#he’d be so insufferable if they won for a sixth year straight | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

safestsephiroth · 5 years

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FFXIVWrite2k19 #30 - Darkness - Adroit Aegolius/Alexandre Accambray

Alexandre Accambray stretched on the bed of his Ul'dahn suite. The sun was almost rising. Come to cast aside the darkness again.

So many people would be starting their days right now. Waking up, crawling around to see the sunrise. He folded his hands behind his head. Looked out the window, the curtains drawn - just a bare sliver of moonlight cast.

When was the last time he had consistently slept through the nights?

There was the time he was deathly ill, but that hardly counted. He slept most of the days, as well, too. It must have been years ago. Ever since he'd been cut loose to decide for himself, he'd immediately stayed up through the night and slept through the day. He had been asked more than once: why?

By now he'd made a game of giving a new answer each time.

At first, it was stubbornness - being told he couldn't made him want to. But that was hardly flattering, or quite accurate. He'd said it was to be "different", but that didn't concern him either. He'd said it was because he found the night far more beautiful than the day, and this was true, but hardly enough on its own to make such a drastic shift. He did have sensitive eyes, but knew better than to voice that around his family.

Twelve knew that voicing that sort of thing would get him shortlisted for a test trial or five. Four older siblings was too much. He could measure how much less his parents cared for each as the line continued. He pitied the sixth when the seventh was born, for then she didn't even have the courtesy of being the youngest. A feeling he was all too familiar with.

But Jacobin listened.

Perhaps that was why. Jacobin had always listened to him. First of the siblings, and had more time for Alexandre than his own parents did. Jacobin always stuck up for Alexandre, in his own way, as long as a problem wasn't entirely his fault. And to Alexandre's benefit, Jacobin also had the good sense to let him know when it /was/.

But it wasn't the Accambray way to be overwhelmingly emotional. They were quiet. Reserved. Scholars. Hermits to the last, the distant relatives growing more distant by the year. Oh, they would never deny they held emotions. They said vows, and smiled, and laughed, and celebrated when they felt the need. But they looked down on anyone ruled by their own emotions or impulses.

Jacobin always made time for Alexandre when he asked, always stuck up for his littlest brother. Much to Alexandre's chagrin, the title was permanent, it seemed - all his siblings, even his sisters, towered over him. He tended to seek Hyur to be around, right until Jacobin had told him:

"Your size is an advantage, for they will never see you coming. They will, ever and always, underestimate you. Use this to defeat any opponent."

His first scheduled debate, Jacobin came to watch. Alexandre had spent much of the previous week wandering about publicly, disheveled, inattentive. His opponent relaxed. Exams were coming. Better to focus on that than to worry about a fight already won.

Alexandre spent all night, each night, preparing for the debate. Half-sleepwalking through his days, napping wherever he could, only to spend the first two bells after Jacobin was free for the evening to pitch ideas, to practice, to get the cadence right, to get a feel for debating.

Then, seven hours of study and preparation.

Seven days straight.

His opponent didn't stand a chance. Alexandre showed up clean, prim, proper, and holding back yawns the entire time. It seemed to only win him more points with his audience - so much more prepared for this than his opponent that the yawning was taken as mocking. It incensed the poor boy, who proceeded to weave less and less sensible arguments which were taken apart with obvious ease.

It was as lighting a candle with a fireball.

Alexandre closed his eyes. That was why, then, wasn't it.

Because the meetings didn't stop. They met to discuss reading. They met to discuss classes, concepts, ideas. Jacobin bounced plans off Alexandre as a sounding board. It stopped being nightly - but never more than a week would pass, not until Alexandre had set off for Eorzea.

Jacobin had had his back on that, as well. It was Jacobin who got him in touch with his pen pals in Eorzea to begin with. Academics who never realized the man they were writing was in many cases over a decade their junior. Simply introduced as "my brother". Not "my littlest brother". Not "The runt of the family". Not "Little Alexandre".

Just "my brother".

More than the glory, more than the safety of his own future, more than his career, more than his studies, more than the family name, the most important reason Alexandre had thrown on an alias and traveled far across the sea on what his peers claimed to be an obvious fool's errand was because he wanted to accomplish something he could celebrate with Jacobin.

He wondered, as he started to drift off to sleep. How much different would he have been if it was for bitterness? If it was out of resentment for his parents, the old guard in the Forum, the dangerously conservative mindsets of so much of Sharlayan? If the thing that drove him, rather than wanting more to celebrate with his dearest brother, was to spite those who didn't care 'enough' about him... Would he have been the same as he was, now?

He would probably be far more insufferable, really.

#adroit aegolius #alexandre accambray #ffxivwrite2019 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv

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omegaling · 7 years

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Allez Cuisine! ~Chapter Seven

Allez Cuisine! Chapter Seven: Lamb and Cinnamon Ice Cream

Chapter Seven: Lamb and Cinnamon Ice Cream (Read it on AO3 here)

Kylo Ren had been in the middle of hosting a very exclusive dinner party at Vader when Snoke called to inform him that Poe Dameron stepped up to participate on Iron Chef America . It was a birthday party for the wife of a Kentucky congressman, with a guest list that was comprised of several key state legislators, a few country music favorites and one up-and-coming local starlet. Ren had worked on the menu for weeks, a laborious task of trial-and-error to pair each course with the congressman’s favorite bourbon. He wasted a whole week alone procuring a tomahawk cut ribeye steak that met his standards, and he even paid to fly that pain-in-the-ass mixologist from Louisville to New York because according to the birthday girl, “a yank can’t make a proper mint julep to save his life.”

His hard work paid off, as it always did. Each coarse garnered more praise than the last, and the dinner wasn’t even halfway over before the starlet started making very promising doe eyes at him from across the dining room.

Then came the call from Snoke, and everything started to go to shit.

The old buzzard had a sixth sense of calling Ren when he would be at his most inconvenienced, such as right before an interview, or when he was cooking an exclusive dinner for an important patron. It was almost a sick game that Snoke liked to play, riling Ren up to the point where his composure would crack just before he met an audience, then reaming him for his poor presentation later. And it worked too, damn him, even though Ren always told himself that he wouldn’t let it happen again next time. But it always did, and this time the error materialized in the form of over-cooking the sweet corn that was part of a relish that was to accompany the Louisville DA’s salmon. The realization of what happened came too late, and when the man took the first bite, a look of “something doesn’t taste quite right” flashed across his face.

Ren managed to maintain enough control to wait until the party left before he seized what remained of the congressman’s $1200 bottle of Mitcher’s Limited Release Straight Bourbon and hurtled it across Vader’s dining room with a snarl. It was one of those times when Ren fantasized about storming Snoke’s office with a canister of gasoline and setting it ablaze, taking his benefactor and that damned contract with it. Then, like clockwork, he would feel sick with shame and guilt and, most of all, fear that Snoke would somehow find out what he was thinking. Ren owed everything he was to Giaccovani Snoke, and he knew all too well that the business monger could strip Ren back to nothing with a single snap of his fingers. If occasionally performing like a trained monkey on that insipid TV show was the price to pay to maintain all he worked for, then so be it.

It took about a day for the haze of rage to finally wear off, allowing Ren to fully ingest the information Snoke gave him. He did not have the slightest inkling of doubt that Poe’s long-awaited acceptance to be a challenger on ICA was in response to Snoke’s smear campaign against Leia Organa; of course her golden boy would come riding in on a white charger to defend her honor. Though he loathed to admit it, Dameron was going to be a force to be reckoned with. He had both real talent and vision, a rare combination in a city full of hacks.

Then again, maybe a legitimate challenge would be a welcome change of pace. While all of the guest chefs - as well as most of the other Iron Chefs - sweated and swore their way through the task of creating five dishes on the fly, Ren practically waltzed through the hour time limit without missing a step. He even went into one episode half-drunk just to shake things up a bit, and he still managed to win by a solid ten points.

(Hux shouted at Ren for twenty minutes before they started filming for his “irreputable behavior.” The look of shock on the ginger’s face when it was announced their side had won was better than the victory itself.)

With Dameron, though, everything was going to be different. There was no way Snoke was going to let him half-ass his way through this one. The culinary world was growing on an exponential level each year, and although Snoke was currently the king of the New York culture scene, it was a precarious seat to hold at best. People fell from grace hard and fast in the 21st century; the mad dogs of the press and social media could rip them to shreds in the same time it took to hit the “publish” button on their computers. And if Snoke were ever to take such a fall, he’d take whoever was closest to him down as well.

As one of those close people, Ren could not afford to fuck this up.

Knocking back the last of his scotch, Ren selected Hux’s name from the speed dial list on his phone.

“We have work to do,” he said.

He almost laughed out loud when the secret ingredient was revealed. Almost.

He almost felt sorry for Dameron, too. Ren wondered if Snoke had a hand in making sure that the other chef was not only defeated in the worse way possible, but utterly humiliated at the same time. That would be cruel trick, even for him. Then Dameron went on to make some smart-ass comment, and whatever sympathy Ren felt toward him was burned away with the flash fire of his temper.

And the day was not yet done yielding its surprises. One of the two sous chefs Dameron was allotted to bring with him was none other than Finn Trooper, the pastry chef who had hand picked by Snoke himself for Finalizer, only to go MIA one shift and never return. Ren felt his irritation prickle anew. It would be like Dameron to bring a traitor of the likes of Trooper with him to rub salt in the proverbial wound. His second sous chef was nothing more than a slip of a girl who didn’t look a day over twenty; far too young to have any sustancial kitchen experience. At first glance she looked like she’d flee the set if someone said so much as “boo” to her, but when he looked again he noticed the toned muscles under the tanned skin of her arms, and her eyes were sharp and quick, taking in everything around her. It was the look of someone who was used to taking care of herself, who was constantly ready for anything, and who wasn’t opposed to fighting if the occasion called for it.

“Who’s the girl?” Ren asked Hux just as the battle was underway.

“That’s Dameron’s prep cook, of all things. Rey-something. Said she’s only been cooking professionally for two years with no prior experience in the kitchen. No internships, no schooling, unless you count a stint at NYU for engineering.”

Ren’s head snapped up to stare incredulously at her, catching the barest glimpse of her hazel eyes before her averted her attention back to her work. The exposed back of her neck burning red, betraying the obvious fact that she had been watching him.

Ren felt his blood boil more fiercely than it had since before he arrived on set. Poe honestly brought someone who only had two years experience working in a high-class kitchen with him? Ren was still chopping vegetables and gutting fish during his second year at the first restaurant he worked at. If she worked at Vader - which was highly unlikely in of itself - he wouldn’t let her near a stove unless it was to clean it, much less help prepare a meal that was going to be served to a panel of some of the most renowned food lovers in the country. What the fuck was Dameron playing at?

The girl looked back up at him, as though she could sense him still staring at her. He sent her his nastiest glower in return, just to see what her reaction would be.

Much to his surprise and unprecedented delight, she sneering right back, her eyes twin shards of topaz without a trace of fear or intimidation in them.

To his surprise, Ren did not feel the familiar hot surge of his temper, but rather a pique of curiosity instead.

After that, there was very little time to think of anything else other than cooking. Ren put Hux in charge of the majority of the prep work. The man was insufferable beyond reason, but no one could pick out imperfections on food as he could. Phasma immediately went to work on the pasta, separating egg yolks from the whites and dropped them into the hollowed-out well in a mound of flour. Ren oversaw the preparations of all the bases himself, following his own time-tested mantra that a recipe with a weak base wasn’t worth making at all, and therefore he wanted to ensure it was done right.

Soon all thoughts of Dameron and his irritating tactics fell on the wayside as Ren slipped seamlessly into his natural element, his course of action unfurling like a map before his mind’s eye. The sauces and poaching liquids had to come first, of course, in order to give them time to reach their appropriate temperatures and for all the flavors to become properly infused. Dark beef stock, a bottle of port wine, a few handfuls of cherries and some thyme went into one deep saucepan while sparkling wine, finely chopped shallots, and liquor from the freshly-shucked oysters went into another. As he worked on grinding the spices from the rub for the duck tenderloins he just butchered (black peppercorns, allspice berries, orange zest) it seemed like it was going to be just another boring, waste-of-his-time episode despite all the build up. Alton Brown’s first commentary on Dameron’s side was so far yielding nothing interesting. Poe was preparing a spice mixture of his own (chili powder and coffee from the altar, along with dark brown sugar, coriander, oregano, ginger and some others) for some oxtails laid out on his board, and Trooper was working on a batter at one of the mixers (chocolate cake for an aphrodisiac battle? How fucking original). The girl, unsurprisingly, was breaking down a number of ingredients and distributing them amongst Dameron and Trooper’s stations before returning to her small tasks (Alton specifically pointed out her hairstyle, which consisted of three buns knotted down the back of her head, as “the most unique he’s ever seen in Kitchen Stadium”). The notorious reputation of Poe Dameron was, like all the others’, ended up being nothing more than a disappointment.

Kevin Brauch, introduced per usual as Alton’s “favorite Canadian in the whole wide world.” began to make his rounds through Kitchen Stadium to snatch a quick interview with the chefs before joining in on the commentary. Ren had nothing against Brauch on a personal level, but the co-host quickly learned that Ren was not to be hovered over during a battle. Yet even with that understanding reached, Brauch kept a wide breadth of Ren when he approached him.

“Iron Chef Ren, always an honor to see your work,” Kevin Brauch said, holding his clipboard in front of him not unlike a shield. “I expect that we’ll be seeing a special sort of magic coming from you today with the secret ingredient?”

“Would you give Bernini a block a marble and then doubt his ability to turn it into a masterpiece to his face?” Ren said cooly, not taking his eyes off the lamb loin he was now slicing into perfect rectangular portions.

Kevin held up his hands and took a wise step backwards. “That’s as good of an answer as any. I’ll leave you to it.” He quickly hustled over to the other side.

“Chef Dameron, a pleasure to see you here,” Kevin greeted the other man.

“A pleasure to be here,” Poe said jovially back, pulling a cut of deeply marbled beef tenderloin towards him and began to finely chop it up in a classic tartare preparation.

“So, I have to ask the question everyone wants to know the answer to: what made you decide to come onto Iron Chef America after so many refused invitations?”

“Well, you know Kevin, I’ve been very blessed in working with many talented chefs in my kitchen, but I always knew I needed something extra special for when I finally faced off against Ren. Now that I have my secret weapon I think we have the advantage we need to win today.”

“Oh,” was all Kevin said in response, his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline. “So, is there any insight to what this secret weapon might be?”

Dameron laughed as he put the last few chops on his tartar. “If I did that it wouldn’t be a secret then, would it? Can’t give the home team too much of an advantage.”

Ren looked at Dameron briefly, then rolled his eyes and returned his focus to his work.

Ren, Hux and Phasma worked with machine-like precision, having to only speak minimally to each other as they worked to make sure everyone was on track (though it was largely for the sake of the cameras). Dameron’s side of Kitchen Stadium was much more animated, the chefs ducking and dodging around one another as they dashed between the altar to the pantry to the convection ovens and the grill tops. Kevin Brauch made his introduction of the judges, interviewing them briefly on their views of that day’s theme. Two of the three judges agreed that it was going to be a tough battle for Dameron as he was going up against a chef whose whole career was rooted in creating sexy and sensual dishes. Jeffrey Steingarten, per usual, had to put in his unwanted two cents by disagreeing with them and stating that he expected to see new material from Ren and not the usual fair he served at his restaurant.

(Steingarten was also a long-time adversary of Snoke, so Ren learned not to give a rat’s ass worth of concern over his over-inflated opinions a long time ago).

At forty minutes left on the clock, Hux started to blanch a few handfuls of spinach while finely sliced shallots popped and sizzled in a puddle of melted butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan at his elbow, and Phasma was rolling her pasta dough through the attachment on the stand mixer. Over on the other side, Trooper loaded a tray of ramekins filled with baby-pink custard into an oven to be steamed, Dameron was mixing chopped anchovies, capers, red onions and egg yolks to his beef tartare, and the girl was vigorously peeling a pile of multi-colored carrots and dumping them into a pot of boiling water. This was generally the time when tension started to rise on the opposite side like the incoming tide, but Dameron was barely breaking a sweat. In fact, Ren didn’t doubt that he was enjoying every minute of it. It was not a surprise that Dameron wouldn’t buckle under the pressure, not only because his career and reputation required it of him, but also to endure Snoke’s undercurrent of influence for so long. Trooper, on the other hand, was definitely beginning to look worse for wear. Rivulets of sweat were running down his face, and Ren could detect the start of a slight tremor in his hands that would make things like precise measurements or delicate plating difficult, which could affect the outcome of the dish and ultimately cost Poe valuable points when it came time to judge. It wouldn’t be the first time a challenging chef lost due to their sous chefs’ incompetence, but that was their own fault.

But the girl. The girl was another matter altogether.

In addition to her own tasks she was responsible for, she had the talent of being wherever Dameron needed her to be, seemingly at the same time, to hell with whoever was in her way. Kevin Brauch had to leap out of the way on more than one occasion as she barrelled past him. Ren even heard Hux give an indignant yelp when she nearly collided with him at the altar to snag a box of uni out from under his nose. And she was noisy, yelling an exuberant “yes, chef!” to every order she was given. The longer the battle went on, the more aggravating Ren found her to be. Her lack of formal training or extended experience was painfully obvious to him, and it was threatening to drive him to distraction. If this was Dameron’s idea of a “secret weapon” it was a low blow, even for rival chefs such as themselves.

To add insult to injury, Dameron - a goddamn two star Michelin star chef - was asking for advice from his prep cook on his own dishes. Every so often he was call the girl over to his station to try a little of whatever he was working on. After a few second’s deliberation she would make a suggestion, and he would actually take it! Just who the hell was this girl, and where did she come from? More importantly, what was so special about her that had Dameron putting so much trust in her?

“ Ren!” Hux hissed to his right, immediately snapping Ren back to himself. With a string of curses that would later be edited to one long censoring tone when the episode aired, Ren plucked the piece of lamb off the grill and deposited it on a waiting plate, the heat and the seeping oils having little effect on the hard-earned calluses on his fingers. He had to bite back another wave of violent swearing as he surveyed the damage. The lamb wasn’t ruined, but it was far from the perfection he was known for: the too-dark char on the outside would surely overpower the flavor of the marinade and the meat itself. He barked at Alton for the time, only to realize that nearly everyone in the studio - Hux, Phasma, Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch, the judges and filming crew, even the Chairman - were all staring at him with a mix of amazement of confusion. He knew exactly why, too, as surely as if could read their minds. In his whole history on ICA , Ren had yet to make a mistake in front of the cameras, or lose his concentration or allow himself to be distracted by the competition, and now he had done all three within a span of seconds. The embarrassment of it made his ears burn under his hair and a barely-contained wave of fury roil through him like an oncoming storm cell.

Alton Brown must have sensed it too because he came back to himself with a start, stammering that there was thirty-two minutes left on the clock. Ren suppressed the urge to grab the nearest piece of equipment and throw it across the studio. He had no time to marinade, grill, and rest more lamb before the hour was up, forcing him to make due with what he had. No matter: he had to work with worse before, and the true skill of a chef always materialized in their ability to improvise. Just so long as he didn’t let anything else get under his skin he could still crush Dameron. Some pain-in-the-ass prep cook with a ridiculous hairstyle wasn’t going to stop that.

It just took just six minutes for her to prove him wrong.

“Shit,” came Trooper’s sickened lament from their side of the stadium. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What’s wrong, Finn?” Dameron asked without looking back at him.

“There’s something wrong with the ice cream machine.” Panic seasoned Trooper’s voice. At the top of the battle he made a base for cinnamon ice cream and poured it into the machine, but after twenty minutes it was still only a frothy liquid. “It’s not freezing.”

For the first time since the start of the battle Dameron’s attention broke away from his cooking, but before he could give Trooper any new directions she was already at the accursed machine, her ear pressed to the side panel, frowning deeply.

“Can you fix it?” Finn asked anxiously.

“If I have the time, yeah,” she said. She pulled her ear away and called for the time.

“Twenty-five minutes to go,” a cool, automated female voice said over the loudspeakers.

She looked at Dameron, their eyes locking.

“Do it,” he said.

The attention of every person was fixated on her as she made a mad dash back to her station and pulled some kind of rolled canvas out from a cubby. Racing back to the ice cream machine, she unfurled the canvas on an unused section of a prep table to reveal an assortment of hardware tools. Selecting one of the screw drivers, she turned the machine off and set to work at loosening the screws that held the main side panel in place with practiced ease, carefully setting each one aside as they fell into her hand. The panel came off with one tug and was set at her feet, then she was elbow-deep in the ice cream machine’s mechanical guts, trying to locate the problem. There were few comments made as she worked; even Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch were at a loss for words, a monumental moment of its own. The only people who were not affected by what she was doing was Dameron and Trooper, who continued preparing their meals as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Finally a smile bloomed on her face, and with a triumphant “Got it!” the ice cream machine clunked, whirred, and the outer metal casing immediately frosted over. Alton, Kevin, and the judges - Jeffrey included - were sputtering and exclaiming their amazement, stating over and over that nothing like that had ever happened before, and was sure to go down in ICA history.

The girl returned to her station, thoroughly washing her hands and getting back to work as though nothing happened. Just as she started shucking a pile of oysters of her own, her eyes flickered up to his, capturing and holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long time. Then she smiled, showing off her perfect white teeth. She looked positively wolfish. She was also, he noticed for the first time, very, very pretty.

“Try doing that with your fancy credentials,” she shot at him.

Rey, he thought suddenly. Her name is Rey.

A bolt of inspiration struck him. According to the clock, they had just twenty minutes left; hardly enough time to scrap one dish and start another from scratch. It was practically suicide, and Hux was very keen to remind him of that fact when Ren ordered him to stop working on what he was currently attending to and start deseeding a pomegranate instead, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be Kylo Ren is he played it safe. Besides, Dameron had his tricks, and Ren had his. Ren owed it to Dameron for making this one of the most interesting days he had in a long time.

It was only fair, after all.

#reylo #reylo fanfiction #reylo chef au #allez cuisine!#omegaling writes

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