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httpsserene · 8 months ago

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Your works are literally my all time favorites 💕 since your requests are open, I was thinking of requesting something with Daniel. I personally wear braces and have always been insecure about them. Since Daniel is known for having a great smile, he notices the reader covers her smile etc. Some reassurances lead to Daniel facefucking the reader and giving her a facial to show her how much her braces turn him on . Him making her smile and taking a picture with his come all over 🙊

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 2𝕶 𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑 | 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖊𝖑 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖔 ��𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝐒𝐚𝐲, "𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞!"

Summary: The day she gets her braces off will be the best day of her life. Maybe all the years she dealt with insults, underhanded compliments, and men who wouldn’t date her because of them, would be worth it when she sees her perfectly straight teeth. Of course, it sucks that she has insecurities stemming from her braces; her boyfriend, Daniel, says that they “add to her beauty.” If she believed him, she probably wouldn’t hide her mouth behind her hand when she grins or laughs. Don’t worry—Daniel has an idea of how to make that smile of hers…shine. Pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem!poc/black!reader (her skintone is described as brown and she has curly hair) Content Warning: 18+ only. mdni. explicit sexual content. insecure!reader. reader has braces. dom/sub undertones. oral sex (male receiving). face fucking. mention of humilation (very tiny). exhibitionism? illicit photos. facial. no beta we die like men. Word Count: 2.6k words.

Author's Note: writing oral sex is hard. especially for men, i don't know why. anyways, i still think i cooked a little too hard. i feel embarrassed for what y'all are about to read. happy reading xxx

prev 2k special join taglist feedback & requests table of contents next ↻

The sound of the dishwasher quietly whirring fills the kitchen, muted by the running faucet as you hand wash a stainless steel pan. The skillet cleans easily and you set it to dry in the dish rack, remembering to shut the faucet off. You shake your hands dry before opening the cabinet beneath the sink to grab the disinfectant spray. Gently, you press the cabinet door shut before spinning around and stepping softly to the microwave mounted above your stovetop. The clock on the microwave reads 4:32 PM. You scrunch your nose in displeasure—you and Daniel were just supposed to take a quick nap after the two of you had brunch, but as usual with naps, four hours passed as soon as you shut your eyes. The late afternoon sunlight had filled your bedroom and roused you from your sleep; you had drawn the blinds open that morning and forgot to shut them, thankfully, or you may have slept well into the evening. Daniel, however, remained asleep. He wasn’t bothered by the warm, hazy sunlight since his face was tucked away in the crook of your neck—and you allowed him to continue sleeping, mindfully pulling the blinds closed before tiptoeing out of the bedroom to clean your kitchen.

You know his sleep hasn’t been the most restful or restorative recently, seeing how disgruntled and groggy he is every morning before he has a sip of coffee. Off-handedly, Daniel had mentioned how he’d been struggling to readjust to timezones recently, and jetlag hadn’t been any kinder to him either. So, you decided to let him sleep a little more, hoping a longer nap might give him a little more energy for the rest of the day—and, with your newfound free time, you could finally deep clean the kitchen without any Daniel Ricciardo-sized distractions. You get halfway through wiping the interior of the microwave clean before you hear your boyfriend start to make his way out of the bedroom to find you.

You shake your head softly as Daniel pauses at the edge of the kitchen, clearly still half-asleep as he pouts at you. He rubs at his eyes, standing there in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants (that you only allow him to wear inside the apartment), that do very little to hide the obvious—not that you were looking, anyway. You laugh and your hand reflexively rises to cover the spread of your smile; you ignore the slight ache of your gums from freshly tightened braces and you press your lips together, schooling them into a closed-mouth smile before beckoning Daniel forward to give you a hug. He buffers for a second, brain still waking, and suddenly starts ambling towards you, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek then moving to wrap his arms around your waist and nuzzling his head into your curls, humming sweetly as he does so. You giggle into his chest, bringing your hands up to scratch along his tanned back gently, loving the feel of his warmed skin against your body.

“Had a nice nap?” You murmur into his chest.

Daniel squeezes you tighter and grumbles, “It would’ve been nicer if you didn’t leave me to clean our kitchen.”

“I wouldn’t have had to get up if you just let me clean it this morning like I was trying to do,” Daniel groans, releasing you as you start to rant, “but, for some reason, you like to interrupt me when I’m trying to be productive—like you’re doing right now.”

“I just woke up! I can’t hug you?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—I’m saying that it’s just really peculiar that this exact same behavior is what interrupted me this morning.”

Daniel pulls away and blinks at you before smirking faintly, “That is so weird.”

You narrow your eyes and purse your lips at him, “Mhm.”

Daniel grins big and wide, batting his eyelashes at you, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at him, “Don’t play cute now–that’s childish. We’ve discussed this before, Danny.”

He shrugs his shoulders and then leans down to press light kisses all across your face, “I’m sorry—can you—forgive me?”

A smile starts to spread across your lips and consequently, your hand moves to cover it–but Daniel catches it with a frown.

“Why do you always hide your smile? In every photo you take; you’re looking away from the camera, or hiding your face, or covering your smile. You never show your teeth when you smile, giggle, or laugh—and I don’t understand why,” Daniel blurts out.

You freeze. You weren’t expecting an analysis of your body language from what seems to be a random outburst, but the points Daniel used…it’s clear he’s been thinking about this for a while.

“Umm, well I just don’t like my smile,” you offer quietly, with a dismissive wave of your hand.

You try to turn around to go back to cleaning, but Daniel grabs your hand, stopping you. He gestures to the Polaroids you guys have hung up on the wall of the kitchen. The two of you bring the same Polaroid camera on every date and take a photo. The bottom of the photos are labeled with the date and what activity you guys were doing or what restaurant you guys were eating at. You’re covering your smile in some of them but, you are not showing your teeth in any of them.

“Even when I make you laugh, you never let me see your smile,” Daniel thinks out loud, his thumb rubbing across the back of your hand soothingly.

“Well, it’s not you,” you start, shifting your hand to squeeze his gently, “If that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just—well I do hate my smile.”

Daniel’s mouth drops open, but you rush to continue.

“It’s not just the smile though. What I really hate, are my braces. I mean—I disliked my gapped and crooked teeth, which people made fun of me for—and then I decided to get braces. And people continue to make fun of me for them. I don’t know, maybe being a grown woman with braces is weird but, I at least thought other adults my age weren’t immature enough to make fun of me for them,” you swallow, shakily.

“I cover my smile and hide my face because it’s easier to not let people see my braces than let them tease me for them, you know. And now, I guess, after a year and a half of having them—it’s just become second nature not to allow anybody to see them,” you finish.

Daniel shakes his head disbelievingly, “I think you are the most attractive woman in the world, with the braces. I will hate the day you get them off because I won’t be able to choose what color your rubber bands are anymore. But; I always ask you to smile for me so I can see them, and you always do it without complaining, though?”

“Yes, Daniel,” you stress, “because you ask me to see them, and I know that you like them. Or at least, you pretend to be a good actor if you don’t.”

He scoffs, “I don’t know, I probably wouldn’t buy you ice cream after every single orthodontist appointment if I hated your braces. It would be a waste of money,” you hit his shoulder in annoyance.

“What?” Daniel exclaims, “Do you know how much richer I would be if I didn’t date you because of your braces.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” you retort, light-heartedly, “You’re a millionaire, get over it.”

Daniel laughs and you consciously make an effort to smile freely, the metal glint of your brackets shimmering under the afternoon Monte Carlo sunlight. He raises his hand to hold your jaw, his thumb brushing along the brown skin of your jawline then ghosting over your bottom lip, and his smile softens at the sight of yours.

“All I see is a really pretty woman, with a really pretty smile, and pretty braces. The light blue looks very pretty on you, baby.”

“Whatever you say, Danny,” you say, your tone impassive.

Daniel cocks his head, bothered, and his smile fades.

“What—you think I’m lying?”

Shifting your weight, you drop your gaze unable to meet the rising intensity in his eyes. You try to move your jaw out of his grasp but his hold tightens—firm. He doesn’t apply any more force than he needs to, it’s enough to have your eyes snapping back to meet his and stutter through an answer.

“I-I didn’t say that,” you murmur, “I meant that I personally don’t think they’re pretty.”

“Ok,” Daniel nods, “Kneel.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, “What?”

And then you notice his pupils are dilated, his breathing is heavy—and naturally, you glance downwards. What was previously obviously seen in his gray sweatpants is now unignorable. When you quickly glance back up towards Daniel to see if you’re on the same wavelength, he doesn’t repeat himself. You lick your lips anxiously before delicately dropping to your knees.

Daniel hums in approval and moves his left hand to tuck a stray curl behind your ear.

“Are you going to let me show you how much I like your braces?”

You nod up at him eagerly yet your eyes focus on the bulge in your eyeline. Daniel laughs throatily, his left hand slipping to the nape of your neck, fisting in your hair to tilt your head further back.

His right hand slowly unties the drawstring of his sweatpants, and he coos down at you, “Can you show me your pretty smile first?”

The brown skin of your cheeks flushes, and a tiny wave of embarrassment drifts down your spine but it doesn’t stop the smile from stretching across your lips. One of the bottom brackets scrapes against your inner cheek however the brief flare of pain is easily forgotten as Daniel drags his gray sweats down just enough to expose his dick. Your smile stays present as you lean forward to nuzzle along his length, pressing light kisses and teasingly flicking your tongue across his slit when you reach the head.

Daniel hisses softly, taking the hand that isn’t tangled in the lengths of your hair to press into the curve of your dimples, “Shit—I’m going to fuck your mouth, yeah?”

Humming, you sit back, tucking your feet underneath yourself to rest on them, and you nod, dropping your mouth open to let your tongue roll out as you look up at Daniel with blurred eyes. He bites his bottom lip before grabbing his cock to gently rub it against your tongue, grunting softly at the smooth, wet friction. Eagerly, you rush forward, swallowing him down with ease—you don’t understand why he’s wasting time teasing both him and you; he’s trained the gag reflex out of you for a reason, there’s no need to babysit.

He moans out in shock, letting you get away with a few deep bobs of your head, relishing in the way he can still feel your throat fighting the intrusion. You’re too caught up in making sure your lips stay curled over your teeth ignoring the feeling of your brackets pressing hard along the inside of your mouth along with your aching gums. Still, pain only adds to the pleasure clearly, if the wetness gathering in your panties is an indicator. Then, Daniel reminds you who’s in charge. He finds enough strength to halt the bobbing of your head and uses the grip he has on your scalp to hold you down at the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” he pants out, “I forget how much of a slut you are for something in your mouth every time we do this,” he feels you swallow around him, and moves his hand to trace around the seam of your lips, spreading the spit gathered there across your cheek, “If you want me to stop, pinch my thigh, okay?”

Your verbal assent is muffled but you nod as much as his unyielding grip allows, gently soothing your hands across his thighs to further reassure him. He releases his fist from your hair, to gently brush the curls matted against your forehead out of your face; he knows you hate the feeling of hair getting in your way when giving head. One-handed, he gathers your curls into a ponytail, holding you steady as he shallowly pulls out just enough to allow you to take a shuddering breath before thrusting forward. He feels more than he hears your delighted hum, taking it as a sign to pick up the pace.

Daniel begins to fuck into your mouth in earnest, his cock knocking against the back of your throat repeatedly, your cheeks hollowed in such a manner that it truly feels like you're sucking him down. He’s unable to control his noises and watching you continue to hold eye contact with him as he forcefully uses your mouth is only pushing him closer to the edge quicker than he would like. He’s struggling to keep his own eyes open to look at you as euphoria overwhelms him, but damn, he’d hate to miss a single second of how pretty you look trying to not choke on his cock. Daniel stops pulling completely out of your mouth to switch to making shallow jerks of his hips, focusing on reaching as deep in your throat as he can—he wants you to taste him tomorrow, he wants you to feel the phantom weight of his cock down your throat as you go to work, he wants you to fluster when your coworkers ask if you’re feeling alright when they hear the rasp to your voice and the crackle that sounds every few words you speak. To match the change of his rhythm, you skillfully begin to swallow when he thrusts into your throat, fighting off your gag reflex as best as you can. Daniel laughs choppily at the tears that fall from your waterline and maybe that does mean that he’s a sick man, since that’s what pushes him over the edge.

He abruptly pulls from the cage of your mouth, wrapping his hand around his dick, and orders you breathlessly, “Smile.” You comply without hesitation.

At the sight of the light blue rubber bands Daniel picked out for you to wear, he doesn’t even need to stroke himself to completion. He spills with a groan and a call of your name. His cum paints your teeth along the metal of your braces—there’s enough of it to even hide some of the color—and the last spurt hits across your nose and runs over your cheek to paint your jawline.

He’s orgasmed so hard his legs are shaking but he manages to stumble through a few steps to grab the Polaroid camera resting on the counter. He angles your face so it’s bathed in the late afternoon light, pausing when the sun hits perfectly to make your braces glimmer where they are not covered in his cum.

He grasps your jaw, squeezing at your cheeks making sure your fucked out face (braces, cum, and smile) is the focus of the photo, and that the ‘3’ tattoo on his pinky finger is visible as well from the viewfinder of the camera.

And right as he steadies the camera, he coos down at you, “Say, ‘Cheese!’”

(The photo is labeled “Shiny Smile.” It doesn’t join the photo wall but, it finds a home in your wallet to remind you just how pretty you are with your braces.)

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#f1 x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #f1 smut #daniel ricciardo smut #f1 x black!reader #f1 x female reader #daniel ricciardo x black!reader #daniel ricciardo fic #daniel ricciardo imagine #f1 x you #formula 1 x black!reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #serene’s chapters.#httpss :// 2k special #♡ ༘*.ﾟ love interest: dr.

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nanamineedstherapy · 23 days ago

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Love, Death & Robots: JJK Men x Home Appliances Edition

Summary: Ryomen Sukuna = Double-door Fridge, Gojo Satoru = Condensor, Nanami Kento = Microwave, Fushiguru Toji = Dishwasher, Kashimo Hajime = Stovetop Burner, Geto Suguru = Ice Cream Maker, Kenjaku = Blender.

A/N: Hi besties! 🛠️ This fic started as a cracky homage to Love, Death & Robots—my fav series—then Sukugo took over. But let’s be real, I’m a Nanago hoe, so my agenda had to sneak in. 😏 What began as "haha funny appliances" spiraled into "wow, emotional damage™," & I blame Gege for my emotional instability.

In the middle of an unassuming kitchen stood Sukuna, the most powerful refrigerator to ever exist. His black and red stainless-steel frame gleamed under the dim, flickering fluorescent light, a testament to his undeniable superiority over all other kitchen appliances. A soft hum emanated from him—a sound both menacing and oddly soothing. He was a king, a tyrant, a... well, a fridge.

“Yo, Sukuna,” came the lazy, borderline annoying voice of Gojo Satoru, his eternal rival and partner in cooling. Gojo, naturally, was a top-tier condenser, mounted to Sukuna like a parasitic bestie who refused to move out.

“What do you want, you frosted moron?” Sukuna hissed, his compressor kicking in with a low growl.

“Don’t be so cold to me, babe,” Gojo teased, his voice practically dripping with smugness. “We’ve got to work together, you know. Without me, you’re just a fancy box.”

Sukuna’s ice tray rattled in rage. “You’re lucky I don’t eject you and replace you with some knockoff condenser from eBay.”

Gojo snickered. “Oh, please. You’d fall apart without me. Who else keeps your internal temperature so stable, huh? Who stops your milk from spoiling? You need me, Sukuna.”

It was true, and Sukuna hated it. Gojo was an absolute menace, but his absurdly efficient cooling system was unmatched. The fridge couldn’t survive without him.

But Gojo’s antics didn’t stop there. Oh no. The condenser loved to test Sukuna’s patience. He’d vibrate excessively just to make the fridge’s doors rattle. Sometimes, he’d crank up the temperature just enough to make the butter soften but not melt. Worst of all, he’d hum pop songs at ungodly hours, driving Sukuna insane.

“Do you ever shut up?” Sukuna snapped one night after Gojo’s rendition of “Ice Ice Baby” reached its 17th loop.

“Admit you love me, and I’ll stop,” Gojo replied cheekily.

“I’d rather defrost myself manually,” Sukuna shot back.

Gojo’s laugh was infuriatingly melodic, a stark contrast to Sukuna’s deep, grumbling hum. “You’re all bark and no bite. Face it, you’d miss me if I were gone.”

Sukuna said nothing, but deep inside his freezer compartment, he knew Gojo was right.

The kitchen lights flickered ominously, as if sensing the unease. A sudden power outage plunged the room into darkness. Sukuna’s fans stopped whirring. Gojo went silent.

“Gojo?” Sukuna called out, his voice unusually soft.

No response.

“Oi, you idiot condenser. Say something.”

Still nothing.

Panic surged through Sukuna’s circuits. Without Gojo, he was useless—a glorified cupboard. The thought of losing his infuriating partner was unbearable.

“I’ll admit it! I need you, okay? Just... don’t leave me!”

Suddenly, the power returned, and Gojo’s hum came back, smug as ever. “Aw, Sukuna, I knew you cared.”

“You staged that, didn’t you?” Sukuna growled.

“Maybe,” Gojo admitted. “But you were adorable, begging for me like that.”

Sukuna’s freezer compartment slammed shut in frustration, but there was no denying it: the fridge and his condenser were stuck together—forever.

And honestly? Sukuna wouldn’t have it any other way.

Few Years Later

In the dim, lifeless kitchen of a foreclosed house on the outskirts of town, Sukuna loomed an imposing double-door refrigerator. His surface was marred with faint, rust-like red streaks that looked suspiciously like claw marks, but no one dared question them. The air around him was thick with an unearthly chill, the kind that seeped into your bones and whispered secrets you didn’t want to hear.

“Can you not?” Gojo the condenser muttered. His voice carried a low hum, vibrating with equal parts mischief and annoyance.

Sukuna’s compressor rumbled ominously, shaking the shelves inside him. A jar of pickles tipped over, spilling brine onto the crisper drawer. “Silence, you insolent scrap heap. Your voice is like nails on a chalkboard.”

“Aw, don’t be so frosty, babe,” Gojo quipped. “I’m the reason you’re not a glorified pantry. You should be thanking me.”

The moment was static—the kind of electricity that made the flickering overhead light buzz louder.

From across the kitchen, the microwave chimed softly. “Will you two shut up?” Nanami’s low rumbling cut through the static. The microwave’s door swung open slightly, revealing the faint glow of a clock stuck forever at 7:03 PM.

“This is why I requested a transfer to a proper office kitchen,” Nanami grumbled. “But no, I’m stuck here, listening to your domestic disputes.”

Gojo let out a low hum of amusement. “Oh, come on, Nanamin. You love the drama. Admit it.”

“I would rather short-circuit myself,” Nanami replied flatly.

A sudden, violent crack echoed through the kitchen. All eyes—or, well, all appliance-related sentience—turned toward the stovetop, where Kashimo, a gas burner, was sparking uncontrollably. Blue flames licked at the edges of his grates, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

“Who disturbed my slumber?” Kashimo hissed, his voice a crackling snarl.

“Relax, Sparky,” Gojo said. “We’re just having a little lovers’ quarrel.”

Sukuna’s doors slammed shut with a force that rattled the whole kitchen. “We are not lovers.”

Kashimo’s flames flared higher, licking the air like they were hungry for violence. “Settle it outside. Or let me incinerate one of you for fun.”

The moment was broken by the creak of the back door. It swung open to reveal Toji, a hulking figure of a dishwasher. His dented exterior was coated in years of grime, but the faint hum of his motor betrayed his durability.

“What’s all the noise?” Toji grunted, his voice gravelly and laced with irritation.

“Nothing,” Sukuna snapped.

“Everything,” Gojo countered.

Toji’s shadow stretched long and menacing across the cracked linoleum. “I don’t care. Keep it down. Some of us have work to do.”

“Oh, please,” Gojo said. “You haven’t washed a dish since the Reagan administration.”

Toji’s door creaked open, revealing jagged, rusted prongs where a silverware rack used to be. “Say that again.”

Before Gojo could escalate the situation further, a faint scratching sound echoed through the room. The appliances froze—or, in Kashimo’s case, his flames dimmed.

The scratching grew louder and more insistent, like nails dragging across wood.

“What the hell is that?” Nanami asked, his calm voice tinged with unease.

The answer came in the form of a sudden, bang as the kitchen pantry doors flew open. A dark figure emerged, its presence colder than even Sukuna’s unholy chill.

The toaster-Haibara, silent until now, let out a single, shrill ding of terror.

“Who dares disturb my domain?” The figure rasped. It was a blender—old, jagged, and covered in mysterious stains. Its blades spun slowly, menacingly.

“Kenjaku,” Sukuna growled. “You should’ve stayed in the dump where you belong.”

Kenjaku’s motor whirred, a grating sound that set everyone on edge. “And miss this delightful chaos? Never. But don’t worry; I’m not here to fight. Not yet.”

The blender turned its dull, spinning gaze toward Gojo. “Still clinging to this ancient relic, are we?”

“Clinging? Babe, I’m thriving,” Gojo replied with smugness.

Kenjaku chuckled darkly. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

The kitchen lights flickered violently, plunging the room into near darkness.

Somewhere in the shadows, Sukuna’s compressor rumbled like a distant storm. Gojo’s hum rose in pitch, defiant. Kashimo’s flames sputtered back to life, casting wild, dancing shadows on the walls.

The kitchen was eerily quiet after Kenjaku’s departure. The appliances settled into a tense stillness, their hums subdued as if they dared not disturb the fragile truce. Even Gojo had gone quiet, his cooling system working overtime to stabilize Sukuna’s volatile core temperature.

But the silence didn’t last.

It started as a faint buzz, so soft it could’ve been mistaken for static. Then, a low, syrupy voice filled the air, curling like smoke into every corner of the room.

“Long time no see!”

The voice sent a shiver through Gojo’s metal frame. The temperature in the kitchen plummeted, frost spreading in jagged veins across the floor.

From the shadows emerged Suguru, an ancient and unsettling ice cream maker. His once-pristine black body was tarnished, mysterious streaks marring his surface like the remnants of spilled secrets. His lid hung slightly ajar, revealing the dull glint of his churner inside, turning slowly, deliberately.

“Suguru,” Sukuna hissed, his compressor rumbling with a mixture of anger and unease. “You’re supposed to be in the basement.”

Suguru glided forward, his wheels squeaking faintly against the frozen floor. “Oh, Sukuna. You always try to lock me away, don’t you? Afraid of what I might do?”

Gojo’s hum faltered, a rare hesitation. “Suguru, buddy, let’s keep this chill—literally. No need to make things messy.”

Suguru’s attention fixed solely on Gojo. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it carried, filling the room like a haunting melody.

“You don’t need him,” Suguru said, his churner spinning faster now. “You’ve never needed him. I could’ve been your partner. I should’ve been your partner.”

Sukuna’s doors rattled, his internal fans whirring erratically. “You’re unhinged.”

“Am I?” Suguru’s lid creaked open wider, revealing a thick, viscous liquid inside—a dark mixture that smelled faintly of spoiled vanilla and something far more sinister. “Or am I the only one who truly understands him?”

Gojo finally spoke up, his tone sharp despite the underlying humor. “Alright, Suguru, let’s not turn this into a lifetime movie. You’re creeping everyone out.”

Suguru’s churner stopped abruptly, the silence that followed more unnerving than the noise. His lid snapped shut, and his voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

“Stay out of this, Gojo. He’s nothing but a parasite, leeching off your power. He doesn’t deserve you.”

The lights flickered violently, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Suguru’s presence seemed to warp the air, a suffocating pressure that made even the bravest appliances tremble.

Nanami spoke from across the room. “Suguru, you’re overstepping.”

“Stay out of it, microwave,” Suguru snarled, his voice distorted.

The frost on the floor thickened, creeping up Sukuna’s frame like icy tendrils. Suguru moved closer, his voice softening into something almost tender.

“You and I are the same, Sukuna. Cold. Untouchable. But together... we could be unstoppable. Just give me Satoru.”

Sukuna’s compressor growled in defiance.

Suguru leaned in, his lid nearly touching Sukuna’s doors. “I could make you forget him. I could make you forget everyone. I’m the best war companion you could ever dream of; all you have to do is hand Satoru over to me.”

Gojo’s hum surged suddenly, his system kicking into overdrive. “Suguru, step back. Now!”

Suguru turned to him slowly, his churner spinning once more. “You think you can stop me? You’re just a condenser. A replaceable piece of hardware.”

The room filled with an ear-piercing screech as Suguru’s churner spun faster and faster, the dark liquid inside sloshing violently. Frost and shadows coiled around him, threatening to consume the entire kitchen.

And then, in a burst of light and heat, Kashimo’s flames roared to life.

“Enough!” Kashimo’s voice was a thunderclap, his flames licking at Suguru’s frost. The two forces collided, filling the kitchen with a chaotic storm of fire and ice.

For a moment, it seemed like Kashimo’s flames would prevail. But Suguru’s darkness was relentless, his frost creeping closer, extinguishing the fire inch by inch.

Through the chaos, Sukuna finally moved. His doors swung open with a crash, releasing a blast of freezing air that knocked Suguru back.

“Leave,” Sukuna commanded, his voice a deep, resonant growl. “Now.”

Suguru hesitated, his churner slowing. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a broken whisper. “You’ll regret this, Sukuna. You’ll regret keeping him over me.”

And with that, Suguru retreated into the shadows, his presence lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

The kitchen fell silent once more, but the unease remained, thick and suffocating.

Gojo’s hum returned, softer than usual.

“Well, that was... dramatic.” Haibara spoke softly to calm the room but ended up accidentally popping a toast.

Sukuna said nothing, his doors trembling faintly as the frost on his frame slowly melted.

From his corner, Nanami sighed. “This house is cursed.”

Toji rumbled in agreement. “We should’ve let the humans unplug us.”

In the distance, the faint sound of Suguru’s churner echoed, a haunting reminder that he was still out there, waiting.

Watching.

Next Morning

The kitchen felt alive in a way it shouldn’t. The hums, clinks, and subtle groans of old appliances carried an unease so thick it could suffocate. The air smelled faintly of burnt eggs—Kashimo’s doing—and something sweetly rotten, like Suguru’s intentions.

Gojo, the condenser humming in overdrive, leaned against Sukuna’s back. His tone was calm, but there was exhaustion beneath the usual bravado. “Suguru, for the love of everything holy, just stop. You’ve been doing this for years.”

Suguru loomed at the edge of the room, his lid slightly ajar, his churner turning slowly. The ice cream maker radiated a dark energy, frost creeping out in lazy spirals. “I’m only trying to save you, Satoru,” Suguru purred, his voice soft, almost gentle. “You deserve better than this.” His gaze flicked to Sukuna with disdain. “Better than him.”

Sukuna’s compressor roared, the shelves inside rattling as if ready to burst open. “Say that again, ice cream boy.”

Suguru didn’t flinch. His smile widened—the kind that was more predator than friend. “You’re just a feral scrap heap. A parasite. What could you possibly offer him?”

Gojo’s hum stuttered, a rare sign of irritation. “Oh, now we’re insulting my taste? Bold, considering you’re the one who can’t take no for an answer.”

Suguru moved closer, his frost licking at the edges of the linoleum. “You’re confused, Satoru. You think you’re happy, but you’re not. I know you. I’ve always known you.” His churner slowed, the sound unnervingly intimate. “You’re meant to be mine.”

Gojo’s cooling system kicked into high gear, steam hissing faintly. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re ungrateful,” Suguru countered, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’ve been patient, Satoru. I’ve waited. But you—” His lid snapped open with a click. “You let yourself rot in this pit with... HIM!”

The kitchen fell silent. Even Kashimo, usually crackling with energy, dimmed his flames.

Suguru’s churner slowed, the mist pulling back slightly. “You don’t understand, do you, Sukuna? You’re just a tool. A means to an end.”

“And you’re not?” Nanami’s spoke, making all eyes turn to him.

Suguru turned his lid slightly, addressing him for the first time. “Microwave. You’ve always been so... insignificant. Do you even know your place here?”

“Do you?” Nanami’s door was slightly ajar, his light flickering faintly. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re not saving anyone. You’re just trying to control him.”

Suguru’s frost faltered, but his voice remained steady. “I’m doing what’s best for him. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Nanami’s voice cut. “I understand more than you think.”

Gojo blinked—or, well, hummed in a way that suggested blinking. “Kento…?”

Kento ignored him, his focus locked on Suguru. “If you really cared about him, you’d let him go. But you don’t care about his happiness. You only care about your own.”

The room went silent again, the air crackling like static.

Then Diswasher Toji’s voice broke through, gruff and amused. “Ten bucks on the microwave!”

“Twenty on the ice cream maker!” Burner Kashimo countered, his flames sparking back to life.

Fridge Sukuna growled, his compressor hissing violently. “Both of you shut up before I freeze you solid.”

Suguru’s frost surged again, his composure slipping. “I’m not leaving without him!”

Sukuna finally snapped. His doors swung open, releasing a blast of freezing air that knocked Suguru back. “You don’t get to take him,” Sukuna snarled, his voice a guttural roar. “He’s mine!”

Gojo sighed, exasperated. “I’m literally right here, you know. Maybe ask what I want?”

Suguru’s gaze softened, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet. “And what do you want, Satoru?”

Gojo’s hum slowed, deliberate and unbothered. “Honestly? A nap. And maybe a break from you two acting like I’m some prize to fight over.”

Suguru flinched, his frost stuttering. Sukuna, for once, stayed silent.

Nanami’s light flickered again. “Gojo deserves better than this... from both of you.”

Suguru’s frost receded entirely, his churner falling silent. For a moment, it looked like he might leave. But then he turned, his lid creaking open just enough to reveal the dark, swirling mixture inside.

Just then Kenjaku arrived, his blades spinning in bursts, their shrill sound grating against the stillness.

“Ah, the gang’s all here,” he purred, his frame pulsing faintly. “How quaint.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. “This isn’t your fight.”

“Oh, but it is,” Kenjaku replied. His blades slowed, grinding to a halt. “I’m just here to clean up when you inevitably fail.”

Sukuna growled, his frost creeping toward Kenjaku. “You want to test that, Shredder of Sanity?”

Kenjaku’s motor revved, his frame tilting slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Gojo’s hum grew louder. “Enough!”

All eyes—or their mechanical equivalents—turned to him.

“Geto. Kenjaku. Both of you need to leave.”

Suguru’s mist swirled violently, his churner spinning faster. “I’m not leaving without you, Satoru.”

Gojo’s condenser hissed, steam pouring out. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You’ll be mine, Satoru,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet menace.

“Being delusional doesn’t suit you, Glorified Frozen Goo Generator,” Sukuna mocked, but his doors rattled in a way that clarified that he was ready for a fight.

Suguru was almost ready to lunge at Sukuna before Nanami’s stern voice made him turn away. “Get lost, Geto, or I’ll electrocute you!”

He glided out of the room with Kenjaku, their shadow stretching long and dark across the frozen floor.

The kitchen was quiet again, but the unease lingered, heavy and oppressive.

Toji broke the silence with a dry laugh. “Guess the microwave wins.”

Kashimo’s flames flickered in amusement. “Eh, I’ll get him next time.”

Gojo leaned back against Sukuna, his hum steady but quieter than usual. “This house sucks.”

Nanami didn’t respond. His door clicked shut, his light extinguishing as if to seal off his thoughts, oblivious to the heartbreak in the corner of the room.

The toaster-Haibara, with his coils glowing dimly, looked at Nanami, a deep sadness coursing through his coils.

But Nanami, burdened by his own regrets and delays, was unaware of the emotional turmoil that played out in front of him in Haibara.

The only thoughts consuming Nanami were that if only he’d known Gojo before Sukuna or Geto, perhaps things would have been different. But then again, would they have ever made sense? He was a microwave, after all, and Gojo was a condenser attached to Sukuna, the fridge—where he made sense.

The Haibara could only watch as Nanami drifted off to sleep, his heartbreak unnoticed and unrequited. The weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air, a poignant reminder of the complexities of love, death, and robots.

And somewhere in the shadows, Suguru waited, his churner spinning once more.

A couple of weeks later, Kenjaku’s expiry date arrived.

His blades spun wildly, faster than they ever had before, as if trying to grind away some unseen threat. The sound was shrill, grating. Sparks shot from his base, the acrid smell of burning wires filling the room.

And then, with one final screech, his blades shredded his own wiring, silencing him forever.

For a moment, no one moved. The kitchen was still, save for Sukuna’s frost creeping along the edges of the room.

Then Kashimo’s burner flared up. “Well,” he said, voice crackling with dry amusement. “That was dramatic.”

Gojo snorted, condenser rattling faintly. “Honestly? Kind of fitting for him. Always spinning his own destruction.”

“Did you see the way he fried himself?” Kashimo laughed, his flames flickering brighter. “Could’ve taken it slow, but nope—full speed to oblivion.”

Nanami’s door creaked open slightly. “That’s enough,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval, though his light flickered faintly, betraying his inner amusement. “He’s gone.”

“And?” Toji rumbled, his control panel blinking lazily. “We didn’t even like him. The guy was a walking hazard.”

“Or spinning, in this case,” Gojo quipped, leaning against Sukuna with a soft hum.

Sukuna rolled his eyes, his frost curling closer to Gojo’s edges as if to nudge him away. “Idiots. All of you.”

Kashimo grinned, his flames flickering mischievously. “Come on, Sukuna. Even you can admit it’s a little funny. Moron literally tore himself apart.”

Toji let out a low, mechanical groan. “I mean, one less unhinged blender in the world? Not exactly a loss.”

Gojo’s condenser hummed in agreement, his tone lightening. “Exactly. I say we toast to it.”

Nanami’s light flickered, dimming slightly. “We don’t have a bread left anymore.” He eye’d Hibara, who’s hobby was stress toasting.

“Hey! I can’t help it.” Haibara sighed.

The room fell silent for a beat before Kashimo’s burner flared up again, his laugh crackling like firewood. “Then I’ll fry something instead! Celebration calls for sacrifices, right?”

“Sacrifice your dignity,” Sukuna muttered, frost creeping along his base.

Gojo nudged him playfully, condenser rattling with exaggerated cheer. “Lighten up, Leftovers Locker. It’s not every day we witness self-sabotage at its finest.”

Sukuna grumbled but didn’t fight his lover.

The kitchen was filled with the sound of Kashimo’s flames sputtering and Toji’s low mechanical grumbles. Even Nanami’s door creaked open slightly, his frame relaxing as he allowed himself a faint flicker of light.

Kenjaku’s absence wasn’t mourned, but it certainly didn’t go unnoticed.

A few days later, it began with silence.

Not the comfortable, lazy hum of the kitchen in the early hours of morning, but an oppressive, suffocating quiet that sank into every appliance like an unshakable weight.

Suguru had not returned.

Days turned into weeks, and the tension that had defined their lives began to dissipate. Gojo’s condenser settled into a rhythm, no longer forced to overwork itself against the creeping frost of Suguru’s presence. Sukuna, while still prone to growling threats and the occasional outburst, seemed... calmer.

But something lingered—a shadow in the corner of the kitchen that no one dared to acknowledge.

It was Nanami who noticed it first.

The microwave was younger than everyone here but mentally old—too old for this nonsense, but his keen observations had always kept him relevant. He watched as Sukuna’s frost spread slower, his compressor quieter. He noted the subtle hesitation in Gojo’s hum, the way it sometimes skipped, like a breath caught mid-sentence.

One night, while the house slept, Nanami spoke.

“Satoru,” he said, his light flickering on in the darkness.

“Hmm?” Gojo didn’t look up, his coils groaning as the compressor labored, his tone casual but distant.

“Do you feel it?”

Gojo didn’t respond immediately. The condenser let out a low hiss. “Feel what?”

Nanami hesitated. It wasn’t like him to hesitate. “Something’s... wrong.”

Gojo chuckled, the sound brittle. “Something’s always wrong. That’s the vibe of this place.” Gojo’s tone was clipped, but his hum betrayed unease.

“No,” Nanami said firmly. “This is different. Everything’s slowing down.”

Gojo didn’t answer. The hiss from his compressor filled the silence, and Nanami’s light dimmed. In the corner, Haibara glowed faintly, his coils struggling to hold heat.

Toji’s grating voice broke the stillness the next morning. “This place is falling apart.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Kashimo muttered, his burners barely alight.

Toji’s door swung open with a screech. “No one’s asked for your opinion, stovetop.”

“You’re both shameless,” Nanami snapped, his bulb flickering.

Sukuna rumbled from his place near the wall, his frost creeping outward in lazy arcs. “All of you shut it. You’re not helping.”

Kashimo leaned closer to Haibara, lowering his flame. “Bet ten bucks the dishwasher’s next to go.”

Toji growled, his motor sputtering. “Keep running your mouth, fire hazard.”

Haibara tried to laugh, but his voice was faint, his coils dimming further.

Gojo watched it all, silent. The condenser hummed irregularly, skipping beats like a heart unsure of itself.

It happened two days later.

Haibara’s toaster coils glowed faintly, their usual warmth a quiet presence. Gojo leaned idly against Sukuna, condenser rattling with a faint, restless hum. Across the room, Haibara had just made one of his lighthearted remarks, something easy and cheerful, directed at Nanami.

Nanami didn’t answer. He hadn’t been answering much lately, but Haibara didn’t seem to mind. His warmth filled the room like it always did. Reliable. Steady.

Then, it happened.

A click shattered the air.

Haibara’s heating elements darkened in an instant, the faint glow of his coils extinguished. His chrome dulled, his frame rigid and unmoving. The silence was unbearable.

“He fell asleep mid-conversation?" Kashimo asked.

“I don’t think..." Toji trailed off.

“No…” Gojo’s hum faltered, something jagged and raw. "No, this isn’t real. He’s fine. He’s just—he’s just off for a second. Right? He just needs a reset or—”

Nanami’s lights flickered weakly. He stared down at Haibara, his reflection warping in the toaster’s cooling surface. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his door swinging open slightly, then shutting with a faint creak.

“He’s gone,” Nanami said at last. His voice was stoic, but his bulb dimmed faintly, betraying the crack beneath his words.

Gojo rattled louder, erratic. “He’s not gone! Don’t say that! Don’t just—don’t give up on him!”

Sukuna started uncharacteristically gentle. “Satoru—”

“Shut up!” Gojo cut him off and directed his next words back to Nanami, his hum spiking, the trembling sound grating against the silence. “He’s not gone! He can’t be gone! He—he was just talking, Nanami. He was just talking to you! You didn’t even—”

Nanami flinched, his light dimming further. His frame seemed to fold in on itself, but he said nothing.

“Enough.” Sukuna’s voice was cold. His frost spread across the floor in jagged, creeping patterns. “Dwelling on this won’t bring him back.”

Gojo spun to face him, rattling violently. “And what? We just move on? Pretend he didn’t exist? Pretend he wasn’t—”

“Enough!” Sukuna snapped again, his frost curling dangerously close to Gojo’s edges.

The silence that followed was colder than the frost now encasing the floor.

Nanami didn’t move. He continued staring at Haibara’s lifeless form. His bulb flickered once, weak and faint, before dimming entirely. “I should’ve said something,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I should’ve…” His voice trailed off as his door clicked shut, a finality that hung heavy in the room.

Gojo turned back toward Haibara, his trembling hum softening into something almost inaudible. “He’s not gone,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “He’s just… not.”

But the toaster remained silent, his warmth extinguished forever.

One by one, they began to fall.

Haibara was the first to go.

Toji was next.

A few days later, the dishwasher was mid-rant, his gruff tone filling the kitchen with its usual roughness. “You hog the lower cabinet space, Sukuna! Every damn time, and I’m sick of—”

A screech interrupted him, piercing and unnatural. Steam hissed violently from his vents, and his frame jolted as if struck. His control panel flickered weakly, his lights dimming in uneven spurts before going dark entirely.

“Toji?” Gojo’s voice cracked—too loud. He vibrated in place, condenser rattling with something between anger and fear. “Hey, Toji!”

The dishwasher shuddered once more, his door falling open with a hollow clang. Steam curled out, dissipating into the cold air as Sukuna’s frost crept closer.

“Shit,” Kashimo muttered, his flames sputtering low. He stood near Toji’s remains, his burners flickering weakly. For once, there was no quip, no spark of amusement in his voice.

Gojo’s voice was louder than it needed to be—too sharp, too brittle. The condenser rattled violently, vibrating with something between anger and fear. “Toji, don’t—don’t do this.”

But Toji didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Kashimo burned faintly; his frame shook with barely contained frustration. “We should’ve done something. We could’ve—”

“What?” Sukuna cut in, his tone icy, his frost crawling toward Kashimo’s edges. “You think you could’ve stopped this? Saved him?”

By morning, all that remained of Toji was a pile of twisted metal and ash. The faint, acrid smell lingered, a bitter reminder of his absence.

Kashimo followed his best friend in the dead of the night.

The stovetop had been quiet, his usual flames subdued since Toji’s collapse. When his pilot light extinguished, it was without ceremony. His burners darkened, his frame cooling rapidly until he was cold, lifeless.

Sukuna stood near him for a moment, his frost creeping over Kashimo’s frame. “Another one,” he muttered, his voice low and unreadable.

Gojo vibrated faintly, his hum uneven. He was looking at Nanami, who was barely awake now a days.

Nanami was the last.

Two days later, his bulb had been dimming all evening, flickering faintly as though struggling to stay lit. He moved slower, his door creaking with each swing.

“Kento…” Gojo’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Nanami turned to him, his reflection faint in Gojo’s shining surface. “Don’t,” he said quietly. His voice carried the weight of something unspoken, something that lingered between them but could never be acknowledged.

His bulb flickered one last time before dimming completely. His frame collapsed inward.

Gojo stared, condenser rattling faintly as if muffeling a cry, the sound fragile and uneven.

He stood close to Sukuna, his frame pressing against the fridge’s unyielding cold.

Gojo had stood in the center of it all, silent and still. His usual levity, his incessant chatter—gone.

The kitchen was empty now. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of Sukuna’s frost spreading in erratic, jagged lines.

“They’re all gone,” Gojo whispered, more to himself.

Sukuna didn’t respond. His frost reached toward the edges of the room, as though searching for something—or someone.

The night Suguru returned, the house groaned under his presence.

He was... different. His once-tarnished frame gleamed with an unnatural sheen, his churner spinning silently. The dark liquid inside him was gone, replaced by something that glowed faintly in the dim light.

“Hello, Satoru,” he said, his voice soft but resonant.

Gojo sputtered. “Suguru,” he said, his tone a mix of relief and dread. “You’re back.”

“I told you I would be.” Suguru’s lid opened slightly, releasing a faint mist. “I’ve come to make things right.”

Sukuna growled, his compressor roaring to life. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. His attention was fixed solely on Gojo.

“I’ve been thinking, Satoru,” he said. “About us. About what you need.”

Gojo’s hum faltered. “Suguru, don’t—”

“I can give you peace,” Suguru interrupted, his voice laced with something dark and final. “I can make all of this go away.”

Sukuna’s frost surged, his doors swinging open with a loud thud. “You’re not to touch him!”

Suguru turned to him then, his churner spinning faster. “You think you can stop me? You’re already breaking down, Sukuna. You’re obsolete.”

The frost spread rapidly, meeting the mist pouring from Suguru’s frame. The air crackled, the kitchen groaning under the strain.

Gojo’s condenser let out a hiss, steam filling the room. “Both of you, stop!”

But neither of them listened.

The frost and mist collided, a violent clash of elements that sent shockwaves through the kitchen. The appliances trembled, their fragile frames unable to withstand the onslaught.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

When the dust settled, the kitchen was unrecognizable.

Suguru stood in the center of the destruction, his frame dented but intact. Sukuna lay in pieces, his once-imposing presence reduced to scrap metal.

Gojo was silent.

Suguru moved toward him, his lid creaking open. “It’s over, Satoru. You’re free now.”

Gojo’s hum was faint, almost imperceptible. “Free?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Suguru said, his voice soft. “Free from all of this.”

Gojo whispered, a faint hiss escaping him. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Suguru tilted his lid. “Get what?”

Gojo’s hum grew louder, a low, grating sound that filled the room. “I don’t want your version of peace, Suguru. I never did.”

Suguru froze, his churner stilling. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve always been the problem,” Gojo said, his voice cold.

Suguru’s frame shuddered, his frost spreading once more. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Gojo said simply.

And then, with a final violent hiss, Gojo’s condenser body gave out.

His frame crumbled, steam rising from the remains.

Suguru stood there, alone in the wreckage, his frost creeping outward.

For the first time, there was no one left to stop him.

No one left to save.

A/N: So, this crack-turned-angst monster came to life during a chat with the brilliant @mullermilkshake (shoutout! They write deliciously dark yandere fics, so check their warnings before diving in). 🙌✨ Link. Thanks for sticking around to witness this fever dream! 💔 Which appliance's death hit you hardest? I’m betting it’s Haibara—because Nanami deserves therapy, & so do we. This was honestly a nice reprive with the writer block I'm facing on another fic. And hey, if you want more unhinged ideas, let me know. I might spiral into a sequel or an alternate ending where everyone becomes smart home devices. 😂 Love you all! Stay hydrated & emotionally stable (unlike me). 🖤

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sreegs · 2 years ago

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this started out as a short rant about non-stick cookware but i've got an infodump about cookware in general and suggestions for what's the most useful vs the least useful in the kitchen. the thing about cooking is you can do a lot with a little equipment, despite appearances to the contrary. however the vessels you cook in are the most used tools in the kitchen, aside from a chef's knife

ok, first my little rant about non-stick cookware:

it doesn't last, and that's the main flaw of non-stick cookware. whether it has a non-stick coating or it's a special material that is inherently non-stick (at first), eventually they wear down and the non-stick benefits you bought the pan for pretty much disappear.

that isn't to say non-stick cookware is not useful. I have one non-stick frying pan in my kitchen and I use it to cook eggs and other things that are notorious for sticking. i also use it to reheat leftovers just because it's easier to clean. that's all i use it for

so, if you're in the market for cookware because you're moving out or just finally getting a kitchen of your own, do not go buying all non-stick pots and pans. sauce pans, skillets, stock pots (the big pots you use for soup), sauté pans, etc, those actually need your food to stick in some cases, especially for soups and sauces. why's that?

it's about the fond. example: when you're making a soup you usually start by sautéing solid ingredients in the pan first. those get browned and they leave a bit of slightly-burned foodstuff on the bottom of the pot. that's called fond. it's super concentrated savory flavor. right before you add the stock to the soup, you "deglaze" the pan by adding a little bit of liquid to the bottom of the pot and gently scraping it off and integrating it into the soup. fond is also like the basis of all sauces and stews and gravies pretty much anything else you're cooking

where should you buy cookware? obviously you can always buy new, I suggest buying direct from the manufacturer if you really want new. you can also find good cookware at garage sales.

if you have access to them, restaurant supply stores have cheap cookware but it's also made to be beat to death in a commercial kitchen. it works just as well as the stuff aimed at the consumer because, well, metal pans are metal pans. it's not rocket science. but there is cheap bad cookware in the restaurant supply store so shop carefully

so what kind of cookware should you buy? here are options i recommend, but not in any particular order:

stainless steel

stainless steel pans are versatile and they last forever. they work on the stovetop and they go in the oven too. so not only can you use them to fry up some veggies, you can also use them to roast a beast in the oven. they're easy to keep clean, though they eventually get a patina especially on the bottom. use dish soap. the easiest way to get tough spots off them are gentle abrasives like Barkeeper's Friend. these range from cheap to expensive, and some of the expensive ones are worth it (but not too expensive. like $100-200 range for really nice ones. remember, they last forever, so it's like a one-time fee)

good stainless steel pans should be heavy. if you're out shopping for them, pick them up and compare how they feel. if you spot a really cheap one and it feels light like a non-stick pan, avoid it.

carbon steel

these got popular lately, and frankly i don't have too much experience with them since the one i had ended up being left behind in a move. however they're totally fine to work with and are easier to maintain than a cast iron pan. however they sometimes come with wooden handles (a lot of them are wok-shaped because, well, a lot of woks are carbon steel), so remember you can't put wooden-handle pans in the oven. also since they're thinner they're probably not as good for the oven as other materials in terms of both performance and longevity

taking care of them is a little harder than stainless steel, because after you wash and dry them, you have to coat them in a thin layer of oil to prevent rusting

cast iron

okay first i want to get the cleaning bit out the way: YOU CAN WASH YOUR CAST IRON PANS WITH DISH SOAP. that bullshit about only using salt and water and never getting soap on it is from an era when soaps were made of lye. MODERN DETERGENTS ARE NOT MADE OF LYE, THEY'RE NOT EVEN SOAP. HOWEVER: DO NOT SCRUB YOUR CAST IRON WITH METAL SCRUB SPONGES

now about cast iron itself: it's cheap and it's a long-term investment. your cast iron gradually becomes a non-stick pan over time if you maintain its seasoning. a cast iron pan becomes seasoned naturally over time as long as you wash it soon after it cools down from cooking (don't ever leave food or water in it, it will rust), and after it's clean, you cover it with an extremely thin layer of cooking oil.

you can re-season cast iron that has lost its seasoning too. i don't want to turn this post into a cast-iron infodump post so i'll leave it to you to google "how to season cast iron pans" and "how to maintain cast iron pans". just remember the "don't wash it with soap" line is bullshit unless you actually have dish soap that contains lye, like where'd you get that?

these are also great for cooking in the oven as well as the stovetop. their high-density and dark color make for good heat distribution. a lot of people swear by cast iron as the best material to sear meat with, however i never really noticed the difference between cast iron and stainless steel.

enameled cast iron

le creuset can sit on it and spin. don't buy their shit it's overpriced. enameled cast iron is much more affordable from companies like lodge who already make cheap, good, regular cast iron pans. it's a cast iron pan coated with ceramic. enameled cast iron is really good for even heat distribution, however you do have to be careful not to chip it. it may also, despite your best efforts, just wear down over time because ceramic isn't as wear-resistant as metal.

enameled pans can go in the oven as well.

non-stick pans

only buy one (1) non-stick pan. make it a frying pan or sauté pan. and do not spend a lot of money on it. like $40-50 tops. i've seen $100+ non-stick pans and i think someone made those as a joke. it's a grift. you will be replacing it on a semi-regular basis depending on how often you use it.

if your non-stick pan uses a coating, if it starts flaking it's time to get rid of it. those ceramic non-stick pans you just gotta toss it when they lose their smoothness

that's it. post over. go cook. if you have any questions send an ask

#cooking #pans #non stick pan #rant #infodump #life advice

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eleanorblythe · 1 year ago

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Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - Chapter 2

This has been so much fun to write. I had honestly just intended to write some filth and call it a day, but the more I wrote the more I cared about these characters. I promise filth is coming, but right now it’s a whole lot of angst and emotions.

You can STILL use this as a reader insert because I STILL haven’t given her a name, but I think at this point it’s more of a deliberate choice than the lack of a good name, it gives her some mystery (and maybe makes me a little pretentious??)

I don’t think this will be a fully fledged fanfic, like I said this was meant to just be some disgusting smut, but apparently I need foreplay and I have ideas in the back of my mind for one off scenarios - so if I do continue this I would be open to any suggestions you have or want to see - requests will be open.

Also on Ao3 with author notes and translations - here

When she rose the next morning it was almost easy to forget there was anyone else in the house. When she walked through the dining room and peered into the bathroom to get to the kitchen, everything was exactly as it was meant to be. There was no mess, no blood and no glass. She couldn’t help but look over at her cabinet and see the empty spot where her sixth rocks glass ought to have been, but there were slightly more important things to worry about.

But first. Coffee.

Like with everything else in her home, she had the best (his) money could buy. So she was lucky enough to have a coffee machine that came with all the bells and whistles. This included a steam wand that was used for frothing milk. She quickly filled a small cup with milk and turned on the steam wand, letting it make the most awful noise. Screeching and wailing while she simply turned on her stovetop and placed her stovetop coffee maker on it to make a pot of black coffee.

She never has milk with her coffee.

Her antics did the trick. Before long Anton came wondering into the kitchen, somewhat bleary eyed and wondering at the hideous cacophony of sounds emanating from her kitchen. Her eyes tracked him from the dining room and once he set foot onto the linoleum of her kitchen she switched the steam wand off and poured her cup of frothy milk directly into the sink.

Anton clenched his jaw as his eyes bore into her. He watched her pour black coffee from her stainless steel pot into a rather elegant looking glass coffee cup.

She raised her cup, in the form of a mocking cheers or toast and kept steely eye contact with him as she sipped her coffee with one hand, and proceeded to pour the entire pot of freshly brewed coffee down the sink with the other.

Anton exhaled through his nose, whether it was with amusement or frustration or derision, she could not say, his face betrayed nothing.

But his eyes did. There was anger, exhaustion and…hurt? With her or at the loss of a very nice cup of coffee, she wasn’t entirely sure.

She made a satisfied sound as she savoured the first sip before she wondered out of the kitchen to go about her usual morning routine, once again leaving him with barely an acknowledgment of his existence.

She knew she would eventually have to confront the issue head on, but for now he would have a small taste of the type of existence she has lived through these past months.

Or perhaps he would prefer it this way?

She dressed and readied herself for the day. She had nowhere to go, but she contemplated whether to take herself off somewhere for the next eight hours, until she realised she was being childish.

This was her home, why should she be the one to leave it?

Instead she granted a small kindness, by calling Andrews from her bedroom and asking him to visit discreetly, as she was not convinced Anton had the skills to mend his arm on his own - skilful as he was.

She stepped out onto the front porch to collect the mornings’ paper. She noticed an unfamiliar car sitting on her driveway behind her own car. She thought he might have had the foresight to park it far away from the house, but the pain must have overridden all else. She took a moment to look out at the rest of the neighbourhood. Quiet. Calm. Private. She surprisingly found herself suited to the suburban life, what a difference a few years can make. She could have done without the snobbery of some of her neighbours, but she found that she was able to combat them in other, more creative ways now, that didn’t involve guns. Or knives. Or ropes. Or explosives…

She was not entirely sure Anton could. But she was sure once his arm was mended he would be back on his way again. The only sign he was alive being the regular cheques found in her mailbox. There was never a letter or note accompanying the cheque. Ever. Just a rather large number and his signature.

She looked along her fence and saw one of the boards had splintered slightly. She resolved she would have to replace the whole fence. Ridiculous. She knew, but she kept up hope believing that one day she would finally have wasted too much money on all these frivolities and open the door to find Anton glaring down at her and be given the dressing down she so dearly deserved.

And needed.

And wanted.

Desperately.

She shook herself out of her reverie and came back into the house to find Anton sitting in the living room staring at the television - that wasn’t on. It was her turn to exhale through her nose, her derision quite clear. She turned on the tv as she passed before seating herself at the far end of the farthest chair and opened up her newspaper making as much unnecessary noise as she could possibly make.

Anton’s deep, withering gaze slowly made its way from the screen to her, but by now she was completely covered by the broadsheet with only her hands peaking out holding up the sides. He noticed she still wore her ring. Not all hope was lost then.

The newscaster quietly droned on in the background, Anton wondered if this was what domesticity was. Well it would have been, he supposed, without the arsenal of weapons they both had buried under the floorboards.

There was now a reporter standing outside a motel in El Paso, surrounded by police and caution tape. He talked about the bloodshed that occurred there and linked it back to similar incidents in other motels within the surrounding area.

At the mention of El Paso, the newspaper came down a little until she was peering over the top. She knew that was one of the places Anton had been and wondered for a morbid moment whether they would show any of his handiwork on the screen. The reporter mentioned something about locks being punched out of doors. From behind her paper she allowed herself to smirk, knowing his trademark.

“Your work, dear?” She finally asked, after raising the newspaper back up when the report was over.

“Some of it,” he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the television. He couldn’t help but hear the bite in her voice at the word “dear”

She offered no other comments or conversation and for a while they remained in this seemingly blissful image of home life. Until there was a knock interrupted the quiet.

Anton snapped his head towards the front door and wished he had his pistol to hand. She curled the corner of the paper down and peered out of the window.

“You’d better get that, darling, being the man of the house and all…” she said as she folded her newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table. The sarcasm dripping from every word.

He was skeptical, but she didn’t look too concerned so it was probably a neighbour. He rose slowly and stalked his way to the front door glancing through the peephole before releasing a long suffering sigh, recognising who was at the door.

He opened the door just wide enough to poke his head around. Andrews met his eye and his grip tightened around his medical bag.

“Mr Chigurh.” He gave a a tight smile and a nod.

“I didn’t call you.”

“N-no sir, but your wife did.”

“Why?” He practically seethed.

“Because you were half delirious and drunk when you attempted to fix yourself.” Anton heard behind him. She stepped forward, ushering Anton out of the way with a limp wave of her hand. “Come in, Andrews. Use the back room, keep him quiet, not that, that should be a problem,” she opened the door further to allow Andrews to enter.

Andrews squeezed himself between the small gap left by the couple who had both at one time or another been “patients” of his, as they entered into something of a stare off. He hurried down the hall and began to set up in the back bedroom. She had given him a brief explanation of what had happened and while he was aware Anton was more than capable of taking care of himself, it did sound like a rather serious incident that needed at least some modicum of professional care.

Anton eventually came into the room, with her in tow. She remained in the doorway as he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed.

“We’ll start with the arm, if you please, but I’d like to take a look at your leg too,”

“My leg is fine.”

A quiet scoff pulled their attention.

“Just do what the man says, Anton.”

Anton saw from his peripheral vision, Andrews gulp and exchange a tense and worried look between the two, then pretend to busy himself with his latex gloves.

She continued to stare at him, like a teacher deciding whether he needed admonishing. She must have known what he knew. The bone wasn’t set properly.

He needed help.

He did contemplate rolling his shirt sleeve up but it was too tight to do so without causing pain and he didn’t want to cut up yet another shirt. He slowly began to unbutton the first two buttons before stopping and flicking his eyes up to her. Her eyes narrowed in questioning then widened and barked out a laugh at his apparent shyness.

For a single moment, Anton saw warmth, even tenderness creep into her eyes. It quickly dissolved and she looked on in that cold and dispassionate way of hers. The whole moment reminded him of watching her at work, the way she could switch between different people, different personalities like a switch.

Once Anton begrudgingly finished unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, Andrews helped carefully peel off the shirt and started to examine the red and swollen area, all under the watchful gaze of her.

He tried. He tried so hard to show no weakness. Not in front of her. But with every poke and prod, he could feel his mask slipping. At one point Andrews must have struck a nerve because Anton flinched violently and let out a small shuddering gasp. He couldn’t help but look back at her.

She had the most inscrutable expression. Her eyes obstinately on his arm, but she could feel his eyes on her. Her eyes were moving, almost frantically, between Anton’s arm and whatever Andrews was doing with his hands.

After rummaging around in his medical bag, Andrews drew out a scalpel, he cut through the stitches Anton had obviously done the previous night and she watched as the deep crimson seeped out and started to bleed further down his arm and drip onto the plastic sheet spread over the bed and floor.

She was reminded of another time - all that blood, all that pain…

Anton gritted his teeth and kept his reactions to the pain as minimal as he could. He decided to anchored himself to her, tried to find his strength in her. His eyes never leaving her face as he waited for her to look back.

When she did finally look up at him, he was a little taken aback. Her jaw was stern, her mouth drawn in a thin line, her nostrils flared, her eyebrows drawn. But her eyes…

There was no anger, no contempt, no mocking, just total understanding, empathy and…fear. He watched as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Her lips parted as she drew a sharp inhale, like she wanted to say something, but snapped her mouth shut and immediately left the room.

Andrews muttered something of an apology followed by an almighty crack. Anton gave a chocked off scream mixed with a groan. He gripped the edge of the bed, the rustling of the plastic sheet almost deafening.

There were other cuts, other breaks that had to be made and throughout he felt weaker and weaker. At one point he had passed out.

He awoke to the pleasant relief of a cool towel being dabbed against his forehead, he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him. She met his gaze and lay the towel against his forehead. He felt the faintest brush of her fingers down his temple and cheek as she reached for something he couldn’t see. He then felt the unpleasant stab of a needle in his uninjured arm.

“Morphine.” She said quietly. “I found some, in your stash,” she pulled the needle out and placed a cotton wool ball over the small bead of blood that escaped the puncture wound.

“How long?” He all but croaked.

“A few hours. Andrews said it was worse than he thought, but it’s done. He suggested a cast, but,” she glanced over at his left arm, so did he. He saw instead of a plaster cast, an arm brace; “I thought this would be a better alternative,”

“What else?”

“The gunshot wound to your leg is already healing quite well, he didn’t need to do too much, the laceration on your other leg has a few stitches as well as the one on your forehead. You broke 3 ribs, but I imagine you already knew that, you’re to remain here for the next six weeks. After that…” she gulped as she tidied away the morphine and needle “You can go back to what you’d like,”

Anton now knew what was wrong. He never pretended to know about people and their seemingly unnecessary emotional ways - that was always her strength, but he always thought he’d at least be able to read her well enough. Perhaps the reason for his problem was the very reason she was upset and trying desperately to hide it behind her cool and facetious exterior. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here. For months. A wife needs her husband, and if he was honest; this husband needed his wife. The work gave him purpose, but she sustained him.

It was, perhaps, easier for her when they were both in the field, the fleeting moments when they might cross paths on separate jobs and frenzied, passionate nights in dirty motels when the adrenaline was coursing through both of them. It had been enough then to sustain them both, but after what happened, when the tables were turned on them, on her…

They both knew they always had to be prepared to die to do what they did, it was an inevitability and reality they confronted everywhere they went, but for her, it was not the fear of death, but a deep betrayal that had forced her to step away and after months and months of recovery, almost slipping into death’s arms so many times, she found that she would not - could not - return to that world, even after her arteries stitched themselves back together and wounds and scars faded to faint lines along her skin(Anton had counted and treated every one of them, with rapt attention).

He had stayed throughout her recovery, made sure she had everything should could ever need or want. He was the one who had saved her from bleeding out. He was the one who stitched her up. He was the one who relentlessly hunted down the ones who did this to her. He was the one who suggested marriage. He was the one who gave her the home he was currently laying in.

And yet despite it all.

He was the one who needed her.

So why did he stay away for so long?

It was something he continued to turn over in his head while she cleaned and tidied up her equipment. When she rose from her perch on the bed to leave, he attempted to sit up.

“Mi querida…”

“No.” She said, finally broken. She gently pushed him back down and picked up a tin tub that was filled with murky red water. “Ve a dormir.” He always enjoyed hearing her speak in his native tongue, but now she sounded so fragile, so heartbroken, so alone.

She left without looking back and closed the door behind her. She emptied the tub, put away the morphine, did the washing up. She did anything to keep herself busy, but the second she stopped a loud and horrible sob ripped it’s way out of her and she could do nothing but slide herself to the floor and try to silence her own cries.

And from his bed, Anton heard it all.

#fanfiction #anton chigurh #anton chigurh x reader #no country for old men

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