they could potentially be good cooks by themselves but together with the power of misunderstanding they can cook up some bullshit. mob has no counter because cooking is an extremely emotional experience and you bet he will sob over the heat of the wok while teru mogs him and dimple doesnt do anything to be helpful and reigen is dead idk
everyone say thank you serizawa
i dont think shigeo would be THAT bad at customer service. like sure he isnt a social butterfly but he could get around fineif you hype him up. he doesnt seem to mind being a receptionist for reigen and im assuming he makes all the tea for the clients. Hes just majorly outshined but the people he surrounds himself with like ritsu and teru and reigen when it comes to stuff like that. i think hed be pretty charming to have as a server (but i wouldnt expect my food to come so quickly)
Summary: Don has been banned from the kitchen for very valid and important reasons. But he's willing to break that rule and risk a health hazard for something even more important.
Written for @catbowserauthor's TMNT Pure Fluff Bingo. The prompts were #7: I know your favorites + #9: “I’m not good at (hobby/activity) but I made this for you.”
When one was making an effort to cheer another up, it was usually not the best idea to do it by breaking one of their rules. Don knew this, of course. He’d seen it secondhand plenty of times; Mikey rarely ever cheered Raph up by teasing and needling at him when he could tell he was already in a huff. Nine times out of ten it only made him angrier—but in Mikey’s mind it was worth it somehow because it helped him let off some of that steam.
So this had to be worth it too, right? For Master Splinter. He wouldn’t mind Don breaking his rule about the kitchen if his heart and hard work were in the right place, surely! He just had to work quickly, confidently, calmly, and very, very carefully.
The key word there was confidently and to be frank, Don was confident about very little when it came to the kitchen. He wasn’t sure why cooking had never agreed with him. He could name practically every tool and utensil and appliance in here; he was the one who had salvaged most of them in the first place! Yet whenever he tried his hand at it, the machines he had painstakingly polished and repaired wasted no time turning against him once the outlier of ingredients was brought into the equation.
He found himself approaching the stove as one would a cornered animal; he hadn’t tried to preheat it or even turn on the burners since the emergence of “The Banana Bread from the Black Lagoon*”, so lovingly dubbed by Raph and Mikey. Seeing the loaf pan full of smoldering tar was what finally convinced Splinter to lay down the law and ban Donnie from the kitchen entirely—outside of his coffee routine, of course. That was nonnegotiable.
And now this. This was important enough to skirt around the rule for one day, wasn’t it? Don had to do it if no one else would.
It would have been easier for everyone if he had caught Mikey in time before he left so he could remind him of the date, of the unofficial obligations he usually set for himself around this time of year, but he’d missed him on his way through a Battle Nexus portal. Apparently they were considering an update to his champion statue, adding his mystic markings, and there was no way Mikey was missing that meeting no matter what day it was.
He would probably feel terrible that he’d forgotten when it dawned on him later but Master Splinter wouldn’t have wanted him to pass up this opportunity. The obligation was unofficial, as previously stated. A batch of soup would seem trivial in comparison to being champion of the multiverse!
But if Mikey shouldn’t have to miss out on something that brought him joy today, neither should Master Splinter—even more so when a spark, however small, was sorely needed.
The food wouldn’t taste the same but it’d still turn out well if he turned to Leo, Don had decided then. He couldn’t whip something up with Mikey’s speed but he was good with greens and fish and he had picked up a few extra tricks from the Ancient One during his time in Japan. Only then did he remember Leo would be with Master Splinter at this very moment, immersed in healing meditation. That was typically the time bought for Mikey to spend cooking so it’d be ready when they were done, worn out and in need of the warm pick-me-up.
Raph wasn’t bad at cooking but he had very little interest in it. Why bother slaving away over such detailed, intricate recipes when he could slap an easy sandwich together and be on his way? If Don had asked him, no doubt he would have hunkered down over Mikey’s chicken scratch recipe book and made the effort for their father but like Leo, he was off making an effort elsewhere.
Master Splinter’s morning cup of tea had also coincidentally been the last of his tea; now Raph was off in the tunnels, waiting on April to pick some up at the store, along with some other groceries, and drop it off for him to bring home. Would it have been simpler for April to simply deliver it to the lair herself? Probably, but despite whatever polite airs Splinter likely would have tried to put on for her arrival, today was just…not a good day to have visitors.
Which then left Don staring down the chicken scratch recipe, dog-eared for (supposedly) easy reference. Easy. It should be easy—but it was so important at the same time. Hidden under the dog-ear flap, so tiny and smudged he could hardly make it out, Mikey had written “For bad days.”
If Don was incredibly careful with it, he could make a bad day just a little better. He had to try. All he had to do was follow the instructions to the letter. Ultimately that’s all cooking was, right?
The instructions, however, were not particularly to the letter, much like their writer. Mikey liked to tweak and twist and guestimate guidelines that by all rights should have been hard rules—and whenever it worked out well, he was so protective of his proud secrets that he didn’t even write them down. He kept them all cooped up in his head. This bare bones shorthand language probably meant nothing to anyone but him.
Under the soups section in the battered book, Don found a doodle of a pot that came vaguely across like the recipe he was searching for, titled “Chic Zos.” What was “Zos” and how was it chic? Not an adjective he’d ever used to describe food. Was zos. some backwards abbreviation of .ozs? Chic ounces?
It took a full, embarrassing minute of blank staring at it for Don to abruptly remember the word “Zosui” from their Japanese lessons; that should have been obvious. “Chic Zos,” Chicken Zosui, that was the end goal here.
Okay, so skin the chicken first—Wait, did I wash my hands? If he hadn’t it was too late now; he was already handling the chicken. Hopefully cooking it would burn off any stray oils or greases from his machine work, Don mused with a grimace.
Slowly, clumsily, the chicken was indeed skinned—at the cost of skinning one of his fingertips with it but it looked like he had caught the dribble of blood before it could contaminate anything so it should be fine!
“Leave the skin,” the page told him. But leave it where? In Don’s hurry to grab a paper towel for his finger, the torn scraps of chicken skin had been flung in a heap onto the counter. Maybe that meant he was supposed to just set it aside for later. He might have done the right thing without even realizing.
“Splash oil in pan.” Oh, how he would love it if physical pages had drop down menus to elaborate like computer pages did. How much oil? What kind of pan? Why did it specifically call for splashing? Wouldn’t that just make a mess?
For about half a second, he considered calling Mikey to hypothetically ask for some pointers. But Mikey may not answer anyway, wrapped up in his personal business, and even if he did, he’d see through the so-called hypothetical instantly and totally overreact. He’d hang up, ring the others to rat him out and drag him out of this kitchen in a heartbeat like he was some kind of culinary terrorist planning an attack. No need for such a commotion.
“Leave the skin,” the recipe said very clearly. Then below, “Wait for the skin – veggies.”
He’d just…leave the skin where it was then, he decided gingerly. Waiting, apparently. For something. Wrapping some twine around his finger to secure the wad of paper towel, he moved on to the vegetables.
Chopping vegetables wasn’t so bad as long as he held them firmly. He was proud of himself for remembering to rinse them first but when wet, they skidded and skated wildly across the countertop. The mushrooms were especially slippery, almost strangely slimy, but he put it down to the damp, maintained his determination and wrestled with them. He may have lost a few leeks and more than a few carrots and onions to the floor along the way but hopefully the remnants he caught would still be aesthetically pleasing garnish. Hopefully it would be enough, he fretted, after cutting them so thinly. If there were specific measurements given for the veggies in Mikey-speak, he hadn’t spotted them.
“Dashi and sake in pot.” How much? Should he just eyeball enough for a broth? He didn’t want to be wasteful by pouring too much but whenever Mikey made it, there was usually enough for leftovers the next day. The higher the sake rose in the pot, glug by glug, the further Don’s stomach sank. His intuition hadn’t helped him much cooking in the past but this really didn’t feel right.
This level of uncertainty was foreign, uncomfortable; day in and day out, the family relied on him to know what he was doing. If Leo were available for support here (backup, to be honest), he’d intimately understand that sense of pressure and no doubt have some words of comfort to offer. But at its core cooking was science, wasn’t it? It should theoretically fall under his umbrella of expertise. Science always involved some level of trial and error. Maybe he just had to trust the process, take it step by step—
One of which he’d skipped, he realized belatedly, biting back a curse. He’d gotten so caught up in mulling over the skin and the semantics, he hadn’t splashed the oil in first! Would it ruin it to pour some in as an afterthought? Well, it was a soup. Everything got mixed together in the end, didn’t it? It’d be fine!
…Unless pouring the other fluids in first meant the taste of the oil would be lost to the mix. Mikey was always going on about “depth of flavor”; there were supposed to be layers to the taste. Maybe he could add more than one splash just in case, to give it a fighting chance amongst the rest of the flavors.
Now what the shell was rendered fat?
Clamping his hands over the edge of the counter, he hung his head and took a slow, composing breath. The inhale stung of raw chicken, overpowering onion and a tinge of blood. He was beginning to understand Raph’s dismissal of such detailed recipes; his brother knew himself well enough to foresee that he’d just wind up frustrated, fussing over so many little components. Don was supposed to be good at that! That was his whole thing!
He had a feeling that even if Mikey had described every single step with a paragraph’s worth of detail, his unique brand of Turtle Luck in the kitchen would have tainted it anyway, but he had already come this far! If he gave up now, it really would be a waste of time, effort, and especially food that they could never afford to squander willy-nilly. A waste of their precious resources would make Master Splinter’s day infinitely worse.
Break it down piece by piece. “Rendered fat.” Fat that has been rendered. Render: verb, to present, provide, give, or make something. So I’m…what, presenting the fat? To the pot? Okay, so why not just say “Stick the chicken in”?
He stuck the chicken in. The skin was still on the counter waiting for reasons or happenings unknown but at least it felt like a sizeable step forward to get the meat actually cooking. There was no Chicken Zosui without the chicken.
While that boiled over medium-high heat, he could work on the rice. Though apparently less complicated, this felt far more critical than the rest. Master Splinter’s rice was the perfect blend of moist, sticky and fluffy every time without fail. How did he do it? Hadn’t Don watched him do it countless times throughout their childhood? Granted, it was usually just in his peripheral vision while he was wrapped up in an equation, a gadget or a blueprint, and granted by the time he left his distraction aside to finish the bowl it was cold but…
Well. He took it for granted, didn’t he? The lengths his father went to in preserving the culture he’d learned from Master Yoshi and Tang Shen, long before Don and his brothers knew who they were or that they were the reason why. Quietly preserving their memory every single day, not just this anniversary of losing them.
The sting of the cold water on his fingers as he swished the rice was a sting echoed faintly in the back of his throat. It was strange, surreal, grieving someone he never knew or at least grieving by extension. Seeing Master Splinter hurt pained his sons. They couldn’t take that for granted.
Finagling out his shell cell with numb, wet fingers, he shot Mikey a message to remind him. The answer he eventually received was a pleasant surprise:
yeah duh course i remembered! what u take me for LOL
not JUST here to get my epic amazing handsome one of a kind champion statue touched up
also getting some cool battle nexus stories about Master Yoshi from Mr. Daimyo to tell Pops l8tr :)
He should never have doubted him, Don decided with a sigh of relief, only for it to catch when Mikey added:
ill start on my signature soup soon as i get back! :P
To that he hurriedly shot off the ‘Sounds great!’ he had already intended to send in response to the previous messages and got back to work. That was certainly one way to increase the pressure of the ambiguously limited time he had before someone came in and saw he had trespassed!
When chic’s no longer pink, add rice and veg.
Considering how ferociously the pot was boiling, it was hard to make out the chicken through all the bubbles but with a tentative swish of the concoction he realized he must have spent longer than he’d thought staring at his phone screen waiting for Mikey to get back to him. The chicken definitely wasn’t pink anymore; it was almost as brown as ground beef! That must be his cue! In went the veggies with a slippery splash, followed by a sharp hiss from both him and the pot as hot oil spat at him.
“Ooh, ow, ow, okay—” Perhaps he should have been wearing gloves for all this. He wished he could make more use of the cold, starchy rice water to soothe his stinging scales for a moment longer but now thanks to the chicken browning so fast, he was in a rush. Without an extra moment’s thought, in went the rice and its water.
Oh, geez. As soon as the bowl was empty, a shiny, slimy film began to form. Oil and water! Basic chemistry, Don, come on!
Cursing, he scrambled for the utensils drawer. Ladle, ladle, ladle—Why wouldn’t Mikey keep the ladle with all the other spoons?! No time to go hunting for it. He took up the biggest of their everyday spoons, fruitlessly trying to bail out the film on top back into the bowl.
He hadn’t felt this stupid since…well, yeah, since the last time he stood at this counter trying to make something nice for his family. Maybe he should quit now that he was no longer ahead and just pray there was enough of each ingredient left for Mikey to do it right. He’d made do with less before, hadn’t he? The least Don could do was clear out his space and make it look like nothing had ever happened. No one would ever know—
“Donnie?”
The kicker wasn’t Leo’s timing. It wasn’t even the tangible, rather offending but not unwarranted trepidation in his voice, the likes of which he didn’t let on even in the heat of battle. The kicker, Don knew even before he startled and whirled around, was that Master Splinter was sure to be standing next to him, looking on in equal horror and righteous indignation that he would dare cross this line.
He was indeed standing there but Don didn’t get a chance to analyze his expression as his elbow knocked the pot upon turning, sloshing the brew over the side to add another searing injury to insult.
“Agh, shell!”
“Come away from there, Donatello! Leonardo, the stove,” Splinter commanded, already darting to yank off Don’s elbow pad and steer him toward the sink. Leo was just as quick but branching rivers of the stuff were already bubbling over, streaming and smearing to make a mess of the stovetop as he put on mitts, shoved the pot toward the back burner and turned the front one off.
When Master Splinter had finished running Don’s arm under water and turned the sink off, the absence of the pot’s grievous gurgling made the silence that followed all the louder.
Glancing tentatively between his shamefaced brother and his stern-faced father, Leo announced, “I’ll go grab the first aid kit,” and sidled none too subtly to make his escape.
Tugging the softest and least fibrous of their dish towels out of the drawer to pat his son’s singed elbow dry, Splinter sighed deeply, tiredly through his nose. “Donatello—”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry,” he mumbled, pinning his dejected glower on the pot rather than meeting Splinter’s eye. His face was probably burning hotter than the soup at this rate.
“What is it you know?”
“The whole lecture you’re about to give me. I should have listened to you, I shouldn’t be in here messing around, I should have known better, etcetera, etcetera. I mean, I guess I’ve earned it if you want to spell it all out anyway. I’m just beating a dead horse and then burning it at this rate. But…”
Splinter tilted his head at his hesitation, prompting, “But…?”
“But I know Chicken Zosui is one of your favorites!” he blurted in lament. “And Mikey’s not here to make it when he usually does and Leo and Raph were both busy! I know I’m not good at cooking, everybody knows, but I didn’t want you to be disappointed!” He didn’t need any more reasons to be sad today. He didn’t say as much but Splinter could probably sense it.
“…You were making Chicken Zosui? For me?”
The surprise in his voice could have just been more salt in the wound, if it weren’t for how soft his gaze was when Don finally dared to look. That gentleness almost made it worse. He gestured his unburnt arm listlessly at the stovetop with a rhetorically snorted, “Couldn’t you tell?” He didn’t expect him to pad over there and risk a peek, much less a sniff. Not that Don had the sensitive, refined palette to judge but it probably smelled even worse than it looked. He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Now I’ve just wasted all that food and you’re disappointed anyway…It was all for nothing. I’m really sorry.”
After a moment of consideration, Splinter took up the spoon Don had wielded previously and cautiously dipped it.
“Oh—no, wait, what are you doing? You don’t have to bother just to spare my feelings or anything, Sensei!” he protested. Raph and Mikey would probably be calling it street slick when they got back; his feelings wouldn’t be spared in the end anyway. “It’s not worth it—”
“It is.” Though he poured the broth (if it could generously be called as much) off the side of the spoon, Splinter made sure he had a wedge of the meat, some rice and a few of the vegetables. “If it was worth it to you, pushing out of your comfort zone, pushing the boundaries I set for your safety simply for the hope of bringing me joy, it is worth it.”
He chewed. Don couldn’t help but cringe at the sound; soup was not supposed to crunch. About eighty percent of him expected him to spit it back into the pot and then spit into it again for good measure to hammer the point home. That probably would have been the wise and entirely reasonable reaction.
Instead he laughed. Not just the typical low, warm chuckle but a full-body laugh that only Mikey’s most precisely, perfectly timed punchlines had ever gotten out of him.
Don could only stare openmouthed in an amalgamation of disbelief, uncertainty and awe as he leaned a paw on the counter for support, risked another peek into the pot and devolved into another fit just as fast.
Was he laughing at him or with him? Did it even matter? No. He was laughing on a day that traditionally made it a mission to claw a hollow out of his heart. Don would gladly be the butt of the joke if it helped. As such he allowed a giggle of his own as he ventured over, one part sheepish and two parts relieved. As soon as he was in range, Splinter shifted to lean on him rather than the counter, wrapping an arm around his shell. As he tried to catch his breath, the tail end of each inhale trembled and his fur was damp where his cheek pressed against Don’s arm but his eyes shone with just as much love as tears.
“I must applaud your ambition, Donatello,” he murmured, his smile watery. “Your…earnest effort. Your care and consideration for me mean so much more than this…”
“Abomination?” Don supplied ruefully.
“Attempt,” he concluded. “Than this attempt can convey. But I thank you. I believe it has served its true purpose in a way you did not intend…and I did not know I needed. But then, you have always been my most unconventional.”
“For better or for worse?”
“For getting better. I was able to swallow a bite this time; by extension that means there was something tangible to swallow. That is an obvious improvement over your, ah, broad concepts of banana bread.” He paused and Don quirked a knowing brow.
“Even if…?” he prompted.
“Even if the chicken is as leathery as your knee pads, the rice is still raw, the carrots and leeks are melding into a rather mysterious, almost impressive sludge, and the mushrooms were well overdue to be thrown out. I can smell their rot overpowering even the onions and the oil.”
“Wha—then why’d you take a bite anyway?!”
“I have an iron constitution, my son.” He patted his shell reassuringly, followed by a grateful stroke of a scute and a softer, “You do not need to worry about me.”
He knew they all would regardless, just as he would always worry about them, but Don acknowledged it anyway with a hum. “Well, if you can stand a spoonful of that, you’re strong enough for anything.” Even days like this…years like this. Life like this.
“…Only because I have so much in my life to give me strength. And healing.” His father didn’t quite pull away but he turned, tugging gently on the arm that hadn’t been singed. “Let us see to your healing now, shall we? Leonardo, the first aid kit?”
So it was chicken soup for the soul more than the stomach. It was still good for one more laugh once Raph came home and balked at the stench not two steps past the doorway, and then another when Mikey arrived and bewailed the kitchen carnage with the gusto of comfortingly normal theatrics. A particularly strong brew of the tea Raph brought back would help with the former. A formal apology and reaffirmation that Don would dutifully abide by his ban from this day forth, with the entire family as witness, would assuage the latter.
Splinter’s fond, forgiving smile took any sting out of his brothers’ subsequent ragging on him—and at least Don could say he had one entirely satisfied consumer in Klunk, who helped himself to the stray chicken skin on the counter that had apparently been awaiting his arrival all along.
The moon sank below the dark sky in the Devildom, the black sky became lighter. Crows sang of morning as your own crow yawned beside you. His taut tan muscles were glowing, fingers gripping yours even in sleep. Silver strands of hair tickled the crown of your head, his tank top soft and warm. Golden and navy eyes languidly blinked up at you as you stretched out of his arms. He looked down with little peeks as you stretched. You smirked as he huffed, cheeks reddening, yawning into his fist.
"What?"
Mammon uttered, looking down, eyes closed, arms crossed. You moved closer to him and asked, biting your lip without thinking.
"You hungry?"
His hair was extra messy this morning, tank top exposing a gorgeous expanse of tan skin. Definitely hungry. He grumbled, resting his head in your neck, nose nudging your shoulder.
"MC, d'ya really have to get up?"
You kissed his forehead, holding his chin. A loud roar came from your stomach. You looked at the blanket, avoiding his eyes.
"Okay, so now I definitely have to get up. I'm making breakfast, Mams."
He grumbled, holding your waist just as you were about to walk off the bed. A nose nudged against your stomach as he whined, cheeks flushed.
"Noo...MC, you're too tired, 'm too tired, stay, like a good human should."
You chuckled at your demon, fingers threading through his hair.
"So needy, but how about you help me cook? I bet you'll do well. Make it really warm and tasty."
He huffed mid-yawn.
" 'M not needy..."
As he fully woke, an asymmetrical smirk adorned his face. His eyes glinted in the stronger morning light, the Devildom a lighter shade of black.
"The Great Mammon is an excellent cook! I'll make it so tasty ya can't resist."
You bit your lip, as you gazed down at him.
"Resist what, Mams? You or the food?"
He flushed, eyes wide, getting up from the bed, lips trembling in a smile.
"Oi, be grateful I'm helpin' ya cook. And that's ME you're talkin' to, MC."
He opened the door with a soft grunt, fingers gripping the knob as they tugged it.
Your tiled wood kitchen was awash in amber light as he sauntered in, hand in yours.
"So...what're we cooking?"
He remarked, smirk back on his face, eyes languid.
You palmed his defined pecs through his tank top. Navy and golden eyes pierced yours. Another lip bite.
"How about, Great Mammon, you cook, while I...enjoy the show?"
He huffed, cheeks crimson as he glanced at the pan. His lips parted without a sound.
"So...so indecisive MC! B-But fine, I'll cook, in fact, they'll be the best damn eggs you've ever had!"
You smiled, he really was the sweetest sometimes. His shoulder deserved a kiss, lips grazing the slope.
"It's a thank you."
Within ten minutes of pouring oil, the eggs were blackened, bubbles raised at their edges, yolks bursting at their seams. Some shriveled, caramelized, if you could call it that, parts remained.
The heat was *way* too high. You didn't know whether to smirk or scream. The knob clicked in place as the bubbling stopped. He huffed, backing away from the pan. Golden navy eyes were focused on the floor, long fingers clasping his wrist.
"Hey, I appreciate the effort, Mams."
You reached out to touch his shoulder. As your fingers were about to squeeze it, he jerked back with a grumble.
"I, I don't need yer pity, MC!"
His voice quivered at your name as he stilled. Your thumb traced the path of a single tear flowing down his cheek. His eyes held a cocktail of disappointment, embarrassment, and need. Gold shimmering against navy seas. You walked closer, steps echoing against the wind outside.
You exhaled before your eyes were drawn to his lips. They trembled with barely contained feeling. Glistening as he licked his bottom lip before biting it. Your thumb trailed down from his cheek to softly parted lips.
"Mams, can I kiss you?"
He nodded, voice grained with want, face crimson.
"...Please."
You held his face as you leaned in, each second lasting an eternity. He closed his eyes, feeling your breaths mingle.
Slightly chapped lips grazed yours before calloused hands traversed your body. One hand trailing through your hair as the other gripped your waist.
His tongue traced the seam of your lips, slowly parting them. You bit his top lip, making him whimper in reply. As his tongue shivered against yours, his hands slid to your hips. They squeezed ever so slightly.
You held onto his shoulders, exhaling shakily as he gazed down at you. A drop of drool trickled from his lips. His hands loosened their grip as if they thought you would leave if he tugged too hard. You couldn't look at his eyes with what you would say next.
"Y'know...we can always eat out."
His face flushed at that, eyes widening. His mouth opened, then closed. Speechless. He scratched his hair only to say.
"I like that option, MC. B-But don't think I'm goin' all soft on ya!"
Want to draw more of my dumb ideas so I can hopefully get faster at drawing. Anyways, here's some Dead Plate fanart of Rody being the worst chef imaginable.
(I had this idea when I was making spaghetti and I put the strainer on the counter instead of the sink... Like id never use it like that but I couldn't help but imagine if I had)
Sushang was eager. Very eager. Her wide grin could almost be mistaken for excitement—or was it fear? Either way, she was excited to try what you had prepared for your meal. After all, she was always willing to test her strength against challenges, even culinary ones.
Sitting at the table with her chopsticks poised, Sushang watched you carefully lift the lid from the steaming dish. Her eyes widened with hope, but as the lid was removed, a heavy, ominous cloud of smoke wafted up. Sushang’s eye twitched uncomfortably, but she pushed forward, determined to taste the dish.
A single bite.
The moment it hit her tongue, her entire face went pale. Her hand quivered as she swallowed—if you could even call it swallowing. Her stomach churned in rebellion, but her pride prevented her from showing weakness. For a few moments, Sushang managed to sit still. And then…
BAM!
Her eyes rolled back in her head, her chopsticks dropped, and she slumped forward onto the table with a loud thud.
"Th-the flavor... it’s... it’s like… poison, but worse." Her voice came in a dazed, muffled tone from beneath her arms.
You winced and muttered an apology, unsure whether Sushang had actually fainted or was simply overwhelmed by the sheer force of the meal. Either way, it was clear that your cooking had struck a blow greater than any battle wound.
Feixiao always thought she could handle anything. She’d survived a life of violence, fought against abominations and enemies alike—how bad could a home-cooked meal really be?
When you called her over to try your cooking, she arrived with a casual, confident stride, expecting a delightful meal to complement her otherwise personality. But then the smell hit her—overpowering, strange, and almost wrong.
She eyed the dish warily, an unusual shudder running down her spine. "You... want me to eat this?"
Her heart told her she could handle anything. Her pride as a general told her she had no fear.
But as she took that first bite, her world shifted in a way it never had before. The moment the food touched her tongue, the fury of Moon Rage coursed through her. Not because of her affliction, but because her body rebelled against the impossible texture and the flavor so harsh that it nearly shredded her soul. Feixiao's eyes widened, her hand shot to her mouth, and before she could control herself, she vomited onto the floor.
“That,” she coughed, gasping for breath, “is a weapon of mass destruction.”
Her ears drooped, a rare moment of vulnerability seeping through her usual battle-hardened demeanor. You stared, horrified.
“Don’t worry,” Feixiao said, wiping her mouth and struggling to stay upright, “I’ll... I’ll survive.”
But just as she attempted to regain her composure, the general’s knees buckled, and she crumpled into the nearest chair. “Moon Rage... is kinder than this...” she muttered, slumping down in defeat.
[Header credits]
Qingque had heard the rumors. The food that could make even the toughest warrior faint. She was curious but, above all else, intrigued by the possibility of surviving the meal. After all, as a fan of all things quirky, she wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge—no matter how lethal it seemed.
She sat across from you with a small grin on her lips, as if savoring the potential disaster. When the plate was set before her, the aroma was enough to make her eyes water. It wasn’t that it smelled good; no, it was suspicious. But Qingque was brave, so she lifted the chopsticks and took a tiny bite.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. There was an odd, almost humorous flavor to it. Like burnt something with an aftertaste of... did she detect metal? But she kept chewing, determined to understand this creation. The more she chewed, however, the worse it became.
It wasn’t food anymore—it was a force of nature, rising within her, threatening to take over her senses. Her cheeks flushed, her hand clutched the table, and her usually bright eyes narrowed.
“...No... no, this is—”
And then, with the most dramatic flair, Qingque flopped backward in her chair, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead.
“Please... if there is an Aeon of Hunger, I beg of you... spare me,” she gasped, “I’m... dying.”
You were horrified, muttering frantically as you checked to make sure Qingque was still breathing. “Wait, no! You’re not—”
"I’m alive," Qingque groaned, lifting a hand. "But this... this is beyond death. I'm too alive. I don't know what's happening, but this... is not food. It’s a curse."
Shinso makes soba. It turns out awful. Todiroki eats it anyway or the other way around. or they go on a zoo date and todiroki gets scared of the reptiles exhibit while shinso wants to steal the snakes and keep them as pets
Thanks for the ideas, they were fun to draw once I got over my art crisis.
