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missviviii · 3 months

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a/n: zayne my boo <3 im sobbing over the fact that the game killed off mc’s grandma and caleb 😭

ミ★ Love & Deep Space ミ★

pairing: zayne x fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of death, mentions of the explosion that killed mc’s grandma + childhood best friend (caleb) in game, spoilers(?)

Summary: Ever since that day, you’ve fallen in a deep, dark pit. Why did you have to be the one that they decide to destroy? Why did Caleb and Grandma have to die? Is it your fault they did? Zayne, as your primary care physician and a family friend, is concerned for your well-being.

“Sometimes, a small gesture is all it takes.”

The sound of the news on your TV, the thundering rain outside, the sound of the cars driving by your apartment—it all blurs out as you stared at the TV screen, eyes dead and unfocused on the news of the Wanderers attacking and the explosions. Some 22 casualties, two deaths. Grandma and Caleb. His necklace that you bought him as a goodbye gift when he left for the Aerospace Academy sits beside a picture of you, him, and Grandma on the coffee table, the cheerful smiles making you wished that you could revisit time.

Your apartment, once somewhat organized and clean, is now messy with things being knocked down and dirty dishes long discarded. You stare at the one last thing your Grandma left for you, some..tablet(?) with a final letter on it. You haven’t gotten the energy or the ability to open it. It pains you, seeing that you haven’t visited for so long yet when you do, this was the time her house had to explode right in front of you, flames engulfing the house and the only thing that remained was Caleb’s necklace.

“I miss you, Grandma..” You mumbled to nobody, rubbing the tears threatening to spill out your eyes as you glanced down at the item she left you with. Besides that, a small box of her old recipes of those notecards, and other small things that she had entrusted to you years before.

Around you was your laptop, papers and files on the latest Wanderer attacks around you. Yes, Captain Jenna dismissed you and said that you should take some days off to regain your energy, since you haven’t been getting the sleep or the energy you needed, but you just couldn’t.

Your door opened, yet you didn’t bother to look at who entered. “Still sitting in front of the TV?” A familiar voice spoke out, flipping the light switch on and shutting the door behind him. It was Zayne, a long time family friend and your primary care physician. “You haven’t eaten,” he bluntly says as he sets a bag of food on your table and walked into the kitchen. He bites back a sigh, knowing that you were going through a tough time, and people tended to discard everything and grieve and grieve their hearts out.

“Hello to you too, Zayne,” you replied as you shut off the news and got up off your sofa. You pile up all the papers and files you’ve scattered around and set them on the coffee table before you walk into the kitchen as Zayne is cleaning up your dirty dishes. He checks in on you whenever he’s free or when he’s off his shift. He looks back at you, only making a small hum of acknowledgment before cleaning up your dirty kitchen. You looked terrible—eyes red and puffy from crying, obvious eye bags, and the sparkles from your eyes were gone.

You yawn as you take out a bowl and some utensils for whatever food he brought in for you. You unpacked the bag as he cleaned up the dishes you couldn’t bother doing last week. Potatoes, avocado on the side, tuna salad, salmon and rice you said to yourself as you took out the food that he had carefully backed in those plastic containers for you. Then you took out the last thing. Cookie..dough? He remembered your favorite childhood snack. The kind of cookie dough you liked.

“Your grandma gave me a recipe for the cookie dough. She said that if she couldn’t make it, I should since it lightens your mood,” Zayne says as he puts your clean dishes back into the cabinet. He dries his hand off before walking over to you, watching how you stare at it like a piece of gold. Disbelief and shock were etched on your face.

Zayne puts his hand on your back, soothingly rubbing circles as you opened the container and took a bite. Your eyes almost brimmed with tears again. You could remember how your grandma used to bake in the kitchen and you’d always sneak a bite or two of the cookie dough, no care in the world if you could get salmonella.

“Thank..you, Zayne,” you finally said, turning around tightly hugging him. He was a bit hesitant at first, but he put his hand on your head, massaging your scalp as he looked down at you with a gentle look on his face.

“..You’re welcome. I miss her too.”

Zayne’s eyes looked away at the picture on the counter of your grandma. She didn’t have to go out this way.

#love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #vivi’s writing✫彡 #writing #i wanna write #x reader #fanfiction #for funsies #i almost cried #fanfic #my darling <3 #this game is so good #send me asks #love & deepspace #love & deepspace fluff #little bit of angst

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relax-and-read-on · 4 months

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I have not made made a generic hc post about the primarch in a LONG time. I miss it, and it's good for the warhammer tumblr ecosystem. So, without further waiting....

Primarch, and the absolutely shitty gifts they give each others for a White Elephants gift exchange

Roboute: A classic coffee mug (primarch sized!) Filled with sweets and a indestructible fancy fountain pen. The mug say "World Most Okay Dad" on it, and he joke that it apply to them all.

Lion: a stuffed bird. The number of eyes on it is vaguely unnerving. It's unclear wich way is the head suppose to go, and all agree that it's probably an awful mutant bird. Lion is too proud to admit that it's just a really shotty taxidermy he made himself.

Alpharius Omegon: They give a series of mysterious CD in blank case, wich is a very rare and hard to read format on most ship! It's the entire series of MLP:FiM, famous lost media in the 30th millenium.

Rogal: A thick, sturdy, and perfectly elegant multi bit screwdriver, with extra standard bits put in the handle. Give a proud presentation on it, explaining it's superior design and all it's ergonomic features. It's 45 min long.

Perturabo: it's a coupon that say "one (1) construction from me and my legion, free of complaining. Valid until the 31th millenium." It's the most popular gift of the night.

Corvus: slipper and kigurumi, all crow themed. They are *adorable*. Sadly, the size is a bit tight and vaguely indecent on the more muscular primarch.

Lorgar: a traditional colchian tea set, with hand dried craft teas! The set is beautiful, and the teas prove to be only mildly hallucinogenic.

Konrad: A very, VERY pretty embroidered set of throw pillow! They have delicate pattern of flower and nature imagery... And are made with human hair. Konrad is very proud of himself, and even more of the absolute bloody screaming his gift create when he explain it.

Sanguinius: put out by Konrad's gift, but he also made a pillow, but this one filled with his own feathers. Has surprising property against nightmare.

Vulkan: He was actually sweet, and brought homemade hot sauce, his mother's recipe! The problem is that the stuff is so strong, it's considered a dangerous chemical in most of the galaxy. Can be used as jet fuel.

Horus: Edible sexy underwear. Insist that whoever gets it has to wear it, and jokingly say that, if they are too shy, he can do a demonstration himself.

Mortarion: a succulent growing kit. Even his most dumbasses of brother should be able to keep a succulent alive, right? Doesn't mention that it's an highly invasive species that will colonise the entire ship of his poor victime.

Jaghatai: a foal. Yes, he carry a whole ass live animal to the gift exchange, and keep insisting that it's an appropriate gift. The horse is chewing on Magnus' hair.

Leman: Mad that he didn't think of bringing a puppy, but he has the most amazing looking collection of smoked salmon, caviar and preserved fish to offer.

Magnus: his patience is wearing thin, but he still offer a perfectly beautiful robe, that act as an honest to good mood ring and change color depending on the person's aura.

Fulgrim: A painting of himself! Wich is actually a joke, it's just a thin and hand painted decorative paper covering the true gift: a painting of all their family, together. Get called a try hard.

Ferrus: a collection of very pretty crystals and fossils! Wich he arranged in a chocolate box, and explain that those are his favorite flavors.

Angron: A punching bag that even *he* find durable. He made sure of it, by thoroughly testing it before giving it out, wich explain it's used appearance.

I know exactly who gets what..... Yall want to know in a part 2 ;)?

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suddencolds · 8 months

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Fool Me Twice [5/?]

Hello, remember this series? This chapter took me like six months to write. It was very embarrassing opening up the google doc again to see that the last edit was in April (back when I rewrote this chapter from scratch five times over before giving up entirely.) Anyways, I need to post it before I lose my nerve. 😭

Part 5 ft. fake dating, a cold, and an intervention

You can read part 1 [here]! (No context is needed aside from the previous 4 parts).

—

The drive to Good Day Diner is uneventful. Francesca recommended it to him awhile back, when they were both still in college, and he’s been trying to puzzle out their recipes ever since. Though, even with the ones where he’s come close, he rarely has the time to make them properly, in between work and everything else, so he’s been back here a few times since then.

Yves picks up two pint-sized containers worth of soup—chicken farro and miso with ginger—and strikes up a conversation with the cashier while he waits.

“This isn’t your usual order,” she says.

“Yeah,” Yves says. “It’s for a friend.”

“They’re a fan of miso?” Yves considers this. They’ve gone to more than a couple work outings together, and though Yves hasn’t paid particularly close attention to what everyone else has ordered, he thinks he remembers Vincent getting miso salmon on one occasion, a few weeks back. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I hope so.”

“Your friend didn’t tell you their order?”

“He doesn’t know I’m getting dinner for him. I just happened to be passing by, so I thought I might as well.” That part’s not entirely true—the restaurant is a twenty minute drive from the office, and it’s not really on the way home, either.

“So it’s a surprise,” the girl says, leaning back with a smile that looks a little too knowing for Yves’s liking. Whatever she thinks she’s figured out, he’s sure she has the wrong idea. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

“It’s not like that,” Yves says. “We aren’t that close. I’m not even sure if he’ll be happy to see me.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s done a lot for me, and I think—” I think I might’ve repaid him in the most ungrateful way possible, his mind supplies unhelpfully. “I think all I’ve done, in return, is cause him trouble.”

The girl finishes ladling soup into the containers and reaches over the counter for two caps. “Usually when people do a lot for you, that means they like you.”

“Or it means they’re just really nice,” Yves says. “I think that’s closer to it.”

“So you’re getting him soup because you feel indebted to him?” She sets the soup containers carefully into a brown paper bag, slips in two plastic sleeves worth of utensils, then slides it towards him.

“Something like that,” Yves says, taking the bag from her. “Thanks, I’ll let you know how it goes the next time I’m back. Have a good one!”

“You too,” she says. “I hope your friend appreciates it.”

It’s not as nice as treating Vincent to dinner, but maybe what Vincent needs right now is convenience, not luxury. if he’s already made up his mind about working late, then at least he can work late with dinner on the side. Yves doesn’t even have to talk to him, really. He can just leave the soup on Vincent’s desk with a note, as unobtrusively as possible, and then take his leave again.

The drive back is shorter than expected. Yves turns on the radio, if only to not be left with just his thoughts, and listens to the newscaster talk about traffic, and the weather, and a local festival that’s going to be held on friday. When he puts the car into park and pulls the keys out from the ignition, the silence that follows is not reassuring in the least.

He pockets his keys and heads up the stairs, into the office building, and takes the elevator up to the fifth floor. The office is well-lit, even this late at night—it gives the impression of it being perpetually daytime, even though the clock on the wall says otherwise.

He takes a post-it note off of Cara’s desk, scrawls on: Figured you wouldn’t have time to get dinner, so I got you soup, and signs it: -Y. He sticks the note onto the paper bag, regards it for a moment, and then—after reconsidering—staples it on, just in case.

Then he heads off—past rows and rows of desks, around the corner and through the hallway, past the break room, to stop at the doorway which overlooks the room where Vincent sits.

Vincent is still at his desk, paging through documents with one hand, scrolling through what looks to be a long list of email correspondences with the other. From this distance, it’s hard to tell that anything is off, except—

He looks exhausted. It’s subtle, but once Yves notices it, he can’t stop noticing it. It’s present in the way Vincent holds himself, as if the wiry frame of the office chair is the only thing keeping him properly upright. It’s in the way he blinks hard at his monitor, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if he’s been staring at it for hours.

There’s a mug of what looks to be black coffee on his desk, half empty but still steaming, which seems to imply that he plans on staying much later. Yves clears his throat.

“Still working hard?” he says.

Vincent’s gaze snaps up to where Yves is standing. “Yves,” he says. “I thought you left.”

“I did.”

“Did you forget something here?” Vincent dog-ears the page he’s flipped to, then sets the stack of papers off to the side. “I can help you look.”

“No,” Yves says. “Well, not exactly. I know you said you didn’t want to be bothered. I promise I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, expectantly.

“Have you eaten?”

“I ate,” Vincent says. The relief Yves feels, at that statement, is unfortunately short-lasted. “Lunch. A few hours ago.”

“Lunch was eight hours ago.”

“I’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Will you catch up on sleep tomorrow too?”

“If I manage to finish this by then,” Vincent says, “Then yes.”

Yves stares at him. Does Vincent really, truly think there’s nothing wrong with any of this? With whatever sleepless, miserable late-night work session he’s already seemingly resigned himself to? “So what? You’re going to crash on the couch here?”

“I’ll head home around 4,” Vincent says.

4am. “And what? Lay down for fifteen minutes?”

“Three hours, maybe,” Vincent says, turning aside to muffle a cough into his elbow. “I don’t live that far.”

He says all of this in earnest, as though none of it strikes him as even the slightest bit unreasonable. Yves can’t help it—he doesn’t think he could hide the incredulity in his voice even if he tried. “You have to be kidding me.”

Finally, Vincent’s face shifts to show—something. Something other than the utter blankness from before, something past the civil, perfectly drawn business facade. Yves doesn’t have to look for very long to register it as frustration. “What part of my answer was unclear?”

“None of it is unclear,” Yves says. “It’s just… exceptionally unreasonable.”

“By some arbitrary metric of yours, sure.”

“Ask anyone else at the office and they’d agree with me.”

“What you—or anyone else at the office—think about my sleep schedule doesn’t concern me.”

“Let me help,” Yves says. “Please. We’ll get it done twice as fast if I help. Or if you really don’t trust me, hand it off to someone you do trust.”

“There’s no need. It’s my work to get done.”

“You should be at home right now, not working overtime on your first day back,” Yves says. He looks over all of it, now—over the desktop computer and the monitor, the charts and graphs laid out on screen, the piles of paperwork currently occupying Vincent’s desk. There’s a pang in his chest that he hadn’t quite accounted for. “It can’t be pleasant doing all of this with a headache.”

Vincent blinks at him. “What headache?”

“The one you’ve had since before I left.” Vincent can attempt to deny it if he wants. But between Leon, Yves’s younger brother, and Victoire, his younger sister—who’ve caught their fair share of colds throughout the years, between the other members of the crew team he’d spent his 6ams with—who he’s seen frequently tired and occasionally under the weather—Yves thinks he’s well equipped to recognize a headache.

And Vincent looks as put-together as always, for the most part—he looks like he could’ve just walked out of a photoshoot for some classy magazine, his hair neat, his tie done neatly, his suit jacket criminally well-fitted to his shoulders. But Yves doesn’t miss the stiff set of his jaw and the tension strung through his posture, the way he tilts his head ever-so-slightly away from the bright overhead lights as if it hurts to look at them, the way he rubs his eyes or pinches the bridge of his nose, always subtle enough to go unnoticed. The way he holds himself, now, as if it’s taking all of his energy to appear so presentable.

“I don’t,” Vincent starts. “I haven’t—”

“I can tell, you know,” Yves says, a little dejectedly. “I’m pretty sure it’s my fault you have one, anyways.”

Vincent frowns. “Talking to you hasn’t given me a headache.”

“Not that,” Yves says. “But I’d imagine that spending all of New Year’s Eve next to me when I was under the weather might have.”

Yves watches the surprise flicker across Vincent’s face.

“So that’s what this is about?” Vincent says slowly, his eyebrows furrowing. He looks—confused, now, taken aback by Yves’s admission—and then a little sad. “You’re just here because you feel guilty.”

“I do feel guilty,” Yves agrees—that much is true. “But that’s not why I’m here.” he feels hopeless, suddenly, attempting to explain himself to someone who would probably have preferred it if he never bothered. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. Perhaps it was presumptuous to think that he could help in the first place. “I realize now that I can’t change your mind on any of this. But even if you plan to stay here all night, I— I just thought maybe I could—”

He’s interrupted with a harsh, “hhHh’NGk-t!” which jerks Vincent forward in his seat. Then a soft, wet sniffle, and then another— “Excuse m—Hhh’GKT!”, neatly pinched off into his hands. Vincent’s eyes flutter shut as he cups both his hands over his mouth, his eyebrows drawing together as his shoulders tremble with an inhale: “hih… hiIIh… hI’GKSCHHuuh-! Snf-! hH… HEh’DZSSChhUH!”

It’s immediately followed up with a few harsh, grating coughs which leave Vincent hunched over slightly, his glasses slightly askew, his hands still cupped to his face.

“Bless you,” Yves says, a little stunned.

Vincent doesn’t say anything to that—he just reaches across the desk for a tissue and blows his nose quietly into it, before he discards the tissue into a small metal trash can under the desk. The tips of his ears look a little red.

His throat probably hurts too, Yves realizes, with a jolt. Yves really shouldn’t be prolonging this conversation if he can help it.

“I, uh, brought soup,” he says awkwardly. The paper bag crinkles slightly as he lifts it. “Just so you wouldn’t have to skip dinner entirely. That’s why I was gone earlier. I initially meant to just drop it off here, not—” he clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to argue with you.”

Vincent is quiet for a moment longer. Then he says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“What? Bring you dinner?

“You didn’t have to come back at all.”

“I know that,” Yves says. “But I wanted to.”

Vincent takes the bag from him, lifts the post-it note so he can read the few lines Yves has scrawled onto it. He turns aside to muffle a few coughs into his sleeve. “This must have been a lot of trouble.”

“Not more trouble than attending a New Year’s party on someone else’s behalf, that’s for sure,” Yves says. It’s a wonder that Vincent agreed to that arrangement in the first place—Yves doesn’t know how he’ll even begin to make it up to him. “If we’re keeping count, I still owe you.”

Vincent regards him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I never thought that you owed me.”

“Okay,” Yves says. “Then I’m doing this on my own accord.”

“What do you possibly have to gain from that?”

Is it not obvious enough? Yves sighs. “Nothing. I care about you.”

Carefully, slowly, Vincent opens the bag, shifts his documents over to the other side of the desk, and takes out the two containers of soup. Yves regards them closely—hopefully they’ve still retained most of their warmth, even after the drive here.

“I’m not sure if they’ll be to your taste,” he says, a little sheepishly. “If you tell me what you like, next time I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

“I’m not picky,” Vincent says. He rummages through the paper bag for a spoon. “I think I’d like both of these. Have you eaten already?”

“Not yet,” Yves says. Perhaps he should’ve picked up dinner for himself at Good Day, too—he’d been so preoccupied with getting something for Vincent that he’d forgotten. Either way, it’s inconsequential. There’s probably enough in the fridge to last a day or two before his next grocery run.

“You also got dinner for yourself, right?”

Yves must hesitate for a moment too long.

“That’s a little hypocritical,” Vincent says. “Do you want to pull up a chair?”

“What?”

“You haven’t eaten. You brought two soups.”

“They were both supposed to be for you.”

“You’re already here.” Vincent says. He shuts his laptop and leaves it off to the side, clears a space on the table, and sets the chicken farro soup in front of Yves. As if it really is that simple.

Yves stares down at it, a little perplexed. I thought you didn’t want to speak to me, he wants to say.

“Unless you’d just prefer to take this home,” Vincent says, misinterpreting his silence as hesitation.

“No,” Yves says. “You’re right. I’ll pull up a chair.”

—

Yves ends up dragging over a chair from one of the tables nearby—he makes a mental note to put it back before they leave. Vincent shuts his laptop and leaves it off to the side.

“Now we’re both staying past nine,” Vincent says.

“Yes,” Yves says. “I’ve always wanted to see what this place turns into at night.”

“Does it live up to your expectations?” “It’s a bit of a ghost town,” Yves says. “But not in a bad way. Feels like I could take all the snacks out of the break room and no one would bat an eye.”

“That’s the real reason why I’m here right now,” Vincent says, so deadpan that it barely sounds like a joke. Yves laughs.

Something about this scene—about sitting with Vincent, here, having dinner on the only corner of his office desk that isn’t occupied by documents—feels a little nostalgic.

“This is just like when I first joined,” he says. “When you were helping me with all the onboarding stuff.”

Back when he first joined, Vincent’s desk was a frequent destination. It’s not that Vincent is particularly friendly—it’s more just that Vincent is really, really good. He has expertise in things that he’s only done once in his life, and he can spot mistakes at a glance. He’s patient, too, even though Yves thinks that if the roles had been reversed, anyone teaching Vincent anything would never have to exercise any patience at all.

He can’t blame Angelie for looking to Vincent for help, either. It wasn’t that long ago that Yves was the one hovering at his desk, watching Vincent go through relevant work over his shoulder.

“The first couple weeks are - snf-! - always difficult,” Vincent says. “But you picked things up quickly.”

“I can’t imagine you as a beginner at anything,” Yves muses.

“Everyone’s - snf -! - a beginner at s-some— hH-! Just a second—” Vincent turns his head away sharply, burying his nose into his shoulder before— “hh’GKt-! Hh… Hhh’IIZSCchuhH! snf-! Hh-! hhih… HiH’GKT-!... Hh… hHih… hIH’IKTSHhh’uuh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says reflexively.

“Thank you,” Vincent says, with a small cough, which he muffles into his sleeve. He sighs. His voice has held up pretty well, but Yves can hear the muted edge of congestion in his voice, softening his consonants. “What was that you said to me? ‘You’ll get tired of that phrase really quickly?’”

“I won’t if you get over this cold soon,” Yves says. “Maybe that’s the real reason why I brought soup.”

“So that’s why you’re being suspiciously nice to me,” Vincent says, with a laugh. “I’m relieved to know you’ve had ulterior motives all along.”

Everything gets easier, after that. Vincent seems to enjoy the soup, for the way his eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, after he takes his first bite. (“So I was right to think you’d like miso,” Yves says, and Vincent laughs and says, “Am I really that predictable?”) When Yves offers again to help, after dinner, Vincent wordlessly hands him a small stack of business proposals. It’s not much, but just the fact that he’s agreeing to let Yves help is already a step in the right direction—give Yves an inch, and he’ll take a mile.

Yves looks through all of the documents he’s handed, scrawling notes in the margins, and then goes through another third of the stack of unreviewed paper on Vincent’s desk, while Vincent scrolls through pages of spreadsheets, processing data and creating new graphs. Vincent is almost frighteningly efficient, even when he’s not feeling his best—they lapse into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the occasional, near-inaudible hitch in Vincent’s breath, always followed by a wrenching sneeze, or two.

There’s the coughing, too—always muffled tightly into his sleeve, after Vincent turns to face away from him, which must be exhausting. Yves doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not as though he can catch this cold again.

(“Bless you,” Yves says, after the tenth-or-so sneeze, trying not to let the concern creep into his voice. “I think the pharmacy near 59th is still open. If you want, I can stop by and grab you something for your symptoms.”

“No need,” Vincent says. “If it - hh-! - gets bad enough, I’ll — Hhh-!”

“Bless you again—”

“hihH’IZSCHhhuh! - snf-! - I’ll get something myself.”

Yves wonders what his metric for bad enough is. Then again, it’s probably better not to press.)

It’s nearly eleven before Yves decides to head home at last.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Vincent says, with a rueful sniffle. “You must be tired.” “Not really,” Yves says. “I usually sleep pretty late. If you’re still feeling this bad tomorrow, take the day off.”

“I’ll think about it,” Vincent says.

Yves sighs. “At the very least, promise me you’ll head home sooner rather than later?”

“No promises,” Vincent says—though at the disapproving look Yves gives him, he amends, “But I’ll try.”

He sounds like he means it, at the very least. Yves supposes he’ll take what he can get.

[ Part 6 ]

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #i cannot decide if i want to write another chapter of this where vincent gets even worse or if #i should advance their story in the plot sense #i do like these two and want to write more of them in the future if people are still interested in reading more of them :')#my fic #yvverse

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chainmailchalamet · 9 months

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Run Rabbit, Run (Dark! Eddie Munson 🍒🪽), Pt. 2

tags: roommates to lovers, modern!metalhead!eddie munson(maybe not a complete face match to ST!Eddie, but his look is up to your imagination), predator/prey dynamic , a lil degradation, impact, knife play, jealousy, possessive behavior + language, dacryphilia, kind of fucked up intense dirty talk, face slapping, choking, morallygrey!eddie, they may or may not be completely human (also up to interpretation), and as usual always!black always!non-binary POV 🌟🍒

————

the tension breaks because of course it does— because eddie, from the moment you move in, seems to be on a one-man mission to pull at every single one of your threads until you unravel at his feet, just so he can put you back together again.

and if you confronted him about it, he’d play dumb about it, because in his defense, he’s not really doing anything he wouldn’t usually do. nothing he wasn’t already doing before you moved in with him — he’d say you were being paranoid, that it was kind of adorable actually.

but you know you’re not, that he’s not just doing what he’d otherwise be doing, that his actions are a targeted attempt to make you lose your mind, to crawl under your skin and live there. that to him, it’s just a matter of time before you snap.

it starts with the cooking thing — he’s always cooking, has been attached to the kitchen since he was a kid, living with his uncle wayne down in virginia — sweet, sweltering hot virginia, where he got his twang and his first tattoos (the stick and poke smiley face on his ankle, the first set of knuckle tats, the bones of his face piece), his love of smoking cigarettes off the top of his trailer on cool, quiet nights with a sky full of stars. wayne, who’s still down in virginia in a cabin that eddie put the money down for with his chef money. uncle wayne, who taught him to gut a fish and skin a deer and whose peach cobbler recipe he’s still trying to get just right. wayne, who he still calls every sunday as he fixes both of you a full dinner spread with greens and sweet potato and baked chicken.

to eddie, cooking is home, and family, roots and heart — it’s more than a love language. it’s a soul language, and he speaks it fluently, teaches it to everyone he lets get close to him.

and it only take a couple of weeks before he’s speaking it to you day and night, until you barely have to lift a finger in the kitchen because he’s got you, because he’s always got you. he’s got you for breakfast, with thick cuts of salmon and fat, fluffy vegan pancakes. with fresh squeezed juice and sausages that he picks up from the polish supermarket in brown paper bags every sunday, because he’s got a plug for that, and a plug for the freshest fruit in-season, for big juicy strawberries and peach preserves and purple kale.

he feeds you, everyday — with leftovers from the restaurant shifts he works until 3 in the morning — he brings you the day’s specials, whatever they are, spoils you with mushroom risotto and grilled eggplant and bucatini made in-house with the most flavorful tomato sauce you’ve ever tasted. if the special is seafood, he brings it home in a freezer bag, with sliced lemon on the side — he serves you your first oyster, your first bite of squid ink pasta, your first full lobster.

he’ll knock on your door at some ungodly hour, and when you invite him in he’s got a plate loaded up for you, bags under his eyes and a tired smile. he’ll watch you take that first bite, make that first satisfied noise, because he knows you’ve been at the drafting table for hours making adjustments to a new garment in time for an editorial shoot over the weekend.

no matter how tired he is, he’ll sit on your bed, looking so out of place amongst your plushies that it makes you bite down a giggle at the sight of him, looking sharp and dangerous surrounded by soft things. no matter how tired he is, he’ll ask you about your day and listen intently, wrinkle between his eyes as he does — and even though you’re shy at first, talking to him about fashion, he’s encouraging, asking you questions until you loosen up a little and you’re talking his ear off about sustainable dyeing practices and bias cuts and the art of the gather. and you know he’s too tired to take it all in but he’ll fight it, yawning in-between questions like you can use onions skins as dye, that’s crazy, what else have you tried and you did that all by hand? so fucking cool — yeah, i mean I can do patches but it’s nothing like that, used to just use dental floss and it wasn’t super clean, nothing like what you do, that’s way more punk, you made a fucking jacket from scratch.

and he makes you shy when he gets like that, when he gives you all his attention, when he keeps track of every bite like you’re suddenly going to hate his cooking, like he’s ready at any moment to fix it for you, to go right back into the kitchen and make you something from scratch, like he wasn’t just groaning about the longest fucking shift of my life, darlin’, you wouldn’t believe — had to hide in the lockup at midnight cuz we just got back to back fucked, substitution after substitution, and i like getting creative, don’t get me wrong, but what the fuck do we have a menu for?

he lights up a little when he talks about the kitchen though, about gareth who does dishes and robin and steve who run the front of house like it’s the navy.

he’ll grin when you scrunch your nose up because he’s smoked through another pack in one shift, flash his teeth and say beats the alternatives, glad you didn’t meet me all strung out and 21, would’ve been vibrating around your room, rearranged the kitchen, lit a real fire in the fireplace.

even on his worst nights, after an actual hell-shift, when his texts get short and a little snappy, when he stops assaulting your chat with emojis, when he spells out every single word and doesn’t reply for hours and all you get after that is a “don’t wait up x”. even when you hear him come in, dragging himself through the apartment like his body is dead weight, even on the worst nights — you’ll wake up in the morning to a spanish omelette on the counter and a sticky note that says “getting some air, sorry about last night x”, as if he has anything to apologize for, as if he’s not allowed to be human.

it’s all so domestic — he makes your home a warm cloud to lay in. he makes you feel so at ease, like he’s got you, like he’s a safe place to land.

which is where the problem comes in — because your roommate eddie, your sweet, doting, sensitive eddie, who cries when he says “love you, g’bye” to his uncle wayne without fail every single time they talk, who has taken in one of the neighbors cats (cerberus, sweet and soft and definitely using him for his top-shelf tuna connections) as if it is his own, and calls his guitar sweetheart and shimmies his way around the kitchen on sundays humming let’s hear it for the boys.

that eddie — sweet, darling doting eddie — is a fucking deviant.

he doesn’t show it too often, keeps it tucked away with impressive self-control, maybe even tries to hide it from you until he’s sure you’re settled, until you start to wonder if you just imagined that glint in his eyes the first day you met him — until the mask slips, until you catch a glimpse of his shadow once more and you think to yourself “there he is”.

it happens because of a bottle of tequila — because it always does. you go out drinking with him and his work friends, because you lost all of yours in the breakup, and eddie says he’s already told everyone all about you, that they already love you, c’mon sweetheart, it’s my night off and i wanna celebrate, know you got that shoot coming up, barely been drinking water you’re working so much, don’t think i haven’t noticed. come dance with me, just one night, i promise i’ll get you back in one piece.

and when he puts you on the spot like that, makes you feel exposed like that, looks at you with his bambi eyes all wide like that, you can’t really say no.

so you get all dressed up (change your outfit three times, because it’s been a long time since you’ve been out and you wanna make a good impression, damn it), and you might be freaking out a little. but then eddie yells out “c’mon honey, bet you look perfect, lemme see you”, and you swallow that anxiety because you like the way his voice curls around the words like that, that honey-twang he’s got cuz you’ve both been pre-gaming a little (him with a homemade margarita, you with a glass of red wine). it makes you brave, makes you take a deep breath and step out into the living room. and you both see each other all dressed up for the first time and — something shifts.

something tilts on its god damn axis — it’s the start of the end.

his hair is wild. big and dark and wild and sparkling through like he’s sprayed glitter in it. he’s got the most delicious black leather jacket on, fit perfect to his body and aged just right. he’s got this sheer fucking fabric stretched across his torso — it’s barely a shirt, just a scrap of something dark that lets you see the cut of his hips and the ink in his skin and the silver rings in his nipples.

his pants are low cut, ripped jagged across both knees, like he busted them open skating — and his boots are obscene, steel-toed shit-kickers, red-laces cutting through them like veins. he looks so good you want to stomp your feet and whine “not fair, who gave you eyeliner, that’s cheating”.

he looks like a young god, like hell on legs, like a flashing neon sign that says “i am going to fuck your life up and you’re going to thank me for it”. you suddenly can’t read.

the way he’s looking at you makes your mouth dry up, makes your thighs press together, makes you want to fall to your knees and worship. it’s all that desire you forgot that he possessed, that you only catch flashes of in the quiet moments — when he’s giving you a taste of something new and his eyes travel down to your lips wrapping round the edge of the spoon, when you hum low and pleased with your eyes closed and you open them up and he’s giving you that look again, that “run, rabbit, run” look.

for the first time in weeks he’s not hiding any of it from you — runs his gaze over your face and down your neck, across your shoulder and down your stomach, to your hips and both your thighs (he takes his time right there, sees you twitch, darts up to meet your eyes real quick, almost-smiles, like he’s saying “got you”)

and then up, up, up again. he takes his time. he runs his tongue across his lips, comes up real close and tugs on one of your braids with a scrunch between his brows, looks down at you and blows out a quiet rush of air and says “we should go, right now” like he means “before i do something i regret”.

that night, something inside you snaps.

his friends all clearly know something you don’t, and they are varying degrees of subtle about it. chrissy hugs you and smiles big and bright and says aren’t you the prettiest god damn thing i’ve ever seen but she’s looking at eddie when she says it, and it makes your face heat up.

robin and steve are all wry and knowing, bitchy in a fun way, exchanging little smiles with each other, all he’s finally let you out the dungeon, huh? thought he was gonna keep you all to himself.

jon is quiet but he gives eddie this little nod like “i see you” and his boyfriend argyle is already two-thirds into a bottle of casamigos so he just says the quiet part out loud, somehow makes it sound so chill, like it’s not a big deal that he takes one look at you and goes holy shit, eddie wasn’t lying, you’re like — what the fuck, i’d write songs about you too. doesn’t even give you a second to unpack all that before there’s a shot in your hand.

and then the drinks keep flowing and you start to loosen up and enjoy yourself and eddie doesn’t seem phased by any of the teasing, sits close to you and takes sips out of his drink (fruity, staining his tongue red as punch, sickly sweet when he lets you have a taste of it), keeps his eyes on you all night, just takes it all in stride — like he was expecting this, like he’s made his peace.

and you’re too drunk now to let it go, so you turn to him while steve and rob are busy bullying everyone else and you slur out something like so you’re obsessed with me, huh? and he smiles sharp and dirty and goes you don’t wanna go there with me honey, and you say why not, you’re all talk, don’t pussy out on me and his eyes go pitch black.

he nods his head, hums to himself. “noted.”

and it just goes down, down, down from there. because now you’re worked up, feeling bratty, feeling mean. you nod too, and he’s just taking you in, sitting too close, watching you like he’s curious, like he’s just delighted at the thought of what you’re gonna do next. bet, you think. let’s go, then.

steve seems like your best bet, so you ask him if he wants to dance, sugary sweet and wide-eyed, and he grins like he’s been waiting for this all night, says later losers, time to have some actual fun and takes your hand, cutting eddie a look like the cat that got the cream as you climb over his lap on your way out.

eddie’s just looking, looking, looking. quiet storm brewing across his face. leans in close before you’re gone to whisper “careful, baby” in your ear, like a warning.

you just smile at him, shrug. come get me, big bad.

dancing with steve is easy, his arm across your back, your hips pressed close. he says “your boy’s watching, wanna give him something to look at?” and you pout, tell him “he’s not gonna do shit, stevie, he’s all talk”.

steve smiles at you like you’re so dumb, just delightfully stupid, so you ask him what he knows and he says “i know he’s real sweet on you, but you better watch it, honey — eddie’s not the one to play with.”

and then he leans into your ear and tells you a story about a wolf who walks like a man and talks like a man and acts like a sheep — but he’s a wolf, honey. he likes to bite, likes to play with his food — keeps his prey tied down in his lair and takes them apart, piece by piece, until they’re crying, begging, until the fight leaves them all at once and they go empty between the ears, until they’re just gone. and then he just keeps taking, taking, taking. until they’ve got nothing left to give him.

and the music is so syrupy sweet that you’re lost in it, lost in the roll of your hips, lost in steve’s voice rumbling in your ears, low and hypnotic, lost in the drinks flowing through your veins — until steve has to hold you by the chin and force you to look up at him and say “still with me, little lamb?”

your throat is dry when you ask him how he knows what he knows, and he just looks over your shoulder (you know who he’s looking at, you feel those eyes across your back, he’s always watching, he just never stops looking) and tilts his chin up and goes why don’t you ask him yourself, honey?

and then eddie’s right there, pressed up against your back — leaning down to your ear to ask if you’re having fun, and for a second you’re pressed up between them both, letting steve rock you back into eddie, letting eddie grip you by the hips and pull you back, back, back, guiding you into a slow, filthy grind. your eyes fall close, you barely notice steve pressing a kiss to your temple, trilling have funnnn before he’s gone into the crowd again.

you still with me, eddie asks, at the same time you spin round and ask him “you fucked steve?”

he laughs a little and hums i see y’all been getting acquainted, pulls you close again and says jealous, honey?

you say you wish, and then you did, didn’t you? said you act like a sheep, but you’re not, are you? you’re a wolf.

he looks down at you, runs his hands under the straps of your top, presses his palms to the skin of your back, dips his head down. you know, i wanted to do this right — wanted to woo you and shit. feed you, keep you warm, treat you sweet.

and you know, you know, you know. what are you gonna do with me now, eddie?

he just looks at you. looks and looks, pulls you closer, let’s his hand creep down, down, down, makes the heat in your body swoop down low in your tummy when he grips you hard over your skirt, sweeps one hand in your hair and gets his fingers tangled in your braids, all the way down to the root and tugs, real mean with it.

he makes you bare your neck to him, makes you gasp, makes you wanna beg. for his teeth in your neck, for his hands between your thighs, for his mouth on you. you gonna hurt me, eddie?

he shrugs. i don’t know yet, honey. you gonna ask me nice for it? gonna ask for what you want instead of being a rude little brat, making me think you wanna fuck my friends?

your mouth goes dry. i wasn’t tryna —

nah, you just wanted me to think it, didn’t you? his voice drops low, mean, dark. dumb bunny, you didn’t actually think that was gonna work, did you? steve likes em big and bad, and you’re fucking nothing like that, are you? pretty little doll, he’d eat you alive.

he’s all inside your head, barely leaving you any space for yourself, and the way he sneers dumb bunny makes you squirm, makes you ache. he’s got you pinned in place like a fly in amber, nowhere else to run. and you wouldn’t?

he tilts his head, hums, says it again, wanted to do this right, wanted to lay you out on my bed and make you feel good. he mouths a kiss across your neck, traces his tongue across the skin, just the tip, just a tease. asked me if i was obsessed with you. stupid fucking question, baby. knew you were mine, first second i saw you, walked into my house and made it all strawberry and honey, seeped into everything, kept me up at night with it — and now it’s all over our home, our fucking home.

he uses his teeth, opens his mouth wide like a beast, like he can’t just smell you, like he needs the taste of it too, needs to feel the flesh between his teeth. and you can see right though me, can’t you, baby? the others, they think they see it, think they know what i think when i look at you, but you know, don’t you? you’ve always known.

you know. you’ve known. he wants inside your skin, wants to worm his way deep and build a home there. wants to keep you fed, keep you full, make you happier than anyone could. wants to own your happiness and your hunger, greedy over it. fucked up over the thought of anyone taking care of you better than he could, knows in his soul that no one else could. it makes you scared, makes you warm, makes you feel insane. you should run, should find a new apartment and start over because you’re so raw, and vulnerable, and he could hurt you, he wants to hurt you —

you tilt your head back, you run your hands across his shoulders, over his back, up into his hair, and you grab a handful and pull. he makes a noise like a wounded dog. he pants for it, folds forward like he got the breath knocked out of him — you think he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine, feel him kick up against you, big and warm and hard against your hip and your head swims with the thought. over and over, the same thought — mine, mine, mine.

yeah, sweet thing, m’yours, all yours, all of it, all yours, he whines, just for you. must’ve heard you, must’ve said it out loud. he sounds hollowed out, like you’ve let all his air out, and you’re wild for it.

tell me how, you say. you tug his head down so you can speak into his ear, and he goes down easy, so easy. when i let you take me to bed, when i let you have it, what will you do to me? what first?

a knife, he says, like a man possessed. toys with all your straps, slips his fingers underneath and tugs. wanna cut you out of this pretty fabric. look like an angel, wanna rip it to shreds, lay you down in the ribbons.

to ruin me, you say.

to make your heart race, he sings. he sways into you, sounds so consumed with desire it makes him drunk, makes him slur his words like his teeth are too big for his mouth. make you scared, make you wanna run so i can catch you. hold you down, press the blade up against your skin and play.

he wants to play. with a knife to your neck. fucking freak.

yours, yours, yours, he says. pulls back to look at you, hisses when you follow him with your hands in his hair, eyes rolling up and then back down, eyes half-shut, lights going out until it’s all a stretch of midnight without a star in the sky.

beautiful boy, you think. terrible, terrible, gorgeous boy.

wanna spit in your fucking mouth, he confesses. wanna hold my hand over your nose and watch your throat work as you swallow. wanna make you wet all over.

you’re already wet all over, and he knows that. can probably smell it, the wolf.

you’re still dancing, somehow. still swaying, still pressed up against each other, no room for common sense. his friends are nowhere to be seen — the crowd of bodies around you have all blurred away. you want to be home, in his bed, his lair, at his mercy. you tell him as much, and he smiles at you like he’s proud. love it when you tell me the truth, he says. love it when you show me.

better make it worth it, eddie, you say. better make it hard to leave your bed in the morning.

and then, he sings. and then, and then, and then.

greedy boy, you think, never gonna let me go, never gonna let anyone else touch me ever again.

you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, red and sweet and sharp. and then, you say, then you’re gonna feed me, like you always do.

#eddie x black!reader #dom eddie munson #eddie x y/n #eddie munson #eddie x reader #dark!eddie munson #dom!eddie munson #mean dom eddie munson #black!oc #black!y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson smut

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batrachised · 2 months

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Adventures in Maud’s Recipes

Baking Powder Biscuits

The Recipe

Having publicly sworn to make another LM Montgomery recipe during my time off, I set my sights on this week after finding myself with a free block of time. Since I’m moving, I selected a recipe that wouldn’t pinch my wallet too much (i.e., was made of up ingredients I already had) and one that didn’t seem too involved. The end choice? Baking powder biscuits! I have to admit, I was somewhat suspicious of how simple this recipe was. The ingredients are flour, baking powder, salt, butter, milk – and that’s it. I am no biscuit expert, but I eyed the list critically. Shouldn’t there be…I don’t know…sugar? Yeast or something? Eggs? Nevertheless, the shortness of the recipe was a plus, and plus I had a hankering for biscuits (I AM southern).

The Results

I’m proud to say, this is a recipe where, as the unassuming expert grandma cook in the kitchen would say, I “eyeballed it.” Jane Stuart, I am ascending to your level. The recipe called for butter and shortening; I merrily chose to just use butter – after all, shortening?? In this economy?? The recipe asked for ¾ a cup of milk; I (gasp) just poured the milk into the measuring cup I had for flour until it looked mostly full. The recipe said to mix in the butter with a fork; nay, said I, I shall knead it with my hands (this was out of laziness, not expertise, but we’ll keep that on the downlow). The recipe said to roll out the dough to one inch thickness then cut out with a flour covered cutter; I just patted out some vaguely similar dough patties.

What resulted was a rather scraggly looking dough. It didn’t like itself very much. It didn’t meld together super well; it was like scraps of dough stacked on top of each other in an attempt of melding, about as united as a politician making a public appearance with their family after a cheating scandal.

I threw it in the oven for 12 minutes and hoped for the best. By this point, I knew better than to doubt our famed Lucy Maud. I had doubted before, and gotten suitably “blessed are they who believe without seeing”-ed in a manner to rival the apostle Thomas. Sure enough, the kitchen grew scented with that heavenly baked goods smell.

What came out were these biscuits that I thought looked rather adorably like clouds:

Of course, biscuits are not supposed to look like clouds, but that’s what an imagination is for. Anne Shirley taught me too well to be disappointed in that! It was time for the taste test.

The Reviews

If it tells you anything, I had already eaten four within ten minutes of them coming out of the oven. They had a nice buttery flavor to them, and drizzled with honey, they tasted divine. What’s more, they were incredibly easy to make (a favorite culinary combination on my part). They probably took less than ten minutes to throw together.

Wizard hat roommate and Clifford roommate concurred; Clifford roommate described them as “incredible,” and the entire batch was gone by the next morning. We have yet another triumph! Lucy Maud stays winning. (We’ll ignore the salmon jello, even as I have an increasingly sick curiosity about it).

I will say, however, that this win comes with a caveat. It was my observance that these did not keep super well. They tasted superb straight out of the oven; good a few hours later; rather dry the next morning. Probably simple enough to place a damp paper towel over them in the microwave and steam them up without drying them out, but these biscuits come with a sunset provision. Much like Mr. Lynde, their hours are numbered.

So, final reviews? Well, if a zero is having to put goose grease on your heels after your first moonlit romance, and a ten is getting puffed sleeves before a fairy queen recital, I’d rate this a golden picnic with the not so poetical sandwiches included

#i did in fact make these again within a day #if that tells you anything #they're just SO easy to make and then you have hot bread lolol #batrachised bakes

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terr4ance · 2 months

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It was my grandma's 90th birthday party on Saturday and we had a buffet with all sorts of stuff. At the end, there was some leftover salmon and prawns (among other things) which I wrapped and took home.

Bought some puff pastry (because I've made my own before and it is far more time than I currently have), cream, and spinach to make it into a pie. I'm quite happy with how it turned out :)

Despite her age, my grandma always bakes (and then loves to complain about how much it makes her knees hurt afterwards!). One of my favourite things she does is salmon tarts whenever she has leftover salmon. That was the main inspiration for this recipe.

Ingredients

- Puff pastry (I used two packs of premade stuff with a little left over)

- 1/2 onion

- 1 clove of garlic

- a bag of fresh baby leaf spinach

- a fresh salad tomato

- leftover poached salmon, smoked salmon, and prawns (shrimp)

- thyme, salt, pepper

- Worcester sauce (Lee and Perrins is the best)

- 300ml of double cream

- a bit of cheese (optional)

Recipe

1. Preheat an oven to gas 4 (177°C/350°F).

2. Line a pie dish with puff pastry, leaving a little extra around the edges to account for shrinking. Put a sheet of baking paper on top and cover with baking beans (I used split peas because that's what we have). Put this into the oven and set a timer for 10 ish minutes (you want the pastry to be partially cooked).

3. Finely dice half an onion and add to a saucepan over medium heat. Grate in some garlic (or mince it if you aren't as lazy as me!). Fry until translucent.

4. Add a bunch of spinach and allow it to wilt. Dice a tomato and add it too.

5. Add salt, pepper, thyme, and a dash of Worcester sauce along with around 300ml of double cream. More can be added later to taste.

6. Once simmering, add the salmon and prawns (I also had a little tiny bit of smoked salmon) and heat through.

7. By this point, the pastry should be partially cooked. Remove it from the oven, remove the baking beans (O.E), and pour the sauce into the pie. Turn the oven up to gas 7 (220°C/425°F).

7.5. Before giving the pie a lid, I grated a bunch of red Leicester on top of the filling as I was slightly short of filling and didn't want the lid to sag. This is optional, but experiment with whatever you feel might work.

8. Lay more puff pastry on top of the pie and crimp the edges. You can also score the top to give it a fancy pattern, and egg-wash to seal and glaze if you can be bothered (I couldn't).

9. Put the pie back in the oven for a further 10-15 minutes, or until the pastry is golden.

10. Leave to cool before serving, and enjoy!

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beautyandlifestyleblog86 · 17 days

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Heart-healthy recipe for Baked Salmon with Lemon and Herbs:

Ingredients:

- 4 salmon fillets

- 2 tablespoons olive oil

- 2 cloves garlic, minced

- 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped

- 1 tablespoon fresh dill, chopped

- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

- Salt and pepper to taste

- Lemon slices for garnish

Instructions:

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a small bowl, mix together olive oil, garlic, parsley, dill, lemon juice, salt, and pepper.

3. Place the salmon fillets on the prepared baking sheet and brush each fillet with the herb mixture.

4. Bake in the preheated oven for 12-15 minutes, or until the salmon is cooked through and flakes easily with a fork.

5. Garnish with lemon slices and serve hot.

This baked salmon dish is rich in heart-healthy omega-3 fatty acids and is a delicious and nutritious option for a heart-healthy meal. Enjoy!

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physicallyherementallykissingmen · 1 year

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Ghoul favorite food HC 👀

thank you anon for the ask!! (THIS TOOK FOREVER PARTS OF THE DRAFT KEPT GETTING DELETED AND I ALMOST THREW MY PHONE AT THE WALL!!!)

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The Nameless Ghouls and their favourite foods!!

Aether

• BANANAS!!!!

•He definitely has a sweet tooth, more leaning towards natural sugars than artificial sugars but either he loves.

•Aether is most likely to be caught in the ghoul’s kitchen shoveling grated cheese into his mouth at an unholy (heh) hour at the night.

•Even though he loooooves bananas, he despises banana flavored candy.

Mountain

•He will absolutely fuck up a caeser salad. If you were to give him a salad on a paper plate he would get too excited and eat the plate too. :’)

•Like other Earth Ghouls he is a vegetarian of course.

Rain

•Just like Copia he absolutely loves pasta, from ravioli to rigatoni to fettuccine he will absolutely fuck up whatever pasta you put in front of him. He will inhale any noodles within the ministry grounds, whether they’re cooked or not.

•You know how wolves get territorial over well, territory? Rain gets territorial over pasta. He once pushed Sodo down a flight of stairs when he found out he ate his almost week old spaghetti.

•Rain is quite the talented chef, hanging around Terzo when he was cooking he managed to get some lessons from the former Papa. Days when he misses Terzo the most he’ll cook some of the meals he was first taught how to make, just to reminisce on the memories and feel closer to him.

Sodo

•He loves spicy and sour food, or anything with some kick for that matter, but he has some of the most sensitive tastebuds out of the ghouls, hell, even out of everyone in the ministry.

•Whenever he does eat spicy food, he always has a glass of milk nearby, despite Cirrus telling him that its better for him to drink water.

•Sometimes he uses sour candy to ground himself whenever he’s especially stressed, whether it be one of the ghouls that’s getting on his nerves, or touring he always keeps a bag of sour patch kids with him, or for more stressful times of the year he’ll keep some warheads in his pockets.

•In terms of cooking? He cannot cook. Sodo has almost burnt down the ministry a couple times trying to cook. Did he once he make cupcakes that were so burnt that they made Rain throw up? We’ll never know. 🤫

Swiss

•Swiss isn’t exactly picky when it comes to food, he’ll most likely eat anything you put in front of him.

•Although he’s fine with all food, he has a special place in his heart for international food, it could be sushi, ramen, mole, enchiladas, paella, or pad thai, but when he’s done eating it he might take a couple bites of the plate too.

•He can cook very well, being able to make some of the meals listed above. Learning some of his best recipes from Rain he always tries to linger around the kitchen when the water ghoul is cooking, just to get more ideas and what not.

Cumulus

•Like Aether she has one of the biggest sweet tooth of the group, having a particular love for chocolate. She looooooves chocolate waffles not really caring whether they’re pre made or not.

•She is incredible at making desserts, especially cookies. It’s like taking a bite of heaven (ironically). As much as she doesn’t make them, Sodo and Aether are big fans of her mexican wedding cookies.

•Just like Special Ghoul brings toys, she makes pastries and goodies for the orphans in the ministry, bringing them year round. She’ll sometimes bring Copia to tell the kids some of his lighthearted stories from his time in the orphanage.

Cirrus

•She’s a big lover of seafood, her two favourite dishes being salmon patties and tuna melts.

•Although she is an air ghoul she does love restaurants or anything for that matter by the sea. Cirrus thinks it’s very relaxing to just enjoy the ocean because how it’s an entirely different world just a few miles out.

•This ghoulette is mainly in charge of keeping Sodo out of the kitchen to prevent any disasters that may or may not burn down the ministry.

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Hope you enjoyed anon and whoever else is reading this! Happy late new years! <3 (once again sorry for how long this took)

#ghost bc #ghost headcanons #nameless ghouls #papa emeritus iv #sodo ghoul #swiss ghoul #aether #mountain ghoul #rain ghoul #cumulus ghoulette #cirrus ghoulette

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laragazzaconilvuotonegliocchi · 6 months

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Salmon Quiche Recipe 178 calories per slice!

I enjoy this recipe because I love salmon quiche, but I've had trouble finding a healthier version. Now, I've discovered one! This salmon quiche has approximately 177.25 calories per slice and is quite satisfying.

Ingredients:

- 100 grams of sliced salmon (206 calories)

- 3 eggs (216 calories)

- 20 grams of flour (69 calories)

- 250 ml of sugar-free almond milk (32.5 calories)

- Your choice of cheese (I added half a mozzarella, 186 calories)

- Optional: your favorite spices (I used pepper, a pinch of sea salt, and paprika)

- Optional: tomatoes (if you like)

Instructions:

1. Preheat the oven to 180°C (356°F).

2. In a mixing bowl, combine the sliced salmon, eggs, flour, sugar-free almond milk, and the cheese of your choice. Mix everything together and add your preferred spices. I also added tomatoes because I love them, but it's optional.

3. Line a round cake pan with baking paper and pour in the mixture.

4. Bake in the preheated oven for 35-40 minutes.

The entire quiche has a total of 709 calories. You can cut it into 4 generous slices, each with approximately 177.25 calories.

Enjoy your homemade salmon quiche and stay safe🫶🏻

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punkbakerchristine · 3 months

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lonely hearts macarons

I thought of this a couple of weeks ago, especially with Valentine’s Day coming up here and I have red and pink baked goods on the mind. I think I was watching chopped when I thought of this: one of the basket ingredients was black garlic, and I did a little reading on that. It sounds really weird when in junction with a sweet baked good like cookies, but it’s basically garlic that’s been fermented in a warm, humid place for anywhere from two weeks to three months. The fermentation breaks down the enzymes that make garlic pungent and turns it sweet: everything I’ve read says the taste is kind of caramel or licorice in flavor. (You know how when you cook an onion in a skillet and once it turns brown, it sort of “caramelizes”, especially when you put a little sugar in there, too? It’s kind of along those lines.) Because of the flavor profile, black garlic can be used in dishes with red wine, red meat, any kind of hearty fish like salmon or swordfish, hearty soups or veggie dishes, and of course, dark chocolate.

And so figure, my thought process just went from there 😅

I’ve looked up recipes for macarons and i’ve often wondered what it would be like to make some with really hearty flavors like apple pie or banana split or strawberry shortcake or with booze incorporated. ***I should say that if you are going to incorporate alcohol into, say, the frosting of a baked good of any kind, be sure to boil it for about 5 to 7 minutes before hand to rid of the alcohol so you have the taste of the liquor without any worry of feeling sozzled later on 😉

100g egg whites (usually between 3–4 large egg whites)

1/4 teaspoon (1g) cream of tartar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

80g superfine/caster sugar

1–2 drops red gel food coloring

125g almond flour

125g confectioners’ sugar

For the frosting:

1 cup/2 sticks of butter, softened

3 1/2 cups (420 grams) confectioners’ sugar, sifted

1/2 cup (41 grams) cocoa powder, sifted

1 clove of black garlic, mashed

3 tablespoons (45 milliliters) heavy cream or milk

1/8 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 cup of red wine (optional, just knowing how expensive wine is)

Wipe down a large glass or metal mixing bowl with lemon juice or vinegar. Add egg whites. Cover and refrigerate for 24 hours, then bring to room temperature.

Line 3 large baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper with circles drawn on the back—because of the occasion, it can also be hearts! Set aside.

Add cream of tartar and extract to egg whites. Using a handheld mixer or stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, beat together on medium speed until very soft peaks form: the egg whites and cream of tartar will be foamy, but the bubbles will tighten and the beaters will leave “tracks”. Once this happens, you have soft peaks.

Add about 1/3 of the superfine sugar. Beat on medium-high speed for 5 seconds, then with the mixer continuing to run, add another 1/3 of the sugar.

(*superfine sugar by the way is granulated sugar that’s been blitzed in the food processor)

Beat for 5 seconds, then add the remaining sugar with the mixer still going. Beat on medium-high speed until stiff glossy peaks form, i.e., the whites are stiff and pointy and you can turn the bowl upside down and they’ll stay put.

Using a rubber spatula, slowly and gently fold the food coloring into the egg whites.

Sift the almond flour and confectioners’ sugar together in a large glass mixing bowl. *make sure you get it all sifted in so you have exact measurements (baking IS chemistry, after all 😉)

Slowly fold the beaten egg whites into the almond flour mixture: folding the batter will stop air bubbles from forming and will keep the actual cookies nice and smooth; the batter itself should resemble honey in consistency.

Spoon the macaron batter into a piping bag fitted with a medium round piping tip. Holding the bag at a 90 degree angle over the baking sheet, and pipe batter in 1.5 – 2 inch rounds about 1-2 inches apart on prepared baking sheets.

Now, the piped batter will flatten out on its own, but bang the pan a couple times on the counter to pop any air bubbles.

Let the macarons sit out until they are dry: depending on the humidity of your kitchen, it could be anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. Drying will give the macarons a “skin”, which will then give them their “feet”. However, you don’t want to let them sit for too long because they can deflate.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 325°F (or 163°C, for our international friends). Bake for 13 minutes. The macarons should form “feet” as they bake.

Touch the top of one with a spoon (be careful not to burn yourself if you use your finger). If the macaron is wobbly, give them another 1-2 minutes. If it’s set, it’s done (just like with anything else baked in the oven, if it’s set, it’s probably done).

Let the shells cool on the baking sheet for 15 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack to continue cooling. After cooling, the shells are ready to fill and sandwich together.

As for the frosting:

Whip the butter in the mixer with the paddle attachment, and very carefully pour in the sugar a little at a time until it’s all creamy and smooth. Very carefully pour in the cocoa powder, the salt, the vanilla extract, the milk, and lastly, the black garlic. Beat for 1 minute at the least, 2 minutes at most—you apparently don’t want to overwork black garlic because it can not only turn to mush, but its caramel-y, tamarind-y flavor will give way to something akin to burnt toast.

(If there’s wine in the frosting, very carefully boil for 5 minutes to rid of the alcohol beforehand; keep an eye on it that it doesn’t scorch ).

Use the offset spatula to spread the frosting on. Cover any leftover macarons and refrigerate for up to 5 days, and enjoy!

***while I was editing this, I also thought of a vegan version, using aquafaba (the liquid from chickpeas) in lieu of egg whites, margarine in lieu of butter, and soy milk in lieu of milk

#lonely hearts #valentines day #macaron flavors #macarons #chocolate #black garlic #recipe #mine #heartcore #sweet stuff #lovecore #amateur baking #veganrecipes #text #bakers of tumblr #bakers gonna bake #baked goods

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