Taako flirted with Death In A Nice Suit and Merle saw that, thought I can do one better, used a flashback, WENT BACK IN TIME,and had classical chess playing sexual tension with the Destruction Of Entire Worlds In A Nice Suit while also dying fifty odd times for good measure.
(Like, gosh, Clint, we know you have a competitive streak but we already loved you enough, you didn’t have to go and show up your boys like this.)
things to consider that i hadn’t thought about before w/ the greek!jason/roman!percy exchange: annabeth/jason reuniting and jason hugging her real hard bc he’s missed his pseudo-sister, annabeth letting this giant dork pick her up off her feet in a hug while resisting the urge to smack him upside the head for scaring her so bad. meanwhile, piper has tackled percy to the ground/has him in a headlock, w/ no warning but a “WELCOME BACK, SHITHEAD” while she’s laughing and blinking hard so she doesn’t start crying. (/percy is smiling but kind of gasping for air “pIPES I CAN BREATHE UNDER WATER, NOT UNDER YOUR FUCKIN SNAKE GRIP, LET GO”)
TalesFromYourServer: Diary of a Petty Server: The Meatloaf that Got Away
With great service comes great responsibility.
It comes with the territory, pal. I mean, you’re dealing with one of the most hardcore life-driving forces in the fucking universe here: food. On top of that, you’re tasked with delivering this most sacred of nourishment to people in their most delicate state: hunger.
Hunger makes people do fucking weird shit. Like go to bed without eating and wake up as a different person shit. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hangrey type shit. I’ve seen outbursts of food-related madness that had me cowering in fear, fully expecting a demon made of cockroaches and hellspawn to erupt from a humansuit. I’ve witnessed a man go into apoplectic rage at the discontinuation of his favorite promotion, which led him to rip the offending menu to shreds with an assassin’s coldhearted efficiency. To shreds, you say? Aye, to absolute fucking confetti, which he then promptly stuffed into an innocent raspberry lemonade before bailing.
There’s a certain sort of primal anger that overtakes a person when they’re faced with a culinary crisis. But shit, all the world’s a stage, and all the humans merely players, and I’m about to play your mad hungry ass for a fool. Butter you up like a fucking biscuit and then set the record straight. This is me and you vs. the goddamn world, sir. You’re gonna have the epic experience you came here for if I have to douse hell and burn heaven to do it. That soup is cold? Of COURSE I’ll get you a freshie silly, and I’ll be fucking delighted to do so again in twenty minutes when you next extricate your head from your date’s ass. Your hot tea is too hot? I gotchu sir, I’m bout to beat this boiling water’s ass. There’s a stray piece of okra in your fries? We’re writing the goddamn Governor. And then you tuck them in and give them a binky, and they are none the wiser that you’ve successfully tugged the invisible strings connected to both the heart and wallet. Jedi Master of Bullshit strikes again.
I can deal with any fucker in a bad mood. At some point, you will leave, and you will either be touched by my efforts or utterly unmoved, in which case you were determined to be unhappy anyway. But you will be gone, and I will either chuckle or curse you, and that will be it.
If only Cowboy had gotten angry. That, I could nagivate. This…this was a new beast entirely.
Cowboy is a middle-aged gentleman at Table 122, dressed in a sort of bullrider’s chic. In the couple of minutes I spend with him at our introduction, I learn two things: he loves his horse Whisper, and he really loves our meatloaf. He and Whisper have been driving for six hours to get home from a competition, and for six hours he has impatiently looked forward to his prize. “You don’t understand, ma'am,” he says in a drawl. “I. Love. This. Meatloaf.”
Shit, everyone does, it’s fucking delicious. It’s one of the most popular menu items we have. There are days when I serve no other function than being a fucking choo-choo train for meatloaf plates. The more people love it, the more they order. The more they order, the faster we run out. The faster we run out…yeah, well, we’re still cooking the goddamn things at the same pace. The thing about food, it’s gotta cook.
I’ve already spent a fair portion of the day ruining people’s lives over the lack of meatloaf, and I’m not keen to do so again. I get Cowboy’s drink order, and tell him to think on his sides while I go touch base with the kitchen. I have a come-to-Jesus moment with the grill cook, making him bend down and look me in the fucking eye and tell me we have meatloaf. All’s well. Nine orders left for the night. Breathe a sigh of relief, hit up a sweet tea, scream for the 84th time for someone to bloody PLEASE get the To-Go phone, and make tracks for the table.
Cowboy’s tickled pink once I inform him that yes, sir, you can nom those meaty loaves until Kingdom Fucking Come. He fires off his sides and I get it on the books. Wait there, sir, we’re about to make some magic happen.
I return to the kitchen to enter the order, pleased as fucking punch that one of the lazy shitfritters has finally deemed to answer the phone. They finish up and I whip Table 122 into the system.
The ticket has barely chattered out of the machine when I hear the dreaded shout: “86 Meatloaf for the night!” I fly over to the window, mouth agape in horror…and I will be DAMNED!! Absolutely damned I say! Those lazy no-good ass-sucking To-Go creeps have ordered us out of meatloaf. Nine goddamned To-Go Meatloafs, already posing prettily in a line of black plastic containers. Surely eight of the fuckers could have cut off a tiny slice to assemble a decent hunk of meatloaf!
My panic is palpable. This man has been driving the highway for six fucking hours, with nothing to staunch the loneliness except the thought of our mouth watering meatloaf. I would rather be tied to Whisper, doused in lemon juice, and dragged through a field of cacti than go break the news.
Immediately I begin to think of a way out of this shithole. Do I bat my eyes and flirt up the cook? Jack one of the meatloafs and feign ignorance when questioned? Run shrieking out the back door into the night and never look back? All useless. As useless as the sad plate of okra, mac and cheese, and green beans that sits forlornly in the window, no meatloaf to be found.
Jesus hula-hooping Christ. This shit again.
I’m on the verge of a panic attack when the grill cook calls me over. He’s well aware of my everlasting battle with these pepper and onion stuffed fuckers, and in a fit of gallantry, he has found me a hunk of meatloaf. A smaller hunk than portion size calls for, true, but meatloaf nevertheless. I almost burst into tears at the news, and yes, fucking yes, I’ll comp the whole fucking thing and pay for it myself, as long as this man gets a couple of mouthfuls of his ketchup-coated desire. The cook slides the too-small loaf onto the plate of sides and sells the ticket.
I’m immediately aware of why this meatloaf was not counted in the original tally. I know meatloaf, and this meatloaf is all wrong. Not just small, but shriveled. Dry, crusted along the outside. I could have offered this meatolaf to the Donner Party and they still would have eaten each other. On my honor as a server, I cannot serve this to my guest.
It’s with a heavy heart I journey back to Table 122. Cowboy is smiling pleasantly at me, probably assuming I’m coming to check on his tea or assure him that yes, your meatloaf madness will soon be at an end.
There is no such happy ending.
I have the script memorized by heart. I’m insanely sorry, sir, but due to the fact that this meatloaf is, as you know, the best meatloaf fucking ever, we have unfortunately run out. Normally, there are two routes people take when I inform them that their culinary orgasm is not to be: nonchalant acceptance, or blood-vessel-popping rage.
But this…is new.
The denial sets in first. He stares at me blankly, head cocked quizzically to one side, as though unsure he has heard me correctly. “Are…you joking?”
“No sir,” I reply sadly. “If only Whisper had a few teammates, we could get the Delorean up to 88 miles an hour and go back to just before the To-Go phone rang. Can you believe it? Nine meatloafs spoken for in one To-Go order.”
I hope the half-hearted attempt at humor will break him from the haze, but his face remains impassive. “Nine? Nine whole pieces? In one order?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, admittedly wrong-footed by the distinct disbelief to his tone. Visions of Whisper galloping alongside a minivan race through my head, and of course in the fantasy Cowboy is victorious, lassoing the whole fucking order through the open window. Reality, it seems, is far more dire.
I gently prod Cowboy for a replacement order; in his catatonic state, he rattles off a robotic backup, and I swear to God and sonny Jesus if we don’t have chicken and dumplings I’m burning this fucker to the ground. Ashes, I tell you!
It’s the fastest ticket we’ve ever sold. I shout down the cooks the moment I step into the back, and you can fuck yourself with the ticket for all I care, B. I’ll ring the bitch in when Cowboy is eating and not a goddamned moment before. Less than a minute later, I present Cowboy with his steaming hot dinner, an extra portion of mac and cheese on the side for good measure. He rouses enough to thank me politely, but shit, if I’d just been fucked by the meatloaf gods in such a cruel fashion, I wouldn’t be up for thanking me. Ten minutes minutes later, he’s to the point of a small smile and nod when I ask if everything tastes good. I top off his tea, leave the check, and sincerely wish him a great night.
I sadly return to the kitchen and join the team packing this thrice-damned meatloaf into the To-Go bags. A beep soon alerts us that the party is here to receive their order, and a coworker grumpily humps the three bags up to the cash stand. I trail out behind him, listlessly sorting menus, when I hear a wordless sound of despair. I glance up and freeze.
Cowboy is standing at the cash register, watching with sad eyes as Coworker pulls out and presents each meatloaf plate to the guest for his approval. Despite the fact that he has already paid, Cowboy waits and watches through the whole debacle. As do I.
As the last meatloaf is approved and paid for, Cowboy nods to the burly man now cradling the three steaming sacks. “Enjoy your dinner,” he says in a pleasant voice.
A god among mortals, this man. My heart cannot take much more…but It must, and as I hesitantly check my credit tips a few moments later, I am overtaken. A $10 tip on an $8 ticket. Over 100%.
Godspeed, Cowboy. Whenever you and Whisper may travel next, I fervently hope that there is meatloaf, more meatloaf than you could have ever dreamed possible.
A/N: This is a pure Daddy!dean Easter fluff drabble. I just knew I would write something with Jensen and Dean the bunny.
Pairing: Dean x reader
Charlotte- 6 will be seven in October Cassie-3 turning 4 in May Catherine just turned 3 in February and Bennett will be 8 months old.
With the amount of “things” Dean has seen in his day, he wouldn’t be the least surprised to hear that the Easter Bunny was real. Now, of course in the eyes of his four young children, the Easter bunny lived all the way out on Easter Island.
Dean wants his kids to hold onto childhood as long as they can before they have to accept any type of responsibilities. Right now, Dean was just enjoying watching his girls and especially his littlest munchkin enjoying the little things of life. Dean sold his childhood the moment he ran out of that house with six month old Sammy in his arms wrapped up in a blanket many moons ago.
All Dean could ever want for his kids is to lead normal lives, as you and him give them the most normal lives possible. You and Dean don’t really have to much to worry about giving Charlotte the talk about monsters quite yet. Dean solemnly swore if any harm were to come to you, his beautiful wife of any of his kids, it’ll be a blood bath.
Off the record though, the funniest thing happened the other day as you tried to get everyone out the door in one piece. Dean had to take Cassie to playgroup for the day, and Charlotte to school. You walked them out because it was beginning to get warmer in the morning and gradually grow throughout the day.
You had baby Bennett in your arms and Catherine holding your hand. Catherine had her thumb in your mouth. Catherine was your only baby that didn’t take a pacifier, and instead she chose to suck her thumb. She only did that when she was tired, for example she was just waking up so that explained a lot.
But she never wanted to miss Daddy leaving in the morning. She didn’t care about sending off her two older sissies. It was all about Daddy to Catherine. “Bye bye Catherine. Girls, say goodbye to your sister and brother.” Dean held each of their hands as he lead them to the impala. “Bye Bennett, bye Catherine!” Charlotte called, as she skipped happily beside her Daddy.
Then, Charlotte gasps loudly, causing everyone to ask what it was this time. “It’s the Easter bunny!” She cried excitedly. Cassie started asking where, tugging on Dean’s arm. You and Dean each made a face. Easter wasn’t until the sixteenth of next month and you just had gotten over St. Patrick’s Day.
“Lottie, honey I-I think that is a rabbit. The Easter bunny, hasn’t left Easter Island yet.” Dean explained as he knelt down to your two oldest daughters level. “Oh okay!” She shrugged, understanding completely. “So that’s not the Easter bunny?” Cassie asked sounding a little disappointed. “No, sweetie but he will be here soon.” Dean promised, from the bottom of his heart.
“How soon?” Cassie questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Easter Sunday is the sixteenth of April.” Dean confirmed to his very inquisitive daughter. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Cassie was named after the angel of Castiel after all. “But that’s so far away!” She exclaimed over-dramatically. The drama bit she got from you.
“I know, I know it seems that way now but when you think about it’s really not.” Dean chuckled a little. “How do you know that Daddy?” Cassie puckered her lips together. “I know that because I am your Daddy and I know all.” He wriggled his eyebrows and then gave Cassie an Eskimo kiss.
She giggled at her Daddy, his long lashes tickling her cheeks pink. “Hey, I want a kiss too!” Charlotte poked Dean on the shoulder. He turned around and face his big girl and planted a kiss on her cheek. Dean heard his phone buzz in his pocket and saw what time it was and told the girls we were going to be late if you don’t hurry up.
“Not if you go really fast, Daddy! Can we go really fast?” Cassie beamed, with a sparkle in her eye. “I don’t want to make any promises but…” Dean’s voice trailed off when you yelled loudly.
“DEAN WHAT IS CASSIE TALKING ABOUT?”
You were shaking your head, the tone in your voice indicated your were more than just a little ticked off. “Nothing darling, go on in the house. I’ll see you when I get home.” Dean only called you darling when he knew he was in trouble. “Yeah I’ll see you when you get home.” You muttered to yourself as you started heading back inside.
DREAMING OF YOU - A Twin Peaks Mix [listen] [YT] [Stayed Up All Night]
“Oh, Leland…You’ve been a good a vehicle and I’ve enjoyed the ride. But now he’s weak and full of holes. It’s almost time to shuffle off to Buffalo!”
1. Stardust - Hoagy Carmicheal // 2. Where Or When - Bing Crosby // 3. Live For Life - Jack Jones // 4. The Day We Meet Again - Glenn Miller // 5. There’s A Moon Out Tonight - The Capris // 6. I’m Tickled Pink - Jack Shaindlin // 7. On The First Night Of The Full Moon - Jack Jones // 8. Come Rain Or Shine - Jack Jones // 9. Shuffle Off To Buffalo - Hal Kemp And His Orchestra //
❀ scenario: going for a morning jog seemed simple enough, right? Wrong.
❀ kim jongin x reader (mermaid!au)
This morning’s sunrise was a breathtaking display of radiant colors. Bright streaks of red, pink, and orange slowly overcame the dark blue and purple of the twilight sky. The sky resembled a prism; all the colors blended perfectly into each other. The sun itself was just peeking out of the horizon, and its brilliant rays already shined brightly and began to warm the air. I marveled at the glistening reflection of the sun on the ocean and a thrilling feeling of awe swept over me. Having moved here recently the sunrise was most definitely my favourite part of living here.
I stood gazing at the art of work slowly coming up behind the horizon for a few more moments before breaking into a jog and continuing my morning routine. Ladies Code vocals harmonized through my earbuds with their latest release, I’m Fine Thank You. I passed other joggers and a few old couples as i neared the more isolated part of the beach.
@shinigami-mistress and I had been discussing all the religious overtones in ch127, how Agni is treated as a Christ figure. Then we got to joking about Agni coming back three chapters later, perhaps as a Bizarre Doll. (NO, we don’t think it’ll happen. It’s only a joke.)
About the same time, @eglentyne-mcqueen was typing up quite a post on the same topic (Christian symbolism). I reblogged to add my two cents and mentioned my discussions (including the jokes) with shinigami-mistress. One thing I didn’t mention is her concern about whether Agni’s soul has been collected yet. In the Kuroverse, the soul is collected at the time of death, so I assumed his soul had already been taken away.
But then I looked into Hindu funeral customs. Hindu beliefs vary from sect to sect, of course, but they tend to hold an open-casket wake then cremate the body and scatter the ashes (usually over a body of water). White is traditionally worn by funeral attendees and other mourners, and black is considered inappropriate. Ten days after the death (or is it ten days after the funeral?), friends gather to release the soul for its ascent to Heaven. Visitors are expected to bring fruit. Hindus believe in karmic reincarnation, so a person’s soul can return in another form. The form taken depends on the karma of the soul, and a truly enlightened soul can reach Nirvāna (being “blown out”, LIKE A LAMP), which for a Hindu means finding liberation (moksha) in the realization that the true self (Ātman, soul) is identical to the transcendent self (Brahman, the physical world and ultimate blissful reality). Once Nirvāna is attained, THEN the cycle of birth, life, and death ends for that soul.
Do reapers in Kuroshitsuji treat the souls differently, based on the religion or spiritual faith of the deceased?
So, has Agni reached Nirvāna? Or could he yet be reborn? Considering his faith in Soma and his worldview, I think he has become truly enlightened, so I believe he’s attained moksha….
That’s good for Agni, surely, but I would have been tickled pink to see Sebastian come across a kitten with white fur and a little blaze mark on its forehead. He’d adore its unusual markings and soft coat, and he’d name it Khansama… or simply refer to it as “Him”.
(I’m atheist, but damn. Now I’m getting all teary-eyed anyway… over the crack idea of the demon finding a reincarnated Agni in kitten form. Wtf?)
Let the fanfics of an AU where Sebastian has Khansama Kitty be written….
[Could I please request Arno
Dorian training the reader to fight with swords/ hand to hand (maybe an
apprentice assassin?) as most of their training before was in more ranged
weapons, and then she later saves him with the same training? Thanks :D] - @estel-of-the-eyrie
Got carried away with this request and had a lot of fun with it. Thanks for requesting!
Arno Dorian x Reader WC: 4,200 Rating: SFW Warnings: Blood and violence
Oil and water had a better chance of being agreeable
than Arno and the Council, especially after some of his more questionable
activities had been brought to light. A skilled man and an incredibly stubborn
one, the rumors that circulated about him after his dismissal were curious.
He overstepped the
authority by killing Bellec, didn’t he?
I heard he’d told the Council that he
would kill Bellec even if they got in the way.
No, that’s all wrong — he set up
Mirabeau’s death through Bellec to open up seats of power.
hogwash, the lot of it. Fact and fiction were mixing into something bigger than
what had truly happened. Records from the Council lay the facts out clearly,
but let it be known that the Assassins of France hold gossiping as one of their
Maybe it was because you didn’t believe the rumors that you were called forward. More than
likely, though, this was to be a rookie assignment. And here you are at the
feet of the Council staring up at familiar, but impartial faces.
know why you are here?”
do not, Madame Sophie.” But you could wager a few guesses.
dedication to our Brotherhood has been one without error or question and to
this we put you to a task.”
Sophie Trenet. The new de-facto head of the council.
Since Mirabeau’s death, the revelation of
Bellec’s treason, and the prompt exile of Dorian, she’s been doing well enough
to keep the Brotherhood afloat while the rest of France burns to ash.
are to recover the exiled Assassin Arno Dorian.”
And is apparently looking to set you out among the
flames to burn as well.
Anything short of a ‘yes’
or ‘understood’ when receiving orders doesn’t usually grant a favorable
response. Is a raised eyebrow good or bad?
Several. Why recover an exiled Assassin? Things are
bad, but they’re not that bad. And what if he doesn’t
want to be ‘recovered’? What if the sight of another Assassin sets him out for
blood? Even if he hadn’t killed Bellec for personal gain, the man had ended the
life of a Master Assassin. He could demolish you.
have no questions,” you lie. “Only a hesitation at my own abilities. I do not
wish to fail the council.”