
ellievsbear
Fai_Ryy
cherry valley forever
No title available

izzy's playlists!
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
$LAYYYTER
macklin celebrini has autism
EXPECTATIONS

Origami Around
Noah Kahan
No title available
TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr

Product Placement
todays bird
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
No title available

bliss lane
Cosmic Funnies
No title available

seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from United States
seen from Italy

seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Poland
seen from Netherlands

seen from T1

seen from South Korea

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
seen from Argentina

seen from Germany
seen from Belgium
seen from United States

seen from Finland

seen from United States

seen from India
@amasterchef-blog
???.
There wasn’t much to Elena’s life since her cancer came back so she found herself home more often than not. Usually she would go out and work the farm, keep enough produce for them to survive the week and pack up the rest so her father could take it into town and sell it at the market. It was a honest living, but it didn’t afford Elena or her father much money to do what they pleased. Instead, the extra money they did have Elena’s father made sure it went to her treatments.
Each week Elena made sure to tuck away some of the money he gave her for the chemotherapy so he would have a comfortable few months after she passed. Along with a very determined note for him to cremate her and not waste said money on a funeral. So, as the sun shined into Elena’s room through her window she began to wake up. Usually, Elena laid in bed for a few minutes to soak up the sun and slowly motivate herself to go about her day, but this morning was different.
This morning Elena felt her bed move and heard a man speak.
It wasn’t how Elena usually woke herself up, but the sheer panic that welled up inside her caused her to sit straight up and look at the man with wide eyes. “What the fuck are you doing in my bed?” she yelled.
Yeah, she was definitely awake now. She prefers coffee to do the job.
In the back of Elena’s mind she knew perhaps she should have jumped out of bed, ran to the kitchen and grabbed the knife - but when you’re already on the path to death it seemed like a fruitless endeavor.
Cris seems to still be getting used to his surroundings, and how completely fucking alien they are. He had gone to sleep in his own bed, and he’s pretty sure that... this is nowhere near where he lives. So something has to be up. Was he kidnapped? Does that actually happen to people like him? He’s not sure, honestly, but he knows that he wants to go home. Right now.
Of course, the second he makes a move, that’s when he realizes that he’s not alone -- and there’s somebody right there with him. He doesn’t recognize her, has no idea what he’d be doing in her bed either. Cristobal is not somebody who makes a habit of distracting himself with one night stands. He has work to focus on, for starters, and he also happens to hate waking up in somebody else’s bed. About as much as he hates other people waking up in his, actually. It messes with his routine.
It takes him a second to think of a response to her question, considering that he doesn’t actually have anything close to a decent answer.
“I wish I had an answer for you,” he says, though he mostly wants the answer for himself. Cristobal takes a few steps away from her bed, and wishes he was wearing more clothes. A very long pause follows, and then he points at the both of them. “We didn’t--? Did we?”
???.
She had shed the other woman, who was now gone from the car, and was intent on driving south, trying to figure out the best way to bust through the American-Mexican border. Ana did not want to crawl through mud and swim through ocean to do it – she was a pansy that way – but she was uncertain she’d be able to find someone to forge identifications and papers well enough that she would be able to waltz across the border. And if the Americans ever notified the Mexicans of their mistake – well, she’d be right back to where she started: running for her life.
Ana gripped the wheel harder until her knuckles turned white, stepped on the gas pedal until she was far above the speed limit. She did not run across the country just to be caught because she couldn’t figure out a way to cross an imaginary line on the ground.
It took her a moment to realize it – perhaps because she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts – but suddenly, the road flickered into counters and stove tops, the smell of something burning and rich filled her nose, and Ana was once again painfully reminded of her hunger.
A blink or two later, and she wasn’t driving down a road anymore – or, well, she was, but she was also standing in a bustling kitchen. She could still feel the wheel in her hands, the vaguely sticky surface of the seats, but wshe was standing, and when she looked down, her hands were empty.
“Fuck,” she said to herself quietly. Not again.
“Are you listening to me? Stop standing there, we’re busy–! Are you deaf, as well as stupid?”
Ana looked up and saw a man looking at her dead in the eyes, looking impatient and frustrated at her apparently stupidity. She didn’t appreciate the look, and she replied with biting distaste, “I can hear just fine, asshole, but I’m far from stupid.” Although perhaps insane.
Cristobal could perhaps appreciate her sharp tongue, were it aimed at anybody else and not him. But, as it stands, he’s the one she’s calling names, the one she’s snapping at -- of course, it isn’t entirely undeserved, but Cris has never cared about such things. He doesn’t like people talking back to him, even if they have every reason to do so. It has everything to do with the fact that it rarely ever happens.
People have learned, you see, not to butt heads with him.
“You could have fooled me,” he says, quite plainly. There’s a small little voice in his head, reminding him that he’s already met one person in this kitchen who he didn’t recognize, and how weird that whole thing had been. He would very much like to believe that he’s sane, but thoughts are starting to eat away in his mind and... They haven’t hired any new help lately. Of this, he’s certain. He made sure to check.
“Do you need something, or are you standing there for the fun of it?”
Cristobal’s morning routine has been the same for literally years. Seriously, it never changes, except for on his days off, when instead of getting up and going to work, he gets up and goes to do... work... related things. He has a problem, and he’s working on admitting it to himself.
Today just so happens to be one of those days off, so when he clambers out of bed, he already has a plan of what he’s going to do for the day in his head. He’s going to go into his kitchen and he’s going to cook and experiment and, by the grace of God and a fuckload of hard work, he’s going to better himself and finally get that promotion.
Of course, you can only do that when... you wake up in your own bedroom. In your house.
When Cristobal peels himself out of bed, he realizes that it isn’t his bed at all, which is sort of awkward, considering that he’s wearing nothing, save for his shorts. He doesn’t make a habit of turning up in random places in his underwear.
Unsure of what to do, he’s just stood there for a few moments, and wonders if he’s taken up sleepwalking and just never figured it out until now? It’s very odd, to say the least of it.
“Uh-- shit.”
Seems like the only acceptable response, honestly.
useless.
Mouthy son of a bitch, Camille thinks idly. With his yelling, the back of her eyes stings. She has always been an angry crier, prone to bursting into tears when infuriated. Gin sometimes made her weepy, which was why she usually avoided it. Desperate times.
Even in all her confusion, and mind addled by alcohol, she cannot skip her police display. Officers of the law didn’t take shit. She had learned that early.
“Sir, do not raise your voice to me.”
As quickly as her bravado came, it disappears. Confused and stubborn, Camille extends her arms around her and pulls her shoulders up in a gesture of bewilderment.
“And I’m telling you I don’t know where ‘here’ is.” Her voice is pleading, but also a bit indignant. Looking at him, she gets an odd sensation of familiarity, though she cannot place it. As he thrusts his hand into the dishwater, she can feel the hot liquid lapping at her wrist. Self-consciously, she pulls her shirtsleeve down again.
“How do I know you?”
He can’t believe this. Is she for real right now? And Cristobal thinks he’s been working too hard lately, holy shit. You see people break under all of the pressure from time to time, but he’s never really seen anybody lose their minds like this. They forget recipes, sure, forget orders, but they don’t particularly tend to forget where the fuck it is they are. Cris wonders if she’d be able to remember her name if he asked.
Who does she think she is, though? Talking to him like this. If she’s slacking in this kitchen, then she’s damn well getting shouted at. How did she even get in here with an attitude like that? Seriously, if he were running things, there’d be a much higher standard.
“How do you know me?” he repeats, and he’s frowning at her. He can hardly believe his ears! She must be fucking with him. Christ, he realizes a moment later, she really has lost it. He can see it in her eyes, can see that she isn’t playing any games. Poor girl. It eases the frown on his face for a few moments, and eventually he moves a hand to her shoulder to guide her out of the kitchen. She’s no good in there, after all.
“Look, come sit outside. I’ll get you a drink of water, call somebody to come and help you. You really shouldn’t be in the kitchen in this state--” For the most part, he just wants her out so he can get back to work. But maybe he is feeling the smallest little hint of concern. “This is a rough first day for you, huh? It happens. I’m Cristobal, the sous-chef here. You must have only just started or something, I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Do you think I’m a hypocrite? Well, you should. I wouldn’t disagree with you.”
“What you are is none of my business,” he states, hunching forward onto the table. There’s a slight wobble to it, which he’d never let fly in his kitchen, thank you. But here, they seem to be at some sort of... diner? He isn’t all that sure. It’s very American, though, like you see in all the movies. Cristobal honestly hadn’t thought he’d ever step foot in a place like this, but he’d thought a lot of things would never happen that have.
Such as him sharing some brain space with seven complete and utter strangers.
He knows it isn’t him that’s here, of course. It’s her. He’s just taking her experiences and experiencing them for himself, be it the sounds, the smells, or the feel of the sugar he’s drawing small, little circles into with his index finger. The finger that’s raised so that he can suck the sugar off of it, unsure as to whether Camille is doing this herself, or he’s just... remembering what it tastes like. He supposes that it doesn’t really matter.
“But you don’t look like a hypocrite to me. No, I think there’s another word out there for you. Not in any language I know, though.” He takes her coffee cup, and with it a long, long drink. Brows rise, and he could almost be smiling at her, but then he swallows and puts the cup back down. The ghost of the taste of coffee settles on his tongue. Cristobal isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to that. “But, as I said. What you are has nothing to do with me.”
“Are you letting pride cloud your judgment?”
“I’m a professional,” he reminds her with a wrinkle of the nose, sounding somewhat offended by her question. “I don’t let anything cloud my judgement.”
A pause, and it’s almost like he’s going to leave it there, but then he thinks of something else to say. So he strides across her tiny room with his hands on his hips and thinks how best to phrase it so it doesn’t come across wrong. Too bad it still sounds rude.
“Anyway, do you know what to do in this line of work? Do you know how to get promoted, or how to make sure everything is as perfect as it has to be? Or do you just assume that, because you are in my head, that you don’t need to know these things and you can just follow a gut instinct and still be right?”
He stops now, pauses so that she might be able to respond – but, of course, he starts off again right away.
“My judgement is perfect! Thank you for your input! Now! I’d quite like to get back to doing my job, and not having to listen to unsolicited advice from people who haven’t been working in this industry for years! Thank you!”
“I’ve done what I have to do. Now you do what you have to do.”
“What you had to do!” He laughs, and he sounds like he’s snapped. Oh, Cristobal understands doing what you have to do, but that was something else entirely. Something sick and wrong that he’d had to witness -- and, sure, maybe he wouldn’t have cared if she hadn’t made him watch.
Honestly! He doesn’t even know why he was there in the first place! He hadn’t meant to go to her, hadn’t meant to leave his kitchen like it was nothing. He’d been carving up some meat, getting it ready for later in the day, and suddenly he’s in some shitty room with some poor sod right in front of him and he’s-- He’s doing something he never thought he would be.
And now he’s here with the images burned into his eyes, showing up every time he closes them. The worst part is is that it doesn’t make him feel as sick as a dog. It’s like he’s apathetic towards it, in truth. Which terrifies him. He’s a good man, sort of, and he shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have seen what he did.
He’s a chef. There’s only one thing he’s supposed to see all carved up, and it’s what he’s serving up on a plate later.
Cristobal stands in the middle of his kitchen, arms hanging by his sides, covered in blood he needs to remind himself belongs to a pig. He doesn’t know how to respond past laughter, but that makes him feel a little too much like he’s losing his mind. So he stands there and he stares at her and he’s so very thankful that he’s the only one in the kitchen right now. For once, working non-stop has finally proven itself to be useful.
“Get out,” he tells her. “Get out of my head. I don’t want to see you again, not today. Not tomorrow. And never when you’re doing that. Do you understand me?”
House of Cards sentence starters
Change pronouns / descriptors as necessary!
“I have no patience for useless things.”
“We’re in the same boat now. Take care not to tip it over. I can only save one of us from drowning.”
“We’re in a very gray area. Ethically. Legally. Which I’m okay with.”
“What a martyr craves more than anything is a sword to fall on.”
“Nobody can hear you. Nobody cares about you. Nothing will come of this.”
“I know all about hate. It starts in your gut, deep down here, where it stirs and churns. And then it rises.”
“You haven’t earned the right to be treated as an adult.”
“So you think when a woman asks to be treated with respect, that’s arrogance?”
“You don’t want to work anywhere you’re not willing to get fired from.”
“Treading water is the same as drowning, for people like you and me.”
“Love of family: most politicians are permanently chained to that slogan, family values. But when you cozy up to hookers and I find out, I will make that hypocrisy hurt.”
“He believes that if a fridge falls off a minivan, you better swerve out of its way. I believe it’s the fridge’s job to swerve out of mine.”
“Just making an observation.”
“Are you letting pride cloud your judgment?”
“I’m the only person who believes in you, but maybe that’s one too many.”
“Maybe they were right. Maybe you are worthless.”
“I promise you’ll never be bored.”
“He was the only one who understood me. He didn’t put me on some pedestal.”
“The most you’ll ever make of yourself is blowing men like me.”
“I can smell the cock on your breath from here.”
“He’d never go for you. You’re too intimidating.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. I know when I’ve scraped all the shit off the shoe.”
“Do you get off on this or something?”
“There’s no better way to overpower a trickle of doubt than with a flood of naked truth.”
“I have to put fear in other people.”
“I have to be ruthless, because failure is not an option.”
“I’m not going to lie. I despise children. There. I’ve said it.”
“Everything is about sex. Except sex. Sex is about power.”
“If I didn’t think you were such a liability to yourself, I might even like you.”
“I have zero tolerance for betrayal, which they will soon indelibly learn.”
“When did that happen?”
“You don’t understand. I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
“I’ve known everything from the beginning.”
“I’m not here to punish you or to tell you to stop. I just thought I should open those big bright eyes.”
“I wanted to be significant.”
“I envy your free spirit, and I’m attracted to it, but not all of us have that luxury.”
“You had a choice. You chose not to be free.”
“Success is a mixture of preparation and luck.”
“Decisions based on emotion aren’t decisions, at all. They’re instincts. Which can be of value.”
“He doesn’t measure his wealth in private jets, but purchased souls.”
“Of all the things I hold in high regards, rules are not one of them.”
“You have a reputation for pragmatism.”
“You can’t purchase loyalty. Not the sort I have in mind. If you want to earn my loyalty, then you have to offer yours in return.”
“Now, the humane way to do it is to make it quick.”
“I took a chance, showed up at your house and placed myself at your feet.”
“I have been fearless. But, you know what? I’m really fucking scared this time.”
“Grief demands an answer, but sometimes there isn’t one.”
“If we never did anything we shouldn’t do, we’d never feel good about doing the things we should.”
“It’s personal for me now. I don’t have a choice, but you still do.”
“Stick a knife in its heart and put an apple in its mouth, I won’t shed a tear.”
“There is no sacred ground for the conquered.”
“You may have all the money, but I have all the men with guns.”
“You’re nothing. You’re a parasite.”
“I’m not who you want to be your poster girl.”
“I’ve never thought higher of her than I do at this moment.”
“Do you think I’m a hypocrite? Well, you should. I wouldn’t disagree with you.”
“I ain’t one for lookin’ back. Eyes ahead.”
“From the lion’s den to a pack of wolves. When you’re fresh meat, kill and throw them something fresher.”
“I don’t know whether to be proud or terrified. Perhaps both.”
“Seduce him, give him your heart. Cut it out and put it in his fucking hands.”
“I’ve done what I have to do. Now you do what you have to do.”
“I said I would take the fall for you. And now I give you the means to make that happen.”
“Power is better than money, for as long as it lasts. But it never lasts.”
“What is wrong with you?! Why can’t you just leave me be?!”
“All you have ever done is fuck up my life!”
“Such a waste of talent.”
“Discuss is probably the wrong word. They talk while I sit quietly and imagine their lightly salted faces frying in a skillet.”
“Money is the McMansion in Sarasota that starts falling apart after ten years, power is the old stone building that stands for centuries. I cannot respect someone who does not see the difference.”
“Moments like this require someone who will act. To do the unpleasant thing. The necessary thing.”
“There are two kinds of pain. The sort of pain that makes you strong. Or useless pain. The sort of pain that’s only suffering.”
“Let’s make him suffer.”
“Treading water is the same as drowning, for people like you and me.”
Ana bared her teeth slightly, pulled her lips back and poked her tongue out a little.
“Why, Cris,” she gave a vague grin, although there was something mechanical about it, “are you sympathizing with a serial killer?” Ana said it in a conspiratorial whisper, like a young teenager who might be talking about who Cris li-ii-iked. She did not dwell on the fact that she, who most certainly had anti-personality disorder, was somehow relating to this man, as well.
“What would Camille say,” Ana laughed a little at the thought as she leaned over the counter and watched Cris work. He had such an admirable work ethic. “Don’t worry, it’ll be out little secret.”
But he was right – for Ana and Cris, barely surviving might as well have been death. Ana would rather kill herself rather than be stuck in a shell she couldn’t escape. How Elena had managed it was nothing short of beyond Ana.
“But,” she said with musing curiosity, “I wonder why you bring it up.” Her mouth curled into an almost smug smile. “Do you need me to save you from the water, perhaps?” Ana cast a glance around the kitchen, looked at all of the chefs working under Cris.
“Or did you just want me to take care of whoever pushed you in?” she suggested, her eyes widening a little in suppressed anticipation. If Camille felt it, or if Colby tasted whipped cream, this would become annoying. “Just say the word. Lord knows my hands have been itching for a while…”
???.
Stunned. Shell-shocked. Utterly transfixed.
Camille stays entirely still, as if even shifting a muscle would bring the world crashing at her feet. She can only stand, rooted to her spot, as she watches the man across from her work. Paying attention to all the details of the room; the number of burners, the plates in stacks, the wine glasses hanging delicately. It’s a habit she has. Catalogue everything meticulously. She had done so first with the person in the car. Then, the bathroom scene-change. Now, she is standing in an entirely foreign place, where just moments ago she had been lurking in front of her evidence wall, making calls to nearby departments. The phone is still clenched in her fist.
When he stops working and addresses her, she squeezes her fingers. An inhale, and she can swear she smells him: cloves, dill, a refreshing air of mint. Her mouth waters. Never before could she identify what cloves were, let alone what they smelled like. Somehow, it feels instinctual. Familiar.
“I–” she stutters for words, breath hitching in her throat. What to say? I don’t even know where there is? Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut, reopens them. “I’m not deaf or stupid, but I’m certainly damned crazy.”
She doesn’t look like anybody you’d find around here, and doesn’t strike him as a tourist. For starters, she’s speaking perfect Greek, and also no tourist could have just wandered into his kitchen from the street. She would’ve been thrown out by now.
So Cristobal is just working off of the assumption that she’s really quite brand new, and has just moved here from some other country after learning the language and -- this is her first day. Nobody else is looking at her like she doesn’t belong here, after all. As a matter of fact, they’re ignoring her.
If nobody else is going to convince her to get her ass into gear, then he supposes that he’ll have to be the one to do it.
“Okay, really. Stop fucking around. I don’t care if you need to be institutionalized, so long as you go ahead and help me with these dishes. If I’m late, I’m fucked. So stop standing there! Come on!”
He earns a few looks, but he pays them no mind. People often think he’s too intense when it comes to his work. He’s used to it.
There’s too much noise and hustle and intensity for Cristobal to realize there’s something off at first. He’s just doing his job, as always, in a timely manner to the best of his ability. There’s a lot of multitasking involved, a lot of maneuvering, and a lot of having to pay attention to what you’re doing. So of course he doesn’t give the stranger in the middle of the kitchen the time of day, because he needs to impress, needs to be the best he can possibly be so that he can get that promotion he deserves.
He only pays the stranger any mind when they get in his way, stopping him from crossing to another counter as quickly as he’d like to, but even then he doesn’t look at them properly. It’s not until he needs some help that he even thinks to speak to them, requesting that they aid him with these plates so that he can get them to the servers.
It’s a request that, apparently, goes ignored. That’s what makes him stop in front of them, brow furrowed, and he supposes that they must just be new here or something.
“Are you listening to me? Stop standing there, we’re busy--! Are you deaf, as well as stupid?”
something was beginning
Over the years, Cristobal has managed to acquire quite the high threshold for pain. Whether it be small little cuts from mistakes while cutting up vegetables, or even like getting punched in that fight he’d been dragged into by a friend -- Cristobal can do pain. Or so he thought, at least. Perhaps it’s only the short bursts, and not the shock of pain that runs straight through his head now, hot and sharp and agonizing, waking him up before his alarm clock has any chance to.
Guy skins a watermelon in 10 seconds
> I could do that exactly once bc I would have zero fingers left afterwards.
> That is an extremely sharp knife.
> Incredibly satisfying to watch