but im going to go on

3

okay i had an image of this and I HAD TO MAKE IT HAPPEN SO this took me way too long lmfao

i dont think ive ever drawn something so perfectly encapsulating what i do on my blog lol

Bakery AU where Sid and Geno are both hired as pasty chefs in a restaurant but they have wildly different approaches to their work.

Sid is all about precisely made petite fours and labor intensive croissants and perfectly frosted cookies.

Geno’s middle name is ‘rustic’ and his motto is ‘as long as it tastes good…’. He folds the crusts over on his tarts instead of cutting them off and sometimes his pie is unevenly brown and when his frosting ends up too thin he calls it a glaze instead of doing it over again.


Sid’s driven crazy by Geno’s relaxed approach and Geno would very much like to pull the wooden spoon out of Sid’s ass but eventually they get it together and find away to blend the way they work together and they fall in love.

if you call on me: a coco story

n or: a story of breathing, waiting, and size twelve shoes

For @im-fairly-whitty who asked “For your kissing prompt, I’d like to see you take a crack at an imector angry kiss :)”

This was super fun to do. I tried to keep it short and sweet, but it got a little longer and messier than expected. Still- it was fun to write, and something I’ve been itching to get down onto paper. 

ALSO! HOORAY FOR FIRST FANFIC FOR THIS FANDOM! [waves little flags in the air] Reblog and show some love, people! 

For reference, the prompts are here and if anyone wants to ask for one, they absolutely can drop one into my inbox any old time! 


He decides very quickly that he’s going to let her control it all. 

It’s what she deserves, he reasons, and so Héctor retreats as well as he can. Because she does deserve that much, doesn’t she? Time to think. Space from him. Whatever questions she needs answered on her time truthfully. And so one sunrise after his prospective last (saved from a final death, waking to a world no less terrifying, no less uncertain) he bows from center stage, mentions nothing of love or memories, and let’s his beloved have the time that she needs. 

“Thank you for your help,” he tells her and her family, who are waiting for him backstage, sun just hanging against the horizon, and watch him curiously, like he’s some sort of old relic that found it’s way past the museum walls. 

“Are you coming with us?”

To which he’d responded, at the same time as Imelda, “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea” - “it’s up to him.” 

And she’d eyed him and he’d looked away, and he’d apologized quietly before slipping past. 

“You’re leaving?” she asks him, eyes and mouth thinning, and he shakes his head and says, “just until you call on me.” 

(it’s a ridiculously old fashioned statement, he realizes. but it fits him. her. them. and feels familiar- like whispering up to windows at the turn of a century, with the smell of laelia stubbornly attached to the breeze)  

He wants her to call on him then. To reach her hand out and tell him come with us, mi amor. He wants her to so much and the want leaves him raw. 

She doesn’t. 

He didn’t expect her to. 

His Imelda (not his, he corrects. never his) deserved time. But, he thinks, she also deserved more than what she had in a husband. She deserved one that didn’t leave her to raise children on her own, and who chose music before family- who couldn’t cross bridges and who couldn’t come home. 

It’s what she deserves, he tells himself again, the mantra a worn one by the end of the week, as he fiddles with guitar strings and tries not to write another love ballad 

(and fails, spectacularly; almost every song becomes about her- and when he sings them he can see her, dancing in his peripheral and wonders if age, like wine, had turned her lips richer) 

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You know one of the things that makes me…furious. I have 3 boy cousins who are all grown (27) and they truly ain’t shit in every way possible like..barely passed high school, don’t have jobs, don’t bother trying to do something, stay in their moms basement, smoke 2 packs a day..and my entire family praises them like no other. My sisters and I are all educated, have careers, are productive members of society, and the adults couldn’t give less of a shit. Like w h y. Why are we praising these bum ass losers who still have their Mom serve them food and wash their ass for them?? I don’t get it!!

I listened to HS1 on the drive home tonight IN FULL for the first time in a while and I’m ready to FIGHT a kangaroo right now !!! This album is incredible????????? Lyrically? Sonically? The production??? The instrumentation? The thought put in?? The depth??? It’s a fucking masterpiece???!…………I JUST DONT UNDERSTAND HOW SOME MINDLESS DRIVEL CAN GET ACCOLADES THESE DAYS AND THIS DOES NOT?? ILL BE YELLIN ABOUT THIS TILL IM 100 YEARS OLD…anyways keep doing YOU Harry cause it’s perfect and make the music you wanna make cause goddamn if it’s gonna be as good or better as HS1 IM READY