#invader's cookbook

[invaders-cookbook]

Invader's Cookbook #4: Crafting, Consumables, Community Assistance.

Warning: this issue of Invader's Cookbook is only for those who have completed the base game. If you're a new player, using advice from this guide may ruin your natural progression path.

Part 1: Community

As you become better at PvP and it becomes more interesting to you, Elden Ring stops being a PvE game with PvP attached to it, and becomes a PvP game with PvE attached to it. And if you do dueling and invading with any regularity, you will discover that certain resources are way more limited than they should be. Which is fine for a PvE playthrough, but in PvP it becomes a detriment to the variety of the things you can do in any given encounter.

For example, starlight shards is an item that gives you enough Focus Points regeneration that allows sorcery builds to rival melee builds in invasion scenarios. There are only a few dozen of them in the entire game without going to NG+ and they are completely unfarmable.

That is why some players opt to simply duplicate their items via reloading their saves and dropping them to their friends. It is not considered cheating, not by the dedicated PvP community and not by From Software either.

There are a bunch of ways to go about acquiring items.

1. Find a person who plays PvP and who has already acquired all the items

Pretty straightforward. If you don't have such a person, shoot a DM to @huggingtentacles she can usually help.

2. r/PatchesEmporium

Patches Emporium is a community on Reddit where you can place a request for certain items, and if you're willing to fulfill someone else's request, you can successfully gain all the items you need.. Typically they will ask you for a "mule". A mule means transferring their items between characters through your character. You simply pick up the items, and give them back to another character they have. In return they might share some stuff you might want.

3. Join a PvP-focused discord community

You can find plenty of them online, Elden Ring PvP is the most popular one. Plenty of streamers on twitch, big and small, also have similar communities.

Part 2: I got the stuff, what now?

Now you probably have enough crafting materials to craft literally every item in the game in ridiculous amounts. Which is good, you will need them for the following items:

1. Boluses

Boluses to cure status effects are the most important, especially Preserving Boluses that help against Scarlet Rot. Make a bunch of them.

2. Uplifting Aromatics

Finally you can use those perfume bottles for something! Having up to 10 is quite strong. It makes you take 90% less damage on your next hit, as well as gives you a noticeable damage boost. Very important to cross places where you might get ambushed around the corner. You can also use this aromatic to buff mobs in the area!

3. Greases

You can only use greases on weapons with physical affinities: Keen, Heavy, Quality and Standard. Now you are able to replace regular greases with Drawstring Grease, which does significantly more damage, albeit it lasts for a shorter period of time. You can use it quickly mid-combat, highly recommend

4. Everything else

Dried livers, various Pots Cured Meat, Exalted Flesh, Bolts, Arrows, Pickled Turtle Necks, Throwing Daggers, Warming Stones. All of these amazing items are important to use in most PvP activities. Learn to utilise them to their fullest potential.

Part 3: And what about making builds faster?

Through other players you can also acquire weapons and runes. However, you can't acquire weapons that are higher level than the one you have already upgraded on your character. You'll have to upgrade a weapon to a certain level if you want someone to drop you weapons of that level.

A typical fast playthrough to meta level 125-137 would be getting a +10 somber weapon as fast as possible, and then having every other item dropped from another player, then finishing the playthrough with all of that stuff and the appropriate level using the infinite runes you got. (Do you see why I don't recommend this to first time playthroughs? Don't ruin your experience.)

Closing Thoughts

One aspect of Elden Ring PvP that's rarely talked about is how the developers never quite anticipated the amount of PvP some people do. Some items are simply too ridiculous to farm for PvP purposes. Imagine having to farm for half an hour only to waste all of that in one single invasion! Some builds like sorcery simply shoot themselves in the foot by not having vital things like starlight shards.

It's not all bad though. After all, trading items and helping eachother makes for a more meaningful community interaction among players, even if it's purely transactional. In fact, I met many cool players through trading favours like that, and I hope you will as well.

Aren't sure about talking to strangers to get Elden Ring items? Try talking to @huggingtentacles she is always happy to help out new invaders!

#elden ring #elden ring invasions #elden ring pvp #invader's cookbook

[nicorobinmywife]

omfl your work is so good. some of my fave fics so far. would you write something like sanji having a strong bf? like, reader doing pushups while sanji sits on his back reading recipe books. anyways, tyy, have a good day.

thank u so much for liking my work 😭😭, i always wanted to write Sanji x strong bf and this request motivated me.

Sanji and his strong BF |Male Reader.

Sanji absolutely loves how strong you are, having a strong boyfriend who is able to protect him is like a blessing that fell from the sky to him.

he feels so safe when you carry him in your arms, or over your broad shoulders, even when your hand travels around his small waist to keep him close to you.

sometimes he pretends to fall on purpose hoping you'll catch him, and you do, just to make him happy.

Sanji gets so turned on when he sees you shirtless and sweaty after a long training session, fighting the urge to worship every part of your body.

you and zoro became training buddies, just like him, you like to do exercises to keep your body in shape, let's say the idea didn't please your boyfriend very much, Sanji will make sure to keep an eye on the swordsman and make sure he doesn't try to steal you from him.

- only 12,000 push-ups, Zoro? looks like someone has been rusty. - you can hear a grunt from the swordsman beside you, he's probably mentally cursing you, thinking that by dating Sanji you adopted some of his traits, including the habit of teasing him.

- I doubt you can handle doing 50,000 push-ups like me. - doing push-ups on his finger alone, a smirk forms on the swordsman's lips and he raises an eyebrow as he looks at you, and of course you're not going to turn down this challenge, thinking how proud Sanji would be of you as he makes fun of the defeated swordsman.

without saying anything, you accepted the challenge and stayed in the same position as Zoro, doing push-ups just resting your finger on the ground and the other arm behind your back.

it was being easy for you, and apparently the pirate hunter wasn't going to give up so easily either, you felt an extra weight on your back and saw Sanji sitting on top of you.

- "y/n-saaaan, my strong, sweet and beautiful boyfriend!" - Sanji spoke slyly with his signature heart-eyes. - "do you mind if i sit here while i read my cookbook, my darling? I don't know what to prepare for dinner today, maybe if I stay close to you it will give me some inspiration, huh?"

Sanji knew very well that he was lying, this was just an excuse for him to stay close to you and protect his territory against the green haired swordsman at your side.

- of course, Sanji-kun, you know i love it when you sit on top of me. - the cook's face blushes slightly at his answer, you could even see a little blood running down his nose, he still doesn't know how to deal with you teasing him like that.

and that's how you spent the next half hour, doing push-ups with your boyfriend sitting on your back, not only defending his territory but also showering you with praise for being so strong.

unfortunately Zoro ended up beating you, it was a big ego boost for him beating the curly-brow cook's boyfriend, after the swordsman left feeling victorious, Sanji hugged you, wrapping his long legs around your waist, and burying his face in the side of your neck, even though you were all sweaty, he didn't mind inhaling your scent, going into ecstasy with your perfume invading his nostrils.

- don't worry, my love, i'm sure next time you'll beat that moss-head idiot. - he whispers in your ear trying to make you feel better, you weren't sad, after all it was just healthy competition between friends

- it's okay, Sanji-kun, i'm going to bathe now. - you got up off the floor and placed the cook on top of your broad shoulders, making him gasp at the sudden movement. - and of course, i'll take my needy boyfriend with me, what do you think, sweetheart?

- yes! yes! yes! I l-love it when we bathe together, my dear! I can't wait to appreciate every part of your strong and pretty body! - Sanji exclaims thirstily for you, with his face blushing and his mouth drooling just by imagining him relaxing in the warm water as your arms wrap around his body, keeping him safe and comfortable.

#one piece #one piece headcanons #one piece imagine #one piece x reader #one piece x male reader #sanji x reader #zoro x male reader #sanji headcanons #sanjionepiece #sanji x gn reader #sanji x male reader #op sanji #one piece sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sanji imagine #sanji scenarios #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro one piece

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 2/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,748 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《TAGLIST》 @tild3ath @iiirhiane-g

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Please consider reblogging if you enjoy the read ❤️ (Thanks for all the support you've given my lil story so far!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You push yourself to your feet and hurry over to his kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting overhead. The kitchen is as bare and spotless as the other rooms you’ve seen, its countertops clear of the usual clutter you’d expect. No rags nor paper towel roll. No knife block nor coffee maker nor toaster—the appliances are the ones that come standard with the unit. No stacks of unopened mail nor candles nor cookbooks nor a sink full of empty dishes. No signs of life except for the adorable houseplant and some liquid hand soap beside the sink (which is good—you need soap).

You pull open drawers and cabinets, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading his privacy like this but it can’t be helped. Even those are mostly empty, only containing the barest amount of necessities like cups, dishes, and flatware—run-of-the-mill kitchen items that were probably provided with the furnished unit. You do manage to find some clean rags and paper towels (and a coffee maker), but nothing like sandwich bags for the ice. On a whim, you check his freezer and bingo! No food or decapitated heads but plenty of ice packs along with an unopened bottle of vodka. You arch an eyebrow at the curious yet amusing stash. Perhaps coming home injured is a typical Friday night for him.

You turn on the sink faucet then tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the roll, wadding them up and wetting them before adding a few pumps of soap then working up a lather. You can’t get the sight of his bleeding face and swollen neck out of your head. It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that to him against his will. He’s an intimidating guy, to say the least. Over a head taller than you, powerfully built with broad shoulders and thick thighs (and a nice ass). Perhaps he got jumped on his walk home—an all too common occurrence on these crime-ridden streets—and his stubborn pride was too wounded to go to the ER. Or maybe it was a gang thing… some sort of hazing ritual? That could explain the bloody letter on his cheek, too, you suppose. But then you remember his shaking hands and fumbling fingers as he tried and failed to unlock his door, and how he jumped at the sound of your voice. He was scared, you realize, your heart swelling with sudden pity. He was more afraid of you than you were of him. Afraid, and probably hurting, too. That thought makes your heart swell even more. It also leaves you a bit shaken. What in God’s name could frighten him? You can only hope that whatever it is doesn’t plan to make a house call anytime soon.

With the items in hand—ice packs, wet and dry rags, soapy paper towel wads, paper towel roll—you return to his side. He still doesn’t appear to have stirred, which is troubling, you have to admit, but you put it out of your mind for now. You set the items down on the floor beside the corpse-like body before grabbing a throw pillow from his couch. (Yes, a throw pillow. There’s a throw blanket on the couch, too. It’s the strongest evidence yet supporting your furnished unit presumption, since he definitely doesn’t strike you as a throw pillow kind of guy.) You kneel down at his side, then, ever so gently, you slip an arm behind his neck and lift his head enough to pull back his hood and slide the pillow beneath him. Next you take off his cap, revealing a mop of sweat-damp black hair. You sweep the soft locks back from his forehead so that you can place a cold rag against that warm, sweat-slick skin.

That’s when you notice the scars. You’d never been close enough to him to see that his face is absolutely covered in them. Faint white lines that cut through his features: his dark brows, his full lips, his freckle-dusted cheeks, the bent bridge of his nose. The worst one (aside from the J on his cheek, that is) is a deep gash that slashes across his right cheek and his nose, all the way up to his forehead. Another knife wound? Is this guy a masochist with a knife fetish or is there some freak out there who gets off on slicing up this poor guy’s face? Those marks on his neck imply the latter—the more sinister of the two—and that sends a cold chill shuddering up your spine.

Almost magnetically your eyes are drawn back past the (cute) cleft in his chin to those sunken bands of red ringing his throat. A thin line of blood has surfaced along the outer edge of one of the bands, where whatever was used to strangle him had cut into his skin. As you wipe away the blood with one of the soapy paper towel wads you spot several scratches on his neck, and for a moment you wonder if the assailant also used his hands to choke him. But then you feel your own throat constrict as the horrible realization sets in: those are claw marks. Gouges from his own fingernails where he desperately struggled to pry the ligature away and free his windpipe so he could breathe. Defensive wounds where he fought for his life.

You set aside the wet wad, then, driven by some morbid curiosity, you find your fingers returning to his throat. Ever so delicately, as if trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you touch one of the raw indentations in his swollen flesh, tracing it with your fingertip, feeling how the abraded skin had folded inward around whatever had coiled around his neck and tried to choke the life out of him. His throat vibrates gently against your probing fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You lay one of the dry rags across his throat, hiding the hideous damage, then place the ice pack on top, as instructed by the health article you Googled. You do the same for the back of his neck as well.

Now you turn your attention back to his scarred, haggard face. After swiping away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth you press the soapy paper towel to his cheek, which gradually turns from white to pink as it soaks up the blood seeping from the J carved into his flesh. Once you staunch the bleeding, you lift the towel to replace it with a fresh one, and you get an unimpeded view of what was hiding beneath the cut and the blood, beneath his hat and hood all of those times you passed him in the hallway, all of those times he ducked his head between hunched shoulders to avoid eye contact with you. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s not a J-shaped scar; it’s the letter J branded into his cheek. You can tell by how the skin is puckered around the too-precise curve of the raised letter, by its faint red outline, by how it seems to tug uncomfortably at his cheek.

Your mind rewinds to a few weeks back when you accidentally burned your neck with your curling iron. You’d shrieked like a banshee then thrown the damn thing across your bathroom. The blistered patch of seared skin had throbbed for the rest of the night, and was still sensitive to the touch for the following week. That was the result of hot ceramic glancing against your skin for maybe half a second, if that long. You can’t even begin to imagine how much it would’ve hurt to have held the infernal thing against your neck for long enough to melt a fucking letter into the flesh. And not just any flesh. His cheek; that tender skin right below the orbital bone, less than an inch from his eye. It probably felt like his eyeball was boiling in his eye socket from the immense heat. And the smell! His own flesh barbecuing like meat to be served at a cannibal cook-out…

You don’t want to think about it anymore. You can’t think about it anymore or else you’re gonna be sick. And luckily you don’t have to because a low moan slips from his lips and his lashes begin to flutter. A rush of relief floods through you at the small signs of life, and you absently begin to stroke his soft hair with your hand. Heavy eyelids strain to lift then glassy blue eyes are peeking out from between the slits. You smile down at him, your fingers caringly combing through his tousled hair, easing his way back into consciousness. You expect him to groggily ask where he is or what happened to him.

Instead his eyes snap open, and the romantic portrait you’ve painted inside your mind of this moment is ripped to shreds.

He bolts upright, sending rags and ice packs flying away from him, then that massive wall of muscular torso turns on you. Time seems to somehow speed up and slow down simultaneously as those large, dangerous hands of his are reaching for you, and in that terrible instant you know without a doubt that he means to strangle you. A tiny, panic-stricken sound—the choked cry of ensnared prey—comes from your mouth as you throw up your arms across your face and neck in an comically feeble attempt to defend yourself from certain death, and the thought that flashes through your mind—maybe the last thought you’ll ever have in this lifetime—is that you’ll never have the chance to open that bottle of merlot.

But his hands don’t wrap around your throat; they land on your shoulders, and then you’re sliding, falling backwards from the force of a violent shove, your vision flashing to black as your head bounces off the hardwood floor.

“Ow!” you squeal as a bright burst of pain rings through your skull, leaving you stunned for a split second until your fear takes over, clearing away the haze and stars. You push yourself up on your forearm, blood pounding through your ears as your eyes frantically search for your attacker, heart lurching as you find him.

The guy is scrambling backwards away from you on all fours like some frightened beast, slamming into a floor lamp in his haste to escape. The lamp reels drunkenly, throwing light madly around the room as it whirls, like a waving searchlight at a festival. Then he’s pressed into a corner, able to go no further, yet his hands and heels are gripping the floor for purchase, as if he’s trying to push himself into the walls. As the lamp settles, somehow still upright, its light illuminates the hulking figure backed into the corner behind it, and you notice for the first time that the front of his red hoodie is splattered with an even darker red.

You’re sitting up now, frozen like a deer in headlights, your fight or flight reflexes canceling each other out because you’ve realized that you’re the toothless predator, not the prey, and the guy you’re gaping at with his bloodless face and wild eyes is a cornered animal who’ll do anything to survive. Then, to your horror, that cornered animal seems to remember his claws and reaches for the gun that’s not there, and you thank the universe and every holy entity within it that you disarmed him.

His wide eyes narrow as they lock onto you, and the fear that had filled them only a heartbeat ago has vanished, replaced with a look so cold, so devoid of anything but shadows and darkness, that it turns the blood in your veins to ice. 

“Who are you? What’re you doing in my apartment? What the fuck did you do with my gun?” Some of the wildness returns to his eyes as he shouts at you with a scarred voice, wheezing between each sentence. You shrink back, shocked that the guy can speak louder than a mumble, then your attention is caught by something more unnerving than his shouting, something that clutches at your insides. His eyes… The little hairs on the back of your neck stir again as you study those pale blue irises flecked with green, barely visible beneath his blown-out pupils yet still trained on you like a sniper’s laser sights. There’s something wrong with his eyes… But before you can figure it out he roars: “Answer me!” and you can’t help but jump at the hateful ferocity, his deadly strength palpable in his tone.

Your heart’s in your throat again, and your mind is racing out his door, terrified all 200-something pounds of him are about to pounce on you, so you’re surprised when you not only find your words, but shout them back at him, just as vicious.

“Take it easy! I'm your neighbor, remember? You passed out. I was trying to help you. I thought you were fucking dying!”

You see a flicker of recognition flash over his face before a coughing fit takes him. Then it hits you, like a punch to the gut as you watch him clutching at his blood-splattered chest again as he gasps for a breath. His eyes… they’re red where they should be white. All of the binged episodes of Forensic Files come flooding back to you and you even remember the term for it: petechial hemorrhaging. Burst blood vessels from strangulation. His strangulation.

The rush of pity that wells up in your chest at the awful realization calms your fear enough that you crawl a tiny bit closer to him. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, trying to keep your nerves from shaking your voice. “Your neck…”

You trail off as his eyes snap back to you, pupils still blown wide. You try to hold onto his skittish gaze, praying he won’t notice his gun behind you and lunge, but his eyes fall away to the floor. He raises his free hand to his neck, as slowly as if his wrists were chained to the floor, and touches one of the red furrows there. Then his trembling fingers move to his brand, where fresh beads of blood have surfaced. You hear him mutter something so low and tremulous it’s barely audible, but you think it sounded like… “Plan J”?

“I cleaned it with soap and water,” you reply as he stares blankly at his bloody fingertips. “But it’s deep. You may need stitches. I can bring you some Band-Aids,” you pause, feeling really fucking stupid for suggesting Band-Aids for the guy who’s been strangled and cut and branded. You blurt out the rest: “If you need them… for the time being.”

His eyes have glazed over, as if he’s gone somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible, because his rasping breath quickens and his whole body starts to shake, as though he’s reliving something. His attack? His branding? All of the times that monster of a person cut his face? You desperately want to reach for his hand, to pull him back from whatever hell he’s been sucked into, but you’re too scared to wake that cornered wild animal again.

Finally he snaps out of it, and his eyes close as his hand drops limply to the floor. You watch helplessly as the tension drains from his body and he sags forward, like he’s been crushed by whatever was waiting for him in that flashback.

“You should go,” he mumbles to the floor, barely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself agree. As you stand you remind yourself that you can finally have that glass of wine, but the notion isn’t as appealing as it was earlier in the night.

You gather up your phone and bag. You start to ask if you can get him anything before you go but you know his answer so you turn to leave. 

“Thank you.” His small voice cracks like a little boy’s when he speaks, and you know he’s started to cry.

“Yeah, sure,” you say softly as you turn the knob and push open his door. You glance over your shoulder at him one last time. The sight of the broken boy—the boy whose name you still don’t know—huddled in a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, weeping into his hands, wrings your heart out like a wet rag, and you feel your own throat tighten up with tears. You hang your head as you shut the door softly behind you.

#sands writes #jason todd #arkham knight #arkhamverse #jason todd x reader #arkham knight x reader #jason todd x you #arkham knight x you #jason todd x y/n #arkham knight x y/n #jason todd x female reader #arkham knight x female reader #reader x jason todd #reader x arkham knight #jason todd imagine #arkham knight imagine #jason todd fanfiction #arkham knight fanfiction #dcu #fic: the sus boy next door

[loukaiitis]

Kip Kinkel: Thurston High School

Summary of the 1998 Thurston High School Shooting committed by Kip Kinkel. Note: this is for informational and educational purposes only. Post is below the cut. 

Background: 

Kipland Philip Kinkel was born August 30th, 1982 to Bill and Faith Kinkel. He had one older sister, Kristin, who was about six years older than him. The family lived in Springfield, Oregon; Bill previously taught Spanish at Thurston High School and Lane Community College, and Faith was a Spanish teacher at Springfield High. Kip was described as a relatively normal teenager with some odd hobbies and interests. He was on the football team and enjoyed the music of Marilyn Manson and Nirvana. He was also known for being “obsessed” with bombs and guns; this fixation would only grow over time.

The Kinkel family did not seem to have any major conflicts. Kristin was a successful competitive cheerleader in college, and Bill and Faith were both popular teachers. However, Kip had some academic struggles. It was recommended that he repeat the first grade, and he was later diagnosed with dyslexia. Despite having difficulty in some academic areas, Kip thrived in science and math; in fact, he was placed in a “Gifted” program.

Mental Health / Warning Signs

Kip’s behavior began to change as he became a teenager. He was twelve years old when he began hearing voices in his head. The first time it happened, he was walking home from school; according to Kip, a male voice told him, “You need to kill everyone, everyone in the world.” When he could not find the source of the voice, he panicked. He ran to his house, grabbed the rifle he received for his birthday, and hid in his bedroom until he did not hear the voice. Soon, one voice developed into two, and then three. These voices were all male voices and would talk to each other: either to fight or to work together to manipulate Kip. These voices terrified him, and he tried to make sense of them. However, his conclusions were all based in paranoia.

“I believed that the Disney corporation was working in conjunction with the U.S. government, and they had planted a chip in my head and so the voices were coming from this chip,” - Kip Kinkel (2021)

This paranoia developed rapidly, but he went to great lengths to hide it from others. He began believing that foreign countries would invade and kill him. These fears led him to have an increased interest in weapons.

 In seventh grade, he expressed an interest in building bombs and tried to obtain books such as the Anarchist’s Cookbook. He obtained a shotgun from a friend during this time as well. Faith Kinkel discovered his plans to obtain weapon-related books and grew concerned. Despite knowing about Kip’s violent interests, she did not intervene. It wasn’t until Kip started getting into legal trouble that some action was taken. In eighth grade, Kinkel and his friends were caught shoplifting CDs at the local Target. Sometime after this incident, Kip and a friend were arrested in Bend, Oregon for hitting a car with a rock from a highway overpass. These incidents led to Kip being brought to a psychologist. Kip intended to keep the voices and delusions he was having a secret. Dr. Jeffrey Hick would see Kip for nine therapy sessions and noted that he showed “no evidence of delusional thinking or other thought disorder symptoms.” It was apparent that he had a strained relationship with his parents, especially after his sister (who acted as a mediator for the family) had moved out. Kip described eating and daily functioning as a chore. He was eventually diagnosed with depression and prescribed Prozac.

“I remember freaking out. I had this plan, and this is a mess, but I had this plan to get into the military because if I got in the military, then I could get into the CIA, and if I got in the CIA, then I could get the right connects to find whoever in the government that put this chip in my brain. And being diagnosed as depressed..  this was something the voices pushed.. meant that I would not be allowed into the military. And I would not be allowed to own guns.” - Kip Kinkel (2021)

During the time of these counseling sessions (January 20th - July 30th 1997), Kip was suspended twice in late April. Despite this, he was seemingly progressing well in counseling; it seemed that Kip’s depression and anger were under control. Because of this, his father allowed him to purchase a 9mm Glock with his own money (under the agreement he would not be able to use it without his father’s supervision). In an attempt to bond, Kip and his father would go target shooting. Soon after, Kip purchased more guns: a .22 pistol from a friend (which he kept hidden) and a .22 semiautomatic rifle that his father allowed him to purchase. Kip’s obsession with explosives grew just as his obsession with guns did. In class, he gave a descriptive speech about the process of building pipe bombs with detailed illustrations.

Expulsion:

On May 20th, 1998, Kip was going to purchase another gun, a .32 caliber semi-automatic pistol, from a friend; they arranged the day before for Kip to purchase it at school. Kip paid $110 for the gun and kept it in his locker. However, this gun was stolen from the friend’s father. The father contacted the school, concerned that one of his guns was taken by one of his son’s friends. A list of possible suspects was given to Detective Warthen, but Kip’s name was not listed. After speaking to other students, Warthen questioned Kip about the gun. He confessed and was arrested, along with the friend he purchased the gun from. According to Detective Warthen, Kip was extremely worried about what his parents would think of him being charged with a felony. Bill Kinkel drove Kip home from the police station. They stopped at Burger King; Bill left Kip inside the building while he ate in the car. Kip felt as though his fears had become a reality.

“It was no longer, ‘I need to get this gun to protect myself from these very specific threats.’ Everything was a threat, everything was evil, everything was ugly, I got to the point where there was a mantra that the voices were saying, but also that I was experiencing, which was that I had to commit the crimes that I committed. The sense that I had no other choice was overwhelming. It became my reality.” - Kip Kinkel (2021)

Shooting: 

According to Kip, the voices in his head continued to get louder and more unbearable. The voices he was hearing were telling him to kill his father. Around 3pm on the same day as his expulsion, Kip grabbed his .22 rifle and shot his father in the back of the head while he was drinking coffee in the kitchen. Kip dragged the body of his father to the bathroom and covered him with a sheet. Between 3pm and 6:30pm, Kip’s home phone received numerous calls: a call from an English teacher at Thurston High School looking to speak to Bill, a call from a friend of Kip asking about Bill, and a call from one of Bill’s Spanish students asking about his absence. Kip gave vague, short answers to these calls before hanging up. The final call was between Kip and two of his friends. During this call, Kip explains that he did not know that the gun was stolen, and that he had no plans to use it. According to the friends on this call, he was impatiently waiting for his mother to come home and stated that “It's over...Everything's over... it's done... Nothing matters now."

Around 6:30pm, Faith Kinkel was in the garage, getting out of her car. Kip entered the garage, told her that he loved her before shooting her twice in the back of the head, three times in the face, and once in the chest. Kip covered her body with a sheet. That night, the voices convinced him that more people needed to die.

“I know it’s really hard for people to accept and understand, but there was something very clear inside me... like suicide wasn’t an option for me until I had done this thing that they were telling me to do. And they had promised me that once I did this thing I could kill myself.” - Kip Kinkel (2021)

The following morning, May 21st, 1998, Kip dressed himself in a black trench coat and packed his .22 caliber semiautomatic rifle, the 9mm Glock, and .22 caliber semiautomatic pistol into his backpack, along with ammunition. He taped a bullet to his chest (an extra bullet to kill himself, in case he ran out of ammunition) and a hunting knife to his leg. He drove himself to Thurston High School in his mother’s Ford Explorer.

Kip parked a block away from the school and walked through the back parking lot to enter the school. In a hallway near the school’s cafeteria, Kip shot two boys, Ben Walker and Ryan Attebury with the rifle; Walker being shot in the face and Attebury on the side of his face. He continued down the hallway to the cafeteria, where he shot the remainder of the 50-round clip. Determined to keep shooting, Kip tried to use his Glock, but he was tackled by five students after one shot. Two students were killed: Ben Walker and Mikael Nickolauson. Ryan Attebury, along with 24 others, survived their injuries. As Kip was arrested, he stated he just wanted to die or be killed. 

At the police station, Kip spoke to Detective Al Warthen. He was questioned about the moments leading up to the shooting, and Kip confessed to the murder of his parents. (Most of this recorded confession can be found online). Warthen left the room momentarily, and Kip managed to grab the knife he had taped to his leg. When Warthen returned, Kip yelled at Warthen to kill him before approaching him with the knife. Warthen escaped the room and locked Kip inside; He and another officer sprayed pepper spray into the room in an attempt to disarm Kip. 

As detectives entered the Kinkel’s house, “Liebestod”, a song featured on the CD soundtrack of Romeo + Juliet, could be heard on repeat at a blasting volume. Upon entering the house, detectives found explosives in crawl spaces, the bodies of Bill and Faith, and a note confessing the murder of the Kinkel parents.

“I have just killed my parents! I don't know what is happening. I love my mom and dad so much. I just got two felonies on my record. My parents can't take that! It would destroy them. The embarrassment would be too much for them. They couldn't live with themselves. I'm so sorry. I am a horrible son. I wish I had been aborted. I destroy everything I touch. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I didn't deserve them. They were wonderful people. It's not their fault or the fault of any person, organization, or television show. My head just doesn't work right. God damn these VOICES inside my head. I want to die. I want to be gone. But I have to kill people. I don't know why. I am so sorry! Why did God do this to me. I have never been happy. I wish I was happy. I wish I made my mother proud. I am nothing! I tried so hard to find happiness. But you know me I hate everything. I have no other choice. What have I become? I am so sorry“ - Kip Kinkel’s written confession

Trial:

On June 16th, 1998, Kip Kinkel was indicted with 58 felony charges, including four counts of aggravated murder that he was originally charged with. Kip spent approximately 18 months in solitary confinement. He was kept in a juvenile detention center until being transferred to an adult county jail after his 16th birthday. Kip was evaluated by different doctors that came to the shared conclusion that he showed signs of paranoid schizophrenia. Due to his age, he was not given a formal diagnosis and was only given medication for a brief period of time. During his confinement, the voices only gained more control over Kip. 

Just days before the trial, Kip decided to plead guilty instead of going forward with an insanity defense. He felt that a mental institution would be just as bad as prison, and he wanted to avoid a stressful trial in hopes that the voices would not bother him more than they already were. 

During the sentencing, survivors, family members of the victims, and doctors testified. Many called for the harshest sentence possible. When Kristin Kinkel tried to console her brother and block out the anger surrounding him, he allegedly said, “No, I owe it to them to listen.” Kip’s defense team attempted to get a lighter sentence due to his age and mental instability. However, the notoriety of the case led to Kip receiving the harshest sentence for a juvenile. On November 2nd, 1999, Kip Kinkel was sentenced to 111-years in prison without the possibility of parole. He apologized to the survivors and families of the victims.

Appeals / Recent News:

Kip and his legal team have made multiple attempts to appeal his sentence, with no success. However, Kip has made significant progress in his life in prison. He earned his degree in global studies in 2007 and has worked as a clerk in the prison library, a yoga instructor and an electrician. Kip’s mental health has improved with the help of proper medication and therapy. He continues to advocate for criminal justice reform today. In the summer of 2021, Kip Kinkel gave his first and only interview for an article by HuffPost.

“It’s hard for me to be able to say that because, so clearly, I had so many other choices. But in that time, that’s the horror of becoming fixated in a psychotic way... I felt like I didn’t want to do what I was going to do, I had to do it. That’s what was going on in my head.” - Kip Kinkel, speaking about his crimes

#loukaiitis #kip kinkel #kipland kinkel #tcc #true crime #summary

[huggingtentacles]

Elden Ring is on sale. Dear newcomers, here is your no-spoiler guide to PvP for your first playthrough.

It's really not as terrifying as it seems. It's intimidating, yes, but it's also really fun if you're prepared for it. It does require quite a bit of preparation.

LEVEL UP YOUR VIGOR! Seriously, for a beginner you only have to care about vigor. If you find a cool weapon, you can level up just enough damage stats to wield it, but aside from that, please just level your red bar. Get to at least 25 before you even think about investing in anything else.

Make sure you have some sources of poison from the start of the game. Explore caves and poisonous areas to find greases and recipes. Poison will help against gamers with lag. Likewise, if you ever find cures to status effects, always buy them/pick them up and have at least some on hand at all times.

Move your flask from your quick bar to your pouch. This will allow you not to circle through your item belt every time you need to heal/recover FP. It's the second best habit to get used to in the beginning of the game. The first best habit is changing your controls layout to make it more comfortable for you to use crouch. Crouch attacks are very powerful in PvP AND PvE, and you should learn how to utilise them!

Fire grease is easy to make and gives you decent damage against most opponents. There is no reason not to have some. Mark places on the map where you can find Root Resin and Smouldering Butterflies close to a grace. You'll find the recipe very early if you explore some encampments.

With all of that being said, you will still probably die to your first invader or two, that's just how the game works. You die, you respawn, you get better, and try again.

What, you wish to try invasions yourself? Well.. If you're into that, you might want to check out @invaders-cookbook

That blog does have very minor spoilers, but it contains advanced advice and strategy to all things concerning invasions. You can also send me an ask about everything invasion-related!

#elden ring #elden ring pvp #invader talk #elden ring invasions #reblog to save a noob from getting shlobbered the moment they summon a friend

[escookbook]

🍳 Attack! Invade! Conquer! 🍳 It's time for a recipe highlight!

Need rations? Try out Ibara's Granola Bars For Any Eventuality by Lily!

Preorders for the cookbook end on March 12th! 🍎 escookbook.bigcartel.com

#enstars #fan zine #zine #ensemble stars

[norel-ravenclaw]

The Haunted Mansion

Ikepri AU - Part 3

Fandom: Ikemen Prince (otome game)

Featured characters: All 13 plus allusions to unknown new trio

Genre: Paranormal Tragic Romance

Rating: 14+

Word count: Part 3 - 2900

Description: Ikepri Haunted Mansion AU - The regional princes have had an awful time getting servants to stay at their grand manor. A young woman takes the job and quickly discovers why no one else applied. Despite the strange occurrences, she finds home and even love among them. But tragedy seeks to cut short the possibility of a happy ending. Be warned, this is a story for those who like a twisted sort of satisfaction.

WARNINGS: | lots of violent death, killing, and suicide (nothing too explicitly gory) | mxw | polyamory | yandere | toxic relationships | angst | dark goth vibes | seriously, only read this in a good headspace |

................................................................

Mr. Silvio Ricci was the wealthiest man in the hemisphere. He had governed the land by the sea for many years, but when the papers went to his brother, he left to go exert his influence elsewhere.

And this led him to the cursed mansion at the edge of the land. Deserted by its guardian beasts, the people were in need of a new governance system, and he was all to happy to so easily invade.

He was silver haired, blue eyed, and always decked in expensive fabric and jangling jewels. Precisely the sort of eccentric one might expect to purchase a manor of death.

The place came with a few gardeners who would not stay long, a devil of a butler, a pretty maid, and... as the flashy lord called him, a mangy mutt.

Rio Ortiz and the new lord of the manor got along like two wolves who were certain there was not room in the pack for the other.

Even so, Miss Emma found that he was rather like an abused dog. Rough around the edges, quick to bite, but in need not of a kennel, but of affection.

Now, after the horrible incident between her second fiancé and the vanished brother, Luke's manic worryings had began to influence her. She too now thought she saw shadows of the lost brothers. She, too, whispered conversations to them, whether to comfort herself or because she really thought they were there, even she could not say.

Despite these odd proclivities, Miss Emma was kind and gentle, witty and diligent. And all who met her came to admire her.

Just so, the new Lord Silvio came to like the one woman who could match him. The one who could see through his bite to hear the whimper in his bark.

And he fell, hard. He showered her with gifts and jewels. So many jewels.

Determined to make her the new mistress of his new land, he acquired a (rather gaudy) ring of sapphire and pearl.

However, he and Mr. Ortiz were desperately at odds with one another. The latter was like a ferocious guard dog towards the lovely lady, and thoroughly disapproved of the haughty lord trying to claim her.

Fearful that indeed, Silvio's intention was more to punish him than out of genuine affection, Rio dared to take drastic measures to protect his damsel.

One night, as the new lord held a stunningly ostentations banquet, he made his way to the centre of the vast dining hall to make an announcement.

He held up a velvet box with a sapphire ring, offering it, and his love, to Miss Emma.

But no sooner had she risen from her chair in shock, a tragedy occurred.

The grand chandelier in the centre of the grand space, where the jewel-decked lord stood... fell.

All of the candles in the space went out at once. A great blessing (or strategy?) to hide the guests and the poor, poor lady from the distressing sight.

Within seconds, Rio was there to whisk her away from the scene.

And thus ended the brief but brilliant era of the Ricci's ownership of the mansion.

Alas, poor Miss Emma began to spend more time up in the attic, going there to read and pace and stare at the never used white dress and a row of rings.

There grew a sort of shrine. A yellow diamond ring, an odd clay figure, a cookbook, a romance novel, a belt with wolf's fur, a pair of whiskey glasses, a ruby ring, a small teddy bear, and now, a sapphire ring.

From the small attic window, she could see many of the wings of the mansion, watching at midnight as lights would come on in unused rooms. Figures would pace in offices and libraries.

She was sure of it.

Not long after the tragic and spectacular death of Lord Silvio, another wealthy man approached the place.

His own inheritance he'd given to his sister, but now felt too adrift. He sought a new home and new purpose. And helping the Rhodolite region recover from its leadership troubles seemed an appropriate use of his hard won skills.

His name was Keith Howell. Tall and broad shouldered, awkward as he was elegant.

But there was something decidedly odd about him. Even Mr. Noir would stare at the man as though something was amiss. Something...

He was often kind and sweet and indeed overly apologetic. But then, sometimes...

Miss Emma discovered that he had another side to him. Late one night, she found him in one of the ballrooms.

"Mr. Howell. Were you playing the organ in here?"

He turned to her in the dark room, the moonlight catching on his golden eyes.

"What are you talking about? You were the one playing, weren't you? Why would you try to trick me after all I've done for you?"

Although he smiled, there was an edge to it that made her freeze like a doe.

"I.. did not mean..."

He approached her, getting far closer than usual. Lifting her chin with a finger, he said, "It's naughty to play tricks."

She watched him leave, but a few moments later, a loud chord of the organ trilled, sending her off at a sprint.

She liked Mr. Howell, but sometimes, it was like he was a different person entirely.

While she liked him, her ever faithful guard dog Rio, did not. He did not trust the man at all.

And within a month, the whole region stirred with the news that yet another murder had happened at the manor.

The man was found stabbed in his study, botany books and ledgers all around.

The lady was numb as the police came in force, investigating the place high and low for days. Countless interviews of her, Rio, and Sariel.

She wondered if Keith had been killed by someone on business at the mansion? While he was often obsequious, he could at times be... forceful.

Even so, a stag antler necklace made its way to her little shrine.

There she sat and pondered it all.

Chevalier had been murdered by Clavis in a fit of rage.

Nokto had lost a duel.

Jin had fallen victim to poison meant for another.

Leon had been killed by Luke in a fit of madness.

Silvio had likely been murdered by a jealous guest at his own party.

Luke had disappeared to god knows where, never to return.

All the others, Clavis, Yves, and Licht, had died in tragic, if mysterious, accidents.

But, of them all, the murder of Mr. Howell bothered her in a unique way. Somehow, this felt more... wrong.

As her mind swirled with conundrums and grief, the evening moonlight rose, and mist coalesced in the attic. The temperature dropped enough to make her shiver.

The sight of a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at her in the mirror made her scream bloody murder.

The very image of Silvio was reflected there, dalmatian fur and all.

"He did this! He killed us!"

His voice was distant and echoey. She could not understand.

"What? Who killed you?"

The apparition raged, slamming his fists against the mirror as though he was trapped inside it.

"That damn dog! It's in the chest he brought! Find it!"

Her mind raced. "Dog... Rio? The chest he brought?"

She recalled that Mr. Ortiz had evidently arrived to the mansion with only a single small trunk. All his worldly possessions had fit inside.

Her heart clamoured. Could her overprotective fellow servant had possibly killed both Lord Silvio and Keith?

Horrified by the possibility, she rushed to his room. He was not around.

And so she slipped in, standing on her tiptoes to get down the small trunk off the top of his wardrobe.

And... oh, poor dear Miss Emma when she saw what laid inside.

A beautiful old coat, finely made. A velvet box. A dagger sheath, gilded in gold and sapphires and citrine.

And the sheath's intended occupant. With bits of blood not properly cleaned off of it. Fresh enough to not have oxidized to near black as old blood ought to have.

"Oh! Miss Emma! What are you-"

He froze, horrified beyond words as she slowly turned around, her face soaked with tears, and trembling hands holding a dagger.

Scrambling to not lose her favour, he rushed to her. "Y-you must understand! That Silvio was a horrible person! He only wanted to punish me, he didn't really love you! And Kieth was dangerous! I couldn't bear the thought of him hurting you!"

She shoved him away, letting the knife clatter to the ground. "I loved them!" she screamed.

Silence fell over them.

"I did... I loved them all. They were strange and sometimes scary but they were kind and I trusted them and I... loved them all."

She fell to her knees, as did he.

They cried together. "I just wanted to protect you! Oh, Emma... could you have ever loved me?"

Rage and grief filled her eyes. "I did, Rio. I did."

She got up and stormed out of the room, and he collapsed onto the ground, sobbing. His hands balled into fists just inches away from the cursed dagger.

Darkness fell over the mansion that night. A darkness that would never again lift in the light of day.

Unaware of Emma's secret hideout and shrine in the attic, the obsessive attendant went up into the darkness.

A rope was hung.

As the clock struck one, his body swung.

Once again, the police arrived. This time, Mr. Noir had to lock her in her room as she screamed and cried.

He presented to them the dagger, and the body of the murderer.

And it was over.

Everything was over.

As Miss Emma wailed and raved into the day, she found her way up to the attic, unaware of what had happened there in the night.

She fell to her knees in front of the mirror. Lying beside it was the wedding dress.

Manic to the point of madness, she stripped her clothes and put on the slightly yellowed dress. She took the three rings from the altar and put them on whatever fingers they would fit.

Diamond, ruby, and sapphire glittered in the dim light of a single candle.

She wailed their names. All of them.

Until she saw them in the mirror. She was no stranger now to such apparitions.

"Leon! Chevalier!"

Rushing over to it, she clutched onto the frame, her tears obscuring their sadly smiling faces.

"Emma..."

"Simpleton. Stop struggling."

"We love you. Never forget that."

As their faces faded, she screamed.

"Come back! Don't leave me alone! You all left me alone! I can't..."

Once her sobbing left her gasping for breath, exhaustion overcame her.

And through the new silence, a steady sound could be heard.

Tap. Tap. Tap of a cane.

"Little rabbit, it's upsetting to see you like this."

She whirled around to see him perched casually on top of an old chest, his legs crossed.

"Gilbert!"

He smiled at her. "Would you like to hear a story, bunny?"

With a tiny nod of her head, he grinned, and began.

"Once upon a time, these lands were distant from early civilization. Pagan druids were the only ones who dared come so far into the nothingness. They performed profane rituals and spells here, intended to curse the souls of evil kings and warriors. Trapping them in this valley until the end of time.

"But when the cemeteries and crypts were built out here, those poor souls were captured by the same ancient spells. The restless ones were confined to the land, including that of this mansion."

Gilbert sighed and smiled the most chillingly dark smile the lady had ever seen him wear.

"Did you have any idea? Your little dog became the 999th soul bound to this place. Funny, that miserable poor sap before him counted for two souls. Did you know?"

He stood and plopped a hand onto her hair, smoothing it down. "The curse is said to be breakable once one thousand souls have been damned here. I wonder if it's true. Anyway, why don't you wear that dress of yours to the party tonight, little rabbit?"

"...Party?"

His red eye glittered, and so did his other eye, ghostly blue underneath as he lifted away his eyepatch. "Yes. The one you hear every night. You should join us. They're so miserable without you."

"...Who is?"

"Who do you think? Me! And the others too, I guess."

With a twirl of his cane and a twisted sort of smile, he turned to leave.

"There's always room for one more~"

Poor Miss Emma's head spun. Whatever was the apparition talking about? He wasn't real, he never had been! Right...?

She paced and cried and sobbed. She put on the stag necklace from the altar and flipped through the cookbook.

She muttered to herself with the strange little clay figure, teddy bear, and the fluffy wolf fur clutched to her chest.

And then she saw it.

A rope coiled up off to the side that hadn't been there before. Tied on one end was a perfect loop for a noose.

And thus the heartbroken lady spun into the darkness once and for all.

...

…

…

"...Emma."

She knelt there in the attic, tears marring her face.

She knew that voice. As well as any other. She loved that voice.

But she was tired of his mysteries and deflections. Sitting in a pool of white fabric, she looked up at him in the doorway.

"Tell me who you really are, Sariel."

Frozen momentarily, his walls crumbled. "I suppose you deserve the truth."

He knelt in front of her, agony evident in his violet eyes.

"I made a deal with the devil ages ago. My father. When I found this place, I simply stayed here. Then a local lord, the princes' father, was destined for hell, and I decided to stay and look after his sons. However fantastic, that is the truth."

He gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "It may forever be my greatest regret that I could not protect you, my dear. But it will be my honour to care for you here. Come now, let us leave this dreary place behind."

He helped her to her feet, keeping an arm around her shoulders to steer her out the door so that she did not catch sight of her body dangling from the rafter.

He took her back to her room and threw open the armoire. "Let's get you dressed for a ball, hm? You'll be the Belle of the ball tonight and every night."

Tired and dazed, feeling numb at last, she agreed, letting him help her into a fine gown. He fixed her hair and adorned her in jewels to accompany the three stones she still wore on her elegant hands.

And together, they descended the stairs, the music and voices of the party louder than ever.

The doors opened for them, and the crowd fell into whispers.

And standing at the front of that crowd were many familiar faces.

She gasped, tears welling in her eyes. Just as she was about to run to them, a man in black stepped in front of her.

"Ah! Gilbert!"

He smiled at her. And it seemed somehow more genuine than ever before.

"Welcome, little bunny. This party tonight is just for you. Won't you let me have the first dance?"

"...I suppose the host ought to have the first dance."

As they whirled on the dance floor amidst dresses of all styles and eras, he grinned at her.

"How happy I am to have you here to play with, at long last."

A man in red tapped on his shoulder. "Might I cut in?"

"Leon!"

He smiled at her as brilliantly as the sun, pulling her into his arms without waiting for a response.

"I'm so happy to see you looking so happy, sweetheart," he beamed.

Tears not of grief, but joy glittered on her cheeks. "I can't believe you're really here!"

"Yes. We're here. And we're all together, Em."

But as they spun to the music, her smile faded.

She knew.

Her voice was small.

"Leon... I'm dead aren't I?"

He took a breath, holding her tightly. And yet a kind smile made its way to his lips.

"Today may have been the day you died, but you have brought all of us to life in a way we never knew even while still alive. You have brought us such joy, and I promise you, this is not the end."

He kissed her forehead tenderly. "Together we will make an afterlife worth living."

... The End ...

VERSION 2

(From where every suitor was going to have a belle. Too much hassle killing off THAT many people lol)

...

Sariel Noir. He had lured each of the victims into the castle over the years, desperately hoping to placate the vicious spirits of his many masters. But now, his own soul grew ravenously restless. He required a mate of his own to tame and soothe his tortured soul.

The castle was host to precisely 999 spirits.

But there was room for one more.

#haunted mansion au #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri chevalier #ikepri sariel #ikepri keith #ikepri jin #ikepri rio #ikepri licht #ikepri leon #ikepri yves #ikepri nokto #ikepri luke #ikepri clavis #ikepri silvio #ikepri gilbert #ikepri Emma #ghost story #the haunted mansion #Norel writes #haunted mansion

[pureseasalt]

traces of ink (sydney x carmy)

made after seeing the post by @theladyvalkyrieskyeart​ . feeling insane over the idea of carmy drawing syd. i dont believe that he has never done it after meeting her the writers and cast are lying to us. 

posted on pureseasalt on ao3, but posting here again. no beta. i wrote this in one go and blacked out after.

Summary: He lied when he said he’d never drawn again until Claire. He did. Once. (Set pre-season 2. Carmy has a panic attack. Guess who he remembers to help him cope.)

Words: 1.7k

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It was probably the middle of the night. Carmy couldn’t be exact about that. His memory’s kinda fucked– been fucked, since Mikey, or even before that. There were times from high school when Mom would go full apeshit ‘cause she told him to get the phone, to make some calls or just to embarrass Sugar by letting her hear the fights she picks with the phone operator. “No- no, sweetheart, I said don’t fucking put me on hold ever again– yeah? Alright! Go fuck yourself!” Something like that. Anyway, Mom would get mad at him ‘cause she told him to get the phone and somehow, he’d just forget that she did. He’d insist, “I didn’t hear you, Ma!” And he’d believe that; that he didn’t really hear her because in his head it never happened. 

But somehow it always did. She’d tell him things that never seemed to have happened.

This one, he just couldn’t remember when he did, or why. 

Carmy does a lot of things that he could only truly understand the reason behind after the fact he’s done it. All he knew, at that time, was he couldn’t sleep. He’d woken up in cold sweat after having one of those nightmares. He was in the middle of the stage and there’s a stove right in front of him and Chef was there. At the very middle of the seats. No audience but him. The smell of gasoline pervaded but there was no fire burning. No one else in the theater but Carmy and a man who smiled at him like he was the only one who knew the lines. 

And just when Chef was about to say it– “You are an excellent chef,” Carmy’s hand collided with the coffee table, jolting him awake.

You are also a piece of– 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Carmy hissed as he cradled the smarting joints. He sat up feeling as if the world had ended in his sleep and he was the only one left. In many ways, at that point, he actually was. His sous and pastry chef had walked out on him without any notice. Carmy knew that it was only a matter of time until the rest would do the same, even Richie, because Carmy was Carmy and making people stay had never been his specialty. Look at Mikey. 

The lighter wasn’t anywhere to be found so smoking was out of the window. He couldn’t calm himself down. His heart was running ahead of him and he was practically lugging his body around the room, pacing around looking for a destination. Not there, he reprimanded as he thought about the restaurant. It all still felt so raw. If he went there now he might still hear his own voice, the same way his mother’s voice echoed past the kitchen and into the living room, invading whatever silence it finds and staying there. 

So he settled for the floor, next to the stack of cookbooks. The wood creaked beneath him as he crouched down, eventually sitting to fiddle with his thumbs and grip his hair by the roots. His breathing was still messed up, but at least he could see clearly. One book strayed from the rest, he even noticed. Fish Plate by Michelle Rhimes. Its hardbound cover was sticking out and didn’t lay flat like the last of its pages, on the account of something stuck inside. 

He picked it up and flipped through the table of contents; through honey-glazed tilapia and fish florentine. There was a pen clipped to a blank piece of paper. Well, not completely blank. Someone had scribbled 1 tbsp dried thym and didn’t bother finishing it. Must have been him. He knew it was him. That was the funny thing about memory.

His was fucked, yes, but there were details that his brain permanently latched on, sometimes whispering to him in bed like Angry Annie, his bully from first grade, recounting all his mistakes for the entire class to laugh at and refusing to just let him have a good night’s rest without wanting to hit himself. Carmy recalled that he’d written that note for his next door neighbor back in New York. This old couple that routinely asked him for a good trout recipe after they found out that he was a chef. Both of them were hard of hearing, so Carmy thought of writing it down. 

By the time he’d gotten around to doing it, they’d already moved out. 

The rainbow trout on page 79 stared back at him and Carmy blew air out through his nose. 

His brain had a knack for comedic timing.

The pink bellied fish looked exactly like the one on Sydney’s scarf. 

The one that seemed peach-pink sometimes under the midday sun. “I feel like I’m owed one,” she told him on one of those days when she wore it (Trout scarf, he’d labeled it in his head) (Nice scarf, looks beautiful, he sometimes wanted to say, but that was just weird). She ribbed him that time at the back of the restaurant, which he so rightfully deserved. 

What boss leaves the wrangling of a batshit, toxic system to a new hire so that he could attend an Al-Anon meeting and make sense of his brother. Who also happened to be dead. 

Asshole. 

Syd should’ve called him an asshole that day. 

She should’ve left that day.

Instead, she laid out her heart– “This place could be different,” in a manner so concise and cogent and honest that, by the end of it, he’s surprised he’s not wiped out on the floor mouthing, like the crazy that he is, "What the hell just happened.” Because that was more than he ever deserved at that moment. When she talked to him like that it was as if Carmy had been brought back to earth. Sobered up after a long life of passing through doors on nothing but frantic energy. Talked down, excluded, not called, shouted at. Then all of a sudden somebody sits him down and levels with him, tells him, “Hey, dude, I’m with you. Give me the respect I deserve. You’re not the only one in here. I’m with you. ”  

All he could do was nod to everything Syd was saying. 

And she laughed with him and she said, “Fuck brunch.”

Fuck brunch.

He shook his head. In the middle of a fucking panic attack and he’s chuckling. He looked down and realized that he’d been pressing the pen cap, leaving dashes of blue ink on the paper. Sydney did that too sometimes. 

She would repeatedly press the cap as she pondered over that little notebook. He always took notice of that when it happens, even from his office, because she did everything with precise intention. Her writing had a decisive rhythm; hurried, but it knew its destination. Never one to waste time. That was Syd. So those few minutes of her just… idly playing with the cap would make him pause and listen (Never look because that was weird). 

Carmy often wondered what she was thinking about.

Eventually, the clicking would be a steady white noise among the rattling of pots and pans. If he actually stills himself, mutes everything else in a way that he could only do when he’s cooking, he could hear her humming. Just a faint sound trickling through the grooves and corners of the kitchen. Carmy would then resume bookkeeping, feeling lighter about the world. He connected the dashes on the paper with uneven lines. Carmy never looked but he could see . 

Her brows scrunched together when she was deep in thought. Her lips slanted down in a pout. Trout scarf wrapped around her hair. 

It never occurred to him that the last time he’d drawn was in high school.

He only looked at what he’d done– Sydney leaning against the countertop– and thought:

I gotta do more . 

Sydney had a number of scarves, so it only made sense that he did everything, didn’t he?  Besides, it was a puzzle to him every morning what her criteria was for picking and choosing, because of course Sydney would have one. The one with the rays and orange leaves, he decided, is when she wakes up feeling giddy. Probably has an idea she wants to pitch. 

She came to work once in that, beaming. Her smile reached her cheeks. The sun was in her hair. She snorted loudly when she laughed. 

Carmy etched her head with lines that reached to the sky, like a halo. He felt good looking at it. 

Then, he decided to draw some more, even the ones that he knew would make him feel worse. It felt like disrespect to only put to paper the ones that made him feel good, because Carmy had made her feel bad too. More than she deserved. He had shot her down about the short rib and risotto, without the same grace that she’d decided to give him when he made mistakes. Syd wore that same orange scarf that day. 

Her eyes flinched. The light of promise died in there, darkening them. Her braids fell to her shoulders as they sank to Carmy’s rejection. 

Cross hatches made shadows around her face; although having finished it, Carmy found that he didn’t feel as shitty as he thought he would. Only, oddly determined, like he was telling himself, I gotta do more. I gotta do more. I gotta see her again.  

The blue scarf was for when she’s determined enough to knock down walls. Her gaze was sharp, straight ahead on the prize. Carmy drew that one in the middle of the paper. 

Fatigue knocked him down after the fifth…or was it the sixth? (It was the tenth.) (The side profile of her face, earrings dangling like stars.) When he woke up, it was already 11:30 AM. He was on the floor with his slacked fingers keeping the pen from rolling to the floor. 

The cookbook was open.

Different faces of the same woman were sketched on one sheet of paper, and some more on the spaces between the pages. 

—

The next time Carmy tells himself that he won’t draw again will be after Claire.

He will lie again.

The next time, however, Carmy will remember when he does it, and why.

#sydney x carmy #carmen x sydney #syd x carmy #sydney adamu #carmy berzatto #Carmen Berzatto

[targetonthebullseye]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

a GhostSoap one shot

based off of "Ghost Story" by The Narcissist Cookbook

"....To answer yer question...Ay love you." Grasped hands tightened a hold around a scorned knuckle, as a desperate blue gaze caught the attention of a murderer. Heart heavy, breath weighted, the military man contributed to his tangent-- all he wanted, all he needed, was for Ghost to just. Listen. "...Because ay have to."

"No, Johnny. You...can't--" "Nae, Ghost-- Simon. Juist...Listen. To me." Painful. It was painful. It was hard for the persist to look his partner in crime in the eye. Both pushed away their icks and nudges of tension, and saw each other-- truly spoke, and saw each other. It made Soap sweat from the pressure he had been silently casted to-- callously akin to being tossed to hungry dogs....But this dog wasn't hungry-- no. Not a lick. This man-- this dog across from him was tortured, burned, and bent, yes. But soft, attentive, quiet and friendly beneath his mask and keen, painted brown eye. He was serene, and he was perfect. And he was listening to him.

"...There es no 'why' aboot et.

Anymore than there es a reason why water vapor-- gathers in teh sky,

or-- or why the nettles in the garden dinnae go awa',

no matter how much the guy doonstairs tries teh keep them at bay.

No.

There is no 'why' aboot et."

No more listening. For a moment, there was quiet. But cold. This room, this sofa, window, table-- was the eye of a hurricane. It is quiet in the middle of the eye..It is quiet. It worried Ghost- for the first time in eons, it felt....He felt feeling- emotions on the tip of his tongue, swallowed to weight his pitted stomach.....It was fear, and worry, and it was hell. It was hell, and torture, to see Soap on the brink of distress, keeping his truest and rawest feelings to himself. He felt that-- Ghost...No. Behind the mask....Simon Riley felt that. Every bit of it...And it was hell. And then Soap croaked.

"There...Es a 'how,' ay suppose." His eyes were angle down amidst the isolating stillness, trailing up to Lieutenant as he did before-- iron lock, and baby blue, shining in the moon that peeked through the window, and the lamp that watched from beside. "Don't realle' understand et, tho--

maybe if ay dug aroond a bit in teh soil

ay'd find oot where all his love comes from

an' what it's for,

But then.....Then...The question would be answered..."

Pity. Oh, pity....And they both knew it- felt it searing into their veins like water invading drowning lungs, burning all means of breath. The air ran cold, yet hearts beat warm....They were still colleagues. They were still teammates-- nothing more....Nothing more. But he smiled- Soap, the short-tempered destruction....Smiled. And every second, Simon leaned over. He was listening.

"The ghost story would be over.

There'd be....Very little point in tellin' it aneh'more..

Right noo, ay'm just happy tae...Let it be."

He drove here. This all started with deployment, a coffee shop meet up, a week of passed time-- and a phone call. Soap had to talk, and he let it slip- Simons name, and three, simple, gentle words.....They had to talk. Not just he, they. Soap was in the car when he called, and it scared Ghost to know this man was on the road, crying- screaming into his phone like a depressed man on his dying legs. Immature, thought Soap....How he was acting...Was immature. But it was needed- Simon was still listening to his story. Shaky breaths and all.

"Let....You be you, and....Me be me.

Sleep til' noon, an' watch TV..

...Make schemes together...."

"heheh, oh Johnny, ya bugger--"

"Try not tae keep secrets from each other....

..Ay just-.....Hope to God we're right--....Ay'm right...When I say...

..I love you.

.....I just.....Enjoy being aroond you...."

No more listening. For a moment....It was quiet....But warm. A skulled mask lifted, and a rough, but plush lip finally gave in to its deepest urges. Simons stomach was freed of its pit, and he was released of his doubts, his worries....His Ghosts that haunted him so. Soap closed his eyes, hands leaving Simon's and rubbing up his strong, sturdy arms, to his shoulders-- and almost tickling Ghost as they delicately locked around his neck. Their connection only deepened, the lieutenants head turning and breaking the kiss- only to take a breath and to be pulled back in. They were listening, still listening...Hearing their hearts leap into their throats, catching onto their palpable and gentle hums, and their soft breaths as they broke apart....Closer than ever.

A cheeky smile painted Soaps lips, his tongue licking his canine with win. He did it...He did it. And Ghost loved him-- he listened to him....And he still was. Attentively, oh so attentively, Simon was gaping into a sea of calming water....It was his eyes....Oh, so beautiful eyes....What was this feeling- this arising swallow of security and embrace....He was....safe. He was actually safe....

"...And I don't think ay'm goin' anywhere."

"...What haunts tongues and lacks proof."

"Oh mah god, Simon....

Ah ghost story?"

"Me, ya cheeky devil...

....But tha' is funny."

"Hhahah!! Mm, figured."

"Mmmhm....

....I love you, Johnny."

"Even more, LT....Even more..."

#call of duty #ghostsoap #soapghost #my writing #oneshot #please goddammit I love them #mw3 has single-handedly been bullshit so this is my cope #THEY DEFINITELY SHARE SOCKS OR SOMETHING RANDOM BUT CUTE #and they were roommates #cod mw3

[rebeckalindahl]

The Retreat

Rebecka sat at one of the few empty spots that were left around the fire.

On one side of her was an elderly woman who pulled away as Rebecka sat down. She was trying to be subtle, but Rebecka saw it, felt it and she sank into the seat, trying to make herself as small as she possibly could. In doing so, she brushed the arm of the man who was sitting next to her.

She winced and looked up at him, her eyes apologetic for having invaded his space.

"I'm sorry, sorry," she said with an awkward smile as she tried to shrink even smaller. "I underestimated to time it would take to get here..."

She wished she had been early. She was always early. She was always prepared, but maybe not so much this time.

What she was really saying to him was that she was sorry for taking the seat next to him when perhaps he just wanted to be left alone.

He had a kind face with soft eyes despite their sharp bright blue color.

"SHHHHHH!!" the elderly woman hissed at her as the leader of the retreat came into the middle of the circle.

Rebecka's head snapped toward the woman, now having annoyed her twice in the space of a minute.

"Sorry, right, sorry," she mumbled as she faced the leader and her face burned red from embarrassment,

This was going to be a long week.

She tried to focus on what the leader was saying. There would be yoga, and a book circle... but she was just so tired.

Her attention was roused when a woman just 2 seats from her started to talk about the book she had brought. And then, to her horror, the man next to her held up his book shyly.

"It's a cookbook. I like cookbooks. There's a lot of soups in this one," he said and then his voice trailed off.

Rebecka looked around her when she realized she was next and everyone was waiting for her.

"I, oh, well, I bought 5 books."

"You were only supposed to bring one," the leader said with a smile.

Rebecka blushed again.

"Ja, I saw that in the letter we received , but I... I couldn't possibly just bring one book. I always have multiple books and I read every day so I thought..."

The woman next to Rebecka rolled her eyes.

"Which book would you like to use for the book club, Rebecka, isn't it?"

She nodded and reached into her bag, picking out just a random book and holding it up.

"Ah, alright. So we have a literature fan amongst us," the leader joked, pointing to the book of pocket maps that Rebecka was holding up.

Rebecka blinked and looked at the book and scrambled to take out another book. But they had moved on to the surly woman beside her.

It wasn't starting well.

She hadn't wanted to sink into the ground this much since 8th grade when she thought her sisters friend was asking her to go to a dance with him, but he was really just asking if her sister would go with him.

Rebecka crossed her legs and her arms as she held her actual book in front of her and she tried to concentrate on the other participants.

When everyone got up to get some snacks and find their cabin, the kind man beside her introduced himself to her.

"I'm Magnus. I like maps."

Rebecka introduced herself and they walked to get some food and talked on the way. She was very glad for his smiling face. It almost made her forget her embarrassment.

The next day was slightly easier, but she hadn't slept much the night before, so during the yoga class, she drifted off to sleep while in the child's pose. She woke to someone shaking her awake.

"Sorry, what? Sorry," she said as her large eyes blinked away sleep. She didn't see him smiling at her.

The next day was a hike day and she tried her best to focus and keep up, luckily there was a leader assigned to the back of the line so she wouldn't get lost.

"Are you feeling alright Ms. Lindahl?" they asked her.

"Oh, yes, of course," she lied. "Just having problems with sleeping at night.

"Have you tried drinking some tea?"

Rebecka smiled and said she drank tea a lot at home and would try it that night.

She ran into Magnus as she went to get her tea.

They talked as they walked and then they sat together and drank their tea by the fire. Rebecka explained why she was there, how work had mandated that she get away, rest, not work for a full week.

Magnus laughed and said that it was the same for him. They bonded over how difficult it was to 'relax'. He walked her back to her cabin and said goodnight.

"Think about puppies," he said with a smile as he turned to leave. "Puppies sleep really soundly."

Rebecka laughed and waved to him.

But thinking of puppies didn't help. Rebecka had never had a puppy. She had never even held a puppy before and she spent the rest of the night wondering how a puppy would sleep. She should surely know how a puppy slept... but she didn't.

The next day she was as tired as ever, but she rallied and had breakfast and dinner with Magnus and then they sat together at the book club meeting. She was glad when they got paired together and she could just sit and listen to him talk about cooking and she could ask him questions about puppies.

Before she knew it, everyone was breaking off to go to sleep and she and Magnus were left alone sitting by the fire.

The chairs were soft and warm as she asked him to read her his favorite recipe in his cookbook.

He began to read, reluctantly, but she was interested, and so he continued. He had only gotten to the sautéed onions when he looked up at her and saw her slumped over in her chair, fast asleep, her book held tight to her chest.

He stopped and looked at her. She was glowing in the light of the fire, as the colors of the flames danced on her rosy cheeks and long golden hair. She seemed to attract the light to herself, soaking it all up and making the darkness more deep around her.

She was beautiful.

But just as he thought that, she started, realizing her had stopped reading.

"Please, go on," she whispered.

Magnus went back to reading, and when he had finished that recipe, he found another, and another, and another until he was sure she was asleep.

He moved his chair slightly closer to her so that he could catch her if she fell from the chair, and he grabbed a blanket on a nearby chair and draped it over her.

She stirred, but then cuddled into the soft blanket and she whispered a soft "Thank you Magnus."

He stayed with her until she woke up and then he walked her back to her cabin. He would have offered to carry her if he thought she would let him, but he stopped himself.

She apologized for falling asleep, but he waved her off. And when she asked if he would come in a read to her until she fell asleep again... he couldn't say no.

He sat in the chair next to her bed and slept once he knew she was asleep.

When Rebecka woke in the morning she saw him there, already awake.

"Is that how puppies sleep?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, I think you achieved sound puppy sleep," he said with a smile. "Can I get you some coffee?"

Rebecka sighed.

"I would love some coffee."

He moved to get up. "We are going to have to make something up about the questions we were supposed to answer last night, for the book club.

Rebecka caught his hand and squeezed.

"I can cover that. I'm good at that. Thank you, for reading to me last night. I had dreams I was eating pumpkin soup," she smiled at him sleepily.

Magnus chuckled. "That was the last recipe I read to you. I'll have to make it for you sometime, hopefully it will be as good as it was in your dreams."

He looked down at her hand in his and he wasn't sure how it felt so natural. She wasn't the type of woman who should be interested in him. He looked back at her as her eyes slipped closed again and he smiled.

"Coffee, and then we make up a lie to tell the book club."

As he got her coffee, he couldn't help the smile on his face, even though his back was killing him from sleeping in a chair all night.

#detektivmartinsson #drabble #magnus and rebecka

[invaders-cookbook]

Invader's Cookbook #1: Your first Invasion Build

Invading is hard to get into due to the amount of preparation you need to succeed. You need quite a bit of practice to be really good, but you don't always have to be good to be successful at invasions. Your build determines your options. In the first part of Invader's Cookbook you will learn how to make your first build for invading.

Your attributes and Upgrade Level

For your first build, I will suggest a Lightning Dexterity Build for Rune Level 60. It has good all-around damage and survivability, and gives you plenty of options in most situations. The amount of available weapons also makes this build very fun to play!

Start as Vagabond and distribute your attributes like this:

Vigor -> 35

Mind -> 10

Endurance -> 24

Strength -> 15

Dexterity -> 30

Intelligence -> 9

Faith -> 9

Arcane -> 7

It is very important that during your playthrough you do not upgrade any weapon further than +12 or +5 Somber! Matchmaking is based on your level, as well as your weapon upgrade! If you upgrade even one weapon over the +12/+5 Somber threshold, you won't find any matches!

Your Talismans

Your Talismans are necessary additions to your build. There will be 3 talismans that are the most useful for this build and I highly recommend to wear them at all times. These are: Radagon's Soreseal, Great Jar's Talisman and Bullgoat's Talisman.

Your last talisman slot is free for you to choose. You can swap them mid-fight situationally, or wear something like Millicent's Prosthesis for a permanent buff. It's up to you to decide. Useful Situational talismans are: Green Turtle Talisman, Two Fingers Talisman, Shard of Alexander, Arrow's Sting Talisman and Blessed Dew Talisman.

Situational swapping requires thought and some skills, but it's much stronger than not doing it at all.

Use Bullgoat's Talisman to hit at the very least 75 poise. The fashion is up to you!

Weapons

Your arsenal is your most important asset. As an invader, you must swap weapons to adapt to any situation. Don't just carry them in your additional slots, they take up your equip load which can be used to wear heavier armour for better defences and poise!

Dual-wielded Noble Slender Swords will be your main damage-dealing tool. I recommend Endure and Storm Stomp ashes of war on them. Endure helps you trade blows and escape dangerous situations, while Storm Stomp gives you a combo option to deal damage.

Cleanrot Knight Sword with Thunderbolt is a great tool to finish off enemies that are far away, as well as just a good overall weapon that is effective both in the main hand and the offhand.

Antspur Rapier with Bloodhound's Step serves two purposes: Scarlet Rot application and escaping from unpleasant situations. Scarlet Rot is incredibly effective against opponents with high latency. Use Keen affinity to be able to use Rot Grease on the weapon to increase status build-up.

Cold Nagakiba is a an amazing trick that allows you to deal massive damage and apply frostbite using Spinning Slash Ash of War.

Bolt of Gransax is an amazing spear that allows you to shoot a very powerful projectile on high distances. It's most effective when your opponents haven't noticed you yet or are fighting something else. The drawback is high FP cost, but it can also be strengthened by Shard of Alexander talisman

Godskin Stitcher is a great chase-down weapon for those who are running away, as well as a powerful head-to-head combat tool! Most ashes of war are very useful, though I heavily prefer using Piercing Fang or Lightning Strike, Hey, wanna improve at playing Heavy Thrusting Swords? Check out this video!

Grave Scythe is a head-to-head combat weapon that is also great at punishing shield users for installing Elden Ring on their gaming device! Use Sword Dance ash of war for big damage, or Quickstep for powerful combos and dodges!

Claymore is a very reliable weapon that is useful in most situations. Use Piercing Fang, Impaling Thrust or my personal favourite: Storm Stomp. The latter allows you to land a quick and powerful R2 attack on an opponent you land it on.

Stormhawk Axe is a nuclear option that deals significant damage over a big area. Use it sparingly, for it leaves you at great risk of getting hit if you miss. Use for ambushes and sudden turn-and-burns when your opponents least expect it!

Don't forget that this is not a full list of available weapons or ashes of war. You can experiment with any weapon you find interesting or useful! My personal inventory stretches multiple pages at this point. Dexterity Builds are incredibly versatile! Anything that can be infused with Lightning or has Dexterity scaling can be used effectively, even heavier weapons like the Zweihander!

Miscellaneous

Physick Flask

Lightning-Shrouding Cracked Tear is mandatory for this build. It will buff your damage significantly, making your build the most powerful for your level.

The remaining physick slot is up to you. My personal choice lies between Crimsonburst Cracked Tear, Crimson Bubbletear and Opaline Hardtear.

Consumables

Your best case scenario is the one where you have 14 fully upgraded healing flasks, 20 Cracked Pots, 10 Ritual Pots, 10 Perfume Bottles, and as many various boluses as you can gather. For crafting materials see my post on Crafting Materials, Consumables and Community Assistance

How to decrease the downtime between invasions!

Invading is famously time consuming and we simply do not have time to sit around and wait for a suitable world to be found. These two tips will dramatically improve your chances of invading:

Tip #1: Visit as many areas as possible. This will increase the pool of areas you can invade in. Visit every cave, catacomb or secluded area you can find. Note that you don't have to complete them, you just have to visit them once.

Tip #2: Acquire both the Bloody Finger and the Recusant Finger. Use them one after another in succession untill the invasion starts. The way invasions select players to invade is painfully slow without this method, as it scans the pool of available players once every 20 seconds. With this method you can cut it down to 5!

#invader's cookbook #elden ring #elden ring invasions #elden ring pvp #elden ring build #elden ring help

[nagirambles]

What do you think fairy tail would have been like if Lucy wanted to be a baker/cook/chief instead of an author ?(ive been watching one piece lately and now I’m curious since Lucy hobbies besides writing is baking/cooking? ) love to hear your thoughts 🍪anon

Well... that’s a unique question. 

Honestly, Lucy’s writer thing fades off quite often, so quite a few things can still remain the same. Cooking is a bit of a strange one, though, would her dream be to become a renowned chef (making herself famous by her own efforts rather than perpetuated rumours and family prestige), to write her own cookbook and open her own restaurant and taste delicacies all around the world (which would give her more of a ‘travelling around the world for more experience’ motive and she wouldn’t stay in a guild all the time.) 

I do like the idea of chef, though. I think Lucy and Sanji have been compared often, so first they would both have gone through the whole ‘you’re a noble/royal, and cooking is for the chefs, not for you’ talk with their fathers. But Lucy would have a more positive environment than Sanji, and you know, learning how to cook is a good skill for a woman in that kind of society. But if Lucy starts getting too invested in her passion, Jude would probably still disapprove. 

Come to think of it, she tried to give him a rice ball in a flashback, didn’t she? Similarly, Jude would consider it a skill, but he’d also consider it a waste of time and frown upon it.

Ironically, I’d like to think that Jude was a good cook, not Layla. So Lucy actually got this part of her from him, and this is what they’ll bond over when Jude’s business collapses. Maybe Jude will eventually give her his cookbook, and it’ll be the only, most meaningful thing he’s ever gotten from him. 

I think one of the few things to immediately change would be the starting scene. 

Imagine if, instead of treating Natsu to food, Lucy also takes a bite and sighs, because Hargeon is a fishing town. Other than fresh fish, everything else is subpar, and she’s not satisfied. She wonders where she’ll be able to get actually good food, but she also doesn’t have that kind of budget. Maybe Bora will lure Lucy onto the ship with promise of good cruise cuisine. 

There will probably be a running joke from Happy and Natsu, about Lucy’s arsenal consisting of humanoid food ingredients. They are mortified, Lucy is offended. They still don’t know what Plue is, a snow cone? 

I think it’d be cute if downtime scenes were, instead of them siting around chatting, they sat around while Lucy happy starts bushfire cooking. Gray and Natsu argue for a bit and suddenly Lucy has fried rice served and ready to eat, ma’am holy crap that was fast! And they’ll eat. It’d be a cute theme if Lucy continued to go about everywhere foraging for anything she could cook. Also, she has a stone oven in her apartment that is never used or mentioned. Maybe in this AU they invade Lucy’s house because they know she probably has something cooking. Free food! 

Lucy would probably be very angry when Natsu burns something to a crisp, even if it was a person. It’s just chef instinct, she hates it when things are burnt. 

(“Natsu, why can’t you ever hit a perfect medium rare? It’s not that hard!”)

(“I prefer my meat well done.”)

(“You heathen!”)

Unlike Sanji, she won’t have the whole ‘my hands are sacred’ thing because she doesn’t have them for novelist hands in canon either. 

Let’s say in this AU, she has a quirk of photographing instead of writing. She usually takes pictures of food, of people enjoying food, and finally, people in general. She’s still the log keeper and narrator, and she sends these pictures to her mom. Instead of writing letters, Lucy bakes or cooks something amazing, takes a picture, and writes a very meaningful ‘to Mom, today I cooked this’ and nothing much else. She doesn’t need anything else to tell her feelings-- maybe in this AU, she’s not very eloquent to begin with. 

In this regard, would she still be friends with Levy? I’d say no, but we could make it work. Maybe Levy’s got specific allergies, or body image issues, or maybe even an ED-- and thus she doesn’t eat in the guild. Lucy notices this quickly and helps her work through it together. There, friendship. 

Lucy cries in despair when he sees the dragon slayers eat weird things. It eventually grows into indifference, and soon enough, she’s taking notes on what fire tastes better and how to make it exactly how Natsu likes it. Everyone mourns when she was normal, because now Gajeel has to explain to her that rusty metal has a kick to it that he likes better than polished metal, and she keeps asking. 

Lucy’s love language will be food, of course. She likes to keep everyone well-fed, maybe use her house a lot more as a meeting spot. One of her first indicators of trying to get along with you would be asking you what’s your favourite food and the reason why. The easiest way to make a good first impression with her is to recommend her an interesting snack. (Eg, Loke giving her fruit milk after she gets out of the public bath, Loke arc anime-only scene.) 

If Lucy ends up fighting something edible, eg old guy that turns into an octopus in Edolas, her first thought would be "holy crap, think of how much takoyaki I can make with this guy! But it would be the least appetising takoyaki ever, I’m so conflicted, what do I do?!” Lucy would probably also start freaking out when animal-type enemies attack her. She’d cry about finally receiving karmic vengeance for her crimes or something, just to be dramatic. 

I like to imagine a scene where Natsu comes in as backup for Lucy in a tag-team battle. 

(As tongue-in-cheek, he would hold onto his enemy and ask her, “how would you like your steak done today, ma’am?”)

(And Lucy would reply, “medium rare, please.”)

(It would be cute if he messes it up and Lucy snarks, “you’re a horrible chef, this is inedible. How dare you serve this to a customer, send it back to the kitchen!”)

(“Well, that’s why you're at the chef and not me, right?”)

Something like that. 

#it's an ask #it's a headcanon #fairy tail #fic related rambles #regarding chef lucy

[st0rmyskies]

HSH Time + HSH Wild

Going to go with friend/familial relationship on this one.

Wild was the very first of the original home invaders that Time warmed up to. He was the first person in a few years to make sure that Time was eating three square meals a day. Then, on one evening of delivering him a meal in his dim study, Wild realized "Wow it's so quiet in here! Music always makes me feel better, do you want to listen to something? Here, I put this tape together months ago..." It wasn't necessarily Time's kind of music, but he didn't turn it off, either.

Wild sealed the deal when he found a dusty old cookbook at the back of a kitchen cabinet that was graced with Malon's looping handwriting. Right away, he made the first starred recipe he found. Time was very quiet when he came into the kitchen that night, and it made Wild a bit nervous. But it was also the first night that Time decided to join the rest of the boys at the table for dinner. He ate in silence and cleaned his plate, even going to go back for seconds. When it came time to clean up for the night, Time offered to help Wild with the dishes, and Wild was so happy to have him around that he chatted Time's ear off for the rest of the evening and was the first to get to know him a little bit. He was also the first to get a genuine smile out of Time, probably the first one he'd had in years.

#oh god I'm emotional don't touch me #stormy asks #ask game #time + wild

[huggingtentacles]

Which is worse, Over-leveled phantoms or "Twink" builds where they give a maxed out weapon to a low level character? (I think both are poor sports, but I wanna hear your thoughts.)

Overlevelled phantoms are way way way WAY worse.

As I have already explained here, overlevelled phantoms bear insane advantages over everyone else in the fight, and there is no way for an invader to match that advantage except just play that much better.

Twinks in Elden Ring Don't Matter after Stormveil Castle.

I do consider throwing rot pots at base level newbies bad manners, but at least theoretically a new player can match/counter that advantage with appropriate gear if they prepare and play smart. You can dodge a rot pot. You can level vigor and not get melted by lightning weapons.

After Stormveil Castle you basically have access to most of the gear invaders have apart from the talisman slots and maybe some cookbooks. You can be as overpowered as they are and counter most things they throw at you.

What are you supposed to do against an overlevelled phantom? Nothing. They just have plainly more of everything than you do and you can do nothing about it but except play significantly better.

On a scale of fairness from 1 to 10 I think twinks are about 3 before Stormveil Castle (very unfair) and 7 after (pretty fair)

Overlevelled phantoms are always a 1. They're extremely unfair and absolutely horrible to deal with, especially the ones who have the nerve to mock you for not overcoming their advantage.

#elden ring #elden ring pvp #invader talk #elden ring invasions

[s0phistic4t]

To the snobby kids that think they know everything when they say “Oh did you know french fries aren’t actually French they are from Belgium”:

I have some news for you.

Upon research, one finds that the origin of the early French fry was the 1770s in Belgium. However the first modern recipe for them appeared in the cookbook La cuisinière républicaine in 1795. What else was happening in 1795 you might ask? In 1794 France had just invaded and taken over, you guessed it, Belgium. This means that when the modern recipe emerged, it was IN FRANCE. IRREFUTABLE EVIDENCE THAT DISPROVES THE ARGUMENT OF EVERY STUCK UP MIDDLE SCHOOLER IN EXISTENCE. So next time think before you try to sound smart you utter glasses of warm milk.

#food #conspiracy theories #food theory #matpat

[spotsupstuff]

I just gotta say your vocabulary amuses me

hollow knight, invader zim, the narcissist cookbook n bein a psychology nerd AND a native slovak speaker fucked me up, bro

#Spot says stuff #bein a non-native english speaker is gon make you fuckin weird /posi #but also im fuckin weird in my native too the záhoráci n czechs got to me i blame my boomer blorbo cartoons