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capquinn · 2 months ago

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I really want fries as a finishing the week treat but it’s so cold out and I’m too lazy to get them. But I was thinking about Quinn and pregnant reader in that situation. Quinn would give her that 🫤 look and sigh after she’s been going on and on about her pregnancy craving and no matter the weather or time of night he always goes out to get it or find the closest thing to it. He’s such a softie and drops everything to do anything for her

It starts off innocently enough — just a passing comment as you're cooking dinner.

You’re standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, when you spot the empty pickle jar on the counter. The sight of it stops you mid-stir, an ache blooming in your chest that you hadn’t even realised was there. The sharp tang of vinegar was just a memory now, thanks to Quinn, who had polished off the last one earlier. You stared at the jar for a long moment, then inhaled deeply as if to steel yourself, catching the faint scent of peanut butter still lingering in the air from his afternoon snack.

“We’re out of pickles,” you announce, the words coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Quinn doesn’t even look up from where he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone.

“We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow,” he replies casually, like it’s no big deal. “We’ll grab some more then.”

You nod, swallowing down the disappointment. Of course, it’s fine. Quinn already does so much for you — too much, honestly. He doesn’t complain when you wake him up in the middle of the night to rub your back, doesn’t bat an eye when you cry over commercials. The least you can do is manage a craving for one night.

But by the time the soup bowls are empty and the dishes are drying in the rack, the craving is no longer something you can brush aside. It’s no longer just pickles. It’s pickles and peanut butter. Crunchy peanut butter, specifically, the kind you already have in the pantry. And the thought of it — salty and tangy and just a little sweet — is like a loop stuck in your brain. You can feel it growing, blooming into an obsession you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

So you finally bring it up as you’re both clearing the table.

“You know, pickles and peanut butter would taste so good right now,” you say, hoping maybe speaking it out loud will get it out of your system.

Quinn pauses, plate in hand, and gives you a skeptical glance. “Pickles and peanut butter? Together?”

You nod, setting down the glasses you’ve just picked up from the table. “Yeah. Like, on the same spoon. Or maybe a pickle dipped in peanut butter,” you add, tilting your head thoughtfully.

He squints at you like you’ve just suggested something completely alien. “You don’t even like pickles.”

“I know,” you say, exasperated, “but it’s a pregnancy craving. I can’t explain it.”

Quinn smirks, a playful glint in his eye. “So, the baby’s got you craving… that?”

“Apparently,” you say with a shrug, trying to sound casual, though you can feel the craving getting worse now that you’ve spoken it into existence.

It comes up again later as you sit cross-legged on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while Quinn flips through TV channels.

“Pickles and peanut butter,” you murmur under your breath, almost to yourself and from the corner of your eye, you catch Quinn’s side-eye, his brow quirking as he lowers the remote slightly.

“You’re still thinking about that?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement, though there’s a hint of skepticism, like maybe he’s hoping this craving had run its course.

You glance up, shrugging as you bite your lip.

“Yeah,” you admit, and then, add quickly, “but it’s fine. I can wait until tomorrow.”

Quinn’s gaze lingers on you for a beat, and you can feel the weight of it. He’s studying you, half waiting for you to crack and half trying to decide if he needs to intervene now or risk hearing about pickles and peanut butter in his sleep.

“You sure?” he says finally, his tone light, but there’s something else beneath it — like he knows you’re holding back.

“Positive,” you say, nodding firmly.

And for a while, you convince yourself that it's true. That you're completely, utterly and positively sure that you can wait until tomorrow.

So you curl up under the blanket with Quinn, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your arm — a quiet, familiar rhythm that usually soothes you without fail. The TV hums softly in the background, and his chest rises and falls against your side, steady and warm. It should be enough.

But it’s not.

The thought of that perfect salty-sweet combination gnaws at you, persistent and unrelenting. You try to distract yourself, to focus on the show Quinn seems semi-invested in, but every passing second feels like the craving is growing claws, digging deeper into your resolve.

You take a deep breath, glancing up at him. His profile is soft in the glow of the TV, his expression relaxed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he absently strokes your shoulder. He’s content, comfortable. You almost feel bad for what you’re about to do.

Almost.

“Before I say something,” you start, your voice tentative, measured, the prelude to what you know is a plea, “just remember that I’m carrying your baby.”

Quinn doesn’t even blink. His lips quirk into a small smile, his thumb pausing mid-circle on your arm.

“Our baby,” he corrects gently, his tone warm, teasing, like he knows exactly where this is going. Of course he knows. He always knows.

You hesitate for a beat, building up your courage before blurting, “I’m really, really craving pickles and peanut butter.”

His head falls back against the couch, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he drags a hand down his face.

“Baby,” he says, his voice full of mock exasperation, “it’s pouring outside. You said it could wait until tomorrow.”

“I thought it could,” you insist, sitting up straighter, as if that’ll help your case. “But I’ve been thinking about it since dinner, Quinn. I don’t think I can sleep until I have it.”

He looks at you, his brows furrowing just enough to show he’s debating his options, though you both know there’s only one.

“I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate,” you tack on, your tone earnest as if that might tip the scales further in your favor.

Quinn exhales a long, dramatic sigh, one that would almost sound convincing if not for the way his lips twitch at the edges, betraying the affection underneath. There’s no real frustration in him — just the soft resignation of someone entirely smitten, hopelessly incapable of saying no.

“You haven’t even asked me anything yet,” he points out, tilting his head as he meets your gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a flicker of amusement he’s trying not to show.

It’s infuriatingly endearing.

“Will you please go get pickles?” you ask, your tone so sweet, so endearingly earnest, that he doesn’t stand a chance.

That gets him.

His lips twitch, fighting off a grin, as he pushes himself to his feet, stretching with a dramatic groan.

“The things I do for you,” he mutters under his breath, the corners of his mouth betraying the tease.

He disappears down the hall, and you hear the faint shuffle of a jacket being pulled off a hook, the jangle of keys being found. When he returns, he’s already slipping his arms into the sleeves, his shoulders settling with the kind of resigned acceptance that says he knows this is his life now — and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He moves toward the door, stooping to pull on his sneakers, the drizzle outside faintly tapping against the windows. Just as he’s tying the laces, he glances back over his shoulder, one brow quirking in that playful, knowing way that makes your heart squeeze.

“Anything else while I’m out?” he asks, his tone warm and teasing, like he’s already resorted to a grocery list. “Ice cream? Chocolate syrup? A gallon of peanut butter to get us through the next week?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you peek over the back of the couch.

“Just the pickles. And maybe… the good kind?” You ask innocently, like maybe you’re asking for too much at this late hour.

Quinn groans, a sound full of exaggerated exasperation, but the grin tugging at his lips gives him away.

“The good kind,” he repeats, his tone dripping with mock seriousness, like the words themselves are some great inconvenience. “I’ll see what I can do.”

But there’s no hiding the fondness in his eyes as he steps closer, moving behind the sofa. He plants his hands on the cushions, leaning over until his face is just above yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin with a quiet kind of devotion. Then, he presses a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady comfort of his presence.

“You owe me for this,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that warm, teasing tone that makes your heart flip.

You tilt your head toward him, grinning as you meet his gaze, your affection spilling over. “I’m giving you a baby, Quinn.”

He exhales a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes like he’s indulging some monumental injustice. But the way his lips twitch, the faint curve of a smile tugging at the corners, gives him away.

“Yeah, you are,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself, his thumb brushing along your cheek in a gesture so instinctive, so achingly gentle, it makes your chest tighten.

There’s a flicker in his eyes of pure adoration that doesn’t even try to hide. It’s the kind of look that says a thousand things he never could — about how much he loves you, how much this life you’re building together means to him, how he’d cross any distance, brave any storm, just to see you smile.

And then he huffs, a soft sound somewhere between affection and surrender, before leaning down further, his breath warm against your skin. His lips brush against yours, soft and deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s all tenderness and quiet longing. It lingers, unhurried, his hand cupping your cheek as if to keep you right there, as though this moment is his anchor before he steps out into the cold.

“Be right back.”

#sometimes when i proofread stuff i've written about quinn i just sigh so loud and think 'i wish u were real and mine' LOL 😭#this is definitely one of those times #capquinn's writing #capquinn’s requests #quinn hughes x reader #idk whether to file pregnant reader x quinn as dad!quinn or not but lets file it there anyway #dad!quinn #quinn hughes

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klausinamarink · 1 year ago

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When Life Gives You Pickles, Make It Into Soup

rating: G | cw: none | wc: 920 | tags: established relationship, domestic bliss, soup | prompt: Love is silently passing them a pickle because you know it’s their favourite

written for @steddielovemonth

“So Gareth was supposed to stay on the drums, right?” Eddie waves his hands in the air where he sits on the counter. “That’s like his whole thing since he joined the band.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, glancing over at Eddie as he starts sliding the chopped carrots and potatoes into the pot from the cutting board.

“But during practice, which was today, he says that he wants to play bass guitar. Which, in another day, I would be completely cool with and the other guys will be like, ‘Yeah, Gareth, follow your heart’s intent and pick another instrument that calls out to you.’”

“That’s what you would say.” Steve points out just because he knows that Eddie’s that kind of person who says such long-winded compliments. He fills the pot with cold water from the sink, just barely remembering to throw in a pound of the meat bones to complete the broth.

“Okay, yeah, I said that.” Eddie rolls his eyes. Then he raises an index finger, pointing it up to the ceiling for no particular reason. “But I didn’t! I said none of that because Gareth said he wanted to change instruments today. The day before we will have our venue show!”

Steve drops his mouth open in a wide ‘O’ because he’s that invested in the secret drama of Eddie’s band. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” Eddie shakes his head mournfully. “You can imagine our reactions.”

Steve hums, opening the jar of pickles and plucking one out to pass it to Eddie. Eddie takes it and bites it without a second thought. There’s a couple pickles left in the jar since Steve had already blended the brine earlier so his boyfriend could finish them.

After a few chews and swallows, Eddie continues his tale of mutual devastation, still oblivious to Steve’s cooking. Good. Because this has been in Steve’s plans for weeks ever since he went to the farmer’s market and struck a lovely conversation with that Polish couple. He watches the boiling pot, making sure his attention is perfectly divided between the timer and Eddie’s story.

“-and then Jeff said, ‘How about I switch with the bass, Frankie does the second guitar, and you do the drums?’ I told him, ‘Don’t you remember my last time playing with the drums?’ Jeff just said, ‘Oh yeah, right.’ Then-”

Setting the stove’s temperature down to shimmer, Steve slowly pours in the blended pickle in the broth, mixing it together. He sees Eddie has finished his pickle so Steve passes him another.

This time, Eddie ferociously tears a chunk off, green acid spitting out as he speaks with a full mouth, “Eventually, it was Gareth who finally stood himself up and said, ‘Yeah, you’re totally right, I shouldn’t switch out before tomorrow’s gig. But I’m still doing bass after that's done.’”

“So who’s doing the drums?” Steve crosses his arms, leaning his hip on the counter besides Eddie.

“That’s the thing!” Eddie throws his hands up. Unfortunately, so does the half-eaten pickle. It hits the ceiling with a tiny splat. The two men stare up at it, Steve with genuine surprise and Eddie with horror. Before Eddie can splutter out apologies, Steve wordlessly kisses him and gives him the last pickle from the jar. Eddie carefully eats the whole thing with a bright-red face and eyes pointed downwards. Cute.

Steve double checks the soup. The lid’s so steamed over that he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been stained completely white. He takes that cue to take it off and shut the stove for it to cool.

Eddie finally speaks, “Yeah, we have no idea who our drummer could be. Like, Gareth’s good but neither of us are. Frankie has good rhythm but he’s better with guitar. I can’t drum for shit. Same with Jeff.”

“Bet that’s a problem for Future Eddie and his friends.” Steve quips, slowly mixing the soup around.

Eddie barks out a laugh. He hops off the counter and stands behind Steve, peeking over at the pot. “This smells delicious by the way. What soup is it?”

Steve makes a shushing gesture to which Eddie responds by biting his shoulder. Steve rolls his eyes and contemplates if he should put in the half and half cream now. The Polish woman at the market had said it was better to wait for the soup to cool enough before adding the cream and parsley. He shrugs and just dumps it anyway.

He retrieves the bowls and scoops a good amount of the soup. “Careful, it’s still hot.” Steve warns as he passes it to Eddie’s eager hands. “And eat at the table this time.”

Eddie sticks a tongue out at him but does so. Steve watches with bated breath as Eddie carefully blows on his spoon before closing his mouth around it. He sees the exact second when Eddie’s eyes widen and his body going stock still. For a terrifying moment, Steve worries that he had messed up the recipe and Eddie was going to spit it out in disgust.

But within a blink of an eye, Eddie’s standing in front of him. Hands clenching tightly on his shoulders while his eyes start watering.

“Sweetheat,” Eddie says oh-so softly, “did you make soup from pickles… for me?”

Steve smiles at him sweetly and gently squeezes Eddie’s wrists. “Pickles are your favourite after all.”

Naturally, Eddie cries his eyes out with blabbering declarations of his unending love for Steve. Steve is more than happy to hold his boyfriends and return those favors.

#if anyone makes me pickle soup we shall have an autumn wedding #klaus writes #steddie #stranger things #steddielovemonth

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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Offal, aka organ meats, are about to make a comeback. Yes, I predict that brains, livers, spleens, tongues and testicles will feature heavily on the menus of Israel’s (and the diaspora’s Jewish/Israeli-style) hottest eateries by this time next year — if they aren’t already. Why? Because young chefs are increasingly inspired by traditional Jewish dishes, driving a return-to-roots style of cooking. And these old-school classics are notably innard-heavy.

Offal is an oxymoron; it’s both a poor-person food, which is why it was so popular in the shtetl, and a celebratory food, eaten on Shabbat and festivals. Many Sephardic cultures consider it a delicacy. Read on and decide for yourself.

Let’s start with an old Ashkenazi classic: chopped liver. While for me, it will always be in style, many of my contemporaries don’t feel the same. Luckily, young Jewish chefs have already set their sights on it, and may well have the power to convert millennial diners. Take Anthony Rose’s recipe in “The Last Schmaltz,” which sears the livers, then deglazes the pan with arak before blending, serving the chopped liver with thyme-scented caramelized onions.

Another well-known offal dish is the Jerusalem mixed grill. Made with chicken giblets and lamb parts, and seasoned with onion, garlic, black pepper, cumin, turmeric and coriander, this classic street food is believed to have originated sometime between 1960-1970 at one of two (now feuding) restaurants in Jerusalem’s Machaneh Yehuda Market. While the Jerusalem grill is far younger than most Jewish offal dishes, it originated in a similar way: Butchers had a surplus of unwanted offal so they sold it off cheaply, then some savvy chefs turned the offal into a desirable dish. The mixed grill was one of the first offal dishes to receive multiple modern makeovers. At his restaurant Rovi, Yotam Ottolenghi adds baharat onions and pickles, while Michael Solomonov included a Jerusalem grill-Southern dirty rice hybrid in “Israeli Soul.“

Of course, this is not the first dish based around grilled offal; Tunisian Jews liked to throw a selection of lamb or veal innards onto the grill, which they called mechoui d’abats, and Baghdadi Jews sought a similar smokiness, which they achieved by cooking chicken livers on the tandoor.

Roman Jews preferred their offal battered and fried, rather than grilled. Few know that their famed carciofi alla giudia (deep-fried artichokes) was often served alongside fried sweetbreads, livers, and — most notably — brains. North Africa’s Sephardi communities loved their brains, too, commonly serving them in an omelet called a meguina or menina on festive occasions. Meir Adoni referenced this love in his brain fricassee — a North African-French fusion dish of veal brains inside a croissant with harissa and preserved lemon — at his New York restaurant Nur.

Offal was also commonly used to add a depth of flavor to a soup or stew. Yemenite Jews — one of the few communities who continue to cook traditional offal dishes — make a soup with bulls’ penis and cows’ udders, while Eastern European Jews, particularly of Polish descent, continue to add kishke — a sausage made of stuffed beef intestine — to their weekly Shabbat cholent. A slow-cooked stew called akod is one of the better-known dishes of Tunisian Jewish cuisine, where tripe flavored with cumin, garlic, harissa and tomato paste is the star of the show. Moroccan Jews eat a similar dish on Passover, which ditches the tomato paste but adds liver, heart, and beef dumplings.

Admittedly, there are some offal-based dishes that may find it trickier to stage a comeback. Ptcha – an aspic that reached its height of popularity in shtetl-era Ashkenazi communities — is arguably top of the list. However, it’s not without hope; ptcha was actually born in Turkey in the 14th century as a peasant soup made with lamb’s feet, served hot. This, I’d wager, is a more palatable gateway (it’s basically bone broth) to the Eastern European version, which opts for calves’ feet and allows the soup to cool and set into a jelly, thanks to the gelatin in the hooves.

It only takes one dish to change your view of offal from weird and unappetizing to tasty and versatile. If livers, brains and tripe were good enough for our ancestors, not to mention famed chefs, who are we to turn up our noses? Happy eating!

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morethansalad · 2 years ago

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Polish Cucumber Soup (Vegan)

#vegan #lunch #dinner #polish cuisine #central european cuisine #soups #cucumber #potato #carrots #vegan cream #pickles #dill #black pepper #sea salt

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dumber-alek · 10 months ago

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I saw a poll about superior breakfast foods and this poll was so American i decided to make my own but Polish (if it's too regional or too personal I'm sorry in advance) so it's just as incomprehensible and unrelatable to people from other cultures as American-centric polls usually are to me LETS GO

A couple of disclaimers :

Disclaimer 1: most of these are elements of breakfast not full breakfast meals. Meats and eggs are usually paired with sourdough bread or rolls, and vegetables: most often fresh or pickled cucumbers, chives or green onion, radish, and tomatoes (usually in summer cause in winter they taste like cardboard).

Disclaimer 2: These are the foods me and my girlfriend from kinda poor families in the South of Poland remember eating growing up in early 2000s. So if your experiences of Polish breakfast are different uhhh I'm sorry?

Disclaimer 3: Never trust articles in English about Polish breakfast foods because they're either complete bullshit or just Polish dishes that would fit an American idea of breakfast: pancakes and potato pancakes or apple fritters are dinner foods here. So are zapiekanki, any kinds of soups (excluding zupa mleczna which was too weird for me to include cause no one ate it out of free will) and stews.

#Poland #whats the polish tumblr tag #polblr #this is dedicated to my polish mutuals and other Central/Eastern Europeans who will maybe relate #if you do pls tell me im curious!#we just poles just love talking to eachother in english and pretend other people will read it

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theinkedknight · 6 months ago

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Rose Quartz

Based off this post by @cryptotheism that I saw on FB

I sat behind the counter, looking up at the twin sets of flat screens perched over the high shelves carrying boxes of cereal and multipacks of toilet paper. On the left screen, a multiple panel view of the various security cameras set up all around the bodega, the right screen a rerun of Judge Judy. I was mostly paying attention to the right one.

At the table set along the window to the outside sat an older Puerto Rican man, his straw triby on the table next to him, brushing something I couldn't see off the tank top he wore under his unbuttoned bowling shirt.

“Listen, I'm telling you. New yor-wiccan.” He said, drawing out the word.

“Shut up Danny.” Called out the older woman behind the deli counter as she worked the grill.

“What? It's good! I can see it on the shirts.” He retorted.

“You're not even wiccan.” I said, shaking my head.

“So what? You think everyone selling gold crosses is a Christian?”

The door alarm dinged as a pair of young people entered. I could smell the tourist on them. Spend enough time behind a counter in Manhattan and you'd be able to as well. It's the wide eyed gaze and almost deer-like quiver.

They start to roam what amounts to aisles in the cramped store. Next to the cup soups, various small packages of laundry soap, and ice salt stood Catholic candles of various colors and saints, icons from a dozen various idols from the faiths of the people who lived or worked in the neighborhood, and bins of assorted crystals. Through the windows and on the cameras I could see the piles of garlic, oranges, apples, and bundled dried herbs for sale under the shop’s awning.

“He has a point, Flora.” I say, eyes returning to the court show.

“You're so full of shit, Danny,” she replied with a tone that sounded like this was a basic fact of reality.

The two tourists came up to the front counter, either sisters or very, very close friends. Their auras looked as though they were the same, or else rhyming so closely it was hard to tell the difference.

“Do you…um…do you sell rose quartz?” The slightly taller one asked.I continued watching Judy for a beat, as it was about to go to commercial anyway, before looked down at the two.

“Flora, we got rose quartz?” I called over to the grill. A black cat walked around from the corner and wove herself around their legs before jumping up to the table next to Danny’s hat. Flora walked around the counter with an aluminum tray filled to the brim with boiled yucca, pickled red onions, grilled sausage, and fried eggs. She put the tray next to Danny, his hat, and the cat, pulling a fork and small bottle of hot sauce from her apron and all but dropping both on the table with them.

“Yeah, no. Fresh out, remember that little bracelet brujita always buys me out. The one with the green hair. Plant name.”

“Aspen.” I supplied.

“Yes, her.” She looked the two women up and down. “What you need if for? You looking for someone?” Their cheeks reddening was all the older witch needed to hear.

She walked behind one aisle, muttering to herself in Spanish. When she returned, she held a pair of pink candles in an unmarked glass cylinder and two cans of soup.

“Damien, get them two vials of rose water.” She told me. She continued speaking to the girls as I turned my back to search the wall of incense, oils, single dose packs of Advil, condoms, and “nail polish remover” behind the counter. “What you wanna do is anoint yourself and the candle and burn it next to your bed at night.”

The taller one nodded as if taking mental notes. “And the soup?”

“Cook it for him. Men love soup.” Flora said as if speaking to an idiot.

As her friend/sister was turning redder still, the shorter one was looking at Danny eating his breakfast.

“Isn't it, like, unhygienic to have a cat in a place serving food like that?” She asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“I'm cleaner than you are, Princess Midwest.” The cat replied, looking up at her with emerald green eyes. “This one needs some Florida water too, Damien. Her aura is a little…much.”

I tried to keep the smirk from my face as she jumped.

“Hannah, I told you if you're going to talk to customers, you need to be a person.” Flora admonished. The cat sighed, jumping from the table to the other chair. Between one blink and the other, the cat was gone and a pale skinned woman in a black dress replaced her. For a moment she still had feline eyes, before blinking and her human form completing.

“Anyway, spritz it on yourself after you shower. If you're good, you'll clear that…” Hannah made a general hand gesture to encompass what must be the woman's aura. “...in about a week.”

They both stepped up to the counter, wide eyed and more than a touch shaken. “So, would that be all together or separate?” I asked, trying to calm them with a gentle smile.

They indicted together and made to pay, pulling out a crystal bedazzled iPhone to tap on the terminal. I wrapped the candles in yesterday's Daily News and put everything into an ‘I HEART NY’ bag. As quickly as they could without running, they were out of the store again.

“I would buy that shirt.” Hannah said, reaching over and stealing a slice of meat from Danny's plate, who moved to slap her hand but was too slow.

“See! And she is wiccan. I am smart.” Danny proclaimed.

“Full of shit.” Flora replied, shaking her head and returning to the deli counter.

#Fiction #flash fiction #Fantasy #urban fantasy #Bodega #bodega cat

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siberat · 1 year ago

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“So, what shall I sink my teeth into next? *Scans the table* Ah, how about this juicy coal burger? One can never go wrong with the classics! Just look at that thick patty! *Shows to the camera, then takes a huge bite* MMmm-MMm-MMMM! Tastes delicious! The bun is so fresh, and the pickles give the burger a nice crunchy zest!

*Licks his lips* Well, let’s move on to an ask, sound good? We have another anonymous asking, ‘Have there been others who know about your scrumptious eating escapades?’ *Raises optic ridges* Scrumptious would be an understatement, wouldn’t you agree? Naturally, Rat/chet is aware of my overindulgent tendencies, and to be honest, I have received some double takes. However, I try to limit going overboard. *Licks coal burger juice from fingers* Usually, I won’t consume so much tasty food in one sitting. Oh! *Stuffs another bite of burger in his mouth* Swe/rve tends to bring me mini-cupcakes and treats of the sort, demanding me to tell him which tastes the best. And I give him my honest opinion.

*Shrugs and frowns* Yet, those tasty baked treats never make it on his menu. And you know, I swear one evening, I smelt the loveliest aromas coming from his locked bar. I knew Swe/rve was baking up something good! *Finishes the burger* But the next day, no baked goods were added to the menu. And yes, you can bet that I was first in line when his bar opened! But anyways, I have not maintained a chiseled frame regularly, but the weight gain isn’t overly noticeable all the time. I still want to be able to enjoy my swordsmanship, after all. *Wipes mouth on napkin*

I demolished that coal burger, haven’t I? *Pats belly* Oofff…. My stomach is getting nice and tight already. There’s no decision on what to try next based on this anonymous question: ‘Who is the fastest at finishing a large bottle of Doctor Chunk?’ Supposedly, Rodi/mus claims to be the best chugger of drinks. He said he could drink this whole bottle in under 20 seconds. *Picks up bottle of Soda* I beg to differ. I think I can out-chug him. What do you think? *Winks* Shall I give it a go? Okay… someone time me…*Brings bottle to lips* And go! *Starts chugging*

*Optics open wide, chugging ends* Oh my! *Belches loudly; servo covers mouth in embarrassment* Please excuse me! *Stifles another belch before resuming chugging; however, it doesn’t last long* Oh, my stars, that carbonation burns! I’m almost there! *Shows only one-third of the bottle remaining* I think I can make it! *Continues to chug the drink until finished*

All done! *Belches out a long, noisy burp* Where have my manners gone? *Stomach gurgles* My tummy…*Winces* So much pressure…

*Loud, audible clank is heard* Oh my! *Optics open wide in shock, cheeks flush as his stomach plating busts out and shoots across the room* How embarrassing! I’m busting out all over the place…literally! *Servo’s rub at exposed protomesh belly* However, I feel so much better now. Like, so much more room has become available! *Smirks at camera* So, what was my time? Did I beat Rodi/mus?

*Furrows brows* Thirty-five seconds? Are you sure? I downed that drink quicker than that! *Pouts* Oh well. I guess we’ll have to let our dear captain hold that title. For now, at least. Now, onto our next question and dish. We have two askers, annony and Alcorian, asking the same question, relating to how much I have polished off so far and whether I can finish in one stream. *Clears throat* Being a dedicated individual, I always plan to finish what I start! And how could I resist all this tantalizing food? Take this Cyber-city Onion soup, for example. *Picks up bowl covered in warm, melted cheese and shows camera* Just look at that rich, melted lithium cheese blanketing over a generously sized piece of bread, bathing in a warm broth of caramelized onions. *Stabs spoon into the cheese, scooping broth* Doesn’t this look delightful? One of my favorite types of soups! *Eats spoonful, pulling at the cheese strands to break them off* Hmmm, so good!

Moving on to the next question, and this is a good food question from another Anon: ‘What’s your favorite profile? There are all kinds, of course, like sweet and spicey or savory and salty. Do you have a favorite, or do you like them equally?’ Well, this one is rather hard. The easy answer would be to say I like them all equally. *Grins sheepishly* I suppose it depends on my mood. Sometimes, one craves a salty snack, like some ener-nuts or potassium crisps.

Sweets? *Face scrunches in joy* Who can resist them? I used to chide Rat/chet for his love of those junky, sweet snacks, goading him to eat healthier. Now I’m sure he wishes he never forced me to try one of his favorite little treats-Ka/on dogs. *Smiles, scooping more cheese and soup on spoon* They look like hot dogs, but the bun is chocolate cake, and the ‘hot dog’ is deliciously sweet cream. *Licks lips* By golly, they are so good! What have I been missing out on all my life? *Eats more soup*

And one can never go wrong with those savory foods! I love those dishes that have been slow-cooked for a long time or aged to perfection! *Gives belly a pat* I cannot resist those meals of roasted cyber-chicken, pasta with garlic and olive oil, pies like quiche…*Gives a chef’s kiss* The list goes on!

But my absolute favorite must be spicy. Foods that give a little kick are just amazing! Eating spice triggers heat receptors to activate inside your frame, tricking your sensory net to feel as if you are overheating. In response to that, your processor turns on your cooling systems. So, you don’t taste the heat; you feel the heat. *Slurps some more soup* Get what I am saying? Food that bites back…*Laughs*

There is nothing left of this soup! *Shows empty bowl* That really hit the spot! And do you know what I have been eyeing for the longest time? This loaded potato! Just look at this monster! * Picks up dish* This has been twice baked, making it such a creamy and cheesy masterpiece! * Takes a heaping forkful* Not only that, but the cyber-bacon also gives a nice, salty crunch! Hmmmm So good!

But onto our next question. Anon asks: ‘I know you had a difficult past. Did it take you a while to get comfortable eating such tasty meals, either alone or in front of others? Or were you pretty comfortable from the beginning?’ Well, this is kind of a double-edged sword, if I may say so. Being a street mech, you kind of eat whatever you can get, whenever you can. Sometimes, your meal only consisted of a handful of scraps. *Idly shrugs* Other times, you hit the motherload! And when you can upon a feast, you ate as much as you simply could. Sure, you could try stashing it away for later, but there’s the chance of the food spoiling beyond consumption or others finding it and devouring it on you.

*Sadly, looks down* I mean, I would share with a few mechs; please don’t mistake me for being selfish. But not everyone shared nor cared about taking a starving mech’s food. Kinda had to look out for yourself first. *Stabs more cheesy baked potato* But outside of being homeless…in the beginning, that mentality was still present. Loading up my plate with as food that could fit, finding a seat furthest away from anyone, and scarfing the food down as quickly as possible. *Shakes helm* Wi/ng would hate that. And how I guarded my dish as I ate. Slag, he would yell whenever I’d growl! He claimed I had no reason to behave like that. Looking back, I didn’t. But old habits die hard, yeah? *Stuffs another heaping forkful of food into mouth*

But as far as enjoying eating tasty meals- that was instant. I mean, anything is better than dumpster diving! *Smiles and shrugs* But as far as indulging my joys of being stuffed… generally keep that to the privacy of my own habsuit. *Gives a shy look* I kept this a secret from Rat/chet for a bit, if I may be honest. I feared him seeing this overeating as more of a bad habit, or a new addiction. Or… I know this is going to sound bad… * Bites lower lip* I feared he may not like a, ah…. plusher figured mech. Yeah, I am sure you could imagine his reaction on hearing that! His optics nearly singed holes through my frame as I sat hidden in a corner of my habsuit stuffing my face silly. Rat/chet may join me on occasion, but generally I tend to keep to myself.

*Chuckles* Yeah, a live video feed of this mukbang kinda breaks that secrecy, but being behind a camera is different than in real life. It’s not so much that I am embarrassed, more so that other mechs can simply be rude about things and resort to childish behaviors such as teasing or bullying. *Cheekily grins* Plus, hearing all your encouraging words really helps!

See? *Shows emptied plate* This double-baked goodness has been gobbled up! This meal is quite satisfying so far! *Looks at camera* And what about you guys? Care to share what you have been munching on? What are some of your favorite dishes? Maybe we have similar tastes in some foods, huh?

*Optics scan table* Speaking of tastes…. What should I sample next?

… ……

Still taking on more askes! So, if you have a question for Dr/ift, send it in! You can send multiples. Also, if you wanted to ask as another TF character- just state so! Let’s keep this mukbang going and see if our dear sword/smech can handle all that food infront of him!

#chubformers #siberatart #mukbang #chubby belly #weight gain game #digital art #chub art

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