Hertella Auto Kaffeemachine. This Dash-Mounted Coffee Maker Is Likely the Rarest Volkswagen Accessory.
Getting into a KarAkciddent and splashing 3 cups of FükkenScälden all over myself
The second comment above made me cackle. Reminded me of the time my older German cousin convinced me (as a child) that “windshield wipers” in German was Die Flippenflappen Mückenschpreden.
Kill the stereotype that there are only 16 mbti types. I, an intellectual am the long lost 17th type which possesses 5 hidden functions that Jung himself had no clue about.
Don’t let the most OOC scene ever written to tarnish the iconic character that is Clarke Griffin. That was not our Clarke. That was shock value Clarke and she’s not real, she does not exist here.
[ID: Image one is Robin Lennox from MAG 100. He is a slender pale-skinned person with dark brown, straight hair, wearing a turtleneck long sleeved shirt tucked in to jeans with dark boots. He is standing balanced on one foot with his stretched and distorted hands held aloft, one by his face and the other by his torso. There is a vacant smile on his face and there are chromatic-aberration echoes of him on either side with over-saturated colours and distorted facial features. Beside him is his dog Jackie, a Jack Russell Terrier, who looks up at him with great concern. The background is stylised after a garishly patterned cinema carpet with purple, orange, and green in swirls, stars, and circles.
Image two is Jack Barnabas from MAG 67. He is a slightly muscular pale skinned person with light warm brown hair and blue eyes. He wears a jumper, collared shirt, trousers, and boots, all in various flame tones. There are burn scars across his face and he holds his left hand up to his face, which is melting and distorting like candle wax. A suspicious fluid leaks out from behind where his hand sits. His facial expression is smug. The background is a brown stylised representation of paper burning. End ID.]
yo so my very good friend @horseboneologist and i did a collab based on avatarifying some one-off statement givers !!! i did the base sketch for jack and coloured robin, and they sketched robin and (beautifully) coloured jack <3 this was so fun and i love how they both came out <3
You peer around the corner, attempting to stand absolutely still but your eyes keep shifting to the Agent close to you.
“What, is something breaking your focus?” Mercado chuckles. You look harder and harder, squinting your eyes at the target out of spite. Hell, your eye begins to twitch. Mercado steps closer to you, testing your limits and you stifle a sigh.
No one really knows where Mercado came from and those who ask never get an answer. Despite finishing every sentence with an innuendo or a sarcastic remark, they take their work very seriously (and they’re rather skilled as well) It’s easy to fall under their magnetic gaze and knowing smirk, but there are sure to be consequences. Maybe you’re okay with that.
Which, if I’m quite honest, freaks me the fuck out. It’s the right kind of anxious; the kind where vertigo comes from, some base instinct that sits at the back of room with one patient hand raised.
“Excuse me, but I think now would be a great moment to take a breath and actually have a look at where you are right now. You see that ledge, to your right? Take your time, don’t lean too much. Yes, that ledge. Don’t fall off it. That would be bad.”
My polite, condescending voice has foregone the usual polite candour and has stood up and is looking rather pointedly at me these days. I’m wandering along that edge with a rather large smile on my face.
It’s not that I’m not aware that I’m dabbling with things that aren’t 100% safe. In the beginning this was just about control, a little light spanking, perhaps letting you taste the sensation of choking without ever really threatening your oxygen supply. But here the term ‘slippery slope’ has led to an avalanche. I’m freefalling.
They say when you’re in an avalanche you should try swimming. If D/s has informed me of anything, it’s that maybe Jung was right about all of his Egos. There is nothing in this world that allows me to distil myself more than a scene, split myself like oil and water into two parts; the fucked up pervert and the conscientious adult.
It’s that guy at the back of the room, the one standing up with his arms folded at the moment. He’s got the reins, most of the time, and each time I know I can rely on him it allows me to be a little bolder the next.
I want to choke you till you black out, next time. I want to spank you until you bruise. I want to leave you with a cut that takes a few days to heal. I want to leave you with something that will last, beyond the memories. With the memories.
Trigger warnings: home invasion, slight violence, violent ideation, police ineptitude
“Mrs. DeMarco really needs to keep her oils to herself.” You commented with a laugh as Hannibal pulled into the driveway. “She mentioned geranium oil and I swear it looked like you were having a war flashback.”
“I can’t imagine a multi-level marketing scheme that peddles watered-down napalm is very profitable.” Hannibal commented, busying himself with the daunting task of backing into the garage. “But then again, it’s not the product that sells. It’s the sense of belonging.”
“Hey, that’s what I said!” You noticed. “You do listen when I talk!”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Hannibal asked, rhetorically. “You spent the better part of two weeks on that research proposal.”
You planted your elbow against the window and rested your head in your hand. “Still didn’t result in jack about dick.”
“[F/N]?” Hannibal asked, perking up like a Doberman hearing a branch snap in the distance. “Did we leave the porch light on?”
You looked over and saw that the porch light was, indeed, on; even though you had no memory of turning it on.
“That’s weird.” You said, ready to dismiss it as something you did subconsciously and forgot about. “I don’t remember turning it on because it was still light out when we left.”
You unbuckled your seatbelt and put your hand on the door, but Hannibal stopped you.
“Just a minute.” He said, his hand hovering protectively over your bump. “Something’s not right.”
Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion or Hannibal’s sudden but very convicted fear, but you felt yourself growing hesitant. He pulled himself out of the car and hurried up to the porch with the energy of a man half his age. Although he wasn’t the most expressive of people, you could tell from his body language that something was very wrong.
Against your better judgement, you threw the door open and rushed to take a look for yourself. You slowly approached his silhouette, which was backlit by the glow of small, smoldering flames. The smell of burning grass hit your nostrils before you could identify it as such.
Hannibal kept you protectively behind him, though wouldn’t begrudge you a look. At first, it was almost laughable. Generic vandalism, the word ‘slut’ written on the brick in comically bright red lipstick. A few patches of burnt grass on the lawn showed the vandal’s hesitation to just commit to arson.
You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Scary.”
You attempted to take a step forward, but Hannibal put his arm out in front of you. With a small, almost unnoticeable gesture of his head, he urged you to look again.
The picture came into focus. In the dark of the night, you couldn’t see the trail of fake, albeit convincing, blood at your feet. Still cringeworthy, but you’d give some points for effort. It led all the way down the driveway, up the porch and through the door-
Through the door.
Your heart fell into your stomach acid. Hannibal took your hand in his and gave it a tight squeeze. With his protection, you took a few steps closer.
The door was broken off its hinges and the inside was destroyed. Everything that wasn’t overturned, smashed or otherwise demolished was covered in a sticky, pungent bloody substance. You grew more and more convinced of its authenticity by the minute.
Then you saw the eevee.
On the kitchen table, the plush eevee you bought at the gamestop was–for lack of a better term–flayed. Someone had cut her open down the stomach and removed as much stuffing as they could. Her head was expertly, carefully removed from her body and tossed haphazardly to the side. Her large, embroidered eyes and little smile reflected an innocence that the invader reveled in violating.
After a moment of thought, you realized it was a preview of what they’d eventually do to you, but you didn’t care.
“My eevee…” you whimpered, feeling a lump rise in your throat.
Hannibal squeezed your shoulders. He knew what that eevee represented to you, and more importantly, knew better than to invalidate your feelings. You both knew who broke in: someone familiar with your accumulation of comfort items with enough malice to rip them apart.
You felt the telltale sting of tears in the corners of your eyes. You approached the table and gathered up the pieces of your eevee, being sure to hold her tight against your chest.
The police were on the scene in minutes; that was to be expected for such a posh neighborhood. Blue and red lights illuminated street. Neighbors peeked out their windows and drivers rubber-necked to get a glimpse as they passed by. You sat on the front porch, clutching your eevee in your arms.
A balding man wearing Kevlar stepped squarely into your line of sight, not even bothering to greet you. You looked up at him, feeling like a child about to be scolded. “Yes?”
“Well, there’s no sign of a break-in.” He said, full confidence.
“The lock on the front door was broken.” You deadpanned. “How is that not a sign of a break-in?”
“Well,realcriminals aren’t so careful.” He mansplained, tucking his hands into his vest. “Listen, your husband said that it was probably your jealous sister getting back at you for something.”
“I guarantee you that is not what he said.”
“–Nothing was stolen or even that badly damaged.” He interrupted, again, with full confidence. "Sure, a little extreme for a prank-“
Then it was your turn to cut him off. "It wasn’t a prank. My psychotic cousin is trying to terrorize my fiancee and I. She destroyed a toy I bought for my daughter!”
“Oh, she broke a toy, did she?” The officer said with a condescending chuckle. “Well, we’re gonna need some serious backup! Let’s get a SWAT team out here. Call the FBI, while we’re at it.”
You glared at him, every expletive in the English language pouring into your brain at once. You recalled an old adage about if looks could kill.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, ma'am.” He concluded. “Just replace your lock and try to not make your family drama the state’s problem, okay, sweetie?”
You watched the officer drive off into the night, trying to determine whether or not you were surprised by how that went down.
“I suddenly find myself in the mood for some kind of pork dish.” Hannibal said, materializing behind you just in time to vocalize your inner monologue.
When you said nothing, Hannibal knelt down beside you. “I’ve searched the house. Your cousin isn’t smart or ambitious enough to put us in any real danger. It’s safe to go inside. I promise.”
“Did you ever watch the show Dexter?” You asked. Your brain was on autopilot, so you weren’t entirely sure why you’d thought to ask that.
Hannibal, who undoubtedly caught your drift immediately, but was feigning ignorance to encourage you, shook his head. “No.”
“S'about a serial killer who only kills bad people.” You explained. “Watching it, I always thought, damn. Even if they are bad people, how could you have the strength to take another person’s life?”
“Oh?” He said. You vividly remember a slight, but noticeable upturn in his voice. “And what has changed?”
“When you realize how little a person values innocent life…” you began. “You just wanna… turn it back on 'em.”
You didn’t notice it at the time, but Hannibal had the proudest expression on his face. “Yes, my love?”
“I’m going to kill Anna.” You said, feeling clear in the mind for the first time in a while. “And I want to do it right, this time. Purposefully.”
Image description: Fan art of Joseph wearing what we’ve established as his T3W standard: black collared shirt, grey pants, and black gloves with red palms. In this image, he’s wearing a leather shoulder holster and carrying a red-headed fire axe. He is wading through a pool of blood, quilting the surface with ripples, before coming to a stop to look at someone off-screen. End ID.
Confession time, I had to make the couscous twice because I forgot the whole “boil and then simmer” thing and just flat out boiled it for like 5 minutes straight…whoops. In my defense, the recipe’s instructions were very poorly written. My second batch came out perfectly.
This is a nice and easy-to-make recipe where most of the time and effort just goes into chopping. I highly recommend you chop everything before you start boiling/cooking or else you’ll be scrambling back and forth. I kind of followed my own advice, but made the mistake of waiting until the end to chop the sun dried tomatoes, which I regretted. After everything is prepped, putting it together is a breeze.
I was really excited to find this recipe because I was able to use the golden raisins and slivered almonds leftover from my Dundee cake. Don’t you love it when you can actually use the stuff you buy? According to the original poster of this recipe, it’s based on a dish you can get at the Cheesecake Factory. I would describe it’s mix of ingredients as “hearty” and it has a wonderful combination of soft and crunchy textures as well (thanks to the almonds). It seems like it would be good for any season so it’s definitely one I’ll return to in the near future.
I’m so glad to be cooking for this blog again. I only have one semester of grad school left so after that I think I’ll be able to post more consistently. I plan on posting some non-game recipes (books, movies, comics, tv shows) every now and then so look forward to those as well. Happy holidays, Clue Crew!
