#out of anything with a modicum of spice in it

[fishareglorious]

How good do you think is Vertin’s spice tolerance. Discuss.

[jessamine-rose]

˚˖ ࣪ ⊹.°˖˚ A Candlelit Dinner ˚˖°.⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˚

Aka “Jessamine makes her cannibalism debut ft. La Signora after sharing too many crack ideas with @beloved-blaiddyd” (*-`ω´- )ﻭ✧

Tw:: yandere, cannibalism, Stockholm Syndrome, offscreen death, 2.1 spoilers

♡ 1.1k words under the cut ♡

You aren’t allowed to attend your wife’s funeral.

Truthfully, it doesn’t surprise you. The world broke Rosalyne’s heart when it took the life of her previous lover, and so she refused to take a gamble with you. Anything to guarantee your safety, to ensure that you’d always be there to welcome her home.

It’s strange. The manor has always been peaceful during her missions, but the silence is stifling in La Signora’s eternal absence. The servants are gloomy; your hobbies feel tedious; and time freezes to an endless monotony of lamentation.

You don’t know what to do with your freedom. How long ago did you cease your prayers and find comfort in Rosalyne’s love? When did you start calling your prison a home?

A few weeks after the funeral, your handmaiden suggests a trip to the city for a change of pace. Such an invitation is unheard of, but the rules mean nothing without the looming threat of the Fair Lady’s rage. She likely pities you.

Instead, you take a short walk around the manor. The Snezhnayan winter is colder this year, or perhaps you’ve grown too accustomed to Rosalyne’s warmth.

ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ

The kitchen was where you fell in love with Rosalyne.

Cooking was your favorite way to spend time together. It required patience, harmony, a mutual trust with knives and fire.

In those moments of domesticity, she was neither the Fair Lady nor the Crimson Witch of Flame. She was just Rosalyne, your self-proclaimed wife who sang while she worked and adjusted recipes to your personal tastes. She was in charge of the seasonings, courtesy of her time in Sumeru which provided an informal education in sugar and spices.

Once the meal was ready, the two of you would proceed to the dining table. She’d sit across from you and light the candelabra with a graceful flick of her fingers, flames blooming atop of pure white wax. Only then could you admire her fire without a modicum of fear.

During her missions, Rosalyne would purchase gifts for you. Most of the time, she came home with special ingredients to use in your cooking dates. Seafood from Morepesok, wine from Mondstadt, Jueyun chilis from Liyue, and so on.

You haven’t set foot in the kitchen since Rosalyne’s death. Neither do you eat at the dining table; you tell the servants to bring your meals to your room.

You can only manage a few bites before you grow sick of the dull taste in your mouth.

ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ

Rosalyne’s final gift is a spice blend from Inazuma.

It is delivered a month after her funeral, a fancy box filled with little porcelain jars. Each jar is beautifully crafted, painted with crimson roses and butterflies.

Your wife’s subordinates won’t look you in the eye. In a rehearsed tone, they inform you that prior to her death, La Signora had made a bulk purchase of shichimi togarashi. The containers were custom-made, hence the delay in their arrival.

“The Fair Lady was adamant that you receive this gift, no matter the circumstances. We ask that you honor her final wish and enjoy this spice blend in your future meals.”

How did you respond? Was it a halfhearted nod or a few words of gratitude? All you remember is your walk from the foyer to the kitchen, shelves and countertops cleared, the porcelain chill of each jar as you pick them up and display them on every flat surface.

You once told Rosalyne that your kitchen could use more color. It appears that she took your request to heart.

The sun sets as you finish the task. At this hour, Rosalyne would be home and the two of you would begin the kitchen prep. What was your first meal together?

It was steak served with potato roses. Back then, you suggested potato roses out of a fearful desire to please her.

The meal takes longer to prepare. The chef offers their assistance but you refuse, taking out ingredients and cutting them with your familiar knife. The potatoes only need butter and a few seasonings, but the steak…you think you’ll try the shichimi.

You open a jar and scoop out a small portion of shichimi. It is a fiery shade of orange, likely from the chili pepper. The powdered spices are mixed with aonori, peppercorns, sesame seeds—what are those coarse, gray particles?

Maybe it is an ingredient native to Inazuma.

The steak is marinated. Your attention shifts back to the potatoes, the slices arranged in a rosette pattern. It takes a while; Rosalyne was always better at this.

After the potato roses are baked, the steak is seared. You almost overcook it—you always cooked Rosalyne’s first, and the two of you preferred different levels of doneness—but it’s salvaged at the last second. Then you arrange the food on your plate, recalling Rosalyne’s plating techniques. She knew how to make a meal look so pretty, so appetizing…

You bring your plate to the dining table. The chair in front of you is empty, and the candelabra is unlit. A servant lights the candles in Rosalyne’s place, but his flames are dimmer and he doesn’t pay attention to your reaction.

You pick up your knife and cut into the steak.

It looks normal, with a bloody center. You cut a small piece, stab it with your fork, and bring it to your mouth.

It tastes…unique.

There is the spiciness of the chili pepper, the sweetness of the citrus peel, umami from the other spices. But there are other flavors—bitter, metallic, smoky. You’re not quite sure if you like it.

Yet you can’t help but take another bite. And another. Another one, with the potato roses. Before you know it, your mouth is trembling and your vision is blurring. Through a veil of tears, you notice that your plate is already half-empty.

You stand up and return to the kitchen, ignoring the servants’ questions. Instead, you come back with the crimson-painted jar and add another spoonful of shichimi to your steak.

Now there’s too much seasoning. But you don’t mind; you mix it into the potato roses and continue eating, savoring the complex flavors.

How was Rosalyne in her final days? You can imagine her in an Inazuman market, looking for the perfect gift for her spouse. The smile on her face as she approved the shichimi and spoke with an esteemed craftsman. The moment of her death—How much pain was she in? Did her flames leave a mark on the Tenshukaku? Did she think of you?

It’s just like her to ensure that you’ll never despair over a bland meal, even in her death.

It almost feels as though she is still with you.

♡

…….Don’t ask me how a few DMs turned into 1.1k words bc idk either. And cheers to my Google history going from “spice blends” to “togarashi steak recipe” to “cremated ashes texture” to “what do ashes taste like” ^^;

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed my tribute to La Signora!! Thanks again to Brynlee for this tasty idea, and may Hoyoverse not kill off the other Fatui Harbingers ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡

[moon-and-stars-selfship]

Decaf

Length-Medium

Ship-Ignis Scientia

Owen stumbled into the lounge of the hotel they were staying in, his legs barely functioning. Even if his mind had been awake for hours, his body had yet to catch up. Despite barely being able to hold him the aching restlessness in his calves and tingling in his toes refused to relent.

Making his way to one of the recliners that sat in the middle of the lounge he collapsed, placing his palm on his face and exhaling with exhaustion. "Couldn't sleep?" He jumped slightly at the voice, sitting up and turning to find Ignis standing at the mini kitchenette wearing his underclothes. Seeing him in boxers and a tank top outside of the bed was jarring, though still wearing his glasses he retained a modicum of his usual refined appearance. Even so, the sight alone of him already made Owen feel more relaxed.

As he lay back in the recliner he made a noise in affirmation. "Yeah, RLS. How about you?" The sound of boiling water brought a rich aroma to his attention. "More of a restless mind. Coffee?" Ignis offered, already pouring a mug for him. "Won't that just wake me up?" Owen asked, accepting the offered mug regardless. "Not if you know how to brew it." Ignis was pouring his own cup now. Awake or asleep, as long as he was either one or the other would be better than being halfway between each.

By the time Owen had added a packet of creamer from the bowl on the table to his coffee Ignis' glasses were already fogged up, and as he lifted the steaming mug to his lips he took a sip. He nearly spat out the boiling liquid at how bitter it was. "Augh...This tastes terrible." It was nothing like the smooth, balanced flavor that he'd come to associate with Ebony. He instinctively started to reach for the sugar before Ignis spoke up. "Now now, sugar won't get anything done this early. Or this late, rather, depending on how you look at it." Owen grimaced, looking back down at the brown liquid and deciding to forego the sugar.

Ignis took another sip off his coffee, hardly reacting to the excessive bitterness. "And I well imagine it should: It's decaf." His gaze shifted to Ignis leaning on the counter as he opted to simply add more creamer. "I didn't know you even had the stuff." Ignis swirled his mug, looking into the black fluid. "Yes, I find it's quite useful to have on hand for nights like this." Owen hunched over, looking back at his now pale brown drink before taking a sip. Bearable. "So...What's got your mind racing? Is everything okay?" He turned his head to see Ignis facing the wall. "Nothing really to be concerned with. Truth be told it's nothing more troubling than needing to restock on a few spices at the next chance." Ignis raised his mug again before seemingly changing him mind, lowering it without taking a sip. "No, everything is just fine. Simply thoughts that won't settle for the night."

Owen pushed himself from the recliner, standing and walking to Ignis' side where he leaned against the counter beside him. "Ever thoughtful." Owen observed, setting his right hand on the counter between them. "Almost to a flaw." Ignis mused, moving his left hand down to accept the silent offering. As he rested his hand on Owen's his fingers slid between his partner's. Owen took a moment to appreciate the unhindered contact as he lifted his fingers, tightening them against Ignis'.

The two stayed together in silence, enjoying one another's present in the night while the both of them being too tired to do much else. After several minutes Owen yawned, the fatigue having shifted back into sleepiness. As he realized that his legs were hurting less Ingis spoke up. "Looks to me as if the coffee is working as intended." Owen took one more sip, the drink having grown a bit more tolerable. Just a bit. "Looks like it." He moved from the counter to dump the remaining liquid in the nearby sink, rinsing the black ring from the cup. "Not entirely useless having decaf around. I say I'm feeling more at ease myself," Ignis said, moving from the counter. Stepping aside Owen gave him room to clean his own cup.

As he set it to the side to dry Owen moved towards him, placing his chest against his back and resting his chin on his shoulder. "What say we try to get a bit more shut eye. We might have more luck if we spend the rest of the night together~" With a chuckle Ignis turned his head, and as he craned his neck Owen leaned closer, moving in so they could press their lips together. The contact sent a tingle through his body that made him forget all about the pinpricks in his feet, and after letting it linger for a moment Ignis pulled back, his breath rolling against Owens lips in passing. "If not, I'm sure we could find some way to occupy ourselves." The offer made Owen smile, and as he gave him one more quick peck he took a step backwards, letting Ignis turn around. "I'm sure we could."

The two of them were fast asleep within minutes of wrapping their arms around one another.

[cherish--these--times]

i just want to tell you how much i loved your post on media literacy & tedbecca!! really well put and what i hope reasonable fans not on our side would read so they’d realize where we come from! 💜

You absolute sweetheart. Thank you for telling me that. I should have been kinder in my approach but I am simply appalled, and sick and tired by a lot of people and now Brendan Hunt (not even gonna mispell his name, I'm fucking mad) for claiming that wanting Ted and Rebecca to get together was purely us silly fans being girly girls conditioned to want the male and female leads to end up together, so we could spice up our dull little lives with some sweet sweet Disney romance. I am INCENSED. I have seen quite a few queer people here rooting for them as well, which makes this reasoning even more offensive. Also to claim that he was surprised people would take it so personally is hilarious to me. Dude... have you ever been a fan of anything before??? Don't you know how much stories matter to people?? Wasn't it the goal when you made this show????

What antis don't seem to understand is that nobody in the TedBecca fandom was claiming that there were any romantic feelings between Ted and Rebecca. That would be insane because it just wasn't the case.

However, anybody with a modicum of critical thinking could see that they were playing with romcom tropes with them. But that's not even why I think most of us began to think we were heading there. What the writers did, in what remains a beautiful, masterful way, was lead the audience paying enough attention to understand that they were MEANT to be together. In a way far more profound than mere infatuation or physical attraction. No. They were each other's guarantee of true, long-lasting happiness. That's what they've established. Because they were similar in fundamental ways (a bit silly and immensely kind for instance). They had gone through similar things, including life-defining traumas on the same fucking day, at the same fucking time, and therefore could provide the other with all the support, the care, the devotion that the other needed. And they were doing just that! They could even communicate without words. They were undoubtedly making the other greater, which is exactly what Higgins wanted for Beard and Jane. They just had not realised it yet. Better still, I thought it was fabulous to have them go on their healing journey first, reach the top of the mountain, and THEN have them realise they were the love of each other's life. WHAT A BEAUTIFUL CONCEPT. Truly a spectacular story, and one they hinted at RELENTLESSLY. And until the very end. When in truth, they could have stopped this many moons ago by having Rebecca meet a nice, sweet guy (not Dutch guy, fuck him, he was creepy as hell) as soon as series 1 ended and be done with it. But no. Ooooh no. They kept that shit going until the very last episode. Even Rebecca begging Ted to stay was yet another romcom trope they dangled under our nose. They shot themselves in the foot with that one too, because Ted's determination to leave felt even more stupid and irrational when perfect solutions were handed to him on a silver platter by her (OUT OF LOVE). No wonder he didn't say a word, because nothing he could have said would have realistically justified his departure after what she offered. Nope. He kept his mouth shut because the true answer he had was: "I don't want to leave but the writers insist I must be this Magical Being that comes into people's lives to make them better and then go away in a poof of smoke and glitter. Mostly glitter. Ain't that a damn shame. I appreciate you, though."

To claim their story was never intended to be understood as such and say it was all on us for making shit up is simply untrue (and insulting, and you can fuck off). It was all there. Beautifully woven through every episode, in subtle but undeniable ways. Using, one could argue, The Lasso Way. A series of imperceptible moments all leading to the inevitable conclusion. Even this, I thought, was another hint……

And yeah, on top of that, I am FUMING over the misdirects (Bantr texting and matchbook in Ted's pocket, the latter really making my blood boil) and Dutch Guy being shamelessly Ted-coded (and all of a sudden everybody was overjoyed because he was the perfect guy for her even though everything he did that day, Ted had already done first. Minus the kiss on the ankle, offering her a foot massage and shaming her into drinking because that was fucking creepy and also Ted would never bad-mouth his ex).

I do take some comfort in seeing now a couple of articles online denouncing the way we, as an audience, were treated. You know, people who have media literacy, unlike us, apparently??

I'm angry, annoyed, insulted, but mostly I'm just sad. Because they ruined that show for a lot of people, including myself, and a few of their own characters in the process.

[anaalnathrakhs]

Yay!! Your doing ship bingo!! Love it when you do asks!! Vinikki, Tommyvince and terrorcest and to spice it up how about a rare pair John corabi and Mick (don't think they have a ship name) :D

yeah don't worry i love subjecting people to my rants. will never stop. thank you for asking you brave soul.

VINIKKI

Reverse-colored evil star, they are the opposite of silly. They're constantly in the divorce proceedings. Every night they divorce and every morning they get back together. They CAN fix each other but CERTAINLY not by kissing. Cmon guys you can be reasonable I believe in you. I'm not as much of a fan as sooooome people in this fandom but I think they have a fascinating dynamic and I love writing their interpreations even though I've rarely written one myself.

TOMMYVINCE

...cannot be encapsulated by this bingo. They're so casual it hurts. So bestie bros it hurts. They'll never divorce because they were never married, but that FWB arrangement includes cuddles and will last until the end of times.

TERRORCEST

DOUBLE BINGO DING DING DING. They can fix each other, but that doesn't mean better for other people around them. In the same band for over forty years that's more marriage than a lot of people who actually went and tied the knot legally. Perfect dynamic, unhealthy 100% functional and arriving rapidly at your location. The only ship Tommy manages (almost) not to make So Silly :3 because of its radioactive levels of serious doomed love toxicity. His constant no-homo on instagram have moved from silliness to straight up a little sad. I'm obssessed w them.

JOHN CORABI/MICK

I'm not gonna lie I know very little about Corabi as a person. This is just an educated guess based on... not much? A couple photos and some social media posts in the past decade or so. Anyway.

I think Mick would get a kick out of being weird and mysterious towards the new guy for a while to confuse him. So that's a REALLY silly thing to base a relationship upon. But I don't know, I think it could work if it happened, they both seem calm and reasonable enough to make anything work. If anything, the divorce would be amicable. Motley crue is a wonderful dynamic that crushes the chosen four and probably isn't very fun for the others either, so I don't think kissing would fix them in the long run, but I think they could have a nice few years of being a nice calming presence in each other's lives. Secret under wraps of course, but they're much more friendly on the outside due to... not having over a decade of baggage at that point.

I have no idea what I'm saying at this point. Hope this makes a modicum of sense lmao

[meatymidnightmultiverse]

"Are you sure this maid promotion is going to work? Like, isn't this is a fuckin' BAKERY Claire...?"

Anna had to actually put in a modicum effort into making the outfit work with the stitching because she's too fat to order a generic uniform online. So, as a result, it's just as pretty as the Hilda cosplay she catfished her very cute Clairebear with, which is sure to drum up business~

Though...

"Just...don't make me go outside in the sun to hold up a sign or anything. The AC went out in my car, and my ass sweat could fill a lake right now-"

She's not as couth as her pink-haired counterpart, and is currently drenched head-to-toe in her own perspiration from the ride over. Fat white girl couldn't handle the heat...

"Sis told me about these themed cafes, so I figured why not try something new to spice things up and drum up extra business?"

At least it seemed to garner a level of decent attention to say the least. Helps when it's a really cute girl who looks like she eats here regularly too.

"Nah, don't worry about that. If you'd like, you can have a few of the frozen treats to help you cool off."

[dark-roleplay-finder]

♟️ Howdy!

25F, Discord-exclusive literate writer is seeking +21s for a long-term, fandomless mafia RP based in Hawaii, L.A., or Vegas (think Yakuza / Bōryokudan).

Consider large-scale organized crime versed in blackmail, bookmaking, illegal gambling, loan sharking, money laundering, prostitution, and trafficking of sorts. The kind wherein you typically know higher-ups from words of mouth till you cross paths head-on, if you’re that unlucky.

With that in mind, we’re talking heavy social pressure, taboos, “They vs. Us” narratives. A modicum of interest in organized crimes is a given, but our muses’ dynamics will retain greater attention over parroting mafia terminology. I’m also open to creating characters and NPCs from scratch, doubling upon request + v pin board, playlist, world building and ship friendly! ♥

About

I average 600+ words with a spotlight for my muses’ inner turmoil. That said, I will gladly chew on anything that advances the plot.

Usually, I give my muses a rough time sprinkled w trivial fluff, and love spicing up things w smut, high stakes, gray morality, and mental swordplay.

Preferred romantic / relationship w benefits are M × F (with me writing as either role). However, I’ll refuse one-dimensional Tough vs. Cute sweethearts for end-game or PwP.

Kink-wise I’m fancying age-gap, breeding kink, body worship, car sex, dom / sub, edging, mutual masturbation, public (+++ for groping), sensory deprivation, skinny-dipping, Stockholm Syndrome, voyeurism, and many more.

Give me bodyguards, corrupt officials, die-hard gamblers, arranged marriages, forbidden relationships, shenanigans, indebted reluctant pawns, on-the-run traitors, underground businesses.

Suggested faces are most wanted, but not mandatory:

F: Alba Flores, Fukushi Rina, Komatsu Nana, Miyuki Edmond, Nassia Matsa, Mizuno Sonoya, Ruth Negga, Samile Bermannelli, Tati Gabrielle.

M: Daniel Henney, Evan Mock, Jeremy Allen White, Lakeith Stanfield, Lee Pace, Manny Montana, Mason Gooding, Oscar Isaac, Takamasa Ishihara (Miyavi), Tony Thornburg.

Overall, this is a deliberately generic idea intended to be tweaked as we see fit. If this resonates with you, kindly react to this post, and I’ll DM you asap! 💋

Like this post and the asker will reach out!

[findyourrp]

Howdy! 🫶

I am a 25F, Discord-exclusive novella writer penning in 3rd pers. looking for +21 writers interested in original M × F mafia rp, with me writing either role. That said, I will decline one-dimensional Hard vs. Soft sweethearts for end-game (along with variants of the genre) with respect to the setting I’d like to flesh out w you!

This is a request for a long-term, Hawaii, L.A., or Vegas-based Yakuza / Bōryokudan setting. We’re talking gambling, laundering, social pressure, taboos, and “They vs. Us” narratives. Consider large-scale clans versed in blackmail, bookmaking, loan sharking, trafficking of sorts; the kind within which you typically know the higher-ups from words of mouth before you eventually cross paths head-on (if you’re that unlucky).

A modicum of interest in organized crime’s modus operandi and Japanese etiquette is a given, but my aim lies less in hyperrealism than an exploratory drive. I will give more attention to character dynamics than parroting Yakuza-related terminology for the sake of it. Note that nothing compels you to playing a clan insider, but doing so will facilitate stronger, pre-established relationships. I’m also open to creating characters from scratch upon request!

Overall, this is a deliberately generic brainstorming, intended to be tweaked as we see fit.

Writing

I average 600+ words, focusing on my muses’ inner thoughts. That said, I will chew on just about anything that advances the plot.

I tend to give my muses a rough time sprinkled w fluff band-aids. I also love spicing up things w angst, 30 / 70 smut-plot ratio, high stakes, gray morality, mental swordplay, and darker themes—so minors DNI.

Preferred romantic and dynamic w benefits are M × F, but I write as / against any genre in a platonic capacity.

Will love to interact with anyone dabbling in Pinterest boards, playlists, memes sent at 3 a.m.; willing to communicate, rewrite, fade to black at will. I will not pressure you into replying, but I’d like to know about your motivation (or lack thereof).

Give me bodyguards, bitter couples, corrupt officials, die-hard gamblers, arranged marriages, forbidden relationships, family shenanigans, indebted reluctant pawns, traitors on the run, Stockholm Syndrome, underground businesses.

Should you opt for playing a clan insider, you will find below a list of preferred (but not mandatory) faces I have in mind for us to use:

F: Fukuhara Karen, Fukushi Rina, Komatsu Nana, Mannami Yuka, Mizuhara Kiko, Miyuki Edmond, Sakura Heffron, Serena Motola, Tachibana Eri, Takesue Shiori, Mizuno Sonoya, Okunugi Chiharu, Yonekura Ryoko, Yoshida Sano.

M: Hasegawa Makoto, Kenta Sakurai, Kubozuka Yōsuke, Maeda Makken’yū, Takamasa Ishihara (Miyavi), Tony Thornburg, Tsuda Kenjiro, Yamashita Tomohisa, Yamazaki Kento, Yokohama Ryūsei, Yoshizawa Ryō.

If you are interested, please react to this post and I’ll get back to you asap! 💋

.

[forever-rogue]

Hey! If requests are closed, than please ignore this! If they're open though, I'd love your take on this if you're open to it - Benny is staying at Frankie and Reader's house for whatever reason and accidentally walks in on Reader naked or changing and sees some things. Later on, Benny makes an innocent comment to Frankie about how good Reader's body is. The rest is up to you how it goes!

AN |  Not me looking at this and immediately going “and they were roommates.” But that’s what happened! [ps - I would do anything for you] 🥰

Pairing | Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Language, yearning/pining, lots of lusty thoughts, some spice, sinful use of sunscreen

Word Count | 3.1k

Masterlist | Frankie, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You had been cold all day, finding it almost impossible to get warm and finally settling on taking  a long, hot shower. The idea that you might have used up all the hot water didn’t bother you; that was a Frankie problem he could deal with later if he had to. Once you finally felt warm enough, your skin screaming for lotion as soon as you toweled yourself off with a big, fluffy towel, you padded back to your room. 

The house was quiet for what seemed like the first in forever; you loved Frankie and Benny but the two of them together was a lot. Benny was staying at the house you shared with Frankie for a few days while he had a contractor doing some work at his own place. While good hearted and nothing but kind, Benny was the definition of a chaotic mess. Somehow you managed to convince the boys to go out to the bar for a few drinks along with Santi and Will so you could have an evening to yourself. 

A contented sigh escaped your lips as you walked back into your room, dropping the towel you’d wrapped around your body without even bothering to close the door. You were home alone, might as well take advantage of it. Reaching into the dresser, you grabbed a clean t-shirt (one of Frankie’s that you managed to steal at some point) and some sleep shorts and tossed them onto the bed. 

Grabbing the bottle of your favorite lotion you pumped some into your palm before putting a leg onto your bed to start soothing your skin. You loved taking some time for self-care and this evening it felt nothing short of amazing. Once you were finished with your legs, you turned around to grab some more lotion when you heard the tell-tale creak of the floorboards. 

Without thinking about it, you turned around and found Benny outside of your bedroom, his face flushed a brilliant crimson before he murmured a small, “oh shit.”

“Benny!” it was then that you realized you were still completely naked, quickly scrambling to grab the towel off the floor to preserve whatever modicum of modesty you had remaining, “what are you doing here!?”

“We just got back,” he stammered as he slapped a hand over his eyes, “I was coming to see where you were and y-your door was open and you’re naked.”

“I thought I was home alone,” you groaned, your whole face flushing with warmth, “oh my god. Benny, go!”

Before he could say anything else, you quickly slammed the door in his face and locked it. You knew he would never try and open it, but in the moment it had seemed like the most sensible thing to do. You hastily pulled on your clothes before sitting down and trying to catch your breath. It wasn’t anything catastrophic or even that bad, but right now all you could think about was the awkwardness and the knowledge that Benny had now seen you naked. Of all of the boys, you’d have thought he would be the last one. 

“Fuck,” you groaned to yourself as you flopped on the bed. Maybe you were being dramatic, but it had thrown you for such a loop and you had a feeling it would take some time to not think about that moment whenever you saw Benny, “fuck.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Benny almost ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab another beer. Frankie had been in the process of doing the same thing, giving the younger man a concerned look. 

“Everything alright?” He was amused as he watched Benny quickly open the bottle and take a long swig, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” he sighed deeply, “just Bee. Naked Bee.”

“I…what?” Frankie’s eyes widened in surprise as he tried to process what Benny said, “what do you mean…naked?”

“I went upstairs to see if she was up and maybe wanted to join us and her bedroom door was open and she was naked and I saw. I didn’t mean to look, I swear, it just happened so fast and she saw me and she freaked so I freaked,” it all came out in one long breath as an odd feeling panged through Frankie’s stomach, “she’s going to hate me forever.”

“She’s not going to hate you,” Frankie insisted, trying to push away the thought of but I might, “she’ll know it was an accident.”

“I know but damn,” he slinked into the chair at the kitchen table, sighing deeply, “I feel like a creep.”

“It’s fine-”

“But she’s fine as hell,” Benny felt guilty even admitting that out loud, “but you already knew that. Lucky bastard.”

“How does that make me lucky?” he grumbled as he took a seat across from Benny. He immediately felt like his behavior was childish, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed, “you’re the one that saw her.”

“You haven’t…you haven’t seen her?”

“I-what? No.”

“Aren’t you dating? At least sleeping together?”

“Why would we be in separate bedrooms if we were dating?” Frankie definitely wouldn’t want to be just roommates with you if he had anything to say about it. But he’d never quite been able to bring himself to admit that or his feelings towards you, “no, we - Bee and I are just friends.”

“Oh,” Benny took a drink, swallowing thickly before looking away, “we all thought there was…there was more to it.”

“Nope,” Frankie popped the p for emphasis before starting down at the table, “just friends.”

“It doesn’t seem like she likes you as just a friend,” Benny gave Frankie a curious little look, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, “and it appears to me that you like her as more than a friend. You like Bee, don’t cha Frankie?”

“Fuck off,  Miller. I, ugh…yes,” he finally admitted, finding it easier to get off his chest than he had originally thought, “but please don’t say anything to her. I don’t want to ruin our friendship or anything.”

“Sure, Fish,” he nodded, tapping the neck of his bottle against Frankie’s, “whatever you want man. But I’m just saying, she definitely sees you as more than a friend.”

“Miller.”

“Fine, fine,” he held up his hands in mock surrender, “she’s fine too, just remember that.”

“You’re the absolute worst!”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

By the next day you’d decided to push everything from the previous evening out of your head. So what if Benny had seen you naked? It wasn’t that weird; neither of you were doing anything and there was nothing wrong with seeing a nude body. On top of that you trusted Benny and knew he’d never say or do anything inappropriate or make you feel uncomfortable. No; instead you realized it was fine and neither of you had to mention it ever again.

By the time you were up and ready, the guys were gone, probably at work or going for a run or who knows what. You had the day off and decided to take advantage of the first bit of summer weather that had made its appearance that day. You’d convinced Frankie to clean the pool and get it ready for use the prior weekend, citing the fact that summer was just around the corner despite the odd cold snap that had occurred for a few days. 

After you’d made yourself a quick breakfast, you went back upstairs to grab the new book you’d started reading and changed into your bathing suit before going outside into the backyard to lounge by the pool. You liked the new two piece you’d picked out; it was enough coverage to where you felt comfortable but still made you feel sexy in all the right ways. Plus, you loved a good tropical palm print…the fact that this bathing suit happened to make a pair of Frankie’s swim trunks was just a happy little accident. Or not, you grinned to yourself, grabbing a towel on the way outside. 

You’d only been outside for a little bit, deciding to first water the flowers and plants you and Frankie had planted recently. You’d spent a whole day going to one of the local nurseries and picking everything out before planting them all just how you wanted. That had been a good day - a nice day spent among many with Frankie. 

“Hey Bee-” you heard Frankie opening the sliding screen door before you spotted him, turning around to find him frozen with his gaze focused on you. You set down the watering can before waving at him and almost bounding his way, “h-hi.”

“Hi Frankie,” you grinned at him. You noticed that he seemed stiff suddenly, and a bit of tension hung in the air, “everything all right?” 

“Y-yeah, of course,” he gave you a tight lipped smile, “w-what are you up to?”

“Well, I have the day off for once and wanted to take advantage of the warm weather and your pool cleaning efforts!” you grinned excitedly, “but I watered everything too. Don’t want all of our hard work to go to waste. Actually…do you think you could do me a huge favor, cielito?”

“Sure…”

“Can you help me with the sunscreen? I can’t reach all of my back and I’d rather that not be the area that gets burned,” you’d grabbed his hand and started pulling towards the spot with the poolside loungers, already intent on reaching for the sunscreen you’d had enough forethought to bring, “why don’t you relax me with me? You’ve been working so hard lately and you seem tense. Relaxation might do you some good!”

“Bee,” his throat felt so dry as he tried not to stare at you too lustfully but keep it respectful. You were so beautiful; soft, delicate skin, an ass he really wanted to grab and your breasts covered just enough to be acceptable but god did he want to rip that top right off. He shook his head to remind himself not to be a total creep; you were his best friend, he shouldn’t be having thoughts like this. You handed the sunscreen to him and quickly tied up your hair before sitting down on the soft lounge chair, “a-are you sure you want me to?”

“What’s wrong, cielito?” you teased, completely unaware of the effect your little nickname had on him, “afraid to get sunscreen on you? Come on, do me and I’ll do you.”

Fucking hell. You had to be doing this on purpose. It quickly became a herculean task to keep from getting a full hard on as he poured the sunscreen in his hand and gently massaged it into your back. Your soft little noises weren’t doing anything to help. He took a deep breath and told himself to focus. All he should be concerned about was keeping your delicate skin safe from the sun’s harmful rays. The only thing relaxation was going to bring to him right now was a blissful death from how good your skin felt.

“All done,” his voice was about two octaves higher than it normally was and you gave him a curious look but said nothing, “I-I’ll go and change. Are you-”

“Hurry up,” you insisted, giving him a sweet smile. He nodded, swallowing thickly as he tracked back into the house, wondering if he had enough time to get himself off before you grew suspicious. But no, he gritted his teeth, he was fine. He was a grown man that could handle hanging out with his gorgeous, wonderful, amazing best friend. Ugh. He really needed to chill.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was about fifteen minutes later when he finally came back out, wearing the swim trunks that matched your bikini. You couldn’t help but beam at him as he pulled his shirt off and sat next to you. You did your best not to stare at him, not wanting to be that shamelessly. Seeing him in just his trunks with his wild mop of dark curls definitely set off something feral within you. His warm, golden skin was tantalizing as you tried to keep from counting each little freckle, desperately wanting to map them out with your mouth. 

God, you need to get a grip and not lose it over him. Besides, there was no way he felt the same way about you. You wished he did, and a few times you were sure he had returned the desire that you had but neither of you had ever acted on it. 

“Turn around,” you whispered as he shifted so back was to you…that delicious broad back. Fuck. You need to pull yourself together. You reached for the sunscreen and started to rub it into his back, tracing your fingertips over as much skin as was appropriate in such a situation. You brought it all the way down his back, stopping just above the waistband of his trunks, wishing you could go lower. You cleared your throat, in a vain attempt to cover up the little moan that escaped your lips at the feeling of his muscles and shoulders under your hands, “there you go. All set.”

“Are you sure you got everything?” hell. Why was his stupid voice so delciously deep and rich? 

“Y-yeah,” you tried to calm your racing thoughts and not let them go straight between your legs, “I think you can handle the front.”

“I always seem to miss a few spots,” he said as stretched, causing the trunks to dip ever so slightly so you could see the cut of his hips and the trail of hair that started at his navel and disappeared under the fabric. Why was it a million degrees suddenly? He had the audacity to look at you with pure innocence in those big brown eyes, “do you mind, Bee? I don’t want to get burned.”

“Of course not,” your mouth was dry as the sahara but your bottoms were getting more wet with each passing second, “I’ve got you.”

You tried to keep repeating inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale as you rubbed in the sunscreen over his broad chest and down his torso. His skin was soft, scattered with freckles and a few scars from his time in the army, but so tempting. It felt like sin to be rubbing the lotion onto his skin when all you could think about was wanting to lick every inch of it. You tried to work as quickly as possible so your wanton hands didn’t give away your thoughts, instead focusing on his arms. But god, those were nice, toned and firm with big, strong hands. You wondered how they would feel all over your body, touching you like you’d always dreamed off.

“Thanks,” you’d never hated him and crinkly-eyed, dimple displaying smile more than in that moment, “you’re so good to me. Do you want a hand with the rest?”

This was a test. This had to be a test divined by the universe in order to see how strong your willpower was. How far could you be pushed until you snapped and threw yourself all over him? 

“I-if you want to,” you offered him the out, hoping - but not really - that he would say no, “we could just jump into the pool too? I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“You’re supposed to wait fifteen minutes to half an hour before getting in,” he reminded as you every fiber of your being screamed for him, “but if you’re-”

“Touch me,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, “I mean…umm, good ahead with the sunscreen.”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he pulled you closer to him, settling your body on the lounger in between his legs. Just look at the small tattoo on his inner thigh and it would all be okay. Don’t focus on having his hands all over you. 

He was slow and methodical in his approach, starting with your neck and shoulders before working into your arms. He brought it down your chest, the tips of his fingers resting just above the swell of your breasts. Frankie bit the inside of his cheek before letting himself go any further, “can I touch here?”

“Benny saw me naked,” you weren’t quite sure where the need to tell him this came from. But you just felt like you wanted him to know, “last night after I got out of the shower. It was an accident.”

“He told me,” he confessed quietly, “he was embarrassed and worried and hoped you wouldn’t think he was a creep.”

“No,” you shook your head softly, “I know it was just an accident. But there’s…umm…something else.”

“Dime,” he whispered as you decided it was now or never.

“I wish it had been you,” you confessed, worrying your bottom lip in a way that drove him crazy, “then I could have told you it was okay, you can look all you want, you can come in and do whatever you want.”

“Bee,” his voice was strained as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, “you can’t just say things like that and expect me to have any amount of self control. You drive me absolutely crazy and god, I’ve wanted you since the day we met. But I can’t take advantage of you.”

“It’s not taking advantage,” you reached up for the tie at the front of your top and slowly undid the knot, letting it fall open before hastily throwing it to the side, “when I want you too. For so long now.”

“Bee…”

“You can touch me,” you whispered as you leaned in closer to him, face just inches from his, “I want you to, mi cielito.”

“If I start I won’t be able to stop.”

“Good thing I don’t want you to stop,” before you could say anything else he cut you off by finally - finally - pressing his lips against yours and kissing you with a desperate, needy hunger, “Francisco, please.”

“I love it when you call me that,” he gently nudged his nose against yours, “I love you, Bee.”

“I love you too,” you kissed him quickly, “take me inside so we can finally do this and do it properly.”

“Fuck yes.”

[tennessoui]

I feel like this is a big ask, but 1. welcome back! 2. can you ever see KUWSK going angsty? Not permanently or anything, but what would a KUWSK obikin disagreement look like?

yes thank you for welcoming me back a month and a half ago i'm a bit trash to be so late on this but!! here is about 2k of a more serious fight between anakin and obi-wan.

(2k)

“You’re talking to your ex,” Anakin says. It’s the tone of voice he uses on work calls when he’s absolutely furious but trying to remain professional. Obi-Wan has never heard it directed at him before. He almost doesn’t recognize it. 

“Casually,” he stresses. “We’re…casually speaking.”

“Casually,” Anakin echoes in that same voice. Obi-Wan is starting to think he’s done something incredibly wrong. 

“She messaged me,” he stresses, feeling as if this is an important fact. “I didn’t reach out to her.”

“But you reached back!” Anakin says loudly, putting the spoon on its rest a touch too forcefully. “And then you didn’t even tell me!”

“I thought it was a non-issue!” Obi-Wan protests. “I don’t tell you when I talk to the woman at the supermarket checkout line!”

“Keep Francesca out of this,” Anakin cuts through the air with the side of his hand as he spins around to open their spice cabinet. “You know full well that’s different.”

“She flirts with me at the store, and you’re fine with it!” Obi-Wan quite completely feels like tearing out his hair. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation. He can’t believe his own fortune, that he’d pulled up a picture mid-playful argument with Anakin over what the twins had dressed as for Halloween when they were five, and he’d shown it to his partner at the exact moment that Satine ex-Kenobi had texted him, replying to something he'd sent a week ago.

That had pretty much ended the playful part of their argument.

“Yeah, and it’s not the fucking same, Obi-Wan,” Anakin responds, shaking a bit of salt aggressively into the stew. “You were never fucking married to fucking Francesca.”

“Anakin—”

“And by the way,” Anakin snaps, trading the salt for cayenne pepper and seasoning it liberally. “Implying that your ex-wife is also flirting with you over texts you did not tell me about is not the best strategy, Professor.”

The worst part is that he’s not even looking at him anymore, scowling instead into the contents of the heavy pot.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan tries, because he’s not listening, he’s just reacting. Of course Obi-Wan knows Francesca and Satine aren’t really the same thing, but they mean the same thing to him. One slips him free red bell peppers sometimes by ringing them up as green ones with a wink and a quirk of her lips. The other is his ex-wife.

But neither of them is Anakin, and so they mean the same thing to him. He doesn’t love them. He can’t even pay them the slightest modicum of his attention, because he’s too wrapped up in and around and going crazy over this man who’s petty enough to have absolutely just ruined Obi-Wan’s dinner on purpose by adding too much spice to the stew Obi-Wan had requested.

“Anakin, I think we need to take a step back from this,” he finally gets out when his partner is distracted by opening and closing the cabinet doors, ostensibly looking for the bowls even though he’d been the one to reorganize the dishes in the first place, years ago, and he’s never not known where something is.

“I think I’m going to sleep in my room tonight,” Anakin replies in an icy voice. “I think you might be right.”

“What? Darling, no—Anakin, love, it’s—casual cannot even come close to describing the texts, you can read them if you want, there’s nothing there—“

“Daddy? Obi?” Luke asks from the kitchen doorway. He’s peering around it, little face looking horrified. Obi-Wan freezes. How loud had they been? Luke and Leia are seven now, they remember these things, they have questions—“Is dinner ready? Obi?”

Leia’s face joins the same pale ghost of her brother’s, and Obi-Wan feels awful. Absolutely terrible, but the sort of terrible he doesn’t know what to do with. The twins heard them arguing, they were practically shouting at each other, Anakin is planning to sleep in a different room, Anakin didn’t even call it a guest room, he called it his room even though they’ve been together for—for a year and a bit now—and isn’t that devastating? My room, Anakin had said. Does he not understand everything Obi-Wan owns is his as well? Does he…does he not want it?

“Almost,” Anakin replies. He sounds so forcefully happy that it’s manic. It comes across much too fake, and Obi-Wan can feel the way Luke immediately distrusts the word, the expression. “I just realized I forgot something at the store though! We need bread! We can’t have the stew without bread.” 

Anakin nods once to himself as he says this, shooting Obi-Wan a very quick glance before his eyes snag on the phone on the counter between them and he looks away as if incredibly pained, hands ghosting down to the pockets of his jeans to check for his keys.

Obi-Wan thinks it would really actually kill a part of him to watch Anakin drive away on his bike right now. Not to mention the twins.

Oh, the twins. 

This had been why they were so hesitant in the first place, to bite the bullet, to kiss and mean it and remember it and lean in again. Their relationship affects the twins, and as much as Obi-Wan loves Anakin, he’d been so worried about even accidentally causing the kids distress. 

He thinks seeing their father leave when they can tell something is wrong would be devastating.

“I’ll go,” Obi-Wan says, putting a hand flat on the counter, pocketing the phone, and fighting the urge to glare at Anakin because the other man should know—should think—but this Anakin is almost a stranger to him, all clenched jaw and shaking hands and it’s just a text—it sort of makes him mad as well, angry that it hurts so much, that Anakin doesn’t trust him. They’ve known each other going on three years, their entire lives were intertwined almost immediately. “Give me the keys.”

“Yeah, right,” Anakin scoffs, shoulders tense and unyielding. “To the bike?”

“No, dumb—” he cuts himself off because he’s too old to be namecalling, especially around little ears. “The keys to the car are behind you. On their hook. Can you hand them to me?”  He doesn’t think he should get within a few feet of Anakin right now. Not for fear of violence–either from him or from his partner—but because it just—it doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not when they need bread.

“Should I leave my phone?” He can’t help but ask acidly. 

“I don’t know,” Anakin shoots back with deadly accuracy, slinging the keys across the countertop hard enough that they spin out of control and Obi-Wan has to stoop to catch them “Should you?”

Obi-Wan turns and gets to the mouth of the kitchen without another word. He debates his actions, his emotions, for a second’s pause before he puts his phone on the countertop and sweeps out into the entryway and then just as quickly out of the house all together.

He can’t go far. The Skywalkers have made him incapable of it. He’ll go to the store. He’ll get Anakin his fucking bread, which really means he’ll give Anakin space to think, and he’ll take his own space to think, and then he’ll come back because it’s Anakin, it’s Anakin and it’s his family, and he thinks this is the stupidest fight in the entire goddamn world because doesn’t Anakin know how much he can’t love anyone else? Doesn’t he know that if Satine were to turn up on his doorstep tomorrow and ask for him to unsign the divorce papers, he wouldn’t even consider it?

Doesn’t he know—

“Obi?” Leia’s voice says at the same time there’s a hesitant tug on the edge of his shirt. He turns around and looks down at the girl. “Where are you going, Obi?”

“Your father wants bread for dinner,” he tells her. “So I’m going out to get bread. For dinner.”

“Oh,” Leia bites her lip before looking back behind her at the open door of the house. “Luke wants to know if you’re gonna come back, Obi.”

Since she turned seven, Leia has had trouble admitting when she wants to know something. She finds it so much easier to pretend she’s her brother’s spokesperson. “Daddy, Luke wants to know if the dog dies in the movie.” “Obi, Luke wants to know if we have to go to the barbecue, only cause Johnny is going to be there, and Luke really doesn’t like him.”

“Leia love,” Obi-Wan crouches down to look at her completely. “Of course I’m coming back. We need bread, darling.”

“I don’t want bread,” she snaps, sounding suddenly so very much like her father. “I want you.”

“Leia,” Obi-Wan pauses, smoothing his hand over the top of her hair carefully. He needs to soothe her, because he and Anakin had been so out of line earlier, fighting where the children could hear and now look what it’s done to them.

“Obi,” Luke trots out of the house before he can figure out what to say to her. “Obi, you should take this,” he holds something up and presses it into unresisting hands. “If daddy needs to keep your phone, you can have mine. Just in case you wanna talk to us while you’re gone.”

It’s the plastic, bulky flip phone that’d come in a kit of kid’s toys a Christmas ago. Smiley faces instead of buttons, but it made sounds when you hit it. Luke had been obsessed with it from the beginning.

Obi-Wan looks down at the phone and feels the very absurd urge to cry. “Loves,” he whispers, pulling Leia into his side. “Oh—”

He remembers thinking once when he’d just been given the Skywalkers, that first time he’d been asked to sit beside Luke’s bed until he fell asleep, that for children, love was about staying.

How can he possibly leave them now? When he loves them so much as well? When his love never grew out of that child’s wish for someone to stroke his hair as he dozed?

“Oh, alright, Luke, Leia,” he says, standing with only a bit of a wince because he’s getting so very old and Leia has thrown her arms around his neck unexpectedly so he rises with the weight of a child attached to him. “If your daddy wants bread, then let’s get him bread.”

“Road trip?” Leia asks with excitement.

“Better,” Obi-Wan promises, letting Luke grab onto his hand. “Science experiment.”

[ace-din-djarin]

For the two-part writing ask: Situation: 9 - Settling in for a cozy night together and Sentence: 7 - “You didn’t have to do this, you know.” (din/luke please and thank you very much)

Hi!! Sorry for the wait, hope you like this!! Thanks for the prompt, it was nice to write!!

The market is crowded and unbearably hot, swirls of dust hovering around everyone’s feet as they stream down the main road, past stalls of all sizes hung with striped awnings and small rounded pourstone buildings that offer a modicum of relief from the relentless shine of the twin suns, high in the sky.

Din trudges along behind a slow-moving Askajian, looking around at all the wares on offer. There is a lot of scrap metal and other bits and bobs, likely the scavenged scraps of crashes from Mos Espa’s still-thriving pod racing scene. Several stalls sell blankets and other clothing items woven from Bantha hair, which sounds much too warm for this climate, though Din isn’t quite one to talk, baking as he is in his beskar. He pauses in front of a stall selling bundles of spices.

“See anything you like, sir?” The twi’lek behind the counter says, and Din nods slowly, reaching out to lift a small bag of spices in his palm. “What’s in this one?” He asks, and the seller brightens.

“Ah! That one is quite popular. It contains all the ingredients needed to make tzai, all packaged individually and bundled together for your convenience. Makers are able to add as much or as little of each spice as they wish, according to their recipe.”

Din considers the bag. In the back of his mind, he can remember Luke mentioning tzai, some sort of drink his aunt used to make for him.

“I’ll take a bag. And--” Din glances down the counter, and sees a wrapped package of pale brown cookies, and figures, why not. “And some of those.”

The seller happily takes his credits, and Din walks off tucking the spices and cookies into the pouch at his side. He pauses in the shade of a mechanic’s shop and looks around, considering. Now that he’s thinking of it, he can recall several instances of Luke speaking wistfully of some small thing he misses from his childhood, his voice gone soft and with that particular ache to it that Din understands all too well-- it’s the same one he feels when he recalls what few memories he has of Aq Vetina that aren’t bathed in blaster fire and destruction. He turns back towards the market, already forming a list of everything he wants to get.

_____

Din doesn’t have a chance to give Luke his gifts the first night back on Yavin IV. Grogu demands his attention for much of the night, which, considering Din has been gone for nearly three weeks, he can’t begrudge him. He hadn’t forgotten Grogu when buying his presents, of course— the child coos happily over a stuffed krayt Din had found in one of the pourstone shops. The three of them fall asleep together in Din and Luke’s room, an indulgence they rarely allow Grogu, but neither mind for tonight.

The next night, though, Shara comes to take Grogu to her and Kes’s house for a sleepover with Poe. She gives both Luke and Din a sly, knowing look as she settles Grogu into her speeder for the ride down into the valley, and Din is glad she can’t see through beskar, considering how red his cheeks likely are. Shara waves off their thanks with claims that Poe is ecstatic to see his friend again, and that she and Kes are happy to have him, and takes off with a happy squeal from Grogu.

Luke seems to sense the anticipation curling in Din’s stomach, since he turns and beams at Din as soon as Shara and Grogu have gone and says, “Want to go get comfortable?”

They both strip down to leggings and loose shirts, pausing while they change to exchange soft kisses and brushes, making them take twice as long as usual, but Din can’t bring himself to mind. Finally though, they curl up together on the sofa in the living area, and Din hands Luke the pouch with his gifts.

“You got me presents?” Luke says, grinning with delight, as he peeks into the bag. Din shrugs. “A few things. I thought you would like them.”

Luke’s eyes go wide as he unearths the bag of spices and the cookies first. “Oh! Is this for tzai? And you got sand cookies too!”

Din nods and watches as Luke unties the little bag and tips the packets of spices out into his palm. He looks thrilled, and Din can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“Oh, these are all the right spices! I haven’t had tzai in so long, I can’t wait to teach you the Skywalker recipe.”

“You have your own recipe?”

Luke nods, and he suddenly looks much more serious.

“It was my grandmother’s recipe, and she taught it to my Aunt Beru. It’s passed down through families, and everyone has one slightly different.”

Luke smiles into the distance for a moment, before he shakes his head and looks back down at the spices, carefully tipping them back into the bag. He places it almost reverently to the side, and picks up the cookies.

“Sand cookies were my favorites growing up. I bet Grogu would like them.”

Din watches as the cookies are set down next to the spices, and nudges his bag towards Luke again. “I managed to find one more thing for you, too.”

Luke tilts his head and looks back in the bag. “Oh!”

He lifts a refrigerated container out with gentle hands, turning it over with a curious expression. As he opens it, Din can’t help but explain nervously, “I know it’s probably not as good as your aunt used to make, but I figured it would be okay anyway….”

Luke has cracked open the container at this point, and is smiling down at the wheel of blue cheese inside. “Oh, Din, thank you,” he says, looking up at him, “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Din shrugs. “I know. But I like making you happy.”

Luke’s smile is soft and lovely. “You do. Thank you.”

They share the blue cheese that night as Luke tells him stories about growing up on Tatooine, and Din shares tales of Paz, and the Armorer, and Brit, and the other members of his covert. Each of them has lost so much, but for tonight they’re just happy to have each other.

[faetyd]

@widaugast continued.

       ❝ I would argue the same is true for you, Herr Thelyss. ❞  It is a late night, after an even longer day, but Caleb feels  ---  as ever, and increasingly over time  ---  at an ease he could have never expected in the Shadowhand's presence, the drow willingly self-banished to the barren, dangerous wastes of Eiselcross which so happened to be the site of many bloody, ancient battles tied up with those of the present.  It was not too long ago, yet seems like months, when Veth  (of all of them)  had proclaimed and welcomed Essek into the Mighty Nein, and yet perhaps it is the present, shared danger that they face that makes this even moreso the case.

       That, and the shared puzzle that lies between them, unspoken, unable yet to be unlocked  ---  of Lucien and the Somnovem, of Aeor and the terror it threatens to unleash from the Astral Sea on these grounds of the Calamity.  By all rights, many times over, both of them should be dead, traitors to old causes, traitors to themselves and old promises, and yet here they remain  ---  the tower constructed, and mugs of distinctly not hot chocolate  (which, while comforting, did little to bring extra ease off of Caleb's back quite like Zemnian spiced wine did, and so that is what he had had the cats bring to the fireside of the Tower's great library).

       Quietly, Caleb holds the mug between his knees before setting it softly on a side-table, and reaching out  ---  a touch on the forearm, a little unsteady but steadier for the moment of contact.  The solidity of knowing, for now, their friend was safe.  ❝ That old difference has become no less a razor's edge, my friend.  For good and for ill. ❞

      𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 the nein draws to a close, as he is certain that he can feel the noose as it draws tight around his neck - but caleb is there with a brief connection; it feels featherlight, but oddly weighted. if anything, essek stills for a moment or two. he mulls over caleb’s words, his own expression closed, yet calm. ❝ yes, well - we do what we must to survive, ❞ he replies, not unkindly. if anything, he almost sounds impressed at how much of an enigma caleb remained to him. essek was uncertain if his pondering was tinged with a mild frustration - for he had mentioned that he had quite the appetite for knowledge, but he granted the other wizard his own peace of mind. perhaps, in time, they would allow one another the pleasantry of knowing more. 

      the tower itself was its own magnificence. he could not contain himself from marveling for some time. it had taken all of his self-control ( & he had a great deal ) to reside within the study with his companion; however, it seemed that caleb knew him better than he knew himself sometimes, for this was surely where he would be the most contented. there were countless tomes... some familiar, but most entirely foreign. essek had fought the urge to begin pulling books off shelves & devouring them, though he prioritized his company over self-indulgence in this moment.

      ❝ we become more alike as time goes on, ❞ essek muses, looking down towards the mug in his hand as if transfixed. ❝ but i do not know if it is good for me, or unfortunate for you. only time will tell, i think. ❞ his words are decidedly somber - if not almost teasing in their inflection. they held a strange gravity as they fell from his lips. weight & responsibility rested upon essek’s shoulders. his own doing, granted, but not unlike the weight upon caleb & the rest of the nein - who, thankfully, had enough graciousness to allow them a modicum of privacy. 

      he gives a vague gesture, his own mug of wine in long, elegant fingers, & points towards one of the spectral felines that had delivered it,  ❝ do you name them all? ❞ the shadowhand wonders aloud, shooting a glance towards caleb out of the corner of his eye to glean his reaction.

[funkzpiel]

This might be a cliché and too cheesy, but.... Jaskier braiding Geralt’s hair? Maybe?

Touch-Starved | How to Care for Your Witcher

(read it on AO3)

Jaskier couldn’t say when the realization had struck him. It came to him as most subtle changes in thinking do - slowly, like bread crumbs picked up over time, leading him to the inevitable. Geralt was touch starved.

And not because he disliked touch.

On the contrary, the witcher was a glutton for it, it was more that the man didn’t ask. He didn’t know how. In Kaer Morhen, the young boys had been taught only what they needed to know. Vesemir, as far as Jaskier could understand, was the only mentor Geralt had that had shown even a modicum of affection and even that had been held at arm’s length. Not that the bard could blame them, he supposed, once Geralt had explained one night, too deep in his ale to stop, that most witcher-children don’t survive the trail of the grasses.

“And even if they do,” Geralt had groused, “Witchers don’t die in their beds.”

Witchers were plucked from their families, starved of love for everyone’s protection, then if they survived the transformation they were released into a world that would just as likely kill them as the grasses should have. Why grow attached to someone meant to die? Why show them anything else other than what the world would later show them? It set everyone up for failure, or so Geralt explained.

“That’s stupid,” Jaskier had said, the words rounded with laughter because surely Geralt had been jesting. Using his ignorance about witchers against him. Only… Geralt flinched in that minute way witchers did - that way only the observant might catch - and hid his face in his mug again.

oh.

So Jaskier did what the bard did best: he instigated. His career hadn’t come about by sitting down and waiting for change, after all. He put himself out there in the way he did all things. Same as how he had cowed the witcher into allowing him to become a (at first begrudging) traveling companion. Same as how he infected the lands with his music, normalized his presence at court affairs. Change was a matter of repetition, and it had to start somewhere.

So Jaskier started simply - with Geralt’s hair.

“There are better ways to keep it out of your face during your hunts, you know,” Jaskier said simply one evening as he watching the witcher bathe. Geralt hadn’t seemed keen on the company - no doubt because bathing was generally something someone did in private - but he also hadn’t argued beyond one singular growl the moment he realized Jaskier was not only joining him in the room, but intended to converse.

“I know,” Geralt rumbled, a strange curl to his mouth. It was obvious this was a conversation the man had heard before - one he didn’t enjoy having. “You wouldn’t be the first to say I should cut it.”

Jaskier blinked, legs crossed, and then laughed - the room filling with steam and the melody of his amusement.

“Heavens, no ~ I’d never even suggest it, Geralt,” Jaskier said, running a hand through his own hair. “I’m quite envious of your length. I tried to grow mine out once, you know. Just looked ratty. You’ve got a luscious mane and any man or woman who suggests you sheer it needs a swift boot to the ass, honestly.”

Geralt blinked at him, nearly owlishly, and that made something odd in Jaskier’s breast twist. It wasn’t attraction. Jaskier knew attraction, he was no stranger to bed or stranger’s beds or how attraction more often than not led to bed. This was… different. Something people sang about rather than acted upon. Something to tuck away and think about later.

“Then…?” The witcher prompted, confused.

“Can I show you?” Jaskier asked. He kept it neutral, simple; resisting the urge to let his excitement slip lest Geralt refuse on instinct. The man leaned back against the wall of the tub, and regarded him for a long, suspicious moment. Jaskier had planned this, though. There was no better time to persuade a witcher than fresh from a victorious hunt, made soft by a decent meal and a long soak. And lavender, of course, he always spiced Geralt’s baths with lavender. His keener sense of smell seemed to get more from it than any human. Already Geralt’s eyes looked heavy and pleased.

“Fine.”

Jaskier stood from his stool, then hefted it up and gracefully brought it over so he might perch easily behind Geralt. A lot had changed since they first started traveling. The witcher no longer fidgeted uneasily any time the bard placed himself at his back or out of eyesight. That curious feeling in his breast curled again.

Jaskier took a brush from the little table he had placed aside before hand, revealing that he had planned this, and gently began the process of brushing Geralt’s hair. He started at the ends – free of all manner of monster gunk now, but still as tangled as a feral child fresh from the woods. He worked his way up as he asked this and that about Geralt’s hunt, distracting him with easy topics of conversation that the witcher could easily be swayed into.

Geralt was not one for talking, but the witcher could never quite resist the urge to talk about monsters. Particularly if there was something to correct.

“A bruxa,” Jaskier commented idly, more than aware of the correct answer as he said, “I thought they were those great, hulking bats. How did they manage to make you bleed from your ears?”

That had gotten Geralt started, alright. Bruxa were often curvaceous women, their flesh looking as though they had been carved from marble rather than pink, living flesh. The were slight in comparison to the sort of vampire Jaskier had been referring too.

“They tend to attack by vocalizing,” Geralt said, his conversation made smoother the more Jaskier brushed his hair and soothed his mind, lulling the witcher into something soft and malleable. “They have secondary vocal chords in their throat capable of hitting far higher pitches than humans. They weaponize that asset and use directional blasts of both force and sound to disorient their prey. A normal man would faint, but a witcher—”

“Bleeds from their ears and shakes it off?” Jaskier chuckled, grateful that the witcher’s back was to him as the thought made his smile falter. He kept picturing the sight of blood running down either side of Geralt’s neck. It had taken a while to clean his ears of it, either opening clogged with dried blood. It was partially why Jaskier had been speaking more softly all evening – afraid to further hurt Geralt’s already sensitive, wounded ears.

“Hmm,” Geralt said in agreement, leaning back into Jaskier’s hands as the man finished with the brush, set it aside, and began to comb his fingers through long white strands – looking for the natural lay of the man’s hair. Beneath him the witcher shivered.

“Did I hurt you?” Jaskier asked, “Thought I got all the knots.”

It took a moment for the witcher to understand the question. He clenched his jaw, struggling with some foreign battle, and finally said, “No.”

Ah. He didn’t know how to say that he liked it, Jaskier realized. That he wanted more. That would be a battle for another day, showing the witcher that it was okay to want rather than live by need alone. For now, this small admission would be enough.

Jaskier hummed, that little sound of acknowledgement bleeding instinctively into a song rather all on its own. It was a village lullaby he had heard somewhere another – one that lacked words, relying on soft and lingering tones instead. He split Geralt’s hair into sections, then deftly began to thread them into one another with deft fingers.

Jaskier had lived with sisters, once. He remembered how his mother would braid their hair. How they asked for him to learn as well because when they sat in a train, braiding one another, one person always got left out – who better for that person to be than Jaskier with his closely shorn hair? It had become a love language for him. A form of taking care of others.

Perhaps the witcher was not the only one getting anything out of this, Jaskier realized.

Geralt let out a small noise, once or twice. Quickly snuffed, nearly hidden beneath Jaskier’s humming, but there all the same. Jaskier wondered if the man would become more vocal with time, just as he no longer flinched when the bard slipped behind him.

He hoped so. Jaskier was a man bred from a love of music – and never had he heard a sound quite so lovely as Geralt’s softness, if only because it was so rare. All the while, Geralt leaned into his fingers like a hound pressing against its master’s leg.

He weaved silver strands, as soft and silken as pouring milk, one into another until they formed a stunning patterning of lacing strands from the back of Geralt’s head to just past his shoulders. He tied the tail off with a ribbon, a rich gold color, and took one last chance to run his hands from Geralt’s temples back to the nape of his neck, searching for fly-aways he knew wouldn’t be there.

“There,” he said, digging his thumbs into the meat of Geralt’s shoulders and massaging lightly, keen to transfer his momentum into more progress while he had it. Geralt let out a soft huff through slack lips – eyes hooded, nearly closed. “Finished.”

Geralt opened his eyes at that, and sensing the man would want to see what Jaskier had done, Jaskier grabbed two mirrors. One for Geralt to hold, the other for him to help.

“Hold up yours, yes, just like that,” Jaskier said, then angled his own so that Geralt might see the reflection of Jaskier’s handiwork. The witcher stilled, and for a very long moment, he just stared. Jaskier was just beginning to wonder if perhaps he was wrong in thinking he could manage to sway Geralt with practicality – after all the braid was an excellent solution to his hair troubles – when Geralt handed the mirror back to him.

“That works.”

Jaskier set the mirrors aside, grinning victoriously even as he forced a little sass into his tone to avoid suspicion.

“Oh, so generous of you to say, master-dear. “That works”. No “Jaskier, you genius”! Not even a “you did a lovely job, I’ve never looked so handsome”!”

Geralt snorted.

“I never look handsome.”

Jaskier kicked the tub and said, “I will kill you myself and steal your jawline if you ever dare to lie like that to me again.”

Geralt leaned back, his long tail hanging over the back of the tub as he pressed the top of his head against Jaskier’s belly and said, “Is that so?” with a smirk of all things.

Oh, this had worked so much more nicely than Jaskier had thought. His stomach did a little flip at the freely given contact. The dampness from the witcher’s hair began to seep into his shirt, and yet Jaskier couldn’t even begin to care. He’d crawl into the tub fully clothed if that meant Geralt would start seeing himself as a human with more rights to happiness than the lies that Kaer Morhen and society had beat into him.

“So, what do you think?” He asked, tucking one stray hair back from Geralt’s brow. The lock was too short, unevenly shorn from the rest of his hair; likely the result of a claw just narrowly dodged. Jaskier pet the short lock back into the folds of Geralt’s hair, strangely fond of the little thing.

He wondered what it would look like in the morning after drying in its braid all night. Soft and wavy, framing the wolf’s grumpy morning face.

“Worth trying,” Geralt said with a hum, eyes closing – pressing into Jaskier. “You’ll have to do it again for the next contract. See how it works.”

With the witcher’s eyes closed, Jaskier let himself smile openly. No grins, no charming flashes of teeth. It wasn’t Jaskier’s smile – but rather Julian’s. The small boy who used to braid his sister’s hair. The young man who struck out on the road to follow his dreams, before he had to change to make them happen. He smiled, soft and fond, and pet Geralt’s hair lightly – all in the guise of making sure every strand was in order – as he said, “The least I can do in return for a good story.”

“Hmm,” the witcher hummed, the sound no longer an answer so much as acknowledgment that Jaskier had spoken, that Geralt was there and present, but too relaxed beneath his touch to really know what was said or what to say.

The bard watched his witcher doze contently beneath his touch. The white wolf tamed, but for a moment, by want instead of need. One day Jaskier would kiss the crown of that sleepy head, when he was brave enough.

But that would come all in good time for both of them. Subtle changes, small and steady.

[1989xtaylorsversion]

emma macdonald: is she worth watching or should you keep scrolling? my thoughts, opinions, and review.

i don’t know about a lot of you, but if you’re someone who watches a lot of youtube, you might’ve stumbled upon one of the most fascinating and interesting genres on the platform - lifestyle vlogs. there are countless people - mostly teen / young adult girls who document their lives and journeys of going through life, and sharing their daily or weekly celebrations, struggles, and experiences. most of them live a life that seems glamorous and fun, but it begs the question of who’s really telling the truth and who’s just putting on a show?

i’ve watched a lot of lifestyle gurus, and one person in particular i’ve stumbled upon a little over a year ago was miss emma macdonald (pictured below). in case you don’t know who she is, she’s a 19 year old vlogger from boston, massachusetts. according to her, her channel “is mostly around my daily life, fitness, health, fashion (if hoodies and sweatpants count). Mostly a place to make you happy and feel good about you!!” in this current moment, she has garnered 336k subscribers. something i find kind of unique about her is the fact that her older sister maggie also has a youtube channel with 327k subscribers, and she makes similar content, if her description is anything to go by.

now don’t get me wrong, two sisters making similar content isn’t that special, but it’s just a little interesting. based on their videos, you can tell they’re very close and often hang out together and make cameos in each other’s vlogs, which isn’t surprising since they live close together.

  EMMA’S CHANNEL - her likability

now, diving into emma’s channel, here’s my opinion. i can totally see her appeal. i mean, let’s not forget the society in which we live in. she’s a young, conventionally attractive, white, thin, and blonde woman living an incredibly privileged life in one of the best cities in america. with these factors it’s no surprise she has an audience. i will admit, there are times i’ve watched her channel and i find myself having this surge of sudden motivation, and i suddenly want to go and do something besides watch youtube videos all day. i think sometimes she gives off good vibes in her videos, and i enjoy watching her and her sister interact - they’re very sweet together.

   WHERE EMMA FALLS SHORT

if i’m being honest, my problem with emma lies in the fact that oftentimes she comes across as materialistic. don’t get me wrong, i know she must make a ton of money on youtube, and i’m not going to sit here and tell her how to spend her money. she can do whatever she wants with it, but the amount of times she uploads videos in which she talks about her clothes, sneakers, and sweats can't go unnoticed. i don’t want to come across as nitpicky, but this criticism is one i often read in her comment sections, and on tumblr blogs. it’s also a prevalent thing i find with a lot of young influencers these days. it gives off the vibe of all show, and no substance. i think emma is capable of making good content, but there are moments when she comes across as vapid and shallow. i’m not saying every vlog has to be some shakespearean masterpiece, but if you go through her catalogue from even the past few months, you’d see what i’m talking about.

on a related note, another opinion i’ve developed and read is that emma’s life just isn’t all too interesting. if we narrow down how many of her vlogs are centered around her talking about shopping, hanging out with her sister, working out, or just riding in her car, it’d probably add up to 95% of her content. i understand that’s what her content would revolve around according to her description, but i often wonder, if you took away the glitz and glamor, and she was a regular girl, would you be interested in her life? some content is exciting, but it’s really nothing special. i mean, how long can you show the same thing before people move on and grow out of it? i watched maggie’s videos to get a sense of these two, and sometimes i prefer maggie’s vlogs to emma’s. i think maggie’s older age and maturity givers her a certain appeal that i don’t always see from emma. the macdonald sisters make very similar content, so it’s not a huge contrast, but sometimes i feel like i prefer maggie’s videos to emma’s. it’s subjective, of course, but since i’ve caught myself having these thoughts, i feel like it’s worth noting.

    EMMA’S LIFE - who is she?

when we watch these people, it’s natural to want to know everything about them, including their personal life. sometimes the line between privacy and honesty gets blurred and youtubers overshare and reveal too much, or they share too little and their subscribers feel as if they know nothing about the person they’re watching. i feel like emma falls somewhere in the middle because she does open up about personal struggles, relationships, and journeys, but she also maintains a certain level of privacy that’s probably needed for the internet. however, one thing i always wonder is who are emma’s friends? if you watch her videos, you can see that her best friend is maggie. it’s common for your sibling to be your best friend, but is that all? emma has youtube friends, and her roommate, but she hardly talks about them. one of her public friendships is with paige lorenze, who’s not exactly the paragon of maturity and likability. the common consensus with paige is not a favorable one, and i can make a whole post dedicated to her and her foolishness. it’s not surprising these two paired up since they seem to be in the hockey scene, but that's another topic. something worth noting with these two is that months ago emma uploaded a grwm for a date night video, and she essentially promoted products in which all signs pointed to a pyramid scheme. she had hundreds of people telling her to be more cautious and judicious about what she promotes, but she held her belief that they were good, clean products since paige was a consultant for the company. this rubbed me and everyone else with a modicum of common sense the wrong way, because she clearly didn’t do her due diligence, and she didn’t realize that it’s probably not the smartest idea to promote a pyramid scheme. emma’s audience is likely made up of girls her age and younger who are impressionable. she has to be more aware of what she puts out there. it’s not a huge scandal, but it wasn't one of her brightest moments. if she keeps that up, i can totally see her carelessness getting her into more trouble later on.

additionally, i feel like she’s had fall outs with some of her friends, such as her high school best friend ella. i don’t know too much about her, but it’s obvious emma and ella have been best friends for a long time, and she even made a lot of appearances in emma’s earlier videos. however, clearly something went wrong at some point because i recall months ago ella made a tiktok calling emma out for trying to confess her love for ella’s boyfriend. i also recall emma clapping back in the comments, but then she talked about hanging out with ella in some of her recent vlogs, so who knows what even happened there. i just found this to be shady, and if it’s the truth, it could be indicative of emma’s character. but, since not much came of this, i guess there’s not much to tell.

  overall, what do i think of emma?

i think she’s an average girl who just got lucky with the platform she’s been given. you can find a hundred girls like her on any social media. she’s not reinventing the wheel or anything with her content. i can see the appeal at times, but her vlogs are nothing more than those videos you watch at night when you want to shut your brain off and unwind.

what i would love to see more of is her real personality. something that other people say about emma (when she’s with her sister or friends) is that she’s actually a funny person in real life and it doesn’t always come across that way in videos. i’d love for her to open up more about her true self and make more sit down videos, or more q&a’s. the q&a she did with paige recently was actually a pleasant change of pace, and i liked some of the things she had to say. when she vlogs her daily or weekly life, and all she talks about is working out, shopping, or hanging out with her sister, i don’t feel like i see her real self, and i certainly don’t see the humor everyone else raves about. if she showed her true personality a little bit more, then maybe people would see a different, less materialistic version of herself. she has the potential, but right now i’m not seeing anything incredibly special.

overall rating:

3/5

EDIT: JAN 11, 2O21

as i’m editing this, the macdonald sisters have decided to travel - AGAIN - during the PANDEMIC. i’m not sure if they understand this little concept, but a social media following doesn’t exempt them from catching corona. it’s really disappointing to see them traveling for the third time?? i’ve lost count because they keep doing it. like i stated in my conclusion, their videos aren’t anything spectacular, so i get going on a vacation spices your content up, but girls read the room. if influencers can’t be entertaining without traveling all the time, then why do they even have a youtube channel? the comments on maggie’s tiktok in which people rightfully called them out for their recent trip gives me some hope in humanity. at least some people know better. @ macdonald sisters, be smarter. do better. you guys have an influence. google the definition of the word if you have to, just stay home.

[trashyeggroll]

Cooking prompt for ThunderGrace? I hope the finale doesn't fuck shit up!

:: throws hands out to the guard rails :: I THINK WE ARE OKAY? WE MADE IT? It REALLY feels like they haven’t signed Chantal to the next season officially yet and HOPEFULLY the only question is whether to rightfully upgrade her to a main cast member 😤

After Chantal said Grace was making phở for the surprise wedding, I had to lean into that for this prompt, and if you go back and look at the scene, there really are like vermicelli noodles and such sitting on the counter and i just 🥺

Spoilers for season finale ahead, plus the angstiest prompt ficlet thus far. Also it’s 2am and I adrenaline-typed this, sorry for errors!

Sitting on one of the breakfast bar stools, Anissa watched quietly as Grace tended to the stew she’d been nursing to life all day, from just beef bones and water to the heavenly-smelling broth filling the air now. It was a long, tedious process of waiting, skimming, and stirring, adding spices here and taking out the brisket there, and most astonishing to Anissa was that Grace did it all from memory, hardly stopping so much as to measure a single ingredient. Star anise, cloves, fennel, coriander, cinnamon... Anissa knew the long list well by now, too.

“It’s a shame we don’t have any fish sauce. Life under siege,” Grace would sigh, washing her hands between tasks.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to get star anise?” Anissa would joke back from her seat. “You can make it the right way for me, after all this.”

“As your wife.” Grace offered a smile that made Anissa feel more bulletproof than lungsful of air.

“As my wife,” confirmed Anissa, sliding a hand across the table. “I love you.”

Grace’s fingertips met hers on the cool surface, and the shapeshifter’s expression softened. “You sure you’re ready for what your parents will say?”

“Psh, after all this? Disapproval of my engagement is nothing, and besides—once they get to know you better, my family’s gonna love you, too. There’s no question.” Her gaze dropped to their hands as Grace pulled back, fingers slipping away from her as she peeked into the stockpot again. She looked so at ease, so... warm, confident. Anissa swallowed against the lump in her throat, thankful that Grace was focused on the phở and not her likely pained expression.

“Every family has their own recipe for this. My foster parents are the ones who taught me this,” Grace was saying, rueful. “But the fun thing about getting married is... we can have our own family recipe now. However the Pierces like it best, and it’ll be ours.”

Anissa’s heartbeat was picking up. She knew what was coming, and not just the words. “Pierce family phở, huh? In that case, I think you’re gonna wanna add extra pepper for Jen.”

Grace chuckled at that, brushing a loose curl from her eyes as she turned to look at her fiancé. As much as they’d been through, individually and together, Anissa never felt as sure, as safe in her reality, as when Grace Choi was smiling at her, whether a reluctant reaction to one of Anissa’s bad jokes, or the bright, sunlight warmth of right now, when she was thinking of their future together. Anissa would do anything to give that to her, to be able to visit Grace at the bar once again, walk through the park and go see movies on their days off. Those things had seemed so... quaint, at the time. But today, and for too many unknown days ahead, Anissa could only enjoy these hours, watching her wife-to-be tend to something she loved.

A knock on the door, Gambi arriving before the others, drew Grace’s attention, and Anissa closed her eyes as the kitchen blinked, green-black code replacing the oven, and Grace’s confused expression glitched along with it, almost like when she shifted between forms. But that wasn’t what this was.

“Anissa?” she asked, her voice tinny and far away, and Thunder’s heart grew heavy again. “Anissa, what’s happening?”

The world around them had nearly completely broken to pieces, but Anissa kept her eyes locked with Grace’s as she replied, “I love you, Grace. I love you.”

Seemingly endless blackness overtook her vision, and then Anissa was opening her eyes again, with TC’s face leaning close over her. He quickly leaned back, his eyes changing from neon green to his natural brown, and took a respectful step away as Anissa sat up on the medical bed.

“Anything new?” prompted the younger meta, gently.

“No. Not today.” Anissa swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching up to the base of her skull to remove the sensor TC had designed for this exercise.

On the other side of the room, another bed held the prone form of the real Grace Choi, the one who wasn’t doing any smiling or cooking or announcing their engagement today. She’d shown no signs of recovery since the fight that left her in a coma, weeks ago, and Anissa was fighting to not lose faith. Where she had so genuinely thought she’d finally get to spend her nights and mornings with the woman she loved, instead Anissa had become accustomed to the low whirs and flashing lights of the machines that monitored her fiancé’s physical hold on the world of the living.

The longterm care facility was a nice operation, clean and with kindly enough staff, but it smelled like a hospital, like sickness, to Anissa. Nurses were regularly in and out of the room, adjusting Grace’s position to avoid bed sores and muscle atrophy, though Anissa would take over those duties whenever she could be there. Knowing what Grace had gone through as a child, it didn’t feel right to let strangers constantly handle her body, and no matter what was happening out in the rest of the world, Anissa took full responsibility to bathe her fiancé in a quiet, painstaking ritual that usually left Thunder feeling raw and near tears. It was such a far fall for the powerful shapeshifter who’d lifted her dinner table clear off the ground.

“She’s still there,” TC was saying. “We know she hasn’t gotten worse.”

Anissa nodded, offering him a quiet, but genuine ‘thank you’ before he left the room. TC’s modified brain stem connections let him step into Grace’s mind, similar to how he’d gone into Khalil’s, and he’d found that she was looping in the same broken memory of their last day together. No matter how much Anissa begged, pleaded, or explained, the dream-Grace wouldn’t wake up from it, and so instead, she’d learned to just play along. To relive that memory in peace, to have that modicum of Grace in her life, however long it would last. It was all she had, for now.

Ten minutes, or ten years, Lynn had said. Anissa would be there every day, would be asking every meta she came across at the boarding school or in other cities if they could help. She had made a promise, she had been the one to open the door to the next level of commitment... and like Jefferson Pierce and his father before him, Anissa Pierce’s word meant something in Freeland. She would never give up on Grace.

[theashofwkm]

Dinner of Rats

Summary: In which Mark adds a little spice to his dinner, and finally takes the sleeping pills he keeps forgetting.

Prompt: Goretober, Poisoned

Warnings: poison, self-poisoning, suicide attempt, stabbing mention, the f word, I say shitty once, description of wounds/stabs, self-hate, mention of starving oneself, longing for death, overdose, death description, downward spiral, cheating mention, betrayal, this ones pretty dark guys.

Note: day three!!! this might also be counted as the suicide prompt, but idk yet. We’ll see if my motivation can keep up with this and if I have another idea for it.

———

Walking through the halls, body sore and colored with harsh red and circles of blooming purpled-blue, Mark wanders around lost in the home he’s lived in his entire life.

He’s in his home, walking though it’s halls. It’s impossible, he shouldn’t still be here, with legs and lungs in a body that still breathes. The stabs littering his torso should have killed him, he should be dead dozens of times over, but he’s not.

He’s not.

Still here, walking, breathing, thinking, against his will. He’d made a choice, committed to it nearly forty times and it didn’t stick. Just left him with missing time and a body that was a little more broken.

Foolishly, desperately, he thinks it’s the method that’s the problem.

It’s not and he knows that, but he needs to be wrong. He needs the voices to be wrong. He needs to be dead.

Sorrow lives his bones, a compliment to the grief of his blood and the guilt tanning his skin. There’s no reason anymore.

It’s hard and every breath feels like a punch in the gut, a rope looped around his neck. If he’s not in some agonizing emotional pain turned physical, he’s numb. Devoid of any feeling, of the sense of touch entirely. Living hurts and he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

Not over her. She didn’t deserve to hold this power over him. Not now. Not after what she did.

He decides to try a new method. There’s bleach on the cupboard in the bathroom, rat poison in the kitchen. He’d taint his own drink, add the spice to his food and pray that that was enough.

It’s funny, before she left, he wasn’t a religious man, but he prays so often now. Daily, at least. Begging for the same thing like a broken record. Hands clasped and knees bruised, he asks and begs and pleads but he doesn’t receive.

Broken heart, bleeding lungs, self-hate littering his torso, he asks for the pain to stop. It gets worse.

It only ever gets worse.

Every time it does, he feels a modicum of relief along with the new wave of pain, believing it to be the last, the new worst. Then the ocean swells and another wave comes and he’s proven wrong. He hit rock bottom a long time ago, weeks ago. That was supposed to be the worst, that is what everyone said was the worst. ‘There’s nowhere to go but up,’ they’d said. Wrong.

He’s falling. Screaming to wind that swallows his voice and whips his flailing limbs. He can’t see the sky anymore, no sun or moon, just endless black.

Endless, pitch, encompassing black. The place he’s come to call The Nothing flashes through his mind. The starving ground of the whispers, the place where their sound echoes as they try to tear him apart. To lead him down a different path.

Whispering words that tug at his heart, that weaken his resolve, momentarily. Whispering justice, whispering revenge, whispering it’s not fair, is it?

No. None of this was fucking fair.

It would never be fair. What she did was vile and repulsive and downright cold. He’d loved her, had given her everything he could, everything that she asked and she took his willingness to please her, his devoted love and used it to stab him where it hurts. Figuratively. He did the actual stabbing himself.

Her betrayal had hurt more. He suspects that it always would.

And William. It boggles Mark’s mind, what he’d done. They’d been so much more then friends, had been brothers, and he’d gone after the one woman Mark had cared for, the one he’d marked as taken. He’d stolen his wife and cleared the joint bank account he shared with her and Mark hopes he suffers.

Because if the situation was reversed, if William had married the girl he loved, he doesn’t think he’d stoop so low as to steal her. It was a cheap, below the belt move and it wasn’t fair.

He scoffs a laugh as he veers into the bathroom. He thinks of the empty bank account. Cleared entirely by the girl he loved and the man he trusted.

In the end, now, he doesn’t much care for the missing money. It’s just another shitty thing, another mountain he doesn’t have the energy to climb. Just another thing that reduces the percentage of oxygen in his air to leave him gasping.

Thankfully, the bleach is labeled as so. He grabs it, tugging it towards him and wondering why the jug needs to be so big. It’s fine, though, he’d prepared for it. Sneaking the empty flask from his pocket, he messily pours the bleach in before capping it and shoving it back in.

Some of it had dropped onto the floor, splashed onto his robe. It stings against his hand. He welcomes the burn, he’s been through much worse lately. This is nothing.

Everything was nothing. He was searching for the thing that would be last. He wonders if death hurts, or just the process. Would he feel peace, once the deed was done? He hopes so, but he also doesn’t much care. If he wasn’t in pain, mentally ripping at his skin and tearing out his hair, then it was better.

Better was a low bar nowadays, but somehow it was still out of reach. Still too high for him to reach up and grasp. There’s an endless amount of betters, but somehow he keeps finding the limited worsts.

The flask doesn’t sit heavy in his pocket. The first few times he’d tried to off himself, the knife had been heavy, his grip slippery. It had been hard, the first few times. It’s become easy now, easier then breathing.

He wonders what that means, that an attempt to end his life is easier then drawing air into his lungs. Probably nothing good. But he’s not surprised. There’s nothing good left about him.

He’s everything but a walking corpse.

At the last moment, he grabs a bottle of pills. To help him sleep, pills he hasn’t been taking. Pills that could actually help him sleep, now that it crosses his mind. He pockets it next to the flask.

Leaving the bathroom, he makes his way downstairs. This is the hard part, the first hiccup he could experience. Chef doesn’t like people in the kitchen. That is where the poison lies.

Summoning Ben, he concocts some nonsense reason for him to disturb Chef and leave the kitchen free for a moment. There’s a moment of hesitation, where Ben eyes Mark with something close to pity, but it only lasts a moment before Ben goes off to do as requested.

Chef steps out of his kitchen in a huff of anger and Mark slips in through the other entrance. He slips in the cupboard, grabbing the bottle, and quickly retreating.

Skull and crossbones are plastered on the label, beside the no rodent sign. He smiles. Finally. It was in his grasp, again. Hopefully for the last time.

In his bedroom, he goes on his knees and prays for this to work until Ben fetches him for dinner. He grinds the sleeping pills into gravely dust. He prays some more.

Ben pulls out his chair in silence. Mark sits and he expects something about this time to feel different, but it doesn’t. It’s the same as any other meal he’s had over the past weeks.

Except this time he’s planning to actually eat it.

Pockets full of things he shouldn’t ingest, he has something of an appetite. This will be his first good meal in a while.

Ben places the plate before him, bowing and muttering an obedient “master.”

“Ben.” Mark stops him. This death will be slow, probably. He didn’t want any interruptions, anything that could get in the way. “Go to your rooms for the night and tell Chef to do the same.”

The butler turns, shocked. “But master—”

“Now.”

Nodding shakily, Ben follows orders. Chef yells in the kitchen, but follows them too. He’s alone now.

He takes out the flask first, uncapping it and dribbling the clear cleaning fluid into his wine. He dumps the entirety of the rat poison — somewhere between half and three quarters — onto his plate. He mixes it into his potatoes while sprinkling the dust of pills over everything like it’s salt and pepper. After a moment of thought, he adds a bit of powder to the wine.

He begins to eat.

Wine doesn’t taste all that different. There’s an unpleasant sting to it, and it burns like fire going down his throat, but he manages to sip at the glass the whole time. The pills are bitter. Harder to ignore and pretend it’s not there, but he tries. Self-made salt is sour, almost, unpleasant in the way medicine is. It’s not horrible, though.

He tells himself that this is the last time. The last attempt. After this, there will be no Mark Fischbach.

Vision blurring, limbs numbing, heart rate slowing, he’s happy. Relieved and happy and so, so close to peaceful. Slumped on the table, spilling out of his chair onto the floor, he no longer hurts.

He opens his eyes and screams.

———

Masterlist

Welp, that happened. Not a huge, huge fan of this one, but there are some bits I really like, so maybe it evens out.

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