial as other (higher quality) cheeses just get soft and greasy on a burger, even if their flavour profile is more desirable.

Since my meat combo was lacking compared to what Tony suggests, I also baked some bacon until just crisp to turn this into a bacon cheeseburger. Which means - in my opinion - that there also needs to be dill pickle slices and onion rounds. The poster does include a burger with pickles on it, so I felt this fit. Unfortunately and hilariously, my last yellow onion had mold hidden under the dry skin layers, so I chucked it.

You can go thin smash burger style, or thick mid-rare patty style, both are acceptable by Tony's standards. I went smash burger style, since I like the browning aspects more than the juicy wet burger style.

He does specify that if you want more than one patty, it must be smash burger style. I went for a single 3oz patty, and my partner requested two 2oz patties with double cheese.

They honestly tasted just like a good, simple, take out style bacon cheeseburger. It didn't have that sub par homemade burger feel to it, I was actually shocked. We had these for dinner two days in a row.

| Bourdain Perfect Burger |

Taste is a 5 out of 5. Even though my meat cuts weren't the same, this was fantastic.

Difficulty is a 1 out of 5. Maybe a 2 if you really grind your own meat.

Time was a little over an hour, only because I waited the hour after salting my meat.

If I ever do invest in a meat grinder, I'm definitely going to try the meat combo he suggests. Considering this comes together so quickly, and tastes so good, it's really a great bang-for-your-buck recipe. Who doesn't love a good burger?

------------

And that's that! We're done! I still can't believe I did it. Some weeks I was doing 4-6 recipes at once just to make sure that if I missed some weeks, I would still keep up. 114 recipes in a year is no joke, that's more than 2 per week! Even during a two month 40+ degree heatwave, I kept it up. I'm damn proud of myself.

So as a gift to myself, I'm going to be getting a Bourdain themed tattoo sometime in the new year. Obviously I'll be posting it here once it's done.

I'm also going to do a final rundown of the cookbook and of my notes I've kept during this whole process and select a top 5-10 recipes. Maybe a top 5 and bottom 5, I'm still undecided. So this won't be my final post.

But I will close this with the final page of the cookbook...

#anthony bourdain #appetites a cookbook #cooking #recipe #burger #bacon cheeseburger #cheeseburger

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posarmeklen · 2 months ago

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Don’t you hate when you turn your back for a minute at your dead-end copy job (sorry, dead-end desktop publishing job), and all of a sudden, one half of your sister’s cool teen quartet along with your horndog conspiracist friend are holding paper products (er, helping with a big job) and flapping their lips about the latter’s fairly new unplanned pregnancy?

It was just a coincidence that Goat swung by to visit Alex at Repro Man’s shortly after Fruity and Matt came in, and even though they had heard through Chaka (who, naturally, knew because of Alex) that the older man was in a “delicate” condition, it was their first time bumping into him in person since.

Hearing Fruity’s compliments, Matt turned around from the poster in his hands. “Oh, hey, Goat,” he greeted him.

“Hey, Matt, what’s up?”

“Probably nothing compared to what’s up with you, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Goat coughed.

“Yeah, you know, my cousin just had a baby a couple months ago,” Matt offered up. “I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy for her, but she said it was totally worth it. You know, yin and yang and all that.”

“Hey, I don’t think this situation calls for the poetry.” Fruity made a disapproving smacking sound with his lips. “Man, can’t you just leave this beautiful thing be?” Goat smirked.

“Chill out, alright?” said Matt, gingerly transferring a large stack of paper from Fruity’s hands to his own and placing it by the copier. “I was just going to ask how he’s taking it.”

“Well,” Goat said emphatically. “Do you want the miracle-of-life Demi Moore Vanity Fair edition, or the cold unabridged truth?” His words conjured an image of himself, au naturel and assuming the pose of the actress, which subsequently splintered and fell away like a broken pane of glass.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less than the second one from you.” Matt smiled.

“Oh, it’s fuckin’ brutal,” he asserted. “Imagine the most head-splitting zombifying hangover, with none of the fun from the night before.”

Fruity raised his eyebrows. “None?”

“Oooh, rough…” Matt mumbled sympathetically.

“My back hurts all time. Everything’s sweaty. Plus, on top of that, I can’t really see my junk. It makes for a challenge when women’s volleyball is on and I wanna –”

“Alright, alright…” Matt’s laugh cut the description of his plight short. “I think we get the picture.”

“Hey, we’re all guys here!” grinned Fruity, giving an open-palmed shrug.

“I will say, it’s not a total loss,” Goat went on. “I seem to have unlocked a brand-new level of savoring life’s pleasures.”

“Oh, because you had trouble with that before, right?” teased Matt.

“Eh, I don’t know, but this baby must love Ring-Dings and Bud Light.”

“Hey, and at least the ladies eat up this stuff,” Fruity said. “You know, feeling the baby kick and comparing its size to a dill pickle and crap. They must be all over you.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, right on.” Goat looked past him, letting out a sigh. “Is there a bathroom in this place? I gotta take a leak.”

“Yeah, right over by the back wall,” said Matt.

“I won’t keep you,” Fruity added, motioning in the general direction of the door.

So anyway, when it comes to Fruity’s comment re: the “fairer sex” and pregnancy, I would be remiss not to mention the kindred spirit Goat hit it off with, the child’s second parent (seen in my Downtown posts of yesteryear. However, I did change her name for some reason. Friendship ended with “Jackie”, “Kasey” is my best friend now). *clears my throat and shuffles flashcards* There came a point of awareness that despite their similarities, they were at really different life stages (Goat had been doing his own thing for years, but Kasey, a trans woman who was Goat’s age, had been living as herself for a fraction of that and was relishing her freedom) and while Goat initially hadn’t changed his lifestyle a bit to accommodate the pregnancy, she didn’t want to live like him forever and begrudged his seeming lack of trying. Words were exchanged, and the pair went their separate ways. Not to worry – they would soon rekindle, and both put forth effort to be healthier (in Goat’s case, he was mostly propelled by the knowledge of his physical condition; in Kasey’s, she was inspired to show a sort of solidarity with him, plus she would soon be a parent as well, despite not physically being pregnant). But given their respective issues, neither swayed the other in a positive direction, and they soon reached the disappointing yet amicable conclusion that they were perhaps too alike to remain close. And in the midst of that, they just knew neither of them were cut out to raise children (what were we thinking?) – so wish granted for a lucky adoptive parent(s). But I digress… I wonder if some of this diverted him from regaling Fruity and Matt with salacious tales when given the opportunity.

Also, by the way? Even though Fruity was being facetious in my picture and Goat wouldn’t name his offspring after himself, he and the aforementioned second parent did discover at an ultrasound (the first and only; Goat completely forgot about an appointment scheduled earlier in the pregnancy 😑) that the fetus was male. Goat after he and Kasey exchanged an overwhelmed glance and muttered fragmented agreeable noises upon being asked if they were interested in finding out the baby’s sex today: “Rock on! Built-in apprentice and wingman, here I come…” *medical technician politely chuckling intensifies*

#my art #mpreg #fanart

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snailqueenforever · 5 months ago

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Bill Cipher VS a Dill Pickle

Bill Cipher drifted through the boundless void between dimensions, his singular eye scanning the vast multiverse with a weary disinterest. The thrill of warping reality and twisting minds had begun to dull after countless eons. The chaos that once fueled his existence now seemed monotonous. He craved something new, something so mundane that he could delight in turning it into something bizarre. That’s when he saw it: a small, unassuming deli nestled in the heart of a quiet little town, in a dimension that had somehow evaded his notice until now. The place was quaint, almost laughably ordinary, with a red and white striped awning. "Bob’s Deli" was painted in neat, cheerful letters on the window. The sheer normalcy of it sparked a wicked idea in Bill’s twisted mind.

“This is perfect,” Bill cackled, his voice reverberating through the void like a sinister echo. “Let’s see what happens when chaos comes to lunchtime!”. In a flash of yellow light, Bill zipped through the dimensional rift, materializing in the center of the deli. The bell above the door jingled as if announcing his arrival, though no one seemed to notice the sudden appearance of a floating triangle with an all-seeing eye.

The deli was cozy, with wooden shelves lined with jars of pickles, fresh loaves of bread, and various condiments. The counters displayed platters of meats and cheeses, meticulously arranged by Bob, the middle-aged owner with a kind smile and an apron that bore the marks of years of service. Bill floated lazily over the shelves, his eye zeroing in on the rows of pickle jars. Each one was filled to the brim with crisp, tangy pickles. Their briny liquid catched the overhead lights and gave the display an almost magical sheen. The pickles varied in size and shape. Some tall and slender, others short and stout…but all were carefully labeled, as if they were precious treasures to Bob, rather than mere snacks. As Bill inspected the jars, his eye was drawn to one pickle in particular…a plump, green gherkin that seemed to occupy nearly the entire jar. Its surface was glossy, and it looked as if it were glowing with some inner vitality.

Bill clapped his skinny black hands together. “At last!” he thought to himself. “I’ve found a pickle worthy of my time!”. He hovered closer, his voice dripping with mischief. “Hey there, green guy! You’re looking… fresh. Hows about we have a little chat, you and me?”. The pickle, shiny and briny, remained still in its jar. Its bumpy surface reflected the light of the quant deli, but it offered no response. No sudden burst of life, no sprouting of arms or legs, no squeaky voice acknowledging Bill’s presence. Bill’s eye twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m Bill Cipher! Dream demon, master of chaos, all that jazz. You’ve probably heard of me, right?”.

But the pickle stayed silent, its green form utterly unresponsive. It was just… a pickle.

Bill floated even closer, scrutinizing the pickle with suspicion. “Okay, maybe you’re one of those strong, silent types. That’s cool. But you’ve got to have something to say. What’s it like being a pickle? Any deep thoughts on life in brine?”. Still, the pickle offered nothing in return. It sat there, looking like every other pickle that had ever existed. It was completely indifferent to the fact that it was being addressed by a reality-bending entity. Bill’s patience, such as it was, began to fray. He circled the jar, tapping it with a spectral finger. “You know, I only come around every one hundred years,” Bill began to lie. “I only ever appear when one of the greatest minds of a generation needs a muse. And YOU, dear former cucumber, are that greatest mind! So, what do ya say? Want me to be your muse?”

But the pickle didn’t so much as twitch.

“Look, you gherkin,” Bill snapped, his frustration boiling over his lie. “I can give you anything! Freedom from the jar, endless adventures, maybe even a spot on a gourmet platter! But you gotta do something in return for me”. The deli carried on with its normal routine, customers coming and going, oblivious to the cosmic drama unfolding in their midst. Bill, however, was fixated on the silent pickle, refusing to let it win whatever strange game this was. He tried everything, such as snapping his fingers to animate it, making exaggerated gestures…he even offered bribes of fame and fortune. But the pickle remained stubbornly non-verbal.

Finally, Bill sighed, floating back in reluctant defeat. “Alright, fine. Be that way. You might just be the most stubborn pickle I’ve ever met.” He paused, then added with a grudging hint of respect, “That’s kind of impressive”. With that, Bill turned away, leaving the pickle to its jar. As he floated off to find some other form of amusement, he couldn’t resist glancing back one last time, half-expecting the pickle to spring to life. But it didn’t.

Bill looked down at the deli’s linoleum floor, defeated. “It’s moments like these where I miss Sixer most of all” he sighed to himself. And with a final, echoing snap of the fingers, Bill zipped off into the chaos, leaving behind a simple, unassuming cucumber preserved in brine…completely impervious to the madness that was Bill Cipher.

#meme #gravity falls #bill cipher #the book of bill #gravity falls bill #gravity falls fandom #fanfiction #gravity falls fanfiction

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