#the yolk is REALLY THICK

[kedreeva]

Do you eat peahen eggs? If yes, what do they taste like?

My wife raises geese and their eggs are huge, 3x the size of a hen’s eggs, and are generally fluffier and delicately sweeter.

I do! They taste like an egg.

I'm not allowed to answer anything more, apparently

[sirfrogsworth]

My egg gadget journey.

Since I started learning to cook eggs in a pan I have been trying to solve various problems in my usual way... buying gadgets.

Because I love gadgets.

My first problem was that I wasn't happy with my whisking. I didn't feel like I was getting the egg whites and yolks fully incorporated. So I bought this fork whisker thingie.

It has little holes in the tines for optimum whisking!

Or so the Amazon page said.

I thought it would be the size of a normal fork. But in reality, it was gigantic and unwieldy.

I felt it was so large that it actually made it *harder* to whisk eggs.

So that has been retired to the drawer and has not seen the light of day since.

Then I was having trouble flipping my omelettes. So I got a special omelette flipper.

This helped a little, but it was too thick and I still had trouble getting it underneath.

Into the drawer it went with its whisking fork friend.

Then a follower suggested a different kind of omelette flipper.

These have a very thin edge and really get underneath the omelette well. This was my first big success in egg gadgetry. I was able to achieve my first successful fold using this.

Then I was becoming frustrated with egg cracking. I couldn't do it consistently. I tried on the side of the pan. I tried on the flat countertop. I was improving over time, but I still felt like a gadget could be helpful.

In my brain I was envisioning some electronic doodad that used A.I. cracking technology to perfectly open the egg.

But then I found this...

It's just a small dish with a raised edge in the middle. Just about the simplest solution imaginable. Doesn't even take batteries.

And it is fucking fantastic.

It's called the "Crack'em" and so I like to say "Release the Crack'em!" when I use it.

You do have to develop a technique, but once you get that down, it cracks eggs perfectly. And it gives you a nice clean section to pull apart the eggshell. And the yolk doesn't drip out as much before you are ready to release it.

Everyone should get a Crack'em.

I still wanted to solve my incorporation issue. I got better at whisking but I still felt like a gadget could improve things.

So I decided to go with the nuclear option.

This thing is nuts. For the low price I am really amazed at how solid and well-built it feels. And it fucking pulverizes the eggs into a perfectly homogenized substance where white and yolk no longer exist and you just have... egg.

Pure 10,000% incorporated egg.

And with this gadget I was able to increase my egg fluffiness by 20%. And my eggs were already pretty damn fluffy.

The egg pulverizer is also very easy to clean. You just run water and turn the blade and angle it so it doesn't spray you in the face. You will get sprayed in the face before you figure out that angle. So prepare yourself for that.

And that is my gadget journey so far.

I'm considering this weird flippy pan that would allow me to cook my omelettes evenly on both sides, but I am in a scrambled eggs era so I'm not sure I need that right now.

It also looks like I could easily yeet hot omelette juice into my face if I am not careful. So I might just stick to my traditional pan.

OH! And one non-gadget thing I learned.

If you have seen The Bear there was a scene where Sydney cooks an omelette and crunches potato chips on top.

And it works! Tastes great on scrambled eggs as well.

Potato chips, who would have thought?

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Chapter 22

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: there might be some spelling errors here and there which I’m sorry about—I’ll try and remember to check through in the morning <3

word count: 7,866

-Part 21- -Part 23-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

More than once, you find your feet leading you in the direction of Bas’ house, but you always turn before you can reach his street. 

A few days ago you’d thought it would take a fortnight for the transition between autumn and winter to truly become apparent. You were wrong. 

There’s no way you could mistake it for anything else, with the way breath now huffs from chapped, rosey mouths like ancient, angry beasts prowling across an early morning moor; how now when you step outside and leave the warmth of the heating enchantments the cold nips at your throat, splashing ice into your lungs, encasing your arched ears in snow-kissed winds; how even without much sense left in your hands you can feel as your blood recoils from the temperature, scrambling back to be closer inside your body and abandoning your limbs for the sake of comfort. Useless body. If you were instead one of the massive bears kept in the Winter Court with thick coats and dense, padded bodies this would be much more bearable. 

As it is, you have to settle for keeping a brisk pace and wrapping yourself in an uncomfortable amount of layers. Layers that wrinkle too easily beneath one another and store sweat in their fibres. It’s always a relief to be once again indoors so you can shed the many skins. Especially when so much of the cosier cloaks are inlined with fur. You try not to let it bother you but as soon as that particular smell of leather creeps in, or meat with a little too much preserving salt…

Winter’s gotten a little easier. You can appreciate some of its beauty now it’s less likely to kill you. Its glittering exquisite. 

“What about this?” Elain gestures to a folded quilt that’s laid out amongst other similar items: bedsheets, pillowcases, towels, flannels, cloths. The quilt is a patchwork of small squares about the size of your open palm, each one different in pattern but similar in colour—pinks, pale pinks, whites, creams, oranges, pale oranges, a glitter of egg-yolk yellow. Around the hem hangs a slight frill made up of white lace. On its underside shows the padding designed for comfort, perfect for maintaining heat and being a cozy blanket to nestle under. 

An image passes through your mind then of all four of your crammed into that tiny bed, stuffed beneath a blanket like this in the depths of winter. Fingers so cold they felt like ice, cold enough to wake you from your sleep if a bare foot grazed your calf. Nesta and Feyre would usually be on the outside during the colder months, rarely taking place in the cozy, warm centre. You and Elain ever the middle children. 

A second image forms soon after, except instead of being set in an alternate past seems to fit more with a branch of the future: all four of you stuffed on the long sofa in the River House’s living room, the fire crackling behind its muffler but Nesta still on the furthest side. Some of you would be reading, Nyx might be cuddled beneath the quilt, close to Feyre’s chest, and maybe you might be stitching something together or sewing a pattern onto the sleeve of Elain’s top. Nyx would probably be briefly fascinated by the lace frill. Then if it was interesting enough he might try to eat it. 

You zone back in when you realise Elain’s looking to you for an answer. You wince, wanting to pull back into yourself and hide in your skeleton, sit on one of your own ribs, arms hung over an upper one. “I really… It’s lovely, but the bedroom I have is fine. We don’t need to find replacement stuff.” 

Elain seems a little crestfallen but quickly blinks it away, already turning her head to scour for something else that might take your interest. “Are you sure? It looks so warm,” Feyre pipes up, inspecting the little patterns of the squares. “I can imagine you all wrapped up in this, tucked away into a chair with a book heavy enough to break someone’s foot.” 

“I’m sure,” you assure her. “Really, the bedroom in your house is more than enough. I’m not sure I even wear half the clothes in the wardrobe—I’m fine.” 

After the news had been announced, tears had been shed, and you’d all spent the night on that sofa too afraid to let go of one another, Nesta had been the one to suggest fixing up the House of Wind again. It had been patched up after the initial explosion, but Nesta had suggested making it somewhere nice, reasoning all of the furniture had been destroyed anyway, so your room would be in need of some redecorating anyway. ‘Besides,’ Nesta had pointed out the following morning, ‘It’s mine. I can do what I like with it.’ And spend Rhys’ money while doing it, had gone unsaid, but after Nyx’s birth at least some of their aggression seemed to have boiled off. 

“This just seems like too much,” you admit while walking at Feyre’s side, Nesta strolling along the far side of the street while Elain’s already begun appraising a new set of pale green pillowcases. “You don’t have long,” Feyre murmurs in reply, her voice straining toward the end, “six months will fly by.” 

“I don’t mind,” you whisper absently. “My room’s fine as it is. We don’t need to redecorate the entire House of Wind.” 

Feyre falls silent, feet tapping in time together along the icy cobbles. Then her arm is tentatively slipping beneath your own, gently linking at the elbow, careful not to cause any aches in your flesh. You squeeze her faintly, bodies pressing closer in the cold, arms locked to try and keep up warmth while walking through the city. 

You glance up at the clock tower constructed at one end of the main square. It reads midday. Elain will be leaving for the human lands in a little under an hour and none of you have yet had lunch. Feyre follows your gaze, reading the time. “She won’t be gone for long, remember?” Feyre assures quietly. “She’ll be back before night.” 

You blink, turning to face your younger sister, “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking…” You flush, averting your eyes as you pull your arm from Feyre’s, “I’m not that clingy.” It comes out sounding more defensive than you’d thought it would, the tug of your arm rougher than you’d anticipated, but you speed your pace regardless, crossing the street to instead join Nesta. She’s looking into the window of a large bookshop, her sharp eyes picking out titles even through the warped and rippling glass panes. 

Nesta reads even more than you do, which is saying something. You’re not sure you could even read a romance book anymore. Not without a piercing sense of loss pinned through your heart. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Nesta muses, pulling from your thoughts, standing straighter as if she’s considering entering the shop, “of having a meal up at the House of Wind. Would you come?” You blink, looking over to her inquisitively, “Just…a meal?” 

“I was thinking of bringing Emerie and Gwyn to it, too. None of you have met one another.” Nesta turns back to the window, though she doesn’t seem to be looking at the books anymore. “Elain and Feyre would be there, too.” 

“For sometime near solecist?” 

“That could work.” 

You pull a part of your lower lip into your mouth, nipping at the interior. “Have you thought of a present for Feyre this year?” You ask, still being without a gift. It’s still about two months away, but…time has a habit of slipping through your fingers. Silverish eyes slide sidewards to you, and you glance at her questioningly. Nesta looks back into the window, “I think the plan is to all do something together. Elain seems to think that’s what Feyre wants.”

“Do you think she does?” 

“Probably,” Nesta replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Won’t that ruin the surprise?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know what she wants so we don’t do something she won’t enjoy?” 

You purse your lips. “Elain can ask.” 

Nesta seems to decide she’s done with the bookshop, turning her body to move on ahead and you follow quietly. “So, about the meal?” She reminds, and you swallow but manage a short nod of your head. “It sounds nice.” Your lips part, throat flexing in preparation to add on, I’d like to meet them, but something stops you and then the moment has passed. Nesta seems satisfied enough with your answer. 

Had she also mentioned Elain and Feyre intentionally when bringing up the dinner? 

You worry your lower lip. It’s been nice spending time with them again. Being on the sofa. Feeling bones press together. Hair sliding over shoulders. But has it been too much for them? Feyre has a husband and a baby and a court. Nesta has Cassian and her own life. Elain…is who you’d usually spend time with, but she’s leaving to visit Lucien. 

Bas is leaving too, soon. 

Maybe you should be returning to the House of Wind on your own instead of making them take you there and pad the way. You’re not ready to go back. Maybe you should just lock yourself up in the Prison. But that’s a stupid thought, one that’s not going to help you. Why try and make things worse for yourself? 

Your stomach grumbles and you flush, putting your hand over it in attempts to quiet the noise. 

It’s about time for lunch, anyway. 

————

“You haven’t been up to the House since, right?” 

You startle, spinning around as your hand recoils from the door handle, chest rising and falling so rapidly that saliva gets caught in your throat and you have to cough into the crook of your arm. At least you didn’t eat too much over supper, or you might have been worried about being sick.

Azriel stands silently in the hallway a little distance away, his eyes vaguely alarmed at your abrupt reaction. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me.” 

“It’s fine,” you excuse, coughing once more before lowering your arm, going to straighten your skirts before a rush of something shy flutters through your chest and your hands instead join at your front. “You’re just…very quiet.” 

Azriel hums, and you shift on your feet. You’ve been spending so much of your free time with your sisters that you haven’t really seen anyone but them over the past two days. Well, aside from Madja, who you’re still seeing every morning at ten o’clock, much to your relief. You lick your lips, finding them chapped and dry. “So…was there something you wanted?” 

Azriel nods his head once. “Not exactly. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to readjust yourself to the dimensions of the House, since Nesta’s told me you’re redecorating.” You flush, eyes dipping away, once again shifting on your feet. “Well, it’s more her idea…” you hedge, “since…you know, it’s hers now…?” 

“I know. But you’ll be wanting new furniture,” he reasons. “The walls had to be realigned so your room will be wider once it’s complete.” 

“Once it’s complete?” 

He nods his head. “You blew it up, remember?”

The flush deepens and you take a subconscious step back towards your room. You hadn’t meant to wreck the House, even if it was only your room that was really ruined. “I just meant…you mentioned walls needing to be realigned, so I was wondering whether they’ve yet been…” 

Azriel nods his head. “They have.” 

A beat passes. “So, are you coming?” 

You look up, surprised. “Hm? Where?”

His eyes narrow. “To the House. Is your head okay?” 

“Fine.” Your brows furrow. “Fine.” 

“No headaches?” He pushes, hazel eyes scanning swiftly over your body in a painfully analytic fashion. “No bouts of forgetfulness? Brain fog?” 

“No. No, I’m fine. None of that,” you assure, glancing down to the hardwood floor, a small part of you still stumbling at his attention. But it’s all good and fine noticing a problem once it’s obvious. “Besides,” you add, “I’m sure Madja would have picked that out by now…” Right? Madja’s been nothing but dependant as company. Competent and kind, so gentle with your skin and flesh and mind. 

Azriel seems to disagree, his head tilting slightly and you wonder if it’s a movement he’s showing intentionally or whether it’s simply something he’s learned to do when around other people after having every reaction trained out of him. “You’re only seeing her for about twenty minutes each day. It’s easy to miss some things.” 

“Yes, but isn’t she…? It’s Madja. Isn’t she supposed to be…I don’t know, one of the best healers in Velaris?” Isn’t she? Arrogance aside, wouldn’t it make sense Rhys would only want someone he could trust around during Feyre’s birthing? Madja must have proven herself to be reliable hundreds of times to be trusted enough to work so high up. Azriel nods his head, confirming your inner thoughts, “Probably in all of the Night Court.” 

“So, she would know if something was wrong.”

“There’s no harm in double checking.” 

You swallow, eyes awkwardly scanning him and the hallway, too nervous to look at him properly. “Well,” you say, once more clearing your throat, “I think I’m fine.” 

Azriel nods his head. “Shall we go?” 

You brows furrow deeply. “Where?” 

“To the House of Wind,” he says, stepping forward as if to reach for you, “Did you forget already?”

Your nostrils flare, lips curving at their edges. “I’m messing with you, Azriel.” 

His hand pauses in mid air, then it retracts and he stands straighter again, a look of faint displeasure held between his brows, “You shouldn’t joke like that.” Tension coils in your chest, and you look away from him, lips pursing, “life’s dismal enough as it is. I’ll joke about what I want to.” Azriel sighs, taking a step back to where he’d originally been standing, reinstating that cold distance between you that has your heart stretching thin. 

“Joke about what you like, but keep that humour away from your sisters. They’ll be going through a lot, right now.” 

You look at him then, arms lightly folded across your chest. “Will they?” You ask, tension coiling tighter. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be finding it the most difficult right now.” Azriel’s chest expands, then he’s blowing out a harsh breath, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know you could have said it better.” 

Quiet hangs in the air, then your throat is rolling, fight disintegrating when he makes no move to respond, shame at your snappiness creeping to your surface; disappointment he didn’t attempt to amend the exchange. Just one sentence would have been okay. You’re past pretending like you’d demand a lot from him. A few words and forgiveness would fall from your lips in a desperate spill, hungry for his care. 

Your lips press together. “Shall we go, then?” 

Azriel had flown you up—he hadn’t wanted you to winnow. You hadn’t thought much of the House since you’d been staying in Feyre’s home, but now you’re back and the smell is wrapping around you and it feels like you never left. It’s after a family dinner, you’re not yet obviously ill, warmth from Bas’ palms lingers on your hips and you’re still on good terms, Mor’s offered to take you out into Velaris and you never wrote back to Eris. You never told Azriel how you felt, and you still speak regularly in the library, your heart fluttering every time your eyes would meet, and you still think you’re in with a chance of keeping his attention. 

They hadn’t felt good at the time—they hadn’t felt enough—but you’d take them back in a heartbeat if you could. 

The two of you walk in silence down the hallways that lead to your old room, but when you reach for the handle you almost pause, able to feel the weight of Azriel’s attention on you and for a truly awful moment you worry they’re all inside, your room already done up, money already wasted on you, and you’ll have to pretend some kind of gratitude for the debt. But you cast the thought away, because that’s ridiculous—you’d been out with your sisters just this morning. 

You’d been unfair to Feyre. Short-tempered. Intentionally choosing to keep misunderstanding her. And then you’d done the same with Nesta, pushing your emotions onto them. 

Maybe it would be better for you to return up here again, so you’re away from them. Isolated, so your foul moods don’t bleed onto them. So they can stay happy, and you can deteriorate without having to feel bad about your inner necrosis. So they don’t see the way you’ll fall apart over these last six months. 

The handle twists in your palm and the door swings open. 

Azriel was right about the walls—they’re further apart than they used to be, your room suddenly a few inches wider, enough to disorientate you. But that’s not it. 

Your hand falls away from the handle, breathing shallow and deathly as you step back into the room. A small bed has been pushed where the old one used to lie, a similar looking desk up against the wall, a wardrobe near the windows, all resembling their previous pieces but so clearly different. Emptier. 

Your stomach drops, and the ground falls out from beneath your feet. 

“Where-” Your throat strangles the words in your mouth. Warping them to a hoarse rasp. “Where are my things?” 

You hadn’t thought about it. You’d put it out of your mind. Made sure to lock it up tight in a box along with the rest of the mess because you’d fall apart time and time again if you could think about it. But if the furniture was obliterated, and the walls destroyed… 

“They were blown apart, too.” 

The far end of the room stretches, distancing itself further and further from you as the walls either side become narrower, the floor beneath your feet groaning as if it’ll give any second. All of it’s gone? Everything? Everything?

You walk over to the desk, fingers tracing the surface, lips stitched shut. A painting had once sat there…greens, and golds, and falling stars. A romance book sat in solitary on an upper shelf. A bookmark with silver thread. A pendant with a small map contained inside. 

Your feet carry you to the wardrobe. There’s no smile drawn into the dust on the mirror. No lipstick, nor nail polish. The jigsaw you never touched, still wrapped in its bow. All of it? All of it’s gone? 

Scared eyes turn to the bed, glancing once to the empty bedside before you’re faintly walking over, lowering to your knees to peer beneath the mattress. Staring into the empty space beneath. Dark and hollow. No box holding your golden solar system. No bags from a shopping trip with Mor. No comfy slippers, and that dress that you’d only worn once, in the shop. The one that had looked nice, and you’d never worn it, too ashamed of yourself. 

“Did the-” The words are sticky, drying your throat together, tongue stuck too the roof of your mouth. “My orrery…?” 

Your heart is pounding and there’s a delicate fire beneath your skin, a cool sweat glossing your flesh. A soft roaring around your ears. You can’t have lost all of it. 

“A couple of things made it,” Azriel says from the doorway. You turn to look at him, the air around him warping and spinning faintly. Shallow and shimmering. Azriel shifts, something about his expression changing that you can’t quite pick out. “Are you feeling alright? You look…” 

“I’m fine,” you whisper, staring at him because it seems too much effort to really move your eyes elsewhere, lids pinned to your brows. A couple of things made it. A couple of things survived. 

Azriel nods his head. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll get them.” He looks like he might says something else, hazel eyes flicking over you, but he keeps his mouth shut and turns, disappearing from the doorframe. 

In his absence a wave of dizziness overcomes you. It’s without nausea, but the room is shifting, your head unable to find a balance to keep your body upright and you end up settling lower to the ground, lying on your side, knees curled to your chest. The room is so empty without any of yourself in it. Is this what Bas’ home will look like once he’s gone? 

Is this what your room will look like, once you’re gone? 

You picture it, the raised bed with the thick duvets, the desk pushed up against the wall to lie beneath the window, the bathroom connected with its cool, pale tiles. The room you and your sisters spent an afternoon and evening contained in, chatting and drinking tea; the room Madja’s tried to heal you in; the room you found out you were going to die in. Will it stop being your room once you’re gone? Will Feyre repurpose it? Keep it as it is? 

A floorboard creaks in the hallway, but you just don’t have the energy to move. Choosing to instead curl tighter, allowing your eyes to close in order to try and contain the hot pressure that’s building behind them. You don’t want to cry. 

Can death come any quicker? 

Footsteps pause on the threshold, and shame tugs on your gut, wanting to scuttle away and hide beneath the dark hollow of the bed. To crawl away to some dark space and be out of everyone’s way, keeping to your own corner far from anyone else. Safe and alone in the darkness. Like a small spider lurking on the top shelf in a wardrobe, just trying to keep out of someone’s way. You could get so far if you had eight legs. If you were as small and nimble as a spider you could go anywhere. 

The mattress stretches as a weight is delivered to it, then a presence is gathering at your back. 

A few seconds pass, then he’s asking quietly, “What are you thinking about?” 

You take time evening your breaths before you answer. “Spiders.” 

“Is there one under there?” Azriel asks, still keeping to that soft, low voice. Your lips tremble, but you open your eyes enough to look into the darkness, peering about for any eight-legged creatures. You shake your head faintly. “What got you thinking about spiders?” He asks next, and you realise his voice is close enough he’s probably sitting behind you. On the floor with you. You try to shrug your shoulders, not wanting to answer, but the movement is stunted from lying on your side. 

“Do you mind them?” He asks. 

“No,” you reply, voice creaking through the quiet. They’d made you uncomfortable at first, when they’d started creeping into your house all those years ago. Spinning their webs on bookshelves and between table legs, down the hinges of doorframes, where the breeze brings in smaller bugs for them to catch. “They’re small.” 

“Even the big ones?” Azriel replies. 

“They don’t hurt anyone.” 

“They look creepy.” 

Your brow furrows, then you’re rolling over on the floor to face him. Sure enough he’s sat a little distance back, arms around his parted knees. “Are you scared of spiders?” 

Azriel’s eyes twinkle. “Not the small ones.” 

You blink, unsure what to make of that. “Then, the big ones?” He hums in a way that might be a yes. It’s hard to pick out what he means by that one, smooth noise. “Which ones?” You ask, watching him quietly. “I know there are large ones in the Summer Court jungles? Arachnids as big as your torso.” 

Azriel smiles. “Those are fine.” 

“But their venom can paralyse you,” you argue softly, brows furrowing. Small ones are fine, small ones can’t hurt you. But the larger ones, those can bite. Those ones can be dangerous. “They’re easy enough to avoid,” Azriel reasons. 

A look of concentration knits itself between your brows, and you push yourself up from the floor, shifting back to lean against the bed. “What court do they come from?” Azriel’s lips curve faintly—he’s not going to tell you. “The continent?” You ask, trying to work around it, but this time he shakes his head. “On Prythian?” He nods. Your eyes narrow, inclining your chin by a singular degree, “how big are they?” 

Azriel pauses, thinking. “Curled up…probably as large as that bed,” he answers, nodding to the bed you’re leaning against. “Splayed out…each joint in a leg was probably around your height.” Your eyes widen in fascination. Then they narrow again, suspicion rising in your mind, “is this creature magical?” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do, and he nods his head. Your mouth parts, “that’s cheating.” 

“How’s it cheating?” Your mouth opens again but you can’t give an answer, eyes darting about as you think. “You’ve done most of your learning while you’ve been here, haven’t you? We have books on the creatures here. I’m sure you know some of them.” 

“I don’t know of any spiders that big,” you reply with your brows furrowed, frustrated you don’t know the species he’s talking about. Azriel laughs and you avert your eyes, scowling into the floorboards. 

“She’s locked up in the Prison now, anyway,” he says casually, as if that makes it better. You look at him again, “‘she’?” 

He nods. “Can you guess?”

Your brow tightens again. “I don’t want to.” You pull your knees up to your chest, readjusting your skirts so they’re covering your ankles. Leaning your chin into the dip of your palm, a downward tug to your displeased lips. Azriel raises a brow, “I didn’t know you were a sore loser.” 

“We weren’t competing.” You mutter. 

“Are you really upset?” He asks, sounding perplexed. You sigh, shifting on the floor now the bed is beginning to dig into your spine. “No,” you mumble, “I’m used to it.” 

He smiles, eyes twinkling, “used to what?” 

You don’t smile back. “You.” 

Azriel’s features mellow out, light winking away in his eyes and you watch the warmth sift down and out from his expression. “You aren’t entitled to my affections, just because of your situation,” he says softly, but sternly. No leniency afforded to you. No padding or gentleness to muffle the hurt. An ashamed blush creeps up your neck, spreading through your cheeks as you lower your head. “I’m not talking about that,” you mumble. Gloved fingers wring together and you pull your legs tighter to your body, “I’m talking about how needlessly cold you were. How clearly you cared for Elain without thought for me.” 

“You needed a clear answer. I was helping.” 

“You used me,” you whisper. 

Across the floor, you can feel it as Azriel stiffens. Almost freezes. 

“You used me,” you repeat, this time looking at him, “you knew how I felt about you. There’s no way you couldn’t have, Azriel. You-”

“You kissed me back.” Hazel eyes pierce into you, the shadows at his back stirring as though raising from their sleep. “You-”

“I’m talking about before.” The whisper rushes out of you on a swift exhale, hurrying to get the words past your lips so he doesn’t remind you any further. You swallow, a familiar feeling of shame coating your skin. “When I would speak with you in the library. And you would only speak with me to learn more of Elain. You were using me.” Azriel’s brows narrow and your heartbeat quickens unpleasantly. “You know I was making sure she was okay,” he claims softly, “the Mother knows you were too preoccupied.” 

“Stop lying to me.” A hot pressure is building behind your eyes again, staring at him in this room with the walls that feel like they’re closing in. “I know you love Elain. I know that, so stop trying to pretend like I’m imagining it. You wanted to know more about her so you spoke with me to learn more. You must have known how lonely I was, how hard it was for all of us after being ripped from our home, from our lives, and shoved into a world we had never wanted to be a part of. It’s like you’re just trying to get me to hate you.” 

As soon as the words leave your lips you freeze, staring at him with widened eyes. 

“Is that-?” You cover your mouth, toes curling in your socks as you huddle your limbs together. “Is that why you were so cold afterwards? Was it so horrible to deal with? Was it really so disgusting to you that…?” 

Azriel says nothing and you feel at that moment like the earth might split open and swallow you whole, suctioning you down far below the ground for discovering such a horrible secret, snatching you away before you can tell anyone and sealing you a thousand times in jagged stone beneath cold, damp earth. 

————

Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving, knees pressing tight together as if to hide her body from him. He should lower his head to respect her dignity, look away to offer her privacy but that in itself would be yielding too much information. Doing anything other than watching her crumble would be exposing a part of himself and no matter how much she’s hurting, he cannot. He will not. 

Azriel doesn’t care if she hit the nail on the head. He hadn’t meant any of it. But had he really been expected to simply accept her tenderness for him? Even if he wasn’t the spymaster he’d be able to see how much she thinks of him, how she listens to him and hangs on his words as if they heal wounds. If she thinks she loves him, she should know how awful he is. 

————

You shake your head, still staring at him. Then you try to push yourself to your feet. 

You need air. Need fresh air, and to get out of a room as cramped as this one. But when you stand you spot the things he’d laid on the bed. The things that had survived the blast, and you freeze. 

On top of the bare mattress, weighing into the bed is a thickly bound volume. The spine reads: Prythian: An Anthology Of Discoveries, in golden lettering. Sitting small atop the book however, is a familiar silver band, its narrow edges smooth and shiny. It’s the ring Eris gifted you on that last day in Autumn. The one he’d told you would help keeping your magic in check. The one you’d left discarded then nearly killed Azriel by being unable to control yourself. 

“This…? This is all that made it?” Your fingers trace the title, and you consider for a moment raking your nails down its surface, scalping its smooth leather and ripping the pages from the spine. The silver is cold against your fingers, and you imagine casting the window wide and throwing it out to the winds. Throwing it far, far away, somewhere you’ll never have to see it again, where you’ll never be reminded of the poor choices you made that brought such an unbearable amount of shame into your life. 

You can feel it begin to crush into you again, and your knees shake like they might buckle. Why is this all that lasted? 

“The book was enchanted, as many are nowadays.” Azriel’s voice is far off in your head, the world tipping beneath you. “The magic protecting it was ripped apart, but the book’s still intact. The ring seems to have its own magic warding it, though it’s been damaged.” 

“Is this-?” You turn to face him, arm banding across your stomach, able to feel as the shame and hurt squeezes you insides. “Is this your way of punishing me for what I did? By showing me this?” Azriel’s brow furrows, and he takes a step forward, “No.” You’re not sure you believe him. He takes another step forward, so he’s stood before you and you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought it would make you feel better. That you had something to keep.” 

“That reminds me of why you all hate me,” you say, hot tears spilling from your lashes, scalding your cheeks. “You can’t be expecting me to believe that you’re showing me these things because you’ve forgiven them. That you’ve so suddenly had a change of heart about what happened. Not this.” You sniff, trying to hide your face. “Not you.” 

Silence hangs in the air, stretched and painful until, “You think we hate you?” 

“I know you do,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

Scarred fingers collect around your wrists, and you try to cover yourself as he gently pulls your palms from your tear-stained face. “Look at me.” Look at me. 

Does he know what he’s doing? Or are you joining dots that have no business being joined? You open your eyes but look away, staring at the floor, at a section of wooden panelling that must have been redone when- “Look at me.” 

His shadows cooly gather beneath your chin, lifting your head but you stubbornly refuse, instead casting your gaze to the right where the door is. Just anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, eyes that will make your heart splinter. You look at the threshold, the handle of the door- 

Azriel’s wings open, and then you’re ensconced in night. 

His shadows gather between your feet, circling overhead so there’s nowhere for you to look anymore but him, everything else inked out to be bland and uninteresting. Only a very small amount of light is allowed through the darkness, like a dozen black veils of silk have been thrown over you to keep you together. Slowly your breaths begin to settle, transported away from the demanding present and instead somewhere else entirely, where time has been paused and you have no pressure of worry beating down on you. 

Your nostrils flare, but your breathing has become even. Chest slowly rising up and down, calmed and quietened. 

Your throat trembles, but you look at him. 

His hazel eyes are normal. No disgust or revulsion to be found. No ice, either. At first glance you might have called the look indifferent, but…calm. Quiet. 

Hands release your wrists, one lifting to the circle of your shoulder, but the other moves for your chest. You inhale softly as his fingers graze across the fabric of your top, his touch featherlight and careful. They pause, coming to a stop in a place you’re certain he’ll be able to feel the pounding of your heart. But he makes no remark on the wild rhythm, instead pressing the pads of his fingers down so they’re resting atop your breast. “You have a scar here, don’t you?” 

Something tugs from beneath your ribs, an alertness jerking awake beneath his touch. 

“It’s small, isn’t it? Barely there. Less than a scratch, but it’s scarred.” 

What? How does he…? 

His hand finds yours and he guides you a step closer to him, then lifts your palm to the side of his stomach, his ribs. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, but in the shared silence you have no need to strain your ears; you can hear him perfectly. “None of them hate you either.” 

“You’re lying,” you whisper. 

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing your palm flat to where that matching scar lies, embedded deep in his flesh. Where he’d stolen the arrow you had meant for yourself. 

Your head hangs in defeat, and your forehead meets his chest. His hand releases your shoulders, scarred fingers skimming the small hairs sprouting from the top of your nape. 

————

Night has fallen by the time you return to the River House. 

It’s dark and you wrap your arms tight over your chest, wind playing with your hair, kissing ice up your neck. At your side, Azriel seems unbothered by the descending winter, appearing as stoic as ever. 

Coming up the pathway that leads past the front lawn you can see the lights in the House are one, letting you see in to the living room and kitchen, each separated by the hallway that connects to the door before you. No one’s in the living room, but you can easily make out the figures of two of your sisters in the kitchen—Feyre and Elain. You wonder what they could be speaking about when Elain soundlessly slams her hand down on the table. 

You pause, and you know Azriel’s watching too. 

Elain’s teeth flash in the faelight and your brows narrow, pulse spiking—they look like they’re arguing. You hurry a step forward, hand falling to the handle but Azriel places his palm atop your shoulder, pausing you. You look back at him. “We should give them space. Let them sort it out on their own.” 

You consider, glancing between him and the front door. Teeth nip at the interior of your lip—you’ve not seen Elain like that in a long time. She’s not one to become easily agitated. “No,” you say, “they’re my sisters. I want to know what’s wrong.” 

“It looks private. You should wait-” 

But you turn the handle, giving him a strange look, “They’re my sisters.” 

As soon as the door opens, Elain’s voice rings through the halls, bouncing off the walls with crystal clarity, “I want to know why I had to hear it through Lucien, Feyre. Who, I might add, didn’t even hear it from one of you.” 

Quiet settles, tense and taut and you halt, blinking. What have you just walked in on? 

With as little noise as possible you push the cloak from your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway. Elain’s voice carries on, unaware of the new listeners. “Are you going to explain it?” She asks, voice softened from its previous cut, still bearing a nasty edge. “I didn’t want to worry you,” comes Feyre’s quietened reply. “I didn’t mean to hide it, Elain, but the timing was never right, and you’re both…” 

“We’re both what?” Elain asks sternly, her voice tight. “Untrustworthy because we aren’t as tightly knit with others in your circle?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Feyre replies, with soft steel. “That’s got nothing to do with it.” 

“Then tell me why you didn’t think to mention it.” 

Silence falls, and you feel guilt gather in your chest for eavesdropping. You turn to glance at Azriel but he seems to have vanished into shadow at some point. Maybe he actually had intended to give them privacy, but you’re in too deep now. Instead of hiding you straighten your skirts, quietly stepping further along the hallway until you reach the kitchen, peeking your head around the doorway, “is everything okay?” 

Cocoa coloured irises flick to you and Feyre turns in the kitchen, spotting you in the hallway. “Fine,” Feyre says—too quickly. You look over to Elain, but she’s watching Feyre instead, coca eyes simmering. You swallow, and step decisively into the room, steadying your voice, “What’s wrong?” Because something’s clearly amiss. 

A tense silence passes and you can feel your insides trembling, as if the quiet is a living, breathing creature, gently but increasingly firmly pushing against you, weighing on your shoulders, pulling on your back, an invisibly current slowly trying to drag you from the room. You stand still. 

Feyre’s shoulders sag in a way you haven’t seen before, her can lowering in a way that casts heavy shadow beneath her eyes and into the downturned corners of her mouth. “We’d thought to keep you out of it,” she says, much too softly for High Lady. “You’re both…” But she trails off, landing her face in her hands and rubbing along the narrow lengths of her curved brows. Her hands fall to her sides and she leans back against the table, arms moving to fold over her chest. “I know what it’s like, to be kept out of something…” She looks at both of you in turn, blue-grey eyes anguished and distraught, showing a turmoil she’s been battling with for quite some time. And what she’s said is true—she knows what that’s like. How she almost died without knowing the circumstances of her own child. She knows better than anyone what it means. 

So what could have made her decide…? 

You release the tension of your stance, settling back against the wall since this seems like something important. 

“You may have seen us to be more on edge than usual…” Feyre confesses, casting a glance to Elain. Your older sister’s expression doesn’t give, but acknowledgement passes through her eyes and Feyre continues. “Nesta’s been practicing with Ataraxia more frequently, despite how little we know about its nature; Amren’s been trying her efforts at furthering her understanding of The Old Language; then the trip Nesta and Cassian went on to the Day Court…to visit Helion’s libraries.” She swallows thickly, shadows accentuating the roll of her throat. “Helion, Spell-Cleaver.” 

“Nesta mentioned a binding spell,” you now recall from that supper all that time ago. Amren had bitten her off. Nesta had Ataraxia out on the table when you’d gone to visit her. What Eris had been talking about during your visit to Autumn. It must have something to do with why he was surprised you weren’t learning to fight. 

But why would you need to?

“We…” Feyre starts but swallows her own words. Besides her, Elain shifts on her feet, her attention casting skittishly around the dimly lit kitchen, only small yellow lights lighting the large room. Your younger sister sighs harshly, rubbing her face once before looking at you fully, hands again to her sides. “We think the Prison is collapsing.” 

Her words settle into the quiet of the kitchen and seem to disappear in the external world while they ring endlessly within your mind, repeating in a space away from the linear passage of time and instead growing louder and louder with every hurried repeat. We think the Prison is collapsing. 

What are you supposed to say to that? 

You can feel your eyes stretch, throat turning dry from breathing through your mouth, lips open while you stare. 

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, throat closing up on itself. Why would the Prison be collapsing? Why now? Why?

“When Nesta fought Lanthys,” Feyre begins solemnly, “perhaps even when she first retrieved the harp…whether it was Ataraxia, one of the Dread Trove, or Lanthys exploiting a worn fibre of the spell’s fabrics…maybe a combination of the three…we don’t know for certain.” 

“You don’t know why the Prison is breaking?” Elain asks, staring at Feyre. 

“We know the wards are weakened,” she corrects, as if savouring the small grace that they seem to still be holding. But for how much longer? “We think it’s in relation to a magical object imbued with Cauldron-made power being in close proximity to such an ancient antiquity…that their magic might have abraded the spells of the Prison… But no. We don’t know for certain.” 

The walls tilt, shadows stretching and you’re thankful you’re leaning against the wall. Feyre meets your gaze with a look you could call grieving. “Please let’s discuss this further in the morning. I’m sorry it was kept…that I helped keep it from you—both of you—but for a conversation like this…” Feyre looks to Elain, a bit of that strength being forced to her surface. “We can speak in the morning.” 

Elain watches Feyre silently, and for a few moments you think you might see anger in her eyes, but it’s turned calm and quiet. “I imagine it’s difficult, in some respects,” Elain says, “to play the role of High Lady.” 

You can’t tell whether it’s meant as consolation or a jab, but Elain’s already departed from the room, leaving just you and Feyre. 

“How long have you known?” You ask in the quiet. Feyre shifts but doesn’t look away from you, “Long enough that we’re running out of options.” 

You nod your head, more than just fatigue now weighing on your lids. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” 

————

It’s strange how you find yourself meandering the opposite way from your bedroom when you reach the top of the stairs. Seeking out a room you’ve never once tried to approach without explicit permission beforehand. But the whole night had been strange, and your head is swimming slightly, paddling in the shallow part of a clear river. 

Your hand lifts, but at the last second, and for no discernible reason, you change your mind, opening the door quietly without knocking. 

Azriel is sat at his desk, a low light atop the surface, a lampshade tinting the colour a pale yellow. Ink scratches over parchment, and you pause on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. You could understand the pleasure of spying, if it means seeing people like this. 

He looks up after a moment, seemingly finished with his task as he sets the paper aside and lowers his quill. 

“It was Blue Annis, wasn’t it?” You speak before he has a chance to. “The spider you were telling me about.” 

“Yes.” Azriel inclines his head. “It was.”

Something big enough, cruel enough, powerful enough to strike a chord of unease into Azriel. And the container holding her and countless others is fraying? 

You lean a little more of your weight into the doorframe. “How long do you think is left before the wards are sparse enough for one of them to slip through?” 

“Probably another month,” Azriel replies. His expression doesn’t falter as he adds, “one might’ve already managed.” 

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, fear twisting in your stomach. He must be able to smell it on you. Azriel leans back into his chair, “We’re checking each cell to make sure. So far everything’s been where it should, but it’s a slow process. By the time we happen across an empty one…” He raises a brow as if to say: Who knows how far it’ll have gotten?

A shudder spider-walks down your spine. “Are they all as scary as she is? As Blue Annis?” 

“You’ll work yourself up into a panic like that,” Azriel tells you, his face remaining serious. “You’re already imagining the worst possible creature you can think of, aren’t you?” 

“Is she less scary than I’m imagining?” You ask dryly, forcing a wry curve of your lips. 

Azriel’s eyes seem to twinkle, but maybe it’s the light. 

“What’s she like?” You force yourself to ask, voice lowered beneath the night. But Azriel shakes his head, “Ask me another time.” 

His lips curve, but the light in his eyes has winked out. “You don’t want her to be the last thing on your mind before night.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[paper-mario-wiki]

PLEASE share the pancake recipe!!!

ingredients (eyeballed measurements, you can do this):

pancake mix (buttermilk mix bought from farmer Bob who has a corn maze outside of seattle)

milk

1 or 2 egg whites per serving (you can determine what that means, i trust your judgement)

i preheat my stove to a little over medium. like in the 5-7 range.

pour the milk into the buttermilk mix until it's like, as thick as a smoothie. it doesnt have to be perfectly smooth, and actually wouldn't benefit from it either.

crack an egg but open it upward so that the contents dont spill out. then, over the bowl, pour the yolk back and forth between the two pieces of shell. after a few times, the yolk will separate from the whites, which will fall out and into the bowl.

then you feed the yolk to Scarlet, my dog, with her breakfast kibble.

i whip the egg whites in a cereal bowl with a fork. the whole point of whipping the whites is to trap air in them, until they basically turn into a foam. keep that in mind while you're mixing, and try to trap air in the mixture. imagine you're a taffy puller. ya know, pulling taffy. same principle. use the arm you jerk off with, as it's probably stronger and has the same basic muscle memory for this task.

after they're nice n foamy, add them to the batter, but don't mix or whip it in. as much as you can, gently fold the two concoctions together. you don't wanna pop all those bubbles you just made.

i like to hold a stick of butter and draw all over the pan to coat it in a semi-generous amount of butter, which will make the skin super crispy as it sorta fries in it.

the old "wait until the bubbles on the back of the pancake pop to flip it" rule doesnt really work here, since the thing is basically gonna be bubbling and foaming and popping IMMEDIATELY, so INSTEAD:

wait until the batter is only 40% shiny on top, as a lot of the pancake is going to cook through very quick since the batter is basically a dense network of very thin bubble walls.

after flipping, give it about 70% of the time you gave it on the first side to properly finish up the bottom.

i suggest pairing with bacon and hashbrowns.

[e-r0da]

The gym.

Pro-hero Kirishima x Reader

AN: Posting this again. Got too embarrassed the first time around but fuck it we ball.

CW: NSFW, MDNI. Kiri is a yandere. Reader is afab and referred to with gn. Dub-con, praise, use of daddy/baby pet names, heavy-petting and fingering, oral, dacryphilia, and a smidge of impact-play and ass-play but it’s teeny tiny. Reader is developing Stockholm syndrome but they’re in denial.

Wc: 2.2k

“You want to use the gym? Why?”

“Well...I want to be strong—like you!”

Would he buy that?

You held your breath as Kirishima stopped shoveling food into his mouth, opting to chew slowly as he contemplated your words.

You had been working towards this—towards his trust—for months. Would you fail now?

Subconsciously your feet shift, pointing towards the kitchen door. Towards the escape. Not that it would do you any good if you really needed it.

He swallowed.

“You feeling insecure baby? Don’t get me wrong—“ you saw a bit of a blush bloom on his cheeks “—I love that you think I’m strong…but you don’t have to be.”

Huh.

You had told yourself you would stop immediately if he gave you a hard no…but this was harder to read. You don’t need to be strong like him…? Or you shouldn’t be?

You test the waters.

“I-it’s not that exactly. You know I used to go to the gym…before. I miss it. I miss being able to challenge myself.”

You had to choose your words wisely. This was about what you needed for yourself—not about anything he was failing to provide. Saying anything that even insinuated as much would hurt him, and that wouldn’t work.

In the beginning, when you still thought that you could forge a way out on your own, hurting him didn’t bother you. But now that you’ve realized that the only way out was through Kirishima, well. You were forced to come to terms with the fact that hurting him also made him more overbearing, less generous with your liberties.

So you squirmed in your seat, trying to read his silence before deciding to push harder.

You laced your plea with a bit of vulnerability, hoping that would make it ring true.

“I-uh.”

“Yeah?”

“And I guess some insecurity plays into it, too.”

He leans in. You lower your gaze.

The last part comes out as a whisper. “I mean...there’s nothing left to squeeze...down there…”

Jackpot.

Kirishima let out a hoarse chuckle at your confession. You mimicked him, but your laughter came out of relief. You did it.

“Baby! Baby. C’mere.”

He pulled his chair back, spreading thick thighs to make you a seat on his lap while you made your way over. As you straddle his legs, he starts preparing you a spoonful of the kimchi rice you two had made earlier. It’s covered in runny egg yolk as you like, the gooey softness hiding the spice beneath.

He tells you to open wide before he stuffs you with it.

“First of all, I think you have the cutest tush I’ve ever seen, baby. So don’t say that.”

It’s embarrassing the way he watches intently as you chew and try to nod, the way he wipes off a bit of yolk from the side of your mouth, the way he fusses over you.

But to an extent it also made your heart ache, remembering that it was the way he cared—and continues to do so—that made you initially fall for him.

“—plus, I meant what I said, ‘ya know? I’ll take care of you.” He draws you further into him, guiding your head into the crook of his neck, before sliding the hand between your shoulder blades and then down over the curve of your ass. Your heart stutters in your throat when he places a small peck over your earlobe and hums softly, just like he used to do when things were normal.

“So if that means exercise, hmm… We can go to the gym room starting tomorrow! Oh, and of course I can be your personal trainer and give you pointers…” You release a small whimper at the realization of your success. And maybe just a bit at the hand that was now wandering over your backside. Your mind flickered between that taste of freedom and his actions. It felt so good that you didn’t want to think about the way you embraced them both. He continued on. “…of course I’ll keep track of all your…growth so you don’t need to worry about a thing…and, well, there’s a lot of ways we can get cardio covered without going outside…”

He was working you. So well that you couldn’t help but arch your back, pushing further into his chest as he slowly slid his fingers up and down your clothed pussy before giving it the softest of slaps, jolting your attention back to the present. Back to the man that owns you. The man you were trying to bargain with.

You look up at him, warm cheeks evidence of his effect. His affection. He looks down at you and grins. It’s filled with sharp teeth, interlaced with a bit of hunger.

“I love you no matter what shape you’re in, though. So if you ever wanna stop you just tell me, okay?”

Sometimes you forget this is the same man that keeps you hostage.

“T-thank you, Eijirou. It—this—means a lot to me.” You almost surprise yourself with how genuine your response is. You reason that it’s probably because you had only been allowed into just three rooms—the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—until just now.

That has to be it right? Gratitude for the man that provides for you so well?

According to that logic it’s only fair, you think, to give him something in return for his generosity. So you nuzzle back into him, placing a chaste kiss in the crook of his neck before ghosting your lips over his ears, testing if he agrees. And the way he jolts beneath you feels like everything you need.

So you take it another step further and whisper for him, like a sin—like a confession.

“You’re so good to me, daddy.”

Just for tonight, you think.

Just for tonight he can be the man you loved again.

You’re rewarded by the feeling of him stiff, hot, and ready beneath you—then of his tongue, demanding and wet as he crashes into you from above with a kiss. He almost growls into your mouth.

“Good fucking girl.There she is.”

You feel yourself clench around nothing at his words, choosing to chase down the shame of your actions by committing fully. You don’t want to stop, not when it feels this euphoric.

Not when you’ve been this lonely.

How long has it been?

How long has it been since he's touched you like this, since he’s lifted your dress and stared at your bare form with such adoration, such heat?

Maybe there was a reason why it's been so long, but now is not the time to remember painful things.

His hands drift back down to your lower half, neglecting his own pleasure in favor of remembering the feeling of yours. When his fingers reach to feel your pussy once more, he groans when he can feel your wetness through your panties.

“Baby, oh baby fuck.”

The light at the end of the tunnel is further than ever before as you plead with him.

“Eijirou, oh—please, you need t—mh! Please touch me.”

Your consent is all he needs to be put into action, thick arms wrapping underneath you as he lifts you up and walks you both to the bedroom, dinner long forgotten. You wrap your hands in his hair, still damp from his shower, as you whine into his mouth.

No man has ever made you feel this needy.

He softly detaches from you to lay you down on your shared bed, watching your sprawled, breathless form with wild eyes. Somewhere in your haze he ties his hair back into a small bun.

“So fucking beautiful, baby. So fucking beautiful.”

He leans over your form, forearms caging you in as he kisses you again. The two of you shake at the feeling of his bulge making contact with your heat, and almost desperately he begins to grind down into you, as if trying to burn through the layers that separate you.

He watches the place where you both connect before releasing a shaky groan into your mouth.

Maybe you know that he’s missed this. But now you realize that you’ve missed it, too.

He backs up a bit to allow impatient hands to trace your form—down the sides of your arms to your hips and waist—then underneath your ass in favor of pushing your thighs to your chest. He stares at the apex of your legs for a moment, deadly silent, before slowly moving his gaze back to yours. It’s red. Everything is red.

Breathlessly, he asks you. “Want my fingers, baby?”

Somewhere deep inside you recognize this moment as a point of no return. And what started as a fight for a sliver of freedom was quickly falling out of your control, but you were failing to realize it.

“Y-yes. Please, Eijirou. Please—mh!”

There would be a special spot in hell for the two of you when this was all said and done.

Your eyes were wide open as his lips engulfed yours, allowing you to watch the way your words sent a violent ripple of his quirk coursing through his body.

The view had you in awe, the feeling only magnified as you felt thick, calloused fingers grasp your panties, moving them to the side.

His desperate breaths on your neck contrasted the gentle ministrations of his hands exploring your pussy, simply feeling its wetness with something akin to wonder.

Why did you make him wait so long, is what fingers seem to ask with the way they hold you.

You try to lean in for another kiss, but he was already gone, dragging your lower half to the edge of the bed where he could watch you twitch and whine from on his knees.

And then he was on you.

You heard a quiet fuck leave Kirishima’s lips but the sound didn’t quite register over the feeling of him dragging his nose through your sex, inhaling your scent deeply as if to ingrain it into his memory.

Without so much as a warning he swipes a finger over your pussy, rubbing the lips from side to side, making you listen to the soft shlick! shlick! shlick! of your arousal—as if he was trying to provide both of you evidence that you still wanted him.

And then he was inside, finger inching into you, eyes glued to your face as you squeezed yours closed in favor of panting softly at the feeling.

“How is my baby doing, huh? She uh—” His gaze quickly shifts downwards “—she miss me?”

“S-so much, daddy” you practically whine. “so much!”

It’s too much, even.

He coos. “I can’t believe I’ve been neglecting my baby like this—” he starts to pump in and out of you, slowly, caressingly. He wants to make you cry. “—want me to make it all better?”

The slight friction had you clamping down around him. You were moaning like he was fucking you, and he just had a finger in. You knew that maybe this would feed his ego, but right now you couldn’t find it in you to be sensible, to care.

“Yes!” His finger starts to withdraw.

“Yes who, baby?”

“Daddy—” you breathe. How could you forget? “—yes, daddy—please daddy.”

A second finger forces its way into your heat, a silent approval of your choice of words that you have no choice but to accept glutinously, a deep hoarse whine slipping from your mouth as you do so.

“Daddy will always give his baby what she wants. Isn’t that right?”

You pant and moan rhythmically with the way he presses against your walls, mental capacity beyond responding. All that you know right now is In. Out. In. Out. And the way he breathily mimics—or matches—your whines as they grow more frantic.

He tells you to hug your knees to your chest and he loves the way you wordlessly comply, knowing how to draw out your more desperate moans when you feel a wet finger slide around the ring of muscle outlining your asshole. Kirishima planned on giving you everything right now. Who knew when you would be this pliable again?

The pleasure you feel when his spit lands on your pussy just a second later—before sliding down and down—makes you want to sob. He’s lubricating you just enough for him to press the tip of his thumb inside your second hole, all the while being your good, consistent daddy that doesn’t stop fucking your pussy with his other hand.

He gets up from his knees slowly, hands still working you, as he moves in favor of having his face over yours, watching your facial expressions transform just for him.

Subconscious tears are slipping from the corners of your eyes, giving him an excuse to lick at your face like a loyal watchdog. Your legs begin to shake. He’s everywhere. Inescapable.

You’re falling, giving in to it, gleefully trying to have it all without thinking about the consequences—when he removes his hands from your body without so much as a warning.

Of course it had to be a choice.

There were a lot of people who thought Eijirou was stupid. Just brawns.

They would never know, at least not as well as you did, how much it hurt to underestimate him.

“…Does my baby want to be fucked?”

You knew he had been waiting—waiting for you to come to him of your own volition.

If you said yes he would take it as you giving in. Of you loving him, in some way or another, like you had before.

After all, breaking you down was always his goal.

[osmanthusoolong]

I made these yesterday with @baeddlam , and they were really, really good. Pleasantly aromatic, nice chewy texture. My melancholy is not exactly fully cured, but baking with someone I adore, and enjoying the results, certainly helps.

“Ingredients

12 tablespoons butter

3/4 cup brown sugar

1/3 cup raw honey

4 egg yolks

2 1/2 cups spelt flour (you can usually find it in the baking aisle)

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon nutmeg

1 tablespoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon cloves

Instructions

Melt the butter, then add it to a medium bowl with the sugar, honey, and egg yolks. Beat gently, then fold in the rest of the ingredients. Refrigerate the dough for an hour.

Flour a surface and then roll out the cookie dough until about a 1/4 inch thick. Cut the dough into small circles using a cookie cutter or an upturned glass.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, then bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit for 10 minutes, or until a golden-brown. Let cool, then enjoy.”

[owlespresso]

dogged pursuit. dr veritas ratio. p2 of ? but you don't need to read part 1 but if you want to it's here summary: you've been appointed as the bodyguard of one doctor veritas ratio after a failed attempt on his life. he's easy to get along with, so long as you learn when to plug your ears and focus on his washboard abs. tags. suggestive content, reader insert is a bit of a freak

“You’re up early,” you remark idly as you trudge down the stairs. Because it frankly is. The sun’s barely risen. Watery light washes in through the partly opened blinds. A brief glance out the window sees the narrowed streets mostly barren, only a few comers and goers. A woman jogs with her dog. A couple in floral shirts and sandals walks by, chatting leisurely.

Ratio stands in front of the stove, spatula in hand. 

“I wake up at six in the morning every day,” Veritas informs you. On the skillet, something that looks suspiciously like bacon and eggs sizzle. The egg is a little too brown to be an egg like you’re familiar with—the ones on your home planet have a bright blue yolk. “Waking up at a consistent time each morning ensures you sleep better every night. You should give it a try. It might fix that Rube Goldberg machine you call your circadian rhythm.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to do that, then,” you say, bending over the kitchen eyeland to peer at him. He’s wearing a white apron with pale blue gingham patterning. It is, most unfortunately, not the frilly kind like you might have hoped. The tie still cinches around that pretty waist, the pearlescent fabric of his robes bunching up where it’s fastened, strings pulled into a little bow. His robes end just above his knees. Like this, you can peer down at his calves. His ankles. 

Are you really getting off on this guy’s ankles? Shit. You kick off the island and sway around it, crossing your arms and leaning up against the counter, next to the stove. 

Here, you can admire the flex of his hands, the handsome curve of his nose. His dark lashes are thick, fanning over his cheek every time he blinks. “Any other advice you’re willing to give, Doc? I’m all ears.” 

Your fingers wiggle as you exaggeratedly reach over the pan, aiming to pinch a piece of bacon off the popping, hot surface. He swats you away with a scowl.

“I did not have to make enough for us both,” he reminds you, warning you. “The least you could do is wait.” 

“You’re so right, Doc. Patience breeds success and all that,” you nod factually, attempting to look as remorseful as possible for your attempted pilfering. 

He rolls his eyes, and motions over to the sink. Next to it, two mugs are sat. Steam steadily rises from each one. You blink over at them, and then look back to your long-suffering companion. It takes a moment for you to put two and two together, utterly unprepared for him to be so kind to you. 

“For me?” you ask, unable to keep the tender pitch out of your voice because—wow, shit, he really thought about you. He’s cooking for you. It’s a heady kind of feeling that fills you, then. This kind of domesticity is so often out of reach for a person who lives your kind of life—but the esteemed Doctor Veritas Ratio is wearing a cute little apron and laboring over the stove, for you (and himself, but he’s being nice enough to share, and that’s enough to get you going).

He lifts his head from his labors, looking at you with a gauging but otherwise indiscernible expression. 

“Yes,” he says, softest you’ve heard him all morning. “Drink your coffee and sit down.” He commands, but it sounds more like he’s griping at you. 

[luveline]

hi jade <3 can you pls write an “idiots in love” scenario between fem!reader and peter. something really gushy and fluffy <333

hi baby <3 I'm really sorry I think I may have misunderstood this so they're idiots in love but they aren't together yet !! fem!reader, 1k

Peter's dragging you by the hand through the crowd like one might dangle a carrot on a stick, though you aren't sure what it is he's hoping to attract in the sticky floored Burger King you're dominating. 

"Coming through!" he shouts, shouldering past people in a way that isn't strictly polite. 

You're laughing so hard your waist aches and the tether of your hand is a necessary precaution to stop you collapsing into a baby stroller. The greasy bag of your spoils quivers with a paper crunching as it whacks some poor bystander in the arm, your "Sorry," a swallowed shout in the busyness. 

Finally, you arrive at your destination. Broken crayons and tear away colouring pages splayed messily over a table hidden in the corner of the room, and there, nestled between the chaos, a precious diamond in the rough, lays the true purpose of your visit to such a fine dining establishment on such a hot summer's day. The Burger King crowns lay in their pop put forms, thick printed card stock. 

"They were more impressive when we were kids," you say.

"They're rustic." Peter drops your hand and gathers up way more crowns than you. "Understated. Humble, even." 

"Yeah," you say, giggles emerging once again. 

Peter tucks the crowns into your bag and you leave the way you came through herds of disgruntled New Yorkers and out into the summer heat, dipping into shadows as the glaring yolk of sun dips behind a skyscraper. Peter leads you deep into a cold alleyway and fiddles with the shooter at his wrist. 

"You're sure you won't drop me?" you ask, taking the paper bag of burgers and cradling it against your chest like a child. 

"You think you're so heavy," Peter complains, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

"I am heavy, Pete. A normal guy could pick me up, much less carry me onto a rooftop." 

"I'm not a normal guy." Chest to chest, Peter gives you a shameless smirk. "Hold on tight. I won't drop you, but if you drop even a single French fry, I'll be tempted." 

"Don't even joke about thAT–" your words turn to a breathless hoot as Peter thwicks his wrist upward and the two of you careen through the air. 

"It's alright!" Peter shouts. 

"Woah woah woah!" you shout back, strangling him as you try to climb up his arms and away from the bottomless air below you. Another thwick and you climb higher. A swing that takes the air out of your lungs ends with a jogging stop on a gravel rooftop. "Woah, I'm gonna chuck up." 

Peter rubs between your shoulders. "You always say that." 

"I'm dying." 

"Don't crouch like this, you're begging to be sick." 

Peter helps you up, close and smelling like all things nice. Laundry detergent from a stickler of a laundry sheriff, deodorant and aftershave and the sweet burned sugar smell of his unwise experiments. 

The rooftop is one you've come to before, wide, abandoned, but outfitted with two camping chairs that can be dragged into or out of the sun depending on what half you sit on. You drag your chairs into the sun once your nausea has abated and sit down, Burger King bag in your lap. Peter peels the straps of your tote down enough to grab your unmanufactured crowns, his fingertips summoning an odd shyness from you while they touch you. He's familiar to the point of seamlessness, usually; you and Peter may as well be one person. But now every close encounter, each gentle hand on your skin, is demarcated by a fizzy excitement you can't ignore. 

Peter hooks his chair with an ankle blindly, dragging it under his butt as he sits and pops crowns from their cardstock holdings. He guesses the sizing for your head, and props a golden crown on your head while you retrieve his cheeseburger. It slips down your nose. 

"Woah," Peter murmurs, leaning in to nudge it back up. He looks you right in the eye, close enough to kiss. "Hi there." 

"Hello, good sir," you say, eyeing his own crown. 

"Your majesty," he corrects. 

"Your majesty. Take your burger." 

"Where are my fries?" 

"The crown suits you, I think, considering you're a royal pain. Give me five seconds and I'll give you your fries, jerk." 

Peter's eyes squint gently closed in a slow blink, eyebrows raised. "Jerk. Nice. You're a royal dick." 

"Nice!" You pass him his fries, and the ketchup dip. "We should've got milkshakes." 

"Then you really would throw up." 

"You're probably right," you say, leaning back into the chair, the sun warming your cheeks like a lingering kiss. You tip your head back to eat a handful of soggy fries, salt like an explosion on your tongue. 

"Christ," Peter says, fries in one hand, burger in the other, "they're trying to give us heart disease!" 

"I was thinking the exact same thing," you laugh. 

Peter nods, pleased to be on the same wavelength, and curls your legs together, elbows bumping as you eat with all the laziness of rich people poolside at the country club. The subtle crunch of fries, the crinkling paper bag held under your foot to stop from flying away on the breeze. New York doesn't need anymore litter. 

You give up on your salty fries and Peter doesn't ask, he doesn't need to, polishing them off. His metabolism is enhanced in time with his healing and regenerative abilities, his stomach an endless pit. 

"You should've gotten another burger," you say. 

"You should mind your business." 

"Is it 'cos I was paying?" 

Peter dunks your crown down your face, kisses your cheek, and steals another handful of your fries. "Too slow." 

You laugh and tip your head until the crown falls off. The wind picks it up, and Peter throws his wrist forward without looking, catching it in a web before it can fly off. Burgers, laughter, the flirting sun and an accompanying breeze. Things are perfect. 

You look at Peter as he tries to pull his web from the crown without ruining it. He gives up, grabbing a new one from your tote. 

Well, things are almost perfect.

[celestialprincesse]

I JUST SAW YOUR POLY 141 AND UGGH IT WAS SO GOOD! If you’re interested! Could you do like poly 141 with an angst- hurt/comfort! Where supposedly one of the boys said something and the reader took it in a negative way? I liked to think that this reader is a more sensitive reader, maybe something some of us can relate too (cause I know I can <3)

with lots of love and positivity! - 🩰

Warnings: afab reader, mentions of periods 💕🎀

Cooking is your safe place. The bubbling of pots and sizzling of pans gets you out of your head. Working to delicately lattice the tops of pies or pipe cakes keeps your hands busy and your mind elsewhere. Today, the kitchen is less of a safe place, and more of a war room. The snap of your meat cleaver down onto the chopping board echoes through the house like a death knell, and the boys convene on the porch to work out what the hell happened.

"Mate, she sounds like fucking Hannibal in there." Kyle huffs, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose to soothe the building headache that stress has dropped upon his temples. Simon is already looking at Johnny, who looks like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Johnny." Simon murmurs, surprisingly warmly, in that way he does to coax someone to talk before he resorts to his 6'4 arsenal of intimidation tactics. John and Kyle proceed to look his way, his captain's eyes blazing with embers of fire just ready to spark. "I did no mean to say anythin'." His thick Scots accent drips with defeat as he looks at the other men around him. "But.." Kyle nods slowly, a comforting hand placed on Johnny's shoulder, giving an encouraging squeeze. "I said she was acting pissy." He huffs, running his hands over his face in frustration. "She was bein' all huffy an' puffy, tried to ask what was wrong and she went off." Simon immediately has his phone in hand, scrolling through their shared calendar until he comes to the date, and a little blood drop emoji a few days later. "Ah." Simon sighs, followed by a chorus of "Oh's" From the others.

Halfway through cooking whatever it is you'd stormed in here to make - you weren't really sure what - You'd managed to elbow a bowl full of eggs on the floor, and now, sat in a mess of egg yolks, shells, flour and porcelain, you sniffled pathetically into your hands.

"Hen?" Johnny calls softly, a quiet knock on the kitchen door, which he opens slowly, shuffling in with your three other massive soldiers shimmying into the kitchen at his back. "Oh, no." He coos, taking your cheeks in his palms, dropping a kiss to your forehead as he helps you up. "I didnae mean to make you cry, love. I was jus' being an idiot, yeah? Insensitive an that." Simon is at your back, gathering your hair away from your face, leaning the reassuring weight of his head into the crook of your neck, whilst John helps you out of your apron and Kyle grabs cleaning supplies for the mess you'd made on the floor. "I'm sorry for being pissy." You sniffle, stuffing your head into the ever warm skin of his chest, breathing in the scent of his cologne as your residual tears soak his shirt. "Ye was no bein' pissy. Ye jus weren't as chirpy as usual, eh? No problem with that, was jus surprised is all." "You know we all love you." John coos, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder as you're left smushed between four huge bodies. "Love you too."

[zoroshonkingbazonkadonkas]

Fic masterpost

One piece

Onigiri can't flirt (but the cook sure can) (zosan oneshot/ 2k/ G)

Zoro’s good eye had widened a bit. “Don’t want you ruining perfectly good onigiri with moss,” Sanji said with a smirk. or: the one in which Sanji's Plans™ go awry (but in a good way)

No matter where you go (zosan oneshot/ 2.7k/ G)

Hadn’t the annoying swordsman been walking beside him when he’d walked across the street? And there was the fountain he definitely remembered having the mossball beside him. Could he be somewhere nearby? Maybe a little bit to the- “OI. MARIMO. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING INSIDE THE WATER, YOU BUFFOON?” Welp. At least he’d found him. ~~~ or: the one in which Zoro keeps getting lost, and Sanji is the only one who can find him

A flower in his hair (zosan oneshot/ 828/ G)

“Uh.” Zoro scratched the back of his head. “It’s a bracelet. I know you have a ton of them already, but I saw it and thought it was made for you. It’s almost the exact shade of blue your eyes are.”

How did we end up here? (zosan multichap (2/3)/ 5k/ G)

“Your eyes are blue.” Sanji blinked. “Uh. Yeah?” Zoro was looking at him with a solemn expression. “No like. Really blue. And pretty.” orrrrr: Sedated! Zoro, suffering Sanji

Taking the long way home (zosan oneshot/ 3.5k/ T)

The next thing he knew- he was being hoisted up by a pair of thick, strong arms. Ah. His response was probably taken as a no, then. His body was so warm. It was pretty unfair. or: the one in which Sanji gets sick and is stupid about it (because of course) and Zoro is. less stupid

Hash brown, egg yolk (zosan multichap (1/2)/ 9.3k/ T)

Opening the door to the bath, he was met with the sight of Sanji crouching down, testing the water. He had his back to him, and the kitten was still nuzzling into Sanji’s neck. For a split second, he wished that it was him in her place. That thought, along with the heat that had bloomed in his face as he’d thought so, was promptly forgotten when the kitten extended her little paws towards him, mewing insistently, as if to say, ‘Take me back, bitch’. or: Zosan + kitten

The magic cookbook (zosan oneshot/ 558/ G)

Our boy Usopp is a master story teller as one might say! His latest story is about Sanji and the latest cookbook he purchased. Little does the blond know: this particular cookbook is removed from the ordinary, for the seller is no other than Roronoa Zoro: Wizard Extraordinaire! or: this zosan server prompt got a little bit out of hand note: there will be an extended version of this ficlet

Something just like this (zosan oneshot/ 588/ G)

“You look cute.” Sanji very nearly spews his tea out.

perhaps i'm a little bit obsessed with Zoro noticing Sanji's eyes. just a tad

[what-even-is-thiss]

As an egg lover, could you give me advice on what to do with them? I like having them around for weekend breakfasts or baking, but I often find they go bad before I can get through them all.

Try making a bunch of boiled eggs to eat whenever.

Also if you like ramen eggs and tend to eat instant ramen you can marinade a few ahead of time to use whenever.

To make the marinade you basically take equal parts water, soy sauce, and either sake or mirin and heat it up to dissolve some sugar in it on the stove.

Probably 1/4 to 1/3 cup each and a big spoonful of sugar for most people’s needs or even less. You just need enough to cover all your eggs in a plastic bag or something.

Let it cool to room temperature first and put it in a bag or other container with some peeled medium boiled eggs and let it sit between an hour and ten hours. Don’t go more than twelve hours. The longer you let them sit the more marinade gets into them and if you let it sit too long it can get so salty it’s gross. Even if you love salty food trust me it’s too much.

You can also make all kinds of fast breakfasts or lunches with eggs if you have the means to cook. I really like a fried egg over rice with miso soup. I usually use instant rice and premade soup so it makes for a quick breakfast. A fried egg over toast or scrambled eggs with salsa are also fast to make and really good.

You can also poach eggs in the microwave. This must be done with caution however. You need to poke a couple of holes in the yolks with a fork or something so they don’t explode. Put them in a small amount of water maybe 1/3 cup and a splash of vinegar in a mug or something and microwave them for 15 second increments checking on them in between until they look done enough to you. I’ve done it this way for years and never had an explosion.

You can also get some of those just crack an egg things or make your own ahead of time. My brother really likes those. It’s basically microwave scrambled eggs with a bunch of fillings.

A thing you can do with eggs for dinner is make quiche out of them. Or perhaps a Spanish omelette. Those are omelettes so thick you need to cut them like a pizza. I think they call them a tortilla in Spain but that’s not what a tortilla is where I’m from so I call it a Spanish omelette.

Eggs in purgatory is another good one for dinner. Yes that’s the name of the dish. It’s poached eggs in spiced tomato sauce basically. You can also make egg curry. Really good with soft boiled eggs.

Egg drop soup is good. You can make carbonara if you’ve got pasta and bacon lying around. Baked eggs, American toad in the hole which is an egg fried inside a hollowed out piece of bread. That one can be a hit with kids especially. Migas is good. Fried rice is a good use of eggs and leftover rice and pretty easy to make.

Fried eggs also go good on burgers and pizza. Really. It’s better than you think.

[furrbbyx]

Monster March d.9: getting me and my monster preggers with dragon egg

Really short idea that I had outlined last year but hadn't really written out. I scrubbed it up for the internet so that it's readable

approx. 370 words

smut, like...lots of sex described and implied. so no one less than 18 plz.

my monster expresses they want to get pregnant.  my sweet monster wants to get preggers, and they specifically want a dragon egg pregnancy.

So we call a monster service and get paired with a  dragon.

I urge them on and let them take the dragon cock first. They are both huger than me. I mean just large and thick bodied. I watch them, salivating over the thick fleshy monsters as they begin to breed.

My monster is ass up on the floor lying on a bunch of plush blankets, big round satin pillow with the dragon curling around their body. The dragon growls in appreciation while my monster whimpers like a slut.I rub my pussy all over the dragon's smooth scaled feet then climb on my my monster's back, settling in the arch, and ride their spine. The view of my sweetie getting sloppily bread by the powerful dragon scrambles my brain with lust.

Then I clean them both

While cleaning the rutting dragon I find myself teasing, and squeezing and cupping the churning ball flesh, trying to work that dragon dick. Until I found my hands grasped between dragon claws, raising my arms above my head. Moaning loudly when the claws are used to play with my nipples.

My monster rolls over and starts sucking, We can't let this dragon go without one more load of cum at least.

But this time they convince me to get preggers. WOWie

I top the dragon while my monster rubs my belly and sucks my tits while dragon cum expands my body. Since I'm not as big of a monster it causes some cramping and I need to be soothed.

The dragon decides to hoard us until the children are born to keep us fucked and happy since that's how dragons work. Dragons can become feral while pregg and then they retreat and raise recluse feral dragons.

So their partners keep them docile with orgasms. This keeps the cervix primed and allows the egg to grow.

The eggs are soft ropy yolks that develop to a leathery when they come out and they harden in a few hours after birth.

[saturns-apple]

day 8 - eldritch

another thing for @ultrainfinitepit ultrangeltober!! while the last one is canon, this one encompasses the vibes that atlas has throughout most of the story. mysterious, quiet, with an air of "i know something you don't" adding to a slightly suspicious demeanor but without a way to break it down easily.

the humans might not know a lot about atlas, but they've SEEN a lot of them, at least, and they know at least what they're willing to do around humans or to other people. they know that they're not familiar with human culture and technology, but they're very familiar with nature. they don't know english, but they can kind of tell intention, yadda yadda. there's no lack of Observable Facts, for as unknown as they might be

atlas does a lot of strange things, over the course of the story. they do tricks of the light, manipulate and mimic sounds, make people's limbs fall asleep with their claws, weird stuff like that. though the weirdest things they do are seemingly tied to their eyes. their eyes are actually sockets filled with a kind of thick-ish liquid, held on the inside with some kind of barrier. think an egg yolk. this substance-- it doesn't have a name really but the group just calls it a goop-- has seemingly supernatural properties. if it's given to plants, they will grow rapidly and change forms significantly, like the blue apples in the picture above becoming Like That. if it's given to a human, it can heal them, get rid of headaches and minor sicknesses and heal small wounds. its WEIRD, and makes kyle even more paranoid about what else they could be capable of.

their default "single eye" appearance is like that because kyle told them that ALL of their eyes, which you can see here, are creepy as fuck. they proceeded to close up all but one, and ask if that was better. kyle didn't have the energy to correct them

[auncyen]

Jouvente's most awkward lunch is finally underway.

"So you're still traveling around, huh?"

"Mhm."

"Any special reason you're in Jouvente?" you ask, and try not to get your hopes up.

Siffrin doesn't answer for a beat, cutting off another small piece of the croque-madame he ordered after you reassured them that you were going to pay and didn't mind. The poached egg yolk oozes over the ham and cheese sandwich; Sif moves his fork around to sweep the few drops that run down to the plate back up on the bread. "Um. I...wanted to look for jobs."

Oof. Feels like your hopes got up without your permission. It's fine, they've been put back in place. "Oh! That's right, you used to do odd jobs, right? Any luck?"

"It's going alright! So...what about you? With the..." Siffrin trails off, their brow furrowing in a frustration all too familiar to you. You quickly finish chewing through the broccoli and egg in your mouth to bail them out.

"With the tailoring? Well, I could say it's only sew-sew, but actually, I'm really enjoying it!"

Okay, you had to wedge that pun in there, but still, you thought it'd get a smile out of Sif, maybe a chuckle. Instead, Siffrin looks confused before giving you a smile best described as 'polite'. Sure, his mouth turns up and all, but you don't think he got it in the slightest. "That's good!"

...Probably your mistake for going for sewing puns right after they forgot the word for your work. Yep. Move on, Isabeau. "Yeah! I really lucked out--the store was owned by a seamstress who's retiring. Well, still is owned, but we've got a contract for me buying the store from her. She already moved out to live with her bonded partners, but she stops in twice a week to teach me what I still need to learn about making clothes."

Sif...nods, encouraging you to go on.

"She's cool! She pretty much worked as a seamstress all her life, so she really knows her stuff. Tells me right away when I'm making a design way more work than it should be." Sometimes all the fiddling details were necessary, but other times, you could get the right effect a simpler way.

Siffrin nods, still smiling politely.

Huh. You scoop up another bite of your quiche as an excuse not to talk for a minute, noting that Sif goes for another cut piece of croque-madame at the same time. You never thought a lunch with Sif could be awkward, but...

Boy, is this awkward!

Why is it awkward? You and Siffrin were thick as thieves during your adventure. Sure, it's been a while, you couldn't expect things to be the same right off the bat, but...

“M’dame Odile and Mira will be glad to hear you’re doing okay.”

Siffrin nods. Then he looks confused. Then...you're not sure what that expression is.  “Wait, are they here too?  In Jouvente?”

“No, no, but we’ve been writing!  The last letter was a week ago, they were going to see...aha, apparently there's a play about Mirabelle? She said it was embarrassing, but she and Odile were too curious not to go. Hopefully they liked it!" You weren't all that curious yourself. After all, you'd already lived the adventure. You knew the real story, the real Mirabelle! You hoped the play portrayed her and everyone else well, but you were pretty sure there was no way they had all the details.

Also...you had a bad feeling you were probably portrayed as a jock through and through. Since that was how you acted. You could picture the cast: determined Mirabelle, leading the way; clever Odile, strategizing against hordes of Sadnesses and then the King himself; fun-loving Sif, raising everyone's spirits with jokes and protecting them from traps; brave Bonnie, keeping everyone healthy with good food; ...meathead Isabeau, whose good point was being too dumb to fear the danger.

You're jolted out of that extremely unhelpful thought by Siffrin's next question. “They’re traveling…together?”

...That's a weird tone. “Housemaidens usually go on at least one pilgrimage, not sure if you knew that.  Since M’dame was interested in seeing a little of what Vaugarde's like when it's normal, Mira asked her if they could travel together. So they spent a few months in Vaugarde, and right now they're in Poteria. I think they're planning on Lichtland next? Eventually they'll get to Ka Bue, but it sounded like both of them planned on taking their time.“

Sif's brow is furrowed again as he looks down at his plate. Is he jealous? You were jealous too when you found out. But you get it! Of course Mira and M'dame didn't ask you. You were busy being a sad sack about Siffrin. Well, and even without that, why should they have invited you? It was their trip. Not like you had a good reason to tag along, just...

It would have been nice to.

You can't complain--Jouvente's been good to you. You were the guest of honor at a party hosted by the city, your family is so proud of you (though you know Guy is just happy to boast that he's a Savior's sibling to his partner of the week, which keeps making you secondguess how sincere everyone else is when they reach out to you), the neighbors in your new place have been warm and friendly, you got to start on designing clothes so much faster than you thought you would.

You just miss Mira and Odile a whole lot. You miss Bonbon. You miss what you had with Siffrin, because everything about this lunch feels so off, and at this point you have to ask.

"Sif...you are doing okay, right?"

They immediately smile brightly enough that their eye closes. "Of course I am! Why wouldn't I be?"

[halo-desert-rose]

Mid-Autumn Festival Special comic with Parker and Arthur :3

Mid-Autumn was like, two weeks ago, I’m just slow with comics. Did I draw this comic just to talk about mooncakes? Yes, yes I did. Also apparently there was (probably still is) a really old Chinese bakery that made mooncakes in New York in the 1930s, so Parker probably drove like half an hour to get mooncakes.

Also sharing food as a way of sharing one’s culture? Amazing, spectacular, delicious, I eat that shit up

Image description under cut

[ID:

A traditional comic with no colour. In the first image, Arthur and Parker are stood at the counter of a kitchen. Arthur is on the left, and Parker is on the right. Both are wearing long-sleeved shirts, suspenders and trousers. They both have their short hair combed back, with Parker’s hair being parted to the viewer’s right, and Arthur’s being parted to the viewer’s left. Arthur also has a small moustache that is not too thick. Parker is looking downwards. He has a small plate in his left hand, which has a mooncake on it. The mooncake is a short, cylindrical shape with dents on its sides. In his other hand, Parker is cutting it into quarters with a butter knife. Arthur, slightly shorter than him, has his left hand resting on the counter and is looking somewhat curiously at the mooncake. Above Arthur’s head is a speech bubble, reading, “What is this?”. To Parker’s left, the speech bubble reads, “Mooncake. It’s a… it’s more pastry than cake, I guess.”

The second image is a close-up of the mooncake, with a quarter-slice taken out to reveal the inside. It is a cylindrical pastry with dents on its sides in regularly intervals from the top to the bottom. On the top, is a floral pattern surrounding a square shape in the centre. Inside the mooncake shows the lotus paste encased by a thin line of pastry that makes up the outside, with a circle in the middle. Three speech bubbles are on its left. Parker says “With a salted egg yolk inside.” Arthur replies with, “Egg yolk?”. A line connects Parker’s first bubble with the next, which reads, “Yeah, so that when you cut it open, it looks like the moon.”

The third image shows Parker from the side, with Arthur looking up at him, his head tilted and his shoulder raised, as if he is leaning on the kitchen counter. He looks interesting, or listening intently to what Parker has to say. Parker’s gaze is still on the mooncake, presumably, and is smiling slightly as he says, “But you have to cut it up and share it, otherwise you’ll feel… it’s too rich for one person.”

The next panel depicts Parker and Arthur from the front, with Parker offering a the plate of mooncake to Arthur. His is leaning very slightly down, his gaze on Arthur’s face. Arthur looks surprised, his gaze on the plate offered to him. His right hand is raised to shoulder level, his index finger lifted, as if pointing idly at the pastry. Parker says, “D’you want to try some?” Arthur replies with, “Oh! I… well, what does it taste like?”

The fifth image depicts Arthur and Parker’s chibi faces, and their hands are simplified to rounded shapes with fingers. Parker says, “Well, this one is lotus paste flavoured, so it’s a slightly sweet, almost beany paste. Almost like a dry-ish custard, in terms of texture.” On the side, he adds, “I can give you a piece without the egg yolk, if you want.”

The sixth image shows a close-up shot of Arthur, his head tilted down, and his eyes are closed. He is slightly smiling, saying, “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

The next shows Parker looking slightly surprised, as if he was not expecting Arthur to take him up on the offer.

The next panel is similar to the previous, but Parker is trying to contain his joy and giddiness, but failing. His face is glowing, figuratively, with a big and relieved smile that reach his eyes. Behind his head is a circle with light emanating from it, resembling a sun. Next to his head are the words, “Yeah, ‘f course.”

The last panel shows both of their backs, leaning over the mooncake. Arthur is more visibly leaning forward, looking forward to trying a slice of mooncake. Their shoulders are touching. Parker, in his first speech bubble, asks, “D’you want some egg yolk?” Arthur replies with, “Sure, why not.” In a bubble attached and outlined with a dotted line, Arthur adds on, “That IS a nice golden colour,” s if impressed. Parker replies with. “Good choice” in one bubble, and in another, he continues with, “My family would always fight over the yolk. That’s the best part.”

END ID]

[marozzoespabakingcooking]

Chocolate Mousse Cake

Ingredients lists

Chocolate biscuit

5 eggs

150g sugar

60g flour

60g corn starch

10g cocoa powder

Chocolate Mousse

3 egg yolks

75g sugar

150g 55% dark chocolate

250g milk

270g heavy cream

4 gelatin sheets (~2 teaspoon of gelatin powder)

Chocolate Disc

100g couverture dark chocolate

Required material

Baking circle (~20cm ø)

Piping bag

Chocolate plastic sheet

Cooking thermometer

Rhodoid band (optional)

Instructions

Chocolate biscuit

Seperate the yolks and the white of the eggs.

Beat/whisk the yolks and half of the sugar until they take a fluffy texture and whitens in color (example video but it can be done faster with an electric whisk).

Beat/whisk the whites and the other half of the sugar until they become fluffy (example video but add sugar at the start).

Put the whites, the yolks, sieved flour, starch & cocoa powder together in one big bowl.

Mix gently until it's all homogeneous. Don't mix to fast or over mix, or you'll loose some trapped air inside the cake.

Prefeat your oven at 170°C.

On a baking sheet, using a piping bag with a 1cm round opening, make a disc 1cm small in diameter than your baking circle.

On another baking sheet, make one or several series of lines, each line being half the height of your baking circle, each barely touching one another. The combine length of everything should be barely more than your baking circle perimeter. See schemas below for better visualization.

Bake for 15min.

While it is still warm, place the disc at the bottom of the baking circle, place rhodoid inside of the baking circle (optional), and then place the band all around the wall. Make sure the two ends of the cake band compress each other, and compress the disc. That will ensure they are sealed tight.

Chocolate Mousse

Put the gelatin sheets in cold water to rehydrate the gelatin.

Beat the yolks and sugar together until it becomes fluffy and whitens in color.

Melt the dark chocolate into the milk.

Once the milk is about to simmer, pour it on top of the yolks, and mix well with a whisk.

Put everything in a sauce pan and cook until it reaches 83°C and put off the stove/heat.

Add in the rehydrated gelatin and mix with a whisk for 5min to make sure it stays fluffy.

Let the mousse cool down until room temperature.

Once at room temperature, beat/whisk the heavy cream until it becomes a well done whipped cream.

Add in the chocolate egg mix, and mix everything gently until it is homogeneous.

Pour into the baking circle.

Chocolate Disc (optional)

First temper the chocolate: Melt the chocolate until it reaches 50-55°C, lower down the temperature while stirring until 28-29°C, and then reheat to 31-32°C.

Pour the chocolate on a plastic sheet designed for chocolate decoration.

Spread the chocolate into a thin layer, and place a second plastic sheet on top.

Before it hardens, push the baking circle on top of the chocolate sheets to make a circle.

Let it cool down until it hardens properly.

Once the chocolate mousse has fully hardened/gelified, remove the baking circle & rhodoid, and top the cake with the disc.

Alernative

If you cannot make the chocolate disc, instead, before removing the baking circle, you can top the cake with cocoa powder, and then remove the baking circle.

You can also add a layer of thick dark chocolate frosting on top.

Advice

When cutting the cake, heat up the knife so you can melt through the chocolate disc instead of breaking it into small bits.

Make sure to make the chocolate disc really thin, or it'll be too hard eat proper.