(no subject)

[wishingsock]

the smut picture prompt meme

SIMILAR TO THE PICTURE PROMPT MEME ONLY FOR NSFW/SMUT PROMPTS INSTEAD

i. COMMENT WITH CHARACTER

ii. OTHERS LEAVE A PICTURE (OR TWO OR THREE....)

iii. REPLY TO THEM WITH A SETTING BASED ON THE IMAGES.

 THIS POST WILL BE IMAGE HEAVY AND NSFW.

 

        link to an image:                                embed an image:                control width and height:
     <a href=IMAGEURL >TEXT</a>       <img src=IMAGEURL>      <img src=IMAGEURL width=500> OR <img src=IMAGEURL height=INSERT>

Comments

[superstringer]

I was thinking waffles?

[Actually she feels like running her hands over his still-bared chest and slipping that ruined shirt back off of his shoulders. The sight of it brings back visceral sense-memories of what happened after she popped off those buttons.

She owes him a shirt, by the way. Her eyes trail over his chest, then she looks sidelong, decidedly.]

But I'm open to suggestions.

[honeyibrokeharlem]

[It's hard not to notice the way she looks at him. He tries to ignore it. That is a path they just agreed not to go down.]

We can make waffles. There are some lemons, raspberries, and chocolate chips if you want to make them interesting.

[Lemon chocolate-chip waffles with raspberries, anyone?

Bruce became very good at making delicious things while on the run.]

[superstringer]

[She looks back to him and arches a brow]

That does sound like an interesting combination. You're adventurous with your waffles, Dr. Banner.

[Clare appreciates culinary adventurousness. Especially with regard to sugary things. She also appreciates men who cook well. Not that she's evaluating him for compatibility or anything. That was a weird thought. Inappropriate. She's still working on turning her reserve back on. She breaks it so rarely that the switch is rusty, maybe.

But she smiles at him and starts toward the door.]

Let's do this.

[honeyibrokeharlem]

After eating in some of the countries I have, I can't have anything plain anymore.

[His friends back in Latin America would weep if he ever ate something under-seasoned. It doesn't matter that they're miles away--they would know.

He instinctively moves to button his shirt, then he remembers that it's unbutton-able and instead shoves his hands in his pockets, following her as they go.]

It's hard to move from Indian back to regular American food. They like their spices down there.

[superstringer]

[She'd never malign her mother's cooking, but --]

Yeah, and here we usually stick to some combination of salt, black pepper and refined sugar. I get it.

[It's not her kitchen, so once she's padded across the living room and onto the tile, -- sparing just the quickest glance at the mess and the little dip in the back of his couch -- she just tugs her hair up, loops it into a messy knot, and waits for him to give directions. Though she does ask, because it's important:]

Where do you keep the chocolate chips?

[honeyibrokeharlem]

The cabinet to your right. You mind grabbing the other ingredients in there? The flour, the baking powder, the sugar, that kind of thing? I'll get everything in the fridge.

[She looks so cute, her hair all messed up and her clothes rumpled. He doesn't want to think about it, but he can't help but imagine her wearing his shirt instead.

He tears his eyes away from her without waiting for an answer and starts taking things out of the fridge. Milk. Lemon. Raspberries. Eggs. Butter.]

Maybe you can show me how they make waffles back home. I'm sure your mother's expertise trumps the recipe I figured out after getting sick of having bagels for breakfast every day in college. [And then they can add lemon zest and chocolate chips to the batter, topped off with raspberries when it was still warm. Yum.]

[superstringer]

[The bag of chocolate chips is opened before she's even finished gathering the ingredients from the cabinet. Because it's really not a cooking adventure unless there's snacking involved.

She's holding out the back in offering and smiling a little as she answers, ]

I'd be happy to show you. It'll be a true collaboration. But she's kind of a waffle traditionalist, so it's pretty basic, really.

[ - an afterthought, munching on chocolate,] What about your mom? Did you inherit any recipes?

[honeyibrokeharlem]

[He takes some of the chips with a wry smile, popping them in his mouth as he lines up all the ingredients on the counter.]

My mother? No, I'm afraid she died before she thought I was old enough to learn any.

[The casualness with which he says that is a clear indicator of how close he considers himself with Clare. He rarely talks about his life before the accident. He never talks about his childhood.]

Besides, my father didn't think I should learn any 'woman's work.' He thought it was emasculating. [Yes, his father was an ass. He is well aware of that.]

[superstringer]

[She chuffs and makes a face, digging in the bag again.]

Well, I'm glad your mindset on the matter is a little more evolved. And I'm sorry to hear that, about your mother.

[Glancing around,]

Bowls?

[honeyibrokeharlem]

It was a long time ago. And my aunt straightened me out before I had a chance to turn into my dad.

[He starts taking out the utensils, lining them up with an absent neatness that works its way into everything he does. He likes things being in their place.] I'll zest the lemon while you show me how your mother does it?

brb googling 'how to make waffles'

[superstringer]

Sounds like a plan.

[It's funny how he arranges his cookware the same way he does his lab equipment. Makes her want to hug him. She watches for a second with a little smile, then scoops up the sugar and flour and moves to his side, where she tugs a bowl just out of its designated spot.]

She always says the secret to perfect waffles is not to stir the batter too much. And to use a rubber spatula. Do you have a rubber spatula? If you don't, that's fine. I really don't know why the material matters. 'Never could get a straight answer out of her about that.

this thread makes me crave waffles

[honeyibrokeharlem]

Uh... [He frowns, then gestures to one of the drawers.] I might have one in there. If not, then there's some regular mixing spoons.

[His arm brushes against hers. His sleeve sticks to his skin because of all the dried sweat and fluid. He washed his hands and wiped himself down the night before, but he hasn't had a proper shower. He still feels her all over him.

He pulls his shirt closer to him for a moment, an instinctive protective gesture before he pulls out a grate and starts zesting the lemon.] Any other utensils you might need should probably also be in there.