◜ . breadstick in a bow tie ┊ spaghetti . ◞

[JERSEYBOY]

JERSEY
BOY

Jerseyboy was fucking hungry. And no, not for "fresh-kill". Not for mice or rabbits, not for furry creatures bloodied and matted and reeking of flesh. No, he was in the mood for something more.

He was in the mood for overloading on carbs.

The tuxedo tom, with the power of a fire-heated stove and a small pot, had managed to boil pasta noodles as well as heat up marinara sauce. Although it had taken longer than his patience could normally handle ( which was not a lot anyways ), Jerseyboy had managed to make his own spaghetti. He hadn't had pasta since Jacob, and that was months ago. Oh, how he wondered about that kid sometimes... he wondered how he was doing with his new family and shit. The bitterness he initially held toward Pincher and Jacob's relationship was starting to subside, and now he just wanted to talk to the husky after three or so months.

Anywho, Jersey had plopped a spoonful of sauce onto his bowl of noodles. He whistled through his teeth and set it onto the floor before him. He then proceeded to dig into it head-first, slurping up the noodle-y goodness that was a bowl of spaghetti. God, this was heavenly.

© MADI

[agathe.]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; color;"]"That smells horrendous."

Of course Agathe had come to investigate what was reeking up the Observatory, expression twisting and contorting until she was all but scowling at Jerseyboy. In reality, it didn't smell terrible at all, but the foreign scent was more or less a strange assault on her senses and the Astral Seraph hated it. In some ways, she supposed she was a traditionalist. Her diet never really strayed from the raw meat of deer or larger game, and she had never entertained the idea of cooking her food on a stove. Wouldn't the heat ruin it? Maybe this visitor simply had horrible tastes.

"What is it anyways?" The leopardess asked skeptically, eying the noodles warily. They reminded her of little, brown worms and practically solidified her belief that Jerseyboy had horrible tastes. Who would want to eat a worm of all things? Agathe would shake her head, halfway tempted to demand he throw the plate away so she wouldn't have to look upon it any longer. But that wouldn't be nice, would it? In the end, the cloaked femme merely resoted to sitting down, her golden gaze never once straying from his plate of worms.