#And why do those fries look unseasoned >:(

[fndm-d]

Ranch.....

[alex51324]

Beach trip day two!

We got up and walked down to the beach behind the motel:

It's another gorgeous, unseasonably warm day on the Cape May peninsula! (Yeah, I know, but when global warming gives you a day of lovely beach weather at the end of October, it's not like abstaining from enjoying it helps in any way.)

Up on the deck for a little breakfast:

Our first stop was the Cape May Nature Center, which didn't have a whole lot going on this time of year, but the gift shop was great, and it had a few exhibits and a nice deck for looking out at the harbor:

We took a walk around the harbor, taking in the Fishermen's Memorial, honoring fishermen lost at sea:

The earliest names are from 1897, and the latest from 2020:

Then we ended up over at the marina where the fishing boats live:

The nature center has a beach wheelchair!

I didn't see any information on how one gets to use it, but if you or anyone you know uses a wheelchair and wants to go to Cape May, maybe give them a call and ask.

Next we drove through downtown Cape May, ending up at Cove Beach, which is the last of the city beaches. I got lunch at a little beach-shack type restaurant:

The fries were nothing impressive, but those were some of the best fried shrimp I've ever had.

By this point in the trip, Sophie had come to the conclusion that she likes best the part of the beach that isn't too close to the ocean, so she hung out in the car and ate French fries while I went wading on Cove Beach:

In the distance there you can see the Cape May lighthouse, which is our main destination for the day. But first, let's turn back and look at the restaurant:

It's the long, low building with the red roof. (No idea why those people are bundled up like that, unless maybe they're from Florida or something. It was about 70 degrees out. (Or 21-ish, Celsius).

After Cove Beach, we drove on to Cape May Point state park, where the lighthouse is. Since Sophie was going to skip the lighthouse climb too, we started with a nice walk on the dry part of the beach at the park, out to the World War II Bunker:

This is a big concrete structure on the beach, now unsafe and boarded up, that was part of the area's coastal defenses. There's also a lookout tower over by Sunset Beach (where we were for the sunset the previous night), but we skipped that. In the background, you can see the lighthouse!

Here's the ocean and a jetty or something:

And Sophie watching while I go onto the dangerously damp part of the beach:

We exited the beach on the far side of the bunker from where we entered, and walked back via a path that ran between the dunes and this pond:

Which was full of swans. There was also a snowy egret, and a lot of other birds I don't know. It's a very big pond, and there were tons of the swans:

Here's a shot from the same spot that is less good for swans, but better for the lighthouse:

There is a little museum, with some natural history exhibits, and this sign explaining about the bunker, and the beach replenishment project they had to do around the turn of the century:

And also a sign about the concrete ship, that we saw at Sunset Beach yesterday:

OK, now let's head for the lighthouse!

The windows, like you see here, are basically normal house-sized windows, to give you an idea of the scale. The lighthouse was built in 1859, and continues as an active lighthouse today, marking the entrance to the Delaware Bay.

The cast-iron spiral staircase has a total of 199 steps up to the viewing platform. Here we're on one of the six landings, looking toward the staircase:

Each landing has a little niche with a window in it, and as you go up, you can see how the walls are thicker at the bottom.

Here's a view from about halfway up:

Here we are up top!

That's the bunker and the pond, where we were a few photos ago!

Looking out over the town of Cape May Point:

It was incredibly windy out on the platform, and I was very nervous about dropping my phone and having to find my way back home without GPS. Let's go back inside!

This little room here was the lighthouse keeper's work area; back in the day before the light was automated, they had three keepers, who divided the time from dusk to dawn into three watches, with one of them up there at all times. The main things they had to do were lighting the lamp at dusk, refilling the fuel--kerosene, for most of the lighthouse's heyday--polishing the lens, and keeping an eye out for signals from ships in distress, but in winter, they'd also have to go out and clear snow and ice off windows at the very top, above the viewing platform.

The light:

The modern electric light is a lot simpler; in the kerosene-burning days, they had a huge glass lens, with lots of facets to refract the light out.

A short set of wooden steps up to where the light is:

Visitors aren't allowed up in that part--again, this is still a working lighthouse; it's automated now, so there isn't a keeper up there every day, but they do sometimes have to go up there for maintenance.

Back on the ground:

Our next stop was Highbee Beach, another beach on the bay side, for the sunset:

It was nice, but the temperature dropped precipitously in the hour or so before dark, and the wind was very strong, so it wasn't as pleasant a viewing experience as we had at Sunset Beach the day before. I'd been planning to stick around and see if I could see the Cape May-Lewes Ferry leaving for its 6:15 crossing, but it was too cold! We headed back to Cove Beach, to see the lighthouse in action:

That's it there; the light was less dramatic than I thought it would be, but I guess if you're out in the ocean in the pitch dark it stands out more. (Also, at this point the lighthouse is more of a backup in case a ship's GPS fails, rather than being the primary means of navigation like it was back when it was built.) Different lighthouses flash their lights in different patterns, so in the event that a ship's crew were completely disoriented, they could use that to figure out where they are and which direction is which. The Cape May lighthouse flashes on a cycle of 15 seconds, and the one on the other side of the bay at Lewes is on a 30-second cycle.

And I've hit the image limit! Stay tuned for part 2B.

[worldsewage]

🍕 - What is their favorite food? for fido, buck, and any other characters you want because i am obsessed with that ask you answered a while back about all your agents dietary habits. it was so in-depth and well written and made me hungy

YAY glad to hear!!!

Fido - fried gizzards, burgers, mac n’ cheese, unhealthy greasy junk food or gas station ramen, it’s like a guilty pleasure at this point, he usually survives on those ‘healthy vegan’ tv dinners because he hardly knows how to prepare meals for himself and he worries about his health. (Guy who’s morning routine is eating shredded cheese out the bag brushing his teeth and then sitting outside smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee, “why do I feel like shit all the time”) He likes how filling and delicious home cooked meals are but he loves the listed first few options. They just make him feel like crap afterward .

Buck - he likes sweet fruit desserts, usually, but you’ll win him over with anything that has a cute presentation. He’s not good at baking so he’s always eager to order a dessert when he goes out to eat and chocolate is too sweet for him. I think if you asked him what his favorite food was he’d answer with some expensive salmonid meat product only because it tastes great and it’s not something he’d eat often. But otherwise it’s for sure fruit desserts. (And maybe not super relevant, but. He really likes the taste of green onions and cilantro. 🌿 He also eats a lot of popsicles and other frozen ice creams? He keeps them in the fridge at work since Inkling territory is always so HOT…)

I already rambled about the NSS’s food decisions, but in a nutshell:

July: Sweet fruit (like watermelon or strawberries. Kiwi…)

Alligator: fried junk and anything hearty and meaty; she’s a girl who loves rice… carbs.

Valentine: sweet desserts, but they’ll eat anything. I think alligator has watched her bite one of her rotting house plants before. She will lick a wall if it looks like it has a Taste.

Saint: light foods… rice… unseasoned meat or seaweed flaked on… eggs. Because Octarians have dietary restrictions similar to the dietary choices of wasteland salmonids, usually food cooked by Valentine:

Samah: the same way as Saint, light foods, egg, but dislikes veggies and can sometimes be a little picky. They are overall willing to try anything.

[ididntneedanewfandom]

BakuDeku Winter Week 1 - Reparations

"I'm home."

There's no reply to Katsuki's words. Granted, they were quiet enough that they might have gotten lost under the music playing softly in the living room. It's been a long day and he's too tired to even speak at his usual volume. The 'heroing' part of the day went fine; it's filling out forms afterward that completely fries his brain. He thought he was done with useless paperwork when he graduated from U.A.. No such luck. And to top it all, the unseasonable spring heat has been horrendous. It's helpful for his quirk, sure, but after a point it's just oppressive.

He's late enough that he'd have expected dinner to be waiting for him, or to have received a request from his nerd to pick up takeout on the way home. But there are no yummy smells to greet him--not even burnt ones as sometimes happen--and it looks like if he wants food he'll have to work on that himself. Any other night it'd be fine, but he's tired enough that the prospect isn't all that appealing.

Although...

That deep-seated tiredness seems to melt away when he walks into the living room to find Deku reclining on the couch with his back to the armrest and one of his notebooks propped up on his raised knees. He's wearing that too big, slightly misshapen wool sweater in All Might's costume colors, the one Katsuki always teases him about. How he can bear to wear that warm thing in this weather, Katsuki has no idea.

"Used to be, you'd be all over me when I walked in the door," Katsuki says with a mock-wounded look as he approaches the couch. "I guess the honeymoon phase is over, huh?"

Deku blinks those big eyes up at him a couple of times.

"Oh, hi Kacchan," he says with a small smile. "I didn't hear you come in."

Katsuki snorts. That much was obvious. Climbing over the end of the couch, he crawls up to Deku, pushing his knees apart to settle between them, unceremoniously dropping the notebook and pen he takes from Deku to the floor.

"Hey, wait, I was--"

Katsuki silences what was coming next by pressing his mouth to Deku's. He suddenly feels a lot better, but there's still room for improvement.

He lifts his mouth and body off Deku's just enough that he has room to tug at the sweater to get to the delicious, warm skin beneath.

"Kacchan, please be careful," Deku mumbles.

"Careful about what? You're not as breakable as you used to be."

Even with Deku helpfully lifting his hips to free the bit of sweater stuck under his ass, Katsuki has to work hard to get it off him. It's caught underneath him, but one last tug--

"What... What was that?”

Deku sits up properly now, dislodging Katsuki from his lap even as he reclaims the sweater from him with shaky hands, a steady stream of "No, no, please no" rising from his lips.

"What's gotten into you?" Katsuki asks, frowning.

"It felt like..."

He falls silent as his fingers find the large rip on the back, longer than Katsuki's hand, multiple strands of frayed wool hanging loose. His expression is one of pure grief; Katsuki's stomach twists unpleasantly.

"I asked you to be careful," Deku murmurs, and Katsuki knows that tone of voice. Years ago, it'd have been accompanied by tears. Deku doesn't cry so much anymore... But it doesn't make things any better when he's really upset. He just clams up, and fuck knows what Katsuki can do to fix it when it happens.

"It's just a cheesy old sweater, " he mutters. "I'll get you one from my merch line. Better quality and better colors."

His pointed look dares Deku to protest that--they once spent a very pleasant night arguing about costume colors in between rounds of fucking, and Katsuki wouldn't mind a repeat. But when he crawls back up Deku's body again, when he slides a hand over Deku's ridiculously tight abs, Deku slaps his hand away and shimmies out from under Katsuki until he can stand, still clutching the mangled sweater.

"It was Toshinori's," he says in a cold voice, glaring at Katsuki.

It's so rare to see Deku direct actual anger toward him that Katsuki's old defenses go back up instantly. Stinging words fall from his lips before he even knows he's speaking.

"Stealing from other people's closets? And here I thought you only stole my clothes. I guess I'm not that special, huh?"

Deku's gaze hardens just a little more, and Katsuki almost expects lightning to start coursing over his body. His voice is cold enough that it could put IcyHot's quirk to shame.

"He gave it to me. It was sample merch that never got mass produced because it was handmade and too complicated to bring to market. He kept it because he said it fit him in both his forms. He thought I'd get a kick out of having it in my collection, so when he was cleaning up his things before ... He gave it to me. And you just ruined it when I asked you to be careful. But it's not like you've ever cared about my stuff anyway, is it?"

It hurts.

It hurts because it's true--or was true. Watching Deku walk away, listening to his heavy feet and the banging of their bedroom door, Katsuki can't help but remember other instances when he broke or destroyed Deku's things just because he could. The fact that today it was an accident doesn't make it any less his fault.

Katsuki groans and runs a hand over his face. He really fucked up.

He'd like nothing more than to follow Deku and not let him walk away from him--how things have changed… But then what? 'Sorry' doesn't feel like it'd be nearly enough, and Katsuki doesn't know what else he's supposed to say.

Tired steps take him to the kitchen. He stands in front of the open fridge for a while before pulling out the ingredients for katsudon. He's really not in the mood to cook, but he doesn't know what else to do.

He's just about done frying the pork and already filling up two bowls when slow steps come up behind him. He glances back at Deku, who stands there in a t-shirt inscribed with the words 'boyfriend shirt', his hands in his pockets.

"I'm so--" he starts, but Katsuki doesn't let him finish.

"Swear to god, Deku, if you try to apologize I'm shoving my foot up your ass."

Deku frowns at him.

"That's what grow-ups do, Kacchan. When they say something ugly or something they don't mean, or when they do something they shouldn't, they apologize."

"And what good does that do?" Katsuki mutters as he tops the bowls of food with the pork cutlets and places both on their small kitchen table. "Words won't knit your sweater back together. Sit down."

Taking his own advice, he draws a chair and sits. He fiddles with his chopsticks until Deku sighs and sits across from him.

"Itadakimasu," he says quietly, his eyes on his food.

Katsuki grunts in reply and watches him take a couple of bites before he asks, his voice tight and low, "Can it be repaired?"

Deku shrugs a little, and briefly looks up.

"I doubt it. It's a big rip. It's my fault, I noticed a loose bit of wool before and I didn't do anything about it. I should have fixed it then."

And it's just so completely <i>Deku</i> to take the blame for something that wasn't his fault that Katsuki doesn't know whether he wants to kick him or kiss him. In the end, he lightly kicks his shin under the table, and when Deku glares up at him, he mumbles, not quite meeting Deku's eyes even as his cheeks heat up, "'M sorry. For ripping your sweater and for what I said."

Deku's foot finds his again for something that feels more like a caress than a kick.

"The food's delicious," he says softly. "Thank you."

And Katsuki knows he's forgiven--just as well as he knows he doesn't deserve to be. Not yet.

*

Seven months later

This year again, they set up a Christmas tree.

All right, so Izuku sets up a Christmas tree while Kacchan sits there and watches. At least this time he doesn't say it's a silly tradition, though he did insist that Izuku only set it up the night before Christmas. Seeing how busy they've both been lately, Izuku doesn't think he'd have found the time to set it up sooner regardless.

And besides, Kacchan never said when it's got to come down...

Izuku just likes the lights twinkling when the room is dark at night. And he likes finding hero-themed ornaments to hang from the branches. He has four All Might ones on there, each in a different costume. He doesn't despair of finding one for EraserHead someday. He has a Froppy one and a Uravity one--they're not licensed merch, just handmade figures created by a fan he found online. He's got an official Shouto ornament--well, really it's a collectible figure meant to sit on a shelf, Izuku just looped a bit of string around Shouto's outstretched hand... and he makes sure to hang it way in the back, so Kacchan won't roll his eyes and pout every time he looks at the tree.

There's also a licensed Dynamight ornament on there, and Izuku makes sure to put it front and center. Kacchan absolutely loathes it, because whoever sculpted it gave him a smile--a nice, soft smile, the kind of smile Izuku is the only one lucky enough to receive. Which is why Izuku loves it. And why he bought seven of them, the replacements stashed in a secure place just in case this one 'mysteriously' disappears.

After hanging up another handful of ornaments--they're minor heroes, but Izuku has had the chance to work with each of them--he stands back to admire his work. A little behind him, Kacchan grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and pulls until Izuku, laughing, stumbles back and into his lap. Kacchan's arms immediately wrap around him, holding him where he is--not that Izuku has any other place to be.

"What do you think?" he asks happily, watching the multicolor lights blink on and off randomly.

Kacchan grunts. "Don't think I didn't notice you hiding Candycane in the back. You should put a real candy cane on there, it'd look nicer."

Clucking his tongue, Izuku taps the thigh underneath his own.

"Be nice," he admonishes. "Or I'll put two of yours on there."

A huff against the base of his neck sends shivers down Izuku's spine.

"It doesn't need another one of me on there," Kacchan mutters. "But it could use one of you."

Izuku wouldn't mind, but his agency isn't like Kacchan's. They don't really do merch there--which Izuku is fine with, he agrees with his boss that the important part is to be a hero, not to sell stuff, and he's about to remind Kacchan of that when something small and green dangles in his peripheral vision. With some difficulty, he lifts his eyes from the tree and looks at...

Himself.

Or, well, a version of himself.

The figure dangling from Kacchan's fingers on a silver string is just three or four inches tall, but the details on it, from the costume to the pose to the expression on the face, are all exquisite. Whoever sculpted this--is it clay? It looks like glazed clay--did an awesome job.

And gave Izuku an absolutely feral expression.

Izuku doesn't know whether to laugh or squeal or just turn around and kiss Kacchan.

"It's a little Deku!" he exclaims, then laughs as he takes the figure in his hands. "A really angry little Deku!"

"Bet he's angry because Dynamight has been hanging in that tree with all these extras without him. You should put him up there."

Izuku is happy to do so, but not before turning In Kacchan's lap and stealing a kiss... or maybe even two.

Then he practically bounces to the tree and carefully hangs up his figure next to Kacchan's. They're the same size and fit perfectly together. It makes Izuku wish they'd get to fight side by side more often. Maybe some day, he thinks wistfully, they'll open an agency together. They've talked about it a few times, but they're still rookies, barely out of school, and while they technically <i>could</i>, they both agreed it was too soon.

"I love my present, Kacchan," Izuku says as he turns back to his boyfriend. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Kacchan says, "but it's not your present. This is."

His fingers drum on the top of the plain white box that definitely wasn't next to him on the couch just a second ago. Izuku tilts his head, wishing one of his quirk was X-ray vision or something. His fingers itch and he doesn't dare take a step forward.

"Do you want to put it under the tree with yours?" he says softly.

Kacchan shakes his head.

"Come here," he says. "Open it."

Izuku doesn't move.

"But Christmas is only tomorrow," he protests, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears.

Kacchan's lips stretch on a wicked grin. "Have it your way. I'll open it, then, and keep it for my--"

Before he can finish or slide his fingers under the edge of the box, Izuku plops himself back down on his lap and draws the box onto his knees. Laughing, Kacchan encircles his waist with his arms again and rests his chin on Izuku's shoulder, watching as he lifts the top of the box and reveals a familiar pattern and colors: All Might's costume.

It takes a good two or three seconds before Izuku recognizes the equally familiar ridges of knitted wool. His breath catches in his throat and he very slowly, very carefully lifts what he knows is a sweater out of the box.

It's his sweater. He knows it is, because there's a small, black spot of indelible ink near the collar; it was already there when Izuku got it.

It's the sweater he's kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser for the past few months, unable to wear it anymore without aggravating the rip but unwilling to put it away for good.

But when he turns it around, the rip is gone. And if Izuku didn't know exactly where to look, he probably wouldn't notice the repaired area. Everything matches, from the color of the wool to the pattern of the knitting. The only thing is that the wool seems a little newer in that area, less fuzzy than the rest, but that's only because Izuku knows what he's looking at.

"Kacchan," he breathes, but doesn't know what else to say.

"Is that all right?" Kacchan asks, his voice tight. "I mean, I know I should have asked first before touching your stuff, but then it'd have ruined the surprise."

"It's..." Izuku's throat feels too tight. He clutches the sweater to his chest. "It's perfect. Thank you."

After Kacchan kisses the back of his head, he manages to ask, "But... how? I looked for shops that repair knitted things but I didn't find anything."

Kacchan mumbles something; Izuku isn't quite sure he hears right. "You... what?"

"I learned to knit," Kacchan repeats a little louder, sounding embarrassed of all things. "My parents work with this old woman sometimes, she knits samples of their designs for them and then they have factories recreate the stuff. I asked her if it was fixable, and when she said yes I asked if she'd teach me how. I wanted to have it ready for your birthday but that shit took longer than I expected. I just finished last week."

Izuku understands all the words individually but he struggles to make sense of them all together. Shifting on Kacchan's lap, he turns to look at him, and is surprised to find him red-faced.

"You learned to knit?" he asks, unable to keep an edge of awe from his voice.

"I messed up your sweater," Kacchan mutters. "Wanted to fix the damn thing." Rather than looking at Izuku, he rests his forehead against Izuku's collarbone and talks against his t-shirt. "There's a lot of stuff I can't fix, but that, at least--"

Izuku has heard enough. Holding the sweater close with one hand, he cups Kacchan's face with the other and kisses him within an inch of his life. Soon, Izuku is wearing his sweater again. The lights of the tree keep twinkling, but Izuku only has eyes for Kacchan.

[evans-heaven]

Notes on Defending Jacob ep.4 (for fun lol, also not spoiler free)

This post is gonna be shorter (maybe lol) than the first one cause it's just one episode this time around! Definitely not crying about that 😅

Just a reminder, I'm not a pro and this isn't really a review, but I am shoved rather far up Chris Evans' bum, soooooo that should tell you everything you need to know before you read these notes (or any I make in the future) 🤣😋

Another reminder that I'm not asking anyone to take me seriously. I make these notes because I enjoy doing them.

K I'm done let's get into it!!

I knew the swimming scene was coming in this episode but damn, right off the bat huh? I'm okay with the heart attack tho so no sweat 🤣

Laurie sitting in her car in the parking lot outside the store, immediately I knew why, and I think a lot of us did too. It was so sad to see. Really places us inside the depth of the situation, even if its such a small action, it speaks volumes. Poor thing must have been tired physically and mentally. My heart got torn in two every time I saw her on screen throughout the episode. I just wanna give her a damn hug 😩😭

The juxtaposition of Andy and Laurie's faces during the meeting with Joanna, while subtle, says a helluva lot about how they feel. It was such amazing facial acting. Its clear from their expressions alone, who knows the story is bs and probably will admit it, and who also knows the story is bs, but definitely won't admit it.

The way Jacob and Joanna bounced off of each other as he continued his (bs) story, was intense, and the score added to it. Jacob's rising nerves led to mine doing the same, and I even found myself trying to figure out how he could have told the story better. Joanna's expression, the 'this lie ain't shit' one, was also quite influential. Like, you wanna help this 14 year old kid, but he can't even help himself and shit just keeps piling up.

Andy babe I know thats your kid, you wanna protect and coddle him but the police was the appropriate choice of contact. And clearly theres some deeper shit going down. He didn't call you or anyone else because it's not as it seems.

"Our memories are often less reliable than we think, particularly in moments of stress" PLEASE tell me I'm not the only one who immediately thought of Laurie's memory of Jacob at the bowling alley. Like obviously it was a 3 second scene, and it seemed pretty telling, but what if that's only part of it? Or what if shes not remembering it the way it went down? Like, her kid was accused of murder, and what she thinks would make it make sense might be plaguing her and being twisted by her, because of stress and fear.

My immediate reaction to Laurie's rant at Jacob was to yell "I'M SORRY" 😭 legit felt like sis was reading ME the riot act. Stress is just piling up on her and she will not have her kid acting like everything has no reason to be the way it is. Waiting in parking lots for groceries to open is not normal, having all your friends alienate you is not normal, being the talk of the town for negative reasons is not normal. So sit tf down, eat your unseasoned food and stop complaining.

In that one moment, for Andy, everything was okay as he and Jacob sat watching the movie. Until, he realized everything wasn't okay. He just had to remember that his kid, who sat there, care free, laughing at the film, was gonna be on trial for murder. It's as easy to forget as it is to remember. Seeing Andy's face change so subtly, from a smile to worried gaze, broke my heart.

Andy saying 'of course not' when Laurie asked if there was a part of him that thinks he might have done it. Who was he trying to convince?

👏🏽LET👏🏽ME👏🏽TELL👏🏽Y'ALL👏🏽SOME👏🏽THING👏🏽

That acting in the scene where Andy met Matthew? That perfect mix of chill and resolve (for lack of better word) in the way Andy spoke? The 'don't fuck with me' energy that radiated off of him? Where is the Emmy?? WHERE IS IT???

Andy's just getting increasingly desperate and its lowkey unsettling. Idc if hes a snacc, dude is being a little ridiculous and needs to do himself a favor and see things from his wife's perspective. I know it may be hard but I don't even wanna imagine where his denial is gonna take him. Also the protectiveness leading him to burst into his kid's room in a very embarrassing way was...cringe 😅

As much as I wanted Laurie to have felt normal for once since everything went down, even for a fucking hour or two, I lowkey was waiting for some shit to happen in the diner. It just seemed too good to be true. The heartbreak/shock on Laurie's face when she found out was too real.

I'm interested to see Andy's meeting with his dad. I know its gonna be difficult/uncomfortable and the amazing acting I know we're gonna see will convey that really well. Also lowkey some shade from Laurie in that scene, I love 🤣

A few more short notes:

Andy ffs your kid's story sucks for a reason 🤦🏾‍♀️

Needa know the conversation Derek and his mom had with Pam 👀

That food looked hella unseasoned, put some butter on the bread at least lmao

Andy/Chris' laugh 😭🥰

Fuck Neal

Like seriously fuck him

The little guy playing young Andy omg 😭🥺

Fucking white kids oh my gawd y'all think I could ever tell my mother to shut up 😂🙄

That DO YOU HEAR ME with the lack of the "r" in hear...🥴

Some of those images Jacob saw in the therapist's office 😣 I know that was the point but sheesh lol

Who gets a salad with fries lmao is that normal

Did Jacob fold his pizza? Is that also normal?

Reporter lady didn’t deserve those fries smh 🙄

There was a lot of food in this episode 🤣

Jay Kobbs? Really? 🤦🏾‍♀️🤣

Whatever it takes 😭 okay Steve Rogers 😭

Amazing acting from Michelle Dockery in this episode, especially the diner scene.

Amazing acting from Jaeden in the meeting with Joanna.

Amazing acting from Chris Evans no matter the scene (are we surprised? No lol), but especially when he met Matthew.

Thats all for now, see y’all for the next episode <3

[gcthamqueen]

Title: she’s like the den mother of hell.

Summary: “If Perse is here in the ass crack of nowhere Connecticut in the middle of winter, what does that tell you about what’s happening in the Netherworld right about now?”

———

A year after the events of the musical, a freak day of scorching sun in the middle of a Connecticut winter lands the queen of the Netherworld in the middle of the Deetz-Maitland household.And they thought letting Beetlejuice stay with them would put an end to the majority of their supernatural weirdness.

Link: [ao3]

***************************

chapter one: winter’s nigh and summer’s o’er.

A freak weather phenomenon sweeps through Winter River, as Lydia and Beetlejuice make a discovery on a trip to the local graveyard.

It takes a moment, when Beetlejuice suddenly finds himself awake in the early hours of the morning, for him to realise what had dragged him back to awareness.

The last time he can recall feeling something even a little bit similar to the distinctive thrum of the supernatural currently making the hair on his arms stand on end had been a year ago when his mother had emerged from the Netherworld intent on claiming Lydia, her fury practically rolling off her in waves. But this is something he barely recognises, especially after the last year spent mostly outside of the Netherworld, and nothing he can recall coming into contact with previously had been potent enough to wake him up like this.

Throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed, he yawned widely and raked a hand through his eternally messy hair as he phased through the door to head downstairs and raid the fridge. It had been an admittedly bizarre year in the wake of his first encounter with the Deetz family and the Maitlands. Despite his initial return to a Juno-less Netherworld, Beetlejuice had ended up returning to the living world because somewhere very deep down - not that he’d ever actually admit it - he’d missed the breathers and newly-deads too much. So it had been months of Lydia wearing away at her living and ghostly parents to allow him to move in and earning his way into the family’s good graces. Somewhere along the way, he’d even become Lydia’s big brother to explain his presence to anyone in Winter River who might ask, which had warmed his cold dead heart more than he’d care to admit.

Padding down the stairs, he wasn’t particularly surprised to find Adam and Barbara in the kitchen, working on preparing the beginnings of a breakfast for when the resident breathers woke up.

“Woke you dorks up too, huh?” He asked, opening the fridge to rifle through it for the leftover Chinese food from the previous night.

“That energy spike?” Barbara replied, “Yeah. It’s the strangest thing. Everything feels all...heavy, I guess. Like the air right before a storm.”

“It is way too early in the morning to be gettin’ all poetic like that, Babs,” Beetlejuice grinned as he scooped a handful of fried rice into his mouth with his fingers.

“What was it anyway?” Adam asked, moving to drop a fork into the takeout carton in response to him eating with his hands.

“Hell if I know, A-Dog,” Beetlejuice shrugged as he continued with the food, albeit now with the fork, “Something supernatural’s all screwy. Couldn’t tell you why though. Sometimes it just happens.”

Eventually, he found his way into the living room to pass out on the couch for another few hours, only to be woken up by Lydia practically throwing herself on his back.

“Morning Beej!”

“You’re chipper this mornin’, Scarecrow,” he grinned, squirming around to get her in a headlock and give her an affectionate noogie, making her shriek with laughter and wriggle out of his grasp.

“It’s the first proper day of my holidays and it’s actually nice out,” she replied, “We can head down to the graveyard and start on those photos I’ve been wanting to take.”

“Nice out? I thought it was snowing.”

“Geez, when you sleep, you really sleep, huh?” Lydia mused, gesturing to the living room window, “It’s been super sunny since I woke up.”

Sure enough, despite the snow, the sky seemed as blue and clear as the middle of summer, the sun beating down across the barren trees at the edge of the garden and the existing layer of snow.

“Huh,” he mused, tilting his head to one side like a dog, “Sure is. Well, might as well make the most of it, Lyds. Kick your holidays off in style.”

As the teenager clattered her way upstairs to change and gather her camera gear together, Beetlejuice found himself gravitating to the back porch, stepping out into the unseasonal weather. Maybe this strange weather had been what had woken him and the Maitlands earlier? Though the same strange supernatural itch seemed to continue as though telling him he was yet to find the source.

“Let’s go!”

Allowing Lydia to loop an arm into his and drag him out of the house as they shouted their goodbyes, they began the walk down to the graveyard. It was a strange combination of the summer sun and the slowly melting snow, and the continued pull of something beyond typical small town life that had been driving him insane all morning.

Once they reached the graveyard, he was quickly distracted by posing for Lydia, even though more often than not he never appeared in photos beyond the faintest blur. It still didn’t stop him from striking ridiculous poses against some of the gravestones or sneaking into frame on others and pulling stupid faces in an attempt to make Lydia laugh.

After a while, Lydia had moved over into an older area of the graveyard to photograph some of the more interesting statues, while he had perched cross legged on top of one of the tombs to keep an eye on things. As she stepped around one side of a mausoleum, she suddenly stopped in place before leaning back to call out to him, attention still focussed ahead of her.

“...hey Beej?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s...someone here.”

The unease in her voice finally refocusses his attention, and he hopped down from his perch to jog over to her. Sure enough, as he stepped around the edge of the mausoleum, he saw the figure pressed up against the wall, almost unmoving. Almost as soon as his eyes fell on her, that same energy that had dragged him out of bed last night sparked something familiar in the recesses of his mind, and the sudden recognition of the woman hit him with the force of a rampaging sandworm.

Juno had roped him into the annual meeting for Persephone’s return to the Netherworld once before his banishment, part of the welcoming committee for the queen. (He also hadn’t been allowed to attend again after the incident with the spiders). At that point of the year, her hair had been vibrant red and orange curls like autumn leaves, and her eyes a bright gold. He’d never seen her quite so deathly pale or with her hair this shade of icy blonde, though he supposed this was more to do with the seasons than the way his hair changed with his mood.

Now he actually understood what had caused the day’s freak summer sun.

Moving past Lydia to crouch down beside her, he carefully reached out to gently shake her shoulder, noticing the ring of scratches and bruises at her throat that had the distinct shape of clawed hands and letting out a string of curses. Who in their right mind had attacked her?

“Perse?”

When she didn’t respond, he couldn’t help but swear again. The longer he looked, the more injuries were apparent; more cuts and bruises, and what looked like a set of claws gashed deeply into the side of her hip to stain her dress and the hand she’d attempted to use to place pressure on it in golden ichor.

“Is she okay?”

Glancing behind him, Lydia had moved closer, clearly concerned at what was happening. Sighing through his nose, he looked between her and Persephone again before making a decision.

“She will be, if we get her back to the house.”

He bent down to carefully pick Persephone up bridal style, making sure he wasn’t about to hurt her any further.

“Sorry we’re cutting this short, Lyds.”

“The graveyard’s always gonna be here,” she replied, “This is more important.”

Clearly she’d managed to pick up on just how worried he was about this giant bombshell that had been dropped in their lap. God-slash-Satan only knew what colour his hair was right about now.

“Grab on, kid,” he said, waiting for Lydia to link her arm in his before focussing and transporting all three of them back to the house. Making a beeline for the back door, he practically kicked the door open as he headed for the living room.

“You two are back soo-,” Adam said as he stepped out of the kitchen before he took in the unconscious woman Beetlejuice was carefully setting down on the sofa, “What on earth happened?!”

Stepping back from the sofa, the explanation Lydia was giving to Adam as Barbara and Delia made their way down the stairs at the sound of raised voices almost seemed to be drowned out by his own racing thoughts as he sank his hands into his hair trying not to panic. How the hell was he supposed to explain a badly injured Persephone if anyone had followed her here? He’d been in enough trouble in the Netherworld before that he was certain they’d jump to the wrong conclusion that he had been responsible and find some heinous punishment to fit the crime of attacking the queen. And what would her husband do about this whole mess?

Fighting back a distinct sense of nausea at the prospect, he was brought back to the present as Barbara gently eased his arms back down, taking his hands in hers to give him something to focus on so he could try and calm down.

“It’s alright Beetlejuice,” she reassured him, giving his hands a soft squeeze, “We just need to know what happened. Who is she?”

Swallowing thickly as he glanced back to the sofa where Adam and Delia were already fussing around to figure out how to dress the wound in her side

“Persephone,” he managed to croak out, “Queen of the Netherworld. And she is so not supposed to be here.”

[bentonpena]

Tofu Freaking Rules

Tofu Freaking Rules https://bit.ly/350TvUV

We need to talk about tofu. As Beyond Meat and Impossible Burger mania sweeps the globe, the OG vegan protein is getting left behind—and I, for one, hate to see it. If you’re serious about reducing your reliance on animal products, tofu has the potential to change your diet—and life—for the better.

To some extent, I get why so many people, particularly American meat-eaters, are resistant to the entire concept of tofu. Western culture has ruthlessly (and racist-ly) slandered the humble soy-based protein for as long as we’ve known about it, so a lot of us were basically programmed from birth to think it’s garbage.

I’m begging you to reconsider. When correctly prepared, tofu is a textural marvel, running the gamut from delicate and custardy to deep-fried and crunchy. Its unmatched flavor-absorbing powers make it a total chameleon; it truly can be anything you want it to be. I’ve loved tofu my whole meat-eating life, and I’m here to convert the naysayers. Welcome to my Tofu Manifesto.

You’re probably thinking about tofu all wrong

The biggest, wrongest tofu misconception is that it’s strictly a meat substitute. Sure, it can be that if it needs to—but tofu’s closest animal protein analog is actually the egg. On their own, eggs are bland; it’s their ability to morph into a staggering array of forms and textures that makes them so special. However you like your eggs—fried crisp with lacy edges, scrambled soft with lots of butter, or cooked into a puffy, tender frittata—I’m willing to bet your preferences come down to texture rather than flavor.

The same is true for tofu, which is why I’m skeptical when people insist they don’t like how it tastes. Soft and silken tofu has a more noticeable soy milk vibe than the firm stuff, but for the most part, it adds no flavor whatsoever to a dish. Tofu only tastes as good as the sauce it’s served in—texture is basically the whole point.

It’s embarrassingly easy to make tofu taste amazing

Contrary to popular assumption, delicious tofu takes barely any work at all. In fact, all the usual hacks try way too hard: Pressing takes forever (and freezing even longer); marinating often yields profoundly mediocre results; a cornstarch dredge too easily sogs out. None of these techniques work particularly well on medium-to-soft tofu, and with the exception of marinating, they also offer absolutely nothing in the way of seasoning.

For all of these reasons and more, the salt water trick is the only tofu hack worth knowing. Hot, salty water is a tofu prep triple threat: It dehydrates firm tofu so it crisps up quickly, sets super-fragile soft tofu so it doesn’t fall apart, and seasons everything through and through. It also adds as much work to your dinner prep as boiling pasta. I’ll get into the specific techniques in a bit; for now, just know that the salt water hack promoted tofu from something I’d buy occasionally to a legit, can’t-live-without-it staple.

If you remain unmoved, I’ve collected my favorite tofu products and preparations in one place, starting with the most hater-friendly ones. This isn’t a recipe post—it’s all about the technique. (Where applicable, I’ll link to specific recipes that I used and explain how I adjusted them to work with tofu, with the hope that you’ll soon be doing the same.)

Even hardline skeptics love fried tofu puffs

Tofu puffs are cheap, delicious, deep-fried flavor sponges that need zero prep; in other words, they’re easy to love. You can toss them whole into curries and stews for a fun textural element, but I strongly recommend taking 30 seconds to slice them in half. With their honeycomb-like interiors exposed, these puffy little nuggets soak up sauce like nobody’s business—without compromising their crispiness.

To show them off, I made my favorite Maangchi recipe—cheese buldak, or fire chicken with cheese—with halved tofu puffs instead of chicken breast.

Those two ingredients are obviously nothing alike, but the swap totally works thanks to the insanely powerful sauce. Red-hot both in color and spice level, surprisingly sweet, and with enough fresh ginger and garlic to put hair on your chest, it more than picks up the slack for something as bland as chicken breast or unseasoned tofu. Having made this dish with chicken dozens of times, I have to say—I prefer the puffs. Even when saturated with sauce, they stay light and puffy, which is the perfect contrast to the ultra-chewy texture of sliced rice cakes and melted mozzarella.

Pressed tofu does (most of) the prep work for you

As the name implies, pressed tofu has already been pressed to remove most of its moisture, resulting in a pleasantly toothsome texture. You can buy it pre-seasoned with soy sauce and five spice powder, but I like it plain so I can season it however I like.

Here, I whipped up a vaguely Spam-inspired mixture of roughly 2 tablespoons each of soy sauce and sugar, plus a teaspoon of garlic powder and a few shakes of smoky hot sauce (El Yucateco Black Label Reserve for life). I added some cubed pressed tofu and let everyone hang out about 20 minutes, flipping them around halfway through. You don’t need much marinade; a shallow layer is plenty.

I then used it to bulk up a super basic batch of fried rice with ginger, garlic, carrots, and frozen peas. The cubes got nicely crispy and charred on the edges, and were just what I needed to add some substance to a huge bowl of fried carbs.

Unseasoned pressed tofu also makes great vegan “paneer:” Cube it up and marinate in lemon juice with a few pinches of salt for 30 minutes, or longer if you have the time. As with regular paneer, you can pan-fry the tofu or leave it alone; either way, you’ll be surprised at how closely the marinated tofu mimics the texture and flavor of the real thing.

Medium-to-firm tofu needs a little TLC

This range of the tofu spectrum is the most recognizable and the least immediately appealing. I mean, just look at this:

In my experience, the variations between medium, firm, and extra-firm tofu are pretty meaningless, and I use them all interchangeably. Left uncooked, they all have a texture best described as “rubbery,” with no discernible flavor at all. Their highest calling is getting crispy in a hot skillet and doused in a flavorful sauce.

All you need to make crunchy pan-fried tofu is salt water, a good nonstick pan, and all of 20-30 minutes. That’s it. Here’s my usual procedure for a standard 1-pound block.

Before I do any other ingredient prep, I bring 2-3 cups of salted water and 2 teaspoons of table salt to a strong boil in a saucepan. Then I cut the heat, slide in my tofu, and let it sit while I prepare the rest of the recipe. After 15-20 minutes, I drain off the water and either pat the tofu dry on clean towels or leave it in the colander until I need it.

To get that crispy surface going, I coat my big cast-iron skillet with a thin layer of neutral oil and heat it over medium-high. I then add the tofu, spread it into an even layer, and leave it completely alone for at least 5 minutes.

Once the edges start to brown, I flip it over and do the same on the other side.

Boom. Done. Obviously, I used crumbled tofu here—it’s my favorite—but this works just as well with cubes, slabs, triangles, or any other shape you can dream up.

Don’t sleep on crumbled tofu

I know I said that tofu isn’t a meat substitute, but crispy tofu crumbles get really fucking close. In many cases, I prefer them to meat because they hold their shape—and a surprising amount of crunch—even when simmered for a long time. Sure, they don’t give you the specific richness you get with ground pork or beef, but with the right recipe you won’t miss it at all.

Speaking of the right recipe, Bon Appétit Test Kitchen director Chris Morocco’s spicy sweet sambal pork noodles are flawless—but, despite the name, I’ve actually never made them with meat. I only had tofu the first time I made them, and they turned out so well that I’m fine with never learning how they taste with pork.

I make the recipe exactly as written, except—obviously—I leave the pork out. Instead, I fry up soaked, crumbled firm tofu in a separate skillet while the sauce simmers, then dump ‘em in and toss everything together with cooked noodles. This cuts at least 30 minutes off the cook time without compromising on anything except porkiness, which I promise won’t even register.

You can also use tofu crumbles like ground beef. I usually throw in some minced onion and garlic in once the tofu is nice and crispy, then cook it down with a little tomato paste, taco seasoning, and cheap beer if I’ve got it.

It’s not beefy, exactly, but it tastes incredible in its own right—and makes a killer vegan-friendly crunchwrap filling.

You can roast tofu, too

Maybe you’d rather not spray your stovetop with oil in the name of crispy tofu. In that case, roasted tofu is for you. The results are directly comparable to pan-frying—they just take a little longer to get there.

Start with soaked, drained tofu, preferably cut into triangles or flat slabs so they’re easy to flip. Arrange on a clean towel and let them dry out while your oven preheats to 450ºF.

If you like, cut a vegetable of your choice into similarly-sized pieces and toss them with a tablespoon or two of neutral oil; I’m using kabocha squash here.

Place a sheet pan on the lowest oven rack. After about 3 minutes, add 2-3 tablespoons of neutral oil to the pan, put it back in the oven, and heat for another minute or two. Carefully transfer the tofu and vegetables to the hot oiled pan, return to the bottom rack, and roast for at least 20 minutes. Flip everything over and roast for another 15-20 minutes, until the tofu is super crispy on both sides and the vegetables are browned and soft.

You can eat the whole shebang straight off the pan—perhaps drizzled with spicy peanut sauce or chili oil—but I added mine to a quick curry made with Maesri panang curry paste, palm sugar, and coconut milk. (Maesri is the only brand I’ve found that doesn’t use shrimp paste or fish sauce; if you usually avoid prepared curry paste for allergy or vegan reasons, give it a try.)

To be completely honest, the kabocha was a miss—the flesh was too dry, and the skin was super tough. The crispy roasted tofu, however, slapped. They can’t all be bangers; such is the nature of experimentation.

When you feel ready, silken tofu is there for you

The next stop on our tour de tofu is the most controversial, misunderstood one yet: Soft or silken tofu. Yes, it’s bland. Unseasoned coagulated soy milk isn’t going to blow your mind with super-concentrated umami or whatever. But when prepared correctly, soft tofu is more than just delicious—it’s absolutely sublime. I will go to bat for it all day long, and I would love to tell you why.

The dish that changed my mind about silken tofu came from Biwa, a now-closed izakaya-style bar in Portland. It was deceptively simple: A whole block of chilled silken tofu drizzled with sweet soy sauce and topped with bias-cut scallions, fistfuls of toasted sesame seeds, and paper-thin bonito shavings. I ordered it every time, and my friends would always be like—“Cold tofu? Why?” But if I could convince them to take a bite, they’d understand. It was like eating a deeply savory panna cotta.

Unfortunately, my dearly departed Tofu Slab is no more—and my attempts to recreate it have been so unsuccessful that I’m forced to settle for the next best thing: Salt water-soaked silken tofu mounded on hot white rice and drowned in chili oil, soy sauce, and black vinegar.

I’m not complaining. The salt water, once again, is key: It turns a cold, slimy block of tofu into a piping-hot savory custard, which is the perfect canvas for condiments. Sure, there’s not much in the way of textural contrast, but the softness is so comforting and nice that I think a crunchy element would actually defeat the purpose. It’s a delicious, balanced, reasonably nutritious meal you can throw together in the time it takes to cook a pot of rice.

Putting it all together: All-tofu mapo tofu

Neglecting to mention mapo tofu in an article about tofu is basically journalistic malpractice. The iconic Sichuanese tofu dish is rich, meaty, spicy, funky, sour, and savory all at once—and slicked with lip-numbing Sichuan peppercorn oil for good measure. It’s a top 3 dish for me; I make it all the time, usually using Maggie Zhu’s recipe from the Omnivore’s Cookbook.

Being a big vegetable fan, I’ve experimented with using minced veg—eggplant, mushrooms, and even carrots—in place of the traditional ground meat. But this time, I decided to follow my vision and make a variant I’m calling “Oops! All Tofu.” I approached this recipe just like the sambal noodles, swapping crispy tofu crumbles in for the ground pork—but this time, I also soaked some cubed soft tofu in a fresh pot of salt water while the sauce simmered away.

This was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever made. The nubbins of soft tofu were literally melt-in-your-mouth tender, while the crispy crumbles turned downright meaty as they soaked up the spicy, salty, rich sauce. It made me even more certain of all of the (correct) tofu opinions I just laid out before you and, if you’ll let it, it has the power to convert you too.

Internet via Lifehacker https://bit.ly/2VwWgKq April 24, 2020 at 12:01PM

[danceyreagan]

Modern!John Shelby x Black Reader~ Headcannon.

Check out my Masterlist for more.

~You met when he came to Help Ada and Michael establish a new branch Of Shelby Bros. limited in Los Angeles, Ca.

~You met at a bar. Michael was trying to hook up with your friend. You were over the sauve, “Ive got money and a cool accent vibe” and ended the night early.

~Later that week you ran into each other at a bagel shop that was halfway between both of your jobs.

~John recognized you first and apologized for acting like An ass.

~After a few chance run ins at the bagel shop he asked you to dinner properly. And it took off.

~He gets along very well with your brother says he’s a poor bastard for being the only the boy. Thats when you remind him that you and your sister were much nicer to him than his brothers ever were to Ada.

~Your cousins introducing him to American Football.

~Your brother and cousins whoop his ass in basketball every weekend.

~He enjoys the holidays with your friends vs family, cause you guys just watch Old music videos on youtube and play board games. But when it turns to a Beyonce marathon he goes in the room with your Brother and His friends and plays video games. He’s shit at first person shooters. But he knows how to shoot a real gun so who cares really.

~Your family is very uppity and christian and he has a hard time with black family rules like.

~Its very hard to find people that arent intimidated by him and his family in England. But here he’s just “your little friend”

No PDA in front of the family

No cursing. He messed that up once, when Tommy called during a visit, and he went to hang up. “Fucking Hell, Tommy”

“Tell your little friend no cursing in my Christian house.”

“Watch yo language youngin”

Changing the subject every time his very violent and very illegal job is brought up.

“What it is you do again?”

“He’s an accountant” technically not a lie. But not the truth either.

Having to enter the house and greet each person individually with a hug and a kiss

Letting the elders serve themselves first.

You had to punch him in the hip when he stood and started towards the kitchen after they announced dinner was ready. The whole room froze looked at you like “get your heathen boyfriend to behave”

You stage whispered “sit your ass down” “Why? Its ready and Im fuc- very hungry”

He was shocked and appalled when you got attacked for not making him a plate. “You’re not gonna make him a plate?” You looked around dramatically, “Im sorry, whats wrong with his legs?” “Why would she make me a plate? Im not helpless” Your Aunt side eyed him, and he shut right the hell up.

Having to tell him not to eat food that Aunt Shirley brought because it was always ice cold, flavorless and colorless.

He accidentally put chitlin’s on his plate cause you were too busy arguing with your cousin over something that happened when you both were 5.

“I didnt know you liked chitlin’s baby?” Asked your grandmother.

He looked confused. “Whats a chitlin?” Being a great girlfriend you kept your mouth shut watched intently waiting for him to taste them.

It did not go well. Trying to be polite he just smiled and turned bright red continued to eat it.

“You know that’s pig intestine right?”

He spit everything out on his plate.

“Time to go get him some unseasoned potatoes”

~He refused another family Holiday after that.

~You were not interested in his gangster status. It was actually the source of lots of fight. “You’re smart John, I just dont see why you cant make a honest living”

~You told him once “If any harm comes to me and mine on account of you I will not hesitate to leave and never come back”

~He always took you to fancy places to eat around town. After the first few months you had to admit to him. “I appreciate this, I really do. But its just not my scene. Can we go to the bar with $6 whiskey and the bomb garlic fries instead?”

~White women flirting with him in your presence cause they never assumed you were a couple. John would put his arm around you, “sorry, Im taken” Lots of dirty looks from women.

~He likes that you had no idea what a Shelby was, meant you liked him for who he was and not what he had to offer.

~He tried to pull your hair during sex once. It was like one of those scenes in a movie where everything stops “see what we not gonna do...”

Let me know what you think. Did you like it?

Tagging everyone that voted for Modern!John my usual suspects, and those who asked.

Taglist: @twistedrunes @collecting-stories @animalkingdom-anonymous @sparklemichele

[hometowntourist]

Friday in April

Washington wasn’t usually this warm in April and especially not in Creston Falls where the surrounding mountains made sure the winters were long and the summers short-lived. But this Friday it was unseasonably warm and Anthony couldn’t wait to wrap up his last Analytic Geometry and Calculus lesson that he was teaching for the day. The weather was making him feel like he was back in high school staring out the window counting down the minutes until he could have his freedom back. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his family. A rare mood for Anthony these days. He thought maybe he’d treat his family to a night out at The Buttered Biscuit. Give his wife a break from cooking all their meals for once. He could already taste the chicken fried steak and buttery cornbread on his tongue.

He glanced at his watch and saw that he still had twenty minutes to go until his lesson was over. “Fuck it” he thought to himself. If he was this antsy to get out of this stuffy building then his students were probably chomping at the bit.

“Class is dismissed!” Anthony set down his marker and clapped his hands together. “Get out of here and enjoy the rest of your day while the sun is still out. I’ll see you all on Monday.” His students began swarming the exit before Anthony had even finished his sentence.

Anthony waited until his last student was out the door before he removed his tie and loosened up his collar. He took at his cell phone and called his wife to let her know that he would be home early. No answer. He tried her again. Sometimes she misplaced her cell phone and needed the phone to ring again so she could locate the phone by sound. No answer again. Anthony shrugged, I guess she’s busy he thought. He sent her a text instead. “Hey baby, ended class early. On my way home. Buttered Biscuit tonight?” He pressed send.

Anthony exited the campus and flung his blazer over his shoulder. The sun shining on his face reminded him of Robin. She always loved the sun and the heat and always hated the snow. She was her happiest when it was summer. Anthony had always thought of Robin as a girl who would get out of Creston Falls at the first chance she got. Head south to California where it was always sunny and she didn’t have to check the forecast everyday to see if it was appropriate to ride her bike or not. But she never got the chance. Neither of them did.

The drive from Seattle to Creston Falls usually took about an hour, but Anthony’s car was quickly approaching Creston Falls in record time with barely any traffic or diversions. Anthony briefly checked his phone. Still no word from Robin. He was starting to get worried. Robin was always quick to respond and it annoyed her when Anthony took his time to get back to her.

As his car approached the house on Morgan Road Anthony’s mood went from jovial to panic. Pulling into the driveway he knew something was wrong. The house felt eerily still and quiet. He was almost afraid to step inside.

He exited the car and gingerly approached the house. The door was unlocked. Not uncommon for small town folks to leave their door unlocked, but it was unusual for Robin. She had seen one too many episodes of Law & Order and was a stickler for safety. Anthony entered the house and everything seemed to be in order. The smell of freshly baked brownies wafted in from the kitchen. The house looked as it always did, but he couldn’t shake that panic feeling. The same feeling he got when he had to fold a terrible hand.

“Robin! Emma!” Anthony shouted. No response. He walked through the living room and spotted Robin’s cell phone strewn casually on the couch. It was a gorgeous day maybe Robin had taken their daughter for a walk through the woods that surrounded their home. But to not take her cell phone?

He called their names again. Louder this time. Still no response. He walked into the kitchen and that’s when he heard a noise. He wasn’t sure if it came from outside or from inside the house. He wasn’t even sure what the noise was, but it sent a chill down Anthony’s spine. He thought he saw something wiz by the kitchen sliding door that lead to their garden and the woods. Could have just been a bird. Chukar Partridge's were popular in these woods.

Anthony decided to head out into the garden to check it out anyway. He slid the door open and that’s when he was bombarded by two figures with guns shooting at him with one of them shouting “get him! Get him!” The voice shouting was a small voice. A child’s voice. His daughter’s voice. Emma was standing in front of Anthony with Robin right by her side. Both wielding bright green and orange water guns aimed right at him.

“Hands up, Daddy-o!” Emma shouted. Her shouts came with a slight lisp due to her missing front teeth. Anthony secretly wished those teeth would take their time with growing back. Emma’s smile was as wide as the Luna Creek that ran behind their house. His heart melted just looking at her. He looked over at his wife and she was grinning at him with this sparkle in her eyes that Anthony rarely saw anymore. This is what he came home early for.

Although Anthony’s heart was bursting with love and happiness for his little family he was not about to let his wife and daughter pelt him with water. Not without putting up a fight. He ran back into the kitchen and quickly filled up a mixing bowl with water. He ran back out to their garden and poured the water over his wife’s head. Robin squealed and shook her head full of brown curls. Those beautiful bouncy brown curls that she had passed down to Emma. Anthony had always thought Emma looked like she created herself. Like she was an entity completely independent of Anthony and Robin. She didn’t really favor either one of them. Her looks were original and all her own. Just like Emma herself. Except for the curls. The curls were Robin’s.

The way Robin’s soaking wet curls framed her face and the way the sun shone on her. It stirred something inside of Anthony. Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“First of all that’s cheating.” Robin laughed. She untwisted the barrel from her water gun and poured the remaining of the water down the back of Anthony’s shirt. Anthony jumped and took several steps back.

“Did you put ice cubes in there? Holy shit that’s cold!”

Robin laughed and Anthony felt her laugh echoing off the trees in the woods. Anthony loved her laugh. When she genuinely laughed. It came from her belly and sounded something like a tractor trailer, but it was beautiful to him and he loved it. He was always happy when he got to hear it. It happened sparingly these days.

Robin walked over to her husband and hugged him with her hands underneath his shirt and kissed him softly on the lips. “I’m glad you’re home early.” She said it so soft it was almost a whisper. They both stood there in their quiet embrace while they watched Emma lay in the grass, shooting the water up into the sky, and back down again into her mouth. Robin had wanted to tell her to stop doing that, but she decided not to, and to just enjoy their playful afternoon.

Emma was the one who broke the silence with a drawn out “Mooom.” She always prolonged the pronunciation of Mom when she was about to ask something she thought Robin was going to say no to. Robin hated when she did that. She sounded too much like a teenager.

“Mooom. Can I have a brownie, puhhh-lease?” Emma pouted and bounced her eyes back and forth from her mother to her father. Hopeful that one of her parents would be on her side and let her have at least one brownie. Several if she pouted just a little bit more.

“You helped make them of course you can have one. They should be cooled by now. One brownie now. And one more before bed when we all get back from dinner. Go upstairs and get changed.” Robin was pretty strict when it came to snacks and sweets so Emma felt like it was her lucky day that her mother was allowing her to have two. Two brownies spread out over the course of a couple hours, but still, two.

Emma ran into the house almost tripping over their cat, Bruce, who was watching the family’s shenanigans safely from inside the house away from all that water being thrown about.

“Emma, remember just one brownie! Uno!” Robin shouted into the house as she saw her daughter sneakily put one brownie into her mouth and pocket another.

Anthony turned back to his wife, “water guns, eh?”

“Oh, you know how it goes. Went to Target to pick up cat food and stuff to bake brownies and left with an artillery.” Oh yes, Anthony knew that all too well. “Speaking of brownies I’m going to go have one, because they smell fucking delicious.” Anthony went to move towards the house, but Robin pulled him back.

She kissed Anthony’s lips and let her kiss linger.

“I’m really glad you’re home early. I missed you. I love you.”

Robin’s eyes looked like they were getting misty and Anthony wasn’t sure why. Maybe they were finally getting back to themselves? Anthony didn’t know. But in that moment he was sure of one thing.

“I love you back, Rob.”

[pendragonfics]

Comfort Cooking feat. A Comfort Eater

Paring: Stephen Strange/Reader

Tags: gen. neutral reader, past child neglect, shyness, cooking, comfort food, comfort cooking, friends to lovers, fluff, set in Kamar-Taj.

Summary: A shy dweller in Kamar-Taj cooks when things get too much for them. One day, they have a visitor who they gift food to - and it becomes a pattern.

Word Count: 1,613

Current Date: 2017-10-11

You met him in the mountain village. Everyone spoke of the disrespectful foreigner, more so than anyone else who had come to Kamar-Taj to study the mystic arts. More than you remember them every speaking of you. Then again, few people talked to you, if any. Here, in Kamar-Taj, you worked on your meditation, how to channel your prana, using a sling ring…the usual.

While you watched from afar, learning slow, steady, you seemed to see the fanatical Stephen Strange performing quicker than anyone, speeding along with his learning. While he made friends with Mordo, you kept to yourself, while he used his sling ring for endless studies, you stuck to the regime the rest of the people did. Not that you weren’t bright enough, or courageous enough – the man was cockier than you, than anyone else here.

It was an October when you were making supper for yourself. Not a fan of all the dishes made for the rest of the people, you took it upon yourself to hoard packet ramen and other foods that kept you going when you missed home. It wasn’t like home missed you, but still. Nothing beat winding down from the day by making a good bowl of ramen.

“Where did you get fries?” A deep voice asked.

You almost drop the tray you’re working on over the small cookstove, and whirling around, you get into position to fight whoever has snuck up on you. But the curious person whose inquisition about your once-potatoes is not here to attack you. It’s just the new guy. Strange.

“I smelt them, nobody makes them here,” he adds, seeing your stance.

You raise your eyebrows. You live in the rooms furthest away from all the commotion in Kamar-Taj, and incredulous, you ask, “You smelt my fries?” A beat passes between the pair of you, and still holding the tray, you add, “You’re not going to leave until you get some, aren’t you?”

He nods.

You huff, knowing what people from your old country were like. “Americans…” you mutter. Placing the tray that you were making down, you busy yourself by selecting a few chips for the intruder (and filcher) and wrap them in old newspaper. “There, enjoy.” You say, handing the small parcel into his quivering hands. “Grew them myself.”

He thanks you, and giving you a small nod, excuses himself. Even though you’ve just lost a handful of your favourite comfort food, you feel something small, and warm explode inside your chest. You shake your head, not thinking anything of it, and go back to serving your homemade French-fries and settling down with a good textbook on the mirror dimension.

---

When the news came to you of what Kaisilius had done to the Ancient One, you sat down breathless, empty, unsure. She had been the roots to your new life here in Kamar-Taj; you could not fathom a world without the leader who had taught you more than loss and agony. The fancy American ex-doctor had seen it happen, according to the gossiper you overheard, but the party he was with had not returned yet.

You lay curled upon your bed, palms open, chest rising and falling very shallow, trying to trick yourself into going to sleep. But it was no use – you stayed there for what seemed like hours, thinking of the life you had come from before.

All your life, there seemed to be a flashing neon sign over you that screamed ignore me! Your parents divorced early, married step-parents, and then neglected you for their midlife crisis’s and stepchildren. Maybe you weren’t assertive enough. Maybe that was it. But you made it all the way to twenty-two, halfway through college when your only friend died, a heredity brain aneurism. If it weren’t for the Ancient One who found you hitchhiking on the freeway, you’d probably be somewhere very different.

“They’re back!” someone shouted, outside your door. A thunder of footsteps flurried the peace, making way to the courtyard.

It wasn’t the curiosity to see the body of your old teacher, or perhaps to appraise the students who had faced the rouge Kaisilius, but the need to do something that roused you from laying upon your bed. The people who usually milled around the hallways were gone, off to see the heroes of the hour, and quietly, you close the screen across your doorway, and undo the loose floorboard beside the small bookshelf to take out your small cookstove, and setting it up, use your magic to prepare water to boil for ramen.

But by the time you’ve dished your noodles up, garnished with your favourite vegetables and sauce, there’s a knock upon your door, and entering, is the same man who found his way to your room last time you cooked.

Stephen Strange.

You do not know what to say, or even, what he is here for. To you, he’s just a fellow student, and surely, he thinks the same of you. “I heard what happened,” you tell him, and looking at the bowl before you, the bowl that you made because you were borderline depressed and needed incentive to get out of bed for, you offered it for him.

He hesitates. “You – I don’t come to you just to take food from you, __________.”

You pause as well. “You know my name?” you ask, your words barely a whisper. It’s strange. Nobody knew your name. He does not answer. Instead, he enters your room, and closing the screen behind him, he takes a seat on the floor before you. The only thing between the pair of you is your little cookstove, and suddenly, the room is smaller than it seems to be. You’ve still got the bowl of noodles in your hands, and you look at it, and then to your guest. “Do you want these, or not?”

Stephen hesitates, a handful of seconds passing between the question, and his thoughts. “…yes, thank you.”

As you pass the bowl into his hands and making sure he has a hold of your favourite blue-painted ceramic vessel, you prepare to make another bowl for yourself. As you work, you sneak glances at your guest, watching as he slurps at your noodles. At one point, while you’re waiting for the noodles to soften in the bubbling water, he places the bowl before him, half-eaten, and sits pensive. Then, he speaks.

“You haven’t questioned why I come to you and take your food.”

You stir the noodles, “I’m not the type of person to question another person’s motives.”  

“You let anyone take things from you?” He asks, brow furrowing slowly, and he pushes the bowl away from him.

You stir at the noodles some more. “I try to be a little braver than what you just said,” you don’t look at him as you admit those words, tending to the noodles. Slowly, you add your garnishes, and using a spell, produce a seasoning to flavour. “Unless what people speak of you isn’t true, I heard you are a man who is used to getting things. I’m a person who is used to earning things, and too kind for my own good.”

He scoffs at your description of himself. “I –,”

You cut in, finding some bravado in you. “It’s rude to refuse food when given, you know?” you tell him. “I grew up poor. I was going to be doctor, like you were, but it all went to shit.” You smile softly, sadly, “There’s always a time when it goes to shit.” He takes his bowl back, and continues eating. With a mouthful, he hums in agreement to your statement, and delicately, you whisper, “How do you know my name?”

Stephen pauses, his mouthful not reaching its destination. “__________…” he whispers, “You were the first person I met in the village, remember?”

Faintly, you do remember. You’d come the day before, and shy as you ever were, looked to him, quietly greeting him. You might have been a neglected child, but you still had manners. You nod, remembering those months ago. “But I’m…I’m me,” you whisper, dishing the ramen out for yourself. “I’m hardly noteworthy.”

Stephen slurped the rest of his noodles. “I’d argue otherwise, __________” he rises from his perch as you take the first mouthful of your noodles, and returns his empty bowl. “Thank you, for your food and company.”

---

You wake with the sun tumbling through the curtains upon your bed, streaming in as though glittering gold is falling upon your form. It’s a warm morning, unseasonably so, but, the presence beside you in the sheets has become a seasonal acquisition that will last longer than the periodic changes of the earth. In the morning light, Stephen looks truly like the hero he is famed to be throughout the world, throughout time and space. He may be sleeping, and looks innocent as a babe, but from the small split lip, and the puce bruise under his eye (from training with Wong, and sparring with you), but you know what power he has in his veins.

His eyes open a crack, lips pulling up to wince from the sunlight, and then, from his cracked lip. “How can you look so good in the mornings?” he asks you, voice gravelly with sleep slicked over his vocal chords. You burrow your head into his shoulder beneath the sheets in protest, and hear his chuckle. “I love you, __________.”

Into his shoulder, you mutter, “I still can’t believe it…” you whisper.

“That I love you?” Stephen asks.

You shake your head, looking up to him, catching the gaze of his light eyes, “No,” you reply. “That this is real.”

[btsreactionsandtexts]

Jackson Wang’s “Papillon” Reaction

Nobody asked for this, but you getting it.

- Admin Dayna

First and foremost; I am a Jackson Wang - uhh... umm... I am for... Jackson Wang just like... doing what he does you know... Wanging about -

I can’t call myself a “stan” or a “fan” because I dead be catching myself giving Jackson whole ass stank looks because homie be trippin’ and sippin’ on some fuck shit that I’m PRETTY DAMN SURE Ben Baller is pouring for him, but you know...

But anty-whoo, I heardth upon the skreets that Jackson dropped a lil MV and I was like “iight lemme Diddy Bop over on to YouTube and see what’s on and poppin’.” And I was so thoroughly overwhelmed by the uhh... the antics that he has bestowed upon me and I thought “mmmmmigottatellmypeoplesboutthis” (y’all being my peoples wassup)

So let me just tell y’all what’s in my mental in like, a short little sentence and just get into the depths further into the post so y’all don’t have to read the whole post if you don’t want to.

The shit was weak and so is his peoples. And you’ve either been deprived of rap music or blinded by Jackson’s cute ass smile to realize it.

But hear me out.

I am very hard on the people I fucks with. I fucks with you because I see potential. I plan to feast with those I starved with. That means we all gotta put in for us all to eat good. It’s not a one man job.

Therefore;

All the idols that I follow and look for, I expect quality content because I know they are capable of creating such. I expect the utmost from them and their crafts. As an Art University student, I know the technicalities and the hard work idols (and just people within the performing, visual, and literary arts field) put into their work. And if you’re going to put your name on something, it better be something worth the ink of your pen, you feel me?

And if I - a supporter and a consumer of your work - see that you’re putting up poor quality content despite your talents, I will not put my pretty little coin into it and let it be known why it fell short - constructive criticism. I’m trying to see ol’ boi Wang Jackson blossom, you feel me? I hope his flowers bloom. But a homie’s flower won’t even sprout if it’s not in the right environment for it.

Y’all catching my drift?

Jackson Wang was sitting in that music video, looking big and mighty and tough - sporting that Wild and Sexy™ Reputation - talking about “Hustling with my crew all day faithfully” But he’s sitting with the whacks. Like deadass, he got some bald headed granny who makes bracelets for living around his long ass table like it’s the last supper - like yeah it’s your last supper, my g. Your crew ain’t got nothing going for them.

I mean... I’m just assuming they are because they really sat there and put him under the impression that his Shutterstock Trap Track, Gotta Blast Dance, and Unseasoned lyrics was fire.

The entire thing relayed HEAVILY on visuals. The track was overpowering, and so was his vocals... it felt like a distraction from the truth; it ain’t shit.

Jackson... my guy...

I think the problem with Jackson, the reason why he’s consistently falling into the habit of culture appropriation - he didn’t appropriate any culture in this music video, and I’m actually SUPER FUCKING HAPPY he got black people instead of finding some Korean boy who thinks it’s iight to sport oily ass dreads because he touched a black girl before - and why Papillon just isn’t any good is because Jackson Wang surrounds himself with people who imitates the idea and aesthetic of rap and hip hop, but doesn’t actually understand or know what rap and hip hop is.

Which ultimately results in hollow, cliché, and nonsensical shit like this.

I’m being so serious you guys, look at the lyrics of Papillon and tell me, does it make sense to you? Is there any deeper meaning in it? Does it tell a story? Does it have depth?

Rap and Hip Hop isn’t shallow. There’s always some sort of story or idea being told in rap music. Even the dumb shit that the Migos or like... Desiigner put out has depth to it. You read the similes, the metaphors, the symbolism, etc., and even if it’s offensive, or ignorant you’ll find yourself blown away by how clever their lyric are.

Jackson’s lyrics made no fucking sense.

To the point where I was sitting down watching it like “I don’t get it, what’s a papillon?”, took my ass to google, searched Papillon and was MORE CONFUSED THAN WHEN I STARTED.

Aite aite aite aite aite aite aite You got me feeling like a Feeling like a Papillon

... why does he feel like this doggo? 

Aite aite aite aite aite aite aite Find it, I’ll shine like a diamond

Find what??? What am I looking for? How does this thing I’m finding correlate with doggo?

“Oh lord oh lord I truly feel blessed Been trapped inside so long But now I feel blessed”

“I’ll break rules like Rick Ross’d be saying Spit fire like flame tools them burn it all Money and fame don’t define me Ain’t nobody give a xxxx ’bout a rule that’s what I do The system is the problem”

So now I’m assuming the system he’s talking about is society(?????????) But like... how has the society... that praises you... lowkey (but highkey) worship you... basically made you... trapped you? Because he’s basically acting like he has been discriminated and plotted against systematically and I’m just not following how that’s the case when he’s a lighter complexion, able bodied (assuming) cis-straight Asian man...???

“All they care about is profit Nah they don’t see me”

It’s the year of 3017... we have yet to find out who’s “they” DJ Khalid and Jackson Wang speak of.

Okay just... listen...

Jackson really has to do better.

That’s the point I’m making. He’s been flopping lately and it’s just so disappointing to see one of my faves become so... bland. I expected to be served a full course meal, and he gave me a plate of microwaved, cold on the inside Tyson’s chicken nuggets and unsalted, soggy french fries.

DO BETTER JACKSON! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?

[bokocho]

Adventures With Adrian! (SFW)

Well, here you go! @aftepes

The fire surged with heat against the humidity of the night. You rubbed the back of your sweaty neck and made a face when your hand came away wet.

The haven was just south of a stand of trees that would have been perfect for shielding it from the sun, but unfortunately it was just far enough away that the rock face had baked all day. Even now it was radiating warmth.

Dragging a hand through your damp coppery hair to get it out of your eyes, you got out of your canvas chair and headed for the cooler. “It’s not supposed to be this hot, right? Maybe the fire was a bad idea.”

Prompto, who was sprawled limply on the ground in front of the partially-assembled tent, whined in agreement. “I’m dying, guys! So’s Adrian! Are you sure we can’t just go to a motel? Pleeeease?”

Gladio spoke around a mouthful of tent peg while he slotted together two pieces of the tent frame. “Nah, it’s good for you. Don’t be such a wimp.”

You popped the cooler open. “I’m not dying, Prom. Just uncomfortable. Here, drink something. You’ll feel better.” You dug through the melting ice for a second, selected a can, and tossed it to him. Prompto caught it in spite of his professed weakness and started rubbing the sweating aluminum against his face.

“Okay, fine, you’re not dying, but I am! I am seriously going to melt.” He made a little noise of appreciation as he ran the can across the back of his neck.

“Perhaps we should bank the fire somewhat,” Ignis said without looking over his shoulder. Given the temperature, he was making a cold Ulwaat berry and basil soup. He had dropped his jacket on the back of his chair an hour ago and had just finished rolling up his sleeves. He could definitely see where Prompto was coming from; it was unseasonably hot, even after the sun had gone down and the air had begun to cool.

There was a scraping sound somewhere to the right of the campsite, and then Noctis climbed into view with a fishing rod in one hand and the handle of his tackle box between his teeth. “I’m pretty sure most of the fish in that river fried. I didn’t even get a nibble.” He scrubbed at his cheek with his forearm, leaving a streak of mud, before he dropped off his gear beside the camp stove. “Saw a Magitek carrier, but it didn’t come anywhere nearby.”

Ignis made a sound in his throat. “Good to know they are in the area.”

“Like I said, they didn’t stop. They weren’t close enough to be an issue.” Noctis flopped into a chair.

“Hey, you wanna help out a little, Your Highness?” Gladio asked with a chuckle.

“Nope, I’m good right here,” Noctis said.

You picked two beers out of the cooler and walked over to Gladio, plonking down next to him to help him finish the tent.

He took the beer you held out to him, popped the tab, and drained it. Then he winked at you and crushed it against the side of his head.

Ignis rolled his eyes at the display and turned back to his knifework.

Prompto, however, was duly impressed, and actually sat up. “Dude! Do that with mine!”

“Don’t encourage him, Prompto,” Ignis said firmly. “If he hurts himself performing that parlor trick, I will not be the one to stitch him back up.”

Noctis sighed and folded his arms behind his head. “No, we’ll just give him a Potion and he’ll be fine. Addy, you and Gladio got the tent covered?”

“Yeah, we got it,” you said. You helped Gladio pop the roof of the tent into place and hammer the pegs into the rocky soil. It wasn’t a very solid hold, but as long as the wind didn’t kick up before everyone went to bed it wouldn’t be a problem. You gathered the empty cans and dropped them off in the collapsible recycling bin. “Hey, Iggy, when’s dinner?”

Ignis spared his watch a glance. “Dinner should be ready shortly.”

“Sounds good.” You used your plaid shirt to wipe your face. “We’re staying at a motel tomorrow. I need a shower. Like, bad.”

“Don’t we all,” Ignis murmured, briskly mincing the basil. He hadn’t intended to say anything, but the oppressiveness of the humid air was genuinely bothering him. Normally, besides Gladio, he was the most resilient of the group and weathered biting cold or burning heat with perfect tranquility. However, he had never been a fan of humidity, and it was causing his silk shirt to cling to his sweating skin.

“We still have time,” Prompto wheedled. “With those crazy anti-demon headlights Cindy installed on the Regalia, we’re golden. We can cruise straight to Lestallum and be in nice, air-conditioned hotel rooms before midnight. Heck, I’d take the camper at this point.”

“Oh, hell no. We are not re-packing the Regalia at this time of night,” Gladio growled, getting to his feet. “Suck it up, Prompto.”

“Can I at least take off my shirt? Please?” Prompto cast an imploring look at you.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Why would I care? Gladio’s shirtless 99 percent of the time anyway.”

“Eh. Good point. Woohoo!” Prompto flung off his vest and tank top with a whoop of glee and flopped back into his prone position on the ground, spread-eagled for maximum cooling. “Can I take off my pants too? Black skinny jeans, man.”

“....I draw the line there, Prom,” you said. “As much as I feel your pain.” You gestured to your own pants. The only way to tell them apart was Prompto’s name was written on the tags on all of his clothes.

Gladio pursed his lips; then his leather shirt (which he never buttoned anyway) joined the pile of clothes. He stretched, enjoying the freedom.

Noctis opened one eye; he had been lounging in his chair, both eyes closed, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire. With no one tending it, it had gone down somewhat, but it was still pouring off heat like nobody’s business. If they hadn’t needed the light, they probably would have gone without.

Without a word, he shucked his jacket and shirt too.

Ignis, incensed, turned away from the soup he was garnishing. “Noct. You could, at the very least, have folded them.”

“So Prompto and Gladio can just drop their stuff wherever, but if it’s me, I need to fold it?” Noctis asked, nonplussed.

The look Ignis gave him would have stopped a charging Behemoth. “You are a Lucian prince. They are not.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, okay, chill out, you two.” You were smiling, under the hand covering your face. “Anyway, isn’t it about time for dinner?”

“You are correct, Adrian,” Ignis deposited a full bowl and spoon in your hand.

[lala-kate]

Pulse Points Ch 11:  The Final Chapter

Many, many thanks to all of you who have supported this story and taken this journey with me. I cannot thank you enough, and know I read and cherish every review and appreciate every reblog and retweet so very much!  

This chapter is specifically dedicated to my precious friend and soul-sister @lillie-grey  as a belated birthday gift. Please forgive me for being a week late! And I’m leaving this verse open-ended so prompts and requests will be welcome. :)

With that, dear readers, I hope you enjoy! You can read it here or on ff.net. 

Christ, her feet hurt.

 Regina had followed Mary Margaret from Babies R Us to Buy Buy Baby, from Victoria’s Secret for some post-pregnancy lingerie, now that the new mom had been given the green light for having sex again, to Barnes and Noble for what supposedly was supposed to be an “in and out” errand. Said errand had morphed into a prolonged search for a children’s book that was ironically out of print, followed by coffee in the bookstore’s cafe and an impromptu nap for Baby Neal. Her friend had more energy than most new mothers, Regina mused, especially those who’d undergone an emergency C-Section only weeks prior, and she was glad to see Mary Margaret acting more like herself again. She just wished her feet weren’t paying the price for her friend’s unexpected burst of energy. She took another sip of her Flat White as she snuggled her godson to her chest and rubbed his back, relishing his soft weight and his sweet baby scent as his head rested on her shoulder.

 “Alright,” Mary Margaret stated, checking her watch as she returned from the restroom and took a final sip of her Frappuccino. “I think we should probably head home now.”

“Thank God,” Regina muttered, kissing Neal’s downy head as she stood. Her knees popped as her lower back protested, making her curse the questionable logic of wearing heels this afternoon. Snazzing up a little on a Saturday after wearing sensible shoes to work all week had been an appealing option this morning.

  She should have known better. She’d agreed to go shopping with Mary Margaret, after all.

“Haven’t you had fun?” the younger woman questioned, tugging the diaper bag over her shoulder as they made their way towards the exit.

 “A laugh a minute,” Regina returned, squinting as they stepped outside and sunlight struck her squarely in the face. Her sunglasses were buried in her purse and nigh on impossible to reach with a three-month-old snuggled into her chest. She shielded Neal’s eyes with her hand until Mary Margaret opened the car door, allowing her to lay the infant in his car seat and fasten him in securely. “I thought you said we’d be gone an hour or two when you called this morning, not half the damn day.”

 “Language,” Mary Margaret chided.

 “He’s eleven weeks old,” Regina said, clicking her own seat belt into place. “Besides, I’ve heard you say worse.”

 “His brain is developing at a rapid rate,” Mary Margaret returned. “And I don’t want it filled with profanity at such a crucial stage.”

 “Then keep him away from his godfather,” Regina shot back. “Killian would be a gold medalist if profanity were an Olympic sport.”

 “He’s doing better,” Mary Margaret argued. “Dating that social worker Emma has mellowed him out somewhat.”

 “He’s about as mellow as a crocodile,” Regina said, earning herself an eye roll from her companion. “Are you late for something?”

 Mary Margaret’s eyebrows shot up.

 “No,” she answered. “Not at all. Why would you think that?”

 “Because you keep checking your watch,” Regina stated as they pulled out of the parking lot. “You’ve been doing that all day, actually. Are you trying to put Neal on a new schedule?”

 “Something like that,” Mary Margaret said with a smile. “He’s sleeping better at night since we started supplementing my breast milk with formula, so we’re adjusting his naptimes to help him sleep through the night.”

 “Something I suggested you do weeks ago,” Regina reminded her. “May I remind you that I’m actually a pediatrician and know a bit more about a child’s health and development than those lactation blogs you follow.”

 “I know, I know,” Mary Margaret confessed. “And I should have listened to you instead of being so stubborn. He actually slept through the night last night for the first time.”

 “Who? David or Neal?”

 Mary Margaret snort laughed, making Regina chuckle, and they were lulled into a comfortable silence by the sweet melody of Mozart’s Cello Sonata in D Major wafting out of the car stereo speakers. The new mother’s insistence on playing classical music to support Neal’s cognitive development was something Regina actually enjoyed and vastly preferred to her friend’s standby collection of Barry Manilow and Air Supply CDs. She paused and looked over her shoulder to check on Baby Neal, his now chubby cheeks still slack in slumber.

 “Anyway, the extra sleep seems to be doing wonders for you. Your energy level has skyrocketed.”

 “It’s helped a lot,” Mary Margaret agreed, casting her eyes to the clock on her dashboard. “Regina, do you mind if we run through a drive-thru? I’m really thirsty.”

 “Are you kidding?” Regina asked. “We just had Starbucks.”

 “I need water,” Mary Margaret stated. “I’m starting to get a headache.”

 “We’re only ten minutes from my place,” Regina stated. “Can’t you wait that long? You can’t be dehydrated already, nursing mom or not.” She sighed as her friend turned into the McDonald’s parking lot and got into the longer of the two car lines. “Did you and David have a fight?”

 “Of course not,” Mary Margaret replied, eyeballing Regina suspiciously. “Why would you ask that?”

 “You just don’t seem to be in any hurry to get home,” Regina answered. “Especially after we spent twenty minutes in the Victoria’s Secret fitting room so you could find something red and skimpy to knock his socks off.”

 “I’m just enjoying time out of the house,” Mary Margaret said. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been able to do this. Besides, you and I haven’t had much girl time over the past few months, you know.”

 This was true enough. Between Mary Margaret being placed on bed rest the last six weeks of her pregnancy, Henry breaking his arm while trying to steal third base, Roland having to get glasses, Neal being a colicky baby, Regina being appointed as head of pediatrics and her increasingly serious relationship with Robin, life had kept them from seeing much of each other over an unseasonably hot summer. She hoped fall would grant them all some much needed down time to catch their breath and reconnect.

 “I know,” Regina admitted. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been able help out more with Neal. Some godmother I’ve been.”

 “You’re an amazing godmother,” Mary Margaret assured her as she pulled up to place her order. “Don’t ever doubt that, okay? Do you want anything?”

 “From McDonald’s?” Regina questioned, scrunching her nose. “No thank you.”

 “Your loss,” Mary Margaret quipped as she proceeded to order a bottle of water and a side of fries.

 They travelled home via a roundabout way, Mary Margaret muttering something about avoiding construction traffic Regina knew nothing about as she cranked up the air conditioning yet another notch.

 “Still hot natured, I take it?” Regina observed as they finally pulled to the curb in front of her townhouse and parked. Mary Margaret glanced around the neighborhood, absently uttering Yeah before exhaling audibly.

 “Don’t forget your shopping bags,” the younger woman reminded Regina.

 “Bag,” Regina corrected, holding up her solitary purchase from Victoria’s Secret, a sheer royal blue negligee she’d purchased with a certain blue-eyed restaurateur in mind. “I have one. You’re the one with a commercial armada packed into your trunk.”

“Babies require supplies,” Mary Margaret stated. “And diapers take up a lot of room.”

 “I know,” Regina returned as she stepped out of Mary Margaret’s Accord. “I have a son, remember? Just don’t let that red teddy get lost among all the Huggies.” She tossed her friend a wink before shutting the car door and waving, wishing she were brave enough to tug off her shoes here and now rather than waiting until she walked through her front door.

 God--putting her feet up sounded like heaven.

 The smell of something wonderful struck her as she walked up her front steps, a smell that made her mouth water and her stomach nearly cave in on itself. She hadn’t put anything into the crock pot this morning, and she turned, looking to see if Robin’s Outback was parked anywhere nearby. It wasn’t. He was supposed to have taken Henry and Roland to the Boston College football game this afternoon, and she couldn’t imagine that it would be over already, which left her with a problem.

 If Robin wasn’t here, who the hell was cooking in her house?

 She opened the door and stepped inside with caution, stunned into momentary silence by the sights and smells that greeted her. Her house looked like a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie, accentuated by the swoon-worthy aromas of Alonzo’s eggplant parmesan, Marco’s garlic bread and something decadent, chocolate and most-decidedly to-die-for. August and Alonzo stood side-by-side by the stove wearing professional-grade aprons, nodding their greeting as she strolled through her kitchen into the family and dining room area.

 Her curtains had been drawn, the main lights dimmed, jar candles and strands of white lights strung haphazardly about now her sole sources of light. Her dining room table was decked out to the nines, covered by a black tablecloth, accented by white napkins and a bouquet of multi-colored zinnias mixed with sprigs of lavender tastefully arranged in a mason jar. She recognized her good china laid out perfectly, a set she’d purchased for herself after her engagement ended years ago, and she strolled towards her pint-sized maître d’, a slicked-back, suit-clad, grinning-his-face-off Henry, who stood perfectly erect with a white cloth slung over his left arm.

 Her son had never looked more handsome.

 “Welcome to the Locksley-Mills Trattoria,” Henry stated with a bow. “Your reservation is ready, madame.”

 Her heart pounded in her temples, her throat now bone dry as Roland strolled to the table and pulled out a seat for her. The curly-headed wonder decked out in a tux was probably the cutest sight she’d ever seen, and she scoped the room, looking for his father, suddenly very aware of what she believed was happening here.

 Robin was going to propose. She knew it as clearly as if he’d just popped the question.

 But he was nowhere to be seen, not yet anyway, which was probably a good thing seeing that she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to form a coherent sentence in her present state. This had to be why Mary Margaret had kept her occupied all afternoon, so Robin and his band of merry men could turn her home into an Italian restaurant that somehow reminded her of the spaghetti scene in Lady and the Tramp.

 Dean Martin quietly crooned That’s Amore as she let Henry guide her to the table, smiling at Roland’s toothy grin as she nodded her thanks and sat down. Roland’s over-sized script labeled her place card in bold red marker, and she felt the beginnings of tears form as the boy unfolded her napkin with a flourish and placed it in her lap.

 “Would you like some water?” Henry asked as he set down a glass he’d filled to the brim. She took a sip immediately, afraid that if any of them even slightly jarred the table there would be a mess to clean up before the evening had even begun.

 “Thank you,” she managed, clearing her throat. “This is just what I needed.”

 “We have wine, too,” Roland added. “But Uncle August wouldn’t let us pour it for you. He said if we spilled it on your outfit that you’d be really piss…”

 “That’s enough, Roland.”

 His voice ran over her senses like warm molasses, making her insides feel sweet and sappy all over. He was behind her, the scent of his Bvlgari Pour Homme Soir making her shiver, his proximity making every nerve ending stand at high alert.

 “Good evening, love.”

 He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to her neck, one she moaned into, one that made her legs feel like jelly and her toes curl in her shoes. She turned to look up at him, blown away by how delectable he looked in the dark blue suit he’d donned for the evening. He was gorgeous, this man of hers, all dimples and silver streaks, scruff and toned arms.

 “Robin,” she murmured, smiling as he sat in the seat across from hers. He took her hand in his own, kissing her knuckles, discreetly nipping one finger the way he knew that she liked. “So where have you been hiding?”

 “In the bathroom,” he returned with a grin. “I had actually just gotten changed when I heard you come in.”

 “Good timing,” she mused, casting another appreciative look at his attire. “I should probably go change myself. I feel underdressed compared to you.”

 “No need. You look perfect,” he hummed, her skin vibrating under his words. “You always look perfect, especially when you’re undressed.”

 She rolled her eyes at his play on words.

 “I don’t think that would be appropriate for the occasion, seeing that we have an audience.”

 Roland giggled from the kitchen, earning himself an exaggerated shhhhh from Henry.

 “Shame,” he returned, planting a soft kiss on the top of her hand. “I should have requested a private table.”

 She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She just sat there, looking into blue eyes that were staring at her as if she were the Crown Jewels and they a pair of renegade thieves preparing to seize her on the spot.

 “Shall I pour you some wine?”

 Marco had stealthily made his way to their table and stood there watching them with a ridiculous grin on his face. He held a bottle of her favorite Malbec towards them for their perusal, popping it open with a corkscrew he’d hidden in his inner suit pocket with a flourish.  Her heart sped around the room in twenty directions at once, and she sucked in air, feeling warm in some places and chilled in others. She watched Robin as the older man poured the wine, pressing this moment into memory, her gaze honing in on the bare ring finger on her lover’s left hand.

 Oh, God. This was it. He was really going to propose tonight.  She swallowed, picking up her wine glass as she attempted to steady her breathing.

 “To us,” he said, raising his glass in her direction. His voice wrapped around her intimately, like broken-in leather caressing bare skin.

 “To us,” she echoed, taking a sip, closing her eyes as warmth slid down her throat and blossomed in her belly. Her chest ached, her head felt heavy, and she took another sip of wine, hoping it would help settle her racing heart, feeling her cheeks overheat instead. Roland chose that moment to lay a basket of breadsticks on the table, giggling again as he walked away and Henry set down a plate of caprese.

 “This is nice,” she managed, shivering in spite of the warmth when he licked his lips.

 “It is,” Robin replied, setting down his wine glass. “Pretty perfect, if you ask me.”

 She smiled at this, picking up a breadstick, hearing her stomach beg loudly enough for all of Boston to hear as the aroma tickled her nose.

 “Our best dates always seem to start with your stomach making noises,” he teased, reaching out to take a breadstick for himself. She paused mid-bite before chewing, swallowing and taking a drink of water.

 “Then it’s a good thing you own a restaurant,” she shot back. His chuckle made her feel giddy, girlish and lightheaded, and she reminded herself to breathe, to focus, to pay attention to details she’d want to recall later.

 “I agree,” he hummed. “Seeing as I might never have met you if I didn’t. And that would be a tragedy, indeed.”

 He looked into her, past every defense and barrier, stroking the silken threads of who she was, declaring volumes of adoration without uttering a word. His hand found hers again, and he stroked her fingers with his thumb, paying particular attention to her left ring finger as her breath hitched in her throat. She nearly jumped out of her seat.

 Yes. There was definitely going to be a proposal tonight.

 She was ready for this, she was certain of it. She loved Robin Locksley with the intensity of a category five tornado, a love so strong she’d once held it in reserve for Henry alone. But Robin and Roland had changed that, had shown her that love shared is love expanded, had helped her feel at home in her own body again, whether that body was out bowling with her favorite boys, washing dishes at the restaurant or wrapping itself around a spent, sweaty naked man who’d just pleasured her beyond reason. Her boys had helped her feel at peace with the heart that beat steadily in her chest, had assisted her in letting go of the last strands of guilt that had kept her from living the life Marian’s heart had granted her to its fullest.

 She would hold back no longer. No--she would seize this proposal with both hands, would set a date for a small, family wedding as soon as reasonably possible, and would ride her fiancé into the mattress tonight once their boys had gone to sleep.

 “God, you’re gorgeous.”

 The words crept up her arms and over her nipples before heading south to tickle her nether regions.

 “You’re not so bad yourself,” she breathed, closing her eyes as he continued to stroke her fingers with his thumb. “And I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed by this set-up.”

 He gave the room a once-over, nodding his approval.

 “As am I,” he agreed. “Our boys clean up pretty well, don’t they?”

 She chuckled under her breath and nodded before taking another bite of bread, its hot, buttery deliciousness only adding to the night’s perfection. Did he have the ring in his pocket, she wondered, or was he perhaps planning to have it served up on a plate in front of her at some point during the meal?  What sort of ring had he chosen, anyway?  Round? Oval? Marquis? Traditional or modern design? Gold, silver or platinum?

 Henry and Roland chose that moment to deliver salads, small plates of arugula, spinach, walnuts and pears accented by a vinaigrette of some sort that was profound in its simplicity. Christ, she loved how well Robin’s family could cook. She’d have to step up her time on the treadmill once they actually tied the knot.

 “This is delicious,” she remarked, gesturing towards the salad. Robin nodded as he took a sip of water.

 “One of August’s specialities,” Robin stated. “His own recipe, in fact, one he developed after completing that cooking class in Tuscany a couple of months ago. He’s actually as good a cook as Marco and Angelo and could open his own restaurant if he ever chose to do so. Just don’t tell the two of them that I said so.”

 She grinned before taking another bite of her salad.

 “It’s lovely being around men who can cook so well,” she said, taking a sip of wine to steady her nerves. “I could get used to this.”

 He bit his lower lip, shooting sparks of desire everywhere at once.

 “I hope you do,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Because I could get used to a lifetime with you.”

 Oh, shit. This was it, she thought, nearly tipping over her wine glass as she sat up straighter.

 “Could you?” she managed, wondering if her pulse was actually audible.

 “Oh, yes,” he returned, leaning forward and reaching for her hand across the table. “I most certainly could. Could you?”

 She swallowed, nearly choking on her own saliva, and grabbed her water glass to try to stop coughing. Robin quickly stood and walked behind her, rubbing her back until she could breathe freely again.

 “I’m okay,” she managed, taking another gulp of water. “You didn’t have to get up.”

 “Self-preservation,” he retorted. “I was afraid you’d spit water on me.”

 Water then flew out of her nose as she tried to stifle a laugh, spewing over her beautiful salad, much to her chagrin.

 “Don’t worry, bella,” Marco called from the kitchen. “I’ll get you another.”

 The clank and clatter of dishes danced with the slowing rhythm of her coughs and their ebbing laughter as Robin continued to stroke her back until her breathing steadied.

 “There you go,” Marco announced as he set down a fresh plate of salad. “Good as new. Now, why don’t the two of you continue where you left off, eh?”

 She felt Robin’s fingers still against her spine just before he leaned down and dropped a kiss onto her temple.

 “I believe that requires privacy, Marco,” Robin replied.

 The older man tossed them an exaggerated wink before tiptoeing back to the kitchen and crying out, “You don’t see me. I’m not even here.”

 Robin moved back to his chair as she adjusted her napkin and checked her dress for water damage, dabbing at the few spots she found.

 “Damn it,” she whispered as she finally gave up and took another sip of wine. “I certainly know how to kill the mood, don’t I?”

 He was grinning at her like the proverbial Cheshire Cat, gazing at her with a mix of humor and tenderness that wrapped her securely in its coils upon contact.

 “You’re nothing if not moody,” he returned. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

 Her heart sped up again as her internal temperature ramped up another ten degrees. Shit, she was sweating, a decidedly unromantic aesthetic just before the love of her life was about to pop the question.

 Or was he? Was she absolutely certain that was going to happen tonight?

 Perhaps she was reading this all wrong--the in-house restaurant, the tux-clad boys, the melodious crooning of Diana Krall in the background as he continued to stare at her as if she could do no wrong. Perhaps this was just a date, and she was setting herself up for one hell of a letdown. Christ, she needed to know, needed to ground her expectations in what was definite rather than what was desired, so she worked up her courage, trying to find the words she needed that would either hurry this proposal along or let her know that an engagement wasn’t in the cards tonight.

 She heard him swallow and inhaled, breathing out through her mouth as she dove in head first.

 “Robin--”

“Regina--”

 They spoke simultaneously, chuckling in time with each other.

 “I just wanted--”

“I was wondering--”

 They paused again, mouths open, eyes curious and confused.

 “Please,” Robin said. “Go ahead.”

 “No,” Regina returned, shaking her head. “You first. I insist.”

 He cleared his throat and took a sip of water, his actions prompting her to sit taller as anticipation tickled her skin. His exhale tugged her forward, towards him, towards a future, towards the family she’d always wanted and finally had.

 “I was just going to tell you that I’m very impressed with what you’ve put together tonight,” he began, gesturing around the room to emphasize his point. “This took some serious time and effort, and I’m beyond honored that you went to all this trouble for me.”

 Wait. What?

 “Excuse me?” she whispered, certain she hadn’t heard him correctly.

 “Thank you,” he grinned, reaching out to stroke her arm. “For this. For being willing to take a chance on this oaf of a restaurateur and for bringing light back into my soul and life.” She breathed in and out, thinking yes--she had misheard what he’d said earlier, or perhaps he’d just misspoken. After all, if he was about to propose, he was bound to be nervous. But then he took a sip of water and said the last thing she expected to hear.

 “Whatever else you have planned for the evening, I want you to know that I’m absolutely game.”

 Her insides froze as her mind ran three steps ahead of her, realizing that she hadn’t misunderstood what he’d said moments before.

 “What I put together?” she repeated, staring at him in utter confusion. “Robin, I didn’t do this. I thought you did.” His mouth fell open, and he blinked repeatedly. “Didn’t you have Mary Margaret occupy me all afternoon so you could set this up?”

 “No,” he answered, looking just as baffled by her revelation as she was by his. “Frank kept me busy all day working on a never-ending list of minor repairs to the restaurant. Then he told me you’d called and that it was time for me to pick up Roland at your place, so I showered and came right over, although he insisted that I park around back for some reason.”

 “Pick up Roland?” Regina repeated. “I thought you took the boys to the football game this afternoon.”

 “What football game?” Robin asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “I was under the impression that you’d taken them out to the movies. At least, that’s what your text said.” He proceeded to take out his cell phone and pull up the text message in question to show her.

 “I didn’t send that,” she said, wondering what in God’s name was going on here as she stared at a text she didn’t write. “But I did get one from you asking if Henry could join you and Roland for today’s game.” She paused, taking another drink of wine, wondering just how she’d emptied her glass so quickly as her evening spun out of control around her. “I thought you were…”

 She stopped, biting her lower lip before her heart toppled out of her mouth and onto the table between them, mortification tasting bitter on her tongue.

 “What?” he questioned, leaning forward to take her hand. “What did you think, Regina?”

 She inhaled sharply, fighting duelling urges to cry and crawl under the table.

 “Nothing,” she lied, trying her best to swallow. “I was being stupid, and…”

 “You’re not stupid, sweetheart.”

 “You don’t know that, Robin!”

 “I do know that, Regina, you’re one of the smartest people…”

 “I’m being ridiculous tonight--Shit! I’m sorry. I need to shut up before I ruin--”

 “Did you think I was going to propose?”

 Her breath caught in her throat, the room spiraling around her like an off-balance crazy house. Dizziness seized her as he spoke what she’d tried so desperately to hide, and her lungs constricted, making breathing next to impossible.

 “Because it’s alright if you did,” he continued, his voice taking on the texture of honey as he began to stroke her fingers as he’d been doing earlier. “I actually thought you were about to ask me.”

 Her eyes rounded, her mouth gaping open as words played hard to get.

 “You did?”  she asked, feeling decidedly hot all over. “You thought I was going to propose?”

 “I did,” he replied, stroking her ring finger purposefully. “I mean, it’s the logical conclusion when you take in all of the factors, don’t you think?”  He paused, watching her closely until she nodded slowly. “The in-house restaurant, being kept out all day...I can see why you would have thought the same thing.”

 “You can?”

 The words fluttered off of her tongue, weightless yet full of feeling.

 “I can,” he assured her. He stared into her again, licking his lips as his voice dropped half an octave. “And if you had proposed, I would have said yes, you know.”

 Her heart stopped as everything around her blurred into oblivion except for the man across from her.

 “You would have?” she questioned, her heart pounding relentlessly in her temples.

 “Yes,” he returned, his voice as intimate as a caress. “I would.”

 Her ribs expanded, her heart nearly exploding out of her chest as the reality of what he’d just said began to sink in.

 “So would I,” she whispered as a tear broke free and trickled down her cheek. He reached out to wipe it away with his thumb, his smile so broad she felt embraced by it. “I would have said yes, too.”

 He swallowed down emotion she could sense from across the table as he blinked back tears of his own.

 “So if you would and I would,” he began. “Then why don’t we?”

 She gaped at him, trying to speak, wanting to nod, attempting to do anything besides sit in dumb confusion as she was currently doing. She cleared her throat, moving her lips in silence before her tongue finally caught up.

 “Why don’t we?” she echoed, melting from head to toe at the broad smile that covered his face.

“Robin--is this…?”

 “It is if you want it to be,” he interrupted, caressing her knuckles with his thumb. “If you’re ready to make this forever. Are you, Regina?”

 Oh, God. Forever. Yes--yes, she was definitely ready for a forever with this man and their boys. She was nodding as an array of tears fell down her cheeks, smiling as the word Yes danced up from her heart and tickled her tongue, ready to leap towards the man she loved just before a whisper out of nowhere cut her off.

 “Do it, Dad! Do it!”

 Decidedly boyish giggles then erupted from the direction of the couch.

 “Shhhhh!” an older voice cut in, one she recognized instantly as Henry’s. “Don’t ruin it!”  

 “I’m not ruining anything,” Roland whispered back, pausing as he seemed to realize that he’d been overheard by the adults. “Uh oh.”

 She held back a laugh, nearly choking on it as Robin stifled a chuckle. He cleared his throat yet again, entwining her fingers with his own.

 “Do you think that perhaps we’ve been set up?” he mused, his eyes wandering from her to the sofa behind which their sons were obviously attempting to hide.

 “I think the possibility is very strong,” she answered, doing her best to stifle another laugh as Roland whispered We’re busted.  “You might as well come out,” Regina added, leaning back in her seat. “We know you’re there, boys.”

 “I told you to be quiet,” Henry hissed just before two heads peered out from behind the top of the couch.

 “I was being quiet!” Roland insisted as they puttered out from behind their fortress, their heads hanging low, their faces as obvious as a neon sign. “I only whispered, Henry.”

 Henry rolled his eyes at the younger boy’s logic, daring to look at his mom for a second before dropping his eyes to his shoes.

 “So boys,” Robin began, leaning back in his seat and studying them. “Are you two responsible for putting this dinner together tonight?”

 Henry and Roland looked at each other before each of them nodded slowly, refusing to make eye contact with either of their parents.

 “And were you also responsible for sending misleading texts both to me and to Regina to keep us busy and away from her house today?”

 Roland sighed heavily as they nodded again, only to be interrupted by August who’d strolled into the room from the kitchen.

 “Henry texted you,” the other man said. “But I sent the one to Regina about the football game. I didn’t quite trust Roland’s spelling skills.”

 “Football is hard to spell,” Roland admitted with a shrug. “So is stadium.”

 Regina’s lips trembled as she fought down a smile, reaching for her wine glass before she remembered that it was empty.

 “I see,” Robin murmured, raising a brow towards his cousin. “And was this your idea, August, or did you send that text at Roland’s request?”

 “He didn’t have to twist my arm or anything,” August admitted with a shrug. “But it wasn’t my idea.”

 Robin’s eyes locked with Regina’s, the spark of amusement that was obvious to her somehow lost on their boys who looked as if they were about to attend their own funeral.

 “And why did you think it necessary to mislead us as you did?” Robin continued. “Couldn’t you have just asked us if you wanted us to attend such an elegant evening? ”

 The boys couldn’t look guiltier if they tried, and they stared at each other before turning their gazes back to their parents. Henry looked like a convicted felon, Roland like a whipped puppy.

 “We didn’t mean to lie,” Henry said, swallowing hard. “We actually wanted to do something nice for you two, something special.”

 “This is very nice,” Robin agreed. “But why all the secrecy?”

 Roland huffed as loudly as the big, bad wolf, squaring his shoulders as he decided to bite the bullet.

 “Because we wanted you to propose.”

 Regina’s eyebrows shot up as the smile lines creased further around Robin’s eyes.

 “You wanted me to propose to Regina?” he asked, leaning forward towards his son.

 “Yeah,” Roland admitted. “Or for her to propose to you. It didn’t matter--just as long as you two got engaged.”

 She inhaled sharply, wishing for another glass of wine with all she had.

 “You want us to get married?” she questioned, her eyes moving from Roland to Henry. Her son finally lifted his gaze to her own, and he grinned, making her heart leap into her throat as he nodded.

 “We do,” Henry replied, looking from his mom to Robin then back again. “We want to be a real family, official and all.”

 Her cheeks were wet, and she dabbed at them with her napkin.

 “You, too, Roland?” Robin asked, smiling as the younger boy nodded back.

 “I don’t remember my mom,” Roland admitted as he took a step towards the table, those baby browns of his melting her heart like warm wax. “And Henry’s never had a dad.”

 “So it works out well for all of us if you two get married,” Henry cut in, moving in closer. “Roland gets a mom…”

 “Henry gets a dad, I get a brother,” Roland jumped in, walking right up to the table, feeling bolder by the second. “And you two can stop worrying about who's staying over where at night and stuff.”

 Her heart was thudding again, two words amidst many drumming out a steady tattoo in her chest.

 “You want me to be your mom?” she asked, staring at Roland as he beamed back at her, dimples and all.

 “Yeah!” Roland answered, practically hopping into her lap. “You’re great at being a mom, and we even kind of look alike. I think we’d make a great team--don’t you?”

 “Yes,” she answered, the word tumbling out of her like a petal caught up in a waterfall. “I think we make a great team.”

 She laughed as tears fell freely, and she kissed curls that had been gelled and combed as small arms wrapped themselves around her neck. But Robin sat dumbstruck, finally standing up and moving towards Henry.

 “You’d really like me to be your dad?”

 The words were whispered and rough around the edges, tinged with emotion so deep she felt it from where she sat. Henry looked up at him before staring at her, silently seeking her permission, receiving it with a smile.

 “I would,” Henry said, turning his focus back to Robin. “If you wouldn’t mind having me as a son.”

 Robin turned towards her, his eyes wet, his expression one of awe.

 “Mind?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. I’d be honored to be your dad, Henry. If it’s okay with your mother, that is.”

 All three males looked directly at her at once, and she felt the stares of Alonzo, Marco and August watching them in expectation.

 “It is,” she said, smiling so broadly her cheeks began to ache. “You’re right, Henry. Robin is a great dad.”

 “So does that mean you’ll marry us?” Roland asked, hopping off her lap in excitement. “Please, Regina. Marry me and my dad!” Henry was nodding in her direction, trying his best to coax her along.

 “I will,” she answered, cutting her gaze to the man still standing beside her son. “If your dad asks me, that is.”

 Henry inclined his head towards Regina, gesturing Robin in her direction as Roland jumped up and down before grabbing Robin’s hand and practically pulling him down to the floor.

 “You’re supposed to kneel down, Dad,” the boy insisted. “Jeesh! Don’t you know anything about proposing?”

 Robin bit his lower lip to contain his amusement as Henry pushed the man closer to her from behind. He scooted toward her on the carpet and took her hand within his own, looking up at her with those blue eyes of his that never ceased to make her knees go weak.

 “Regina Mills,” Robin began, stroking her ring finger as he held her gaze. “I don’t lead the most orderly of lives, as you well know. My house tends to be messy, and my family is always in our business.”  He paused, tossing a glance towards the kitchen where Alonzo and Marco waved him on as Roland whispered, “Get on with it, Dad!”

 “But it’s my life, and it’s one I want to share with the most amazing, intelligent, compassionate and gorgeous woman I know,” he continued, aiming his eyes in her direction and hitting the bullseye. “I love you, Regina. Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”

 Her insides burst into an array of fireworks, making everything tingle at the same time.

 “I will,” she answered, cut off from any further words by a pair of insistent lips upon her own. She tugged him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her fingers into his hair, chuckling into his mouth as applause broke out around them and Roland uttered  Ewwwww. They drew back from each other, all touching noses and damp cheeks, reluctant to let go until Henry interrupted.

 “Now’s when you give her the ring.”

 She sat back at that, shaking her head.

 “Robin doesn’t have a ring yet,” she explained, watching Henry’s brow crease in confusion. “Because he wasn’t planning on proposing tonight. This was your doing--remember?”  

 “Regina,” Robin said, “I--”

 “It’s alright,” she cut in. “I don’t expect one right now, and there’s no rush. Having a ring doesn’t make us any more or less engaged.”

 Her finger felt barer than it ever had, oddly enough, but Robin would remedy that soon enough.

 “Can we go ring shopping with you?” Roland asked. “I want to make sure you get Gina a good ring, Dad, one that shines and sparkles and costs a lot of money. That’s what Uncle Frank says women want.”

 “You discussed engagement rings with Uncle Frank?” Robin asked. “Dare I ask what else he had to say on the subject?”

 “Only that it's’ all about the rock,” Roland said. “That you’d better give her at least a carat or you won’t be getting any for a while, whatever that means.”

 “You asked,” Regina stated as Robin grimaced and rubbed a hand over his beard, chuckling as Frank’s voice cried out Thanks a lot, Roland! from the back of the house. They stared in that direction, shaking their heads in amusement as Frank, Mary Margaret, David holding Baby Neal and Belle toting Gideon slowly came into view.

 “Why am I not surprised?” Robin questioned, looking back at her with blatant adoration. “We can’t do anything without an audience, it would seem.”

 “I hope to God there are some things you do without an audience,” Frank tossed back, getting a sound whack from Mary Margaret on the arm.

 “You know, maybe I should have consulted with you, Frank, before I purchased this,” Robin continued, turning his full attention back on Regina. “Seeing as you’re the expert, according to Roland, but I’m hoping Regina likes it, whether you had a hand in picking it out or not.”

 One hand reached into his pocket as the other held her left hand before releasing it to open a small box, one that held a simple yet elegant ring that took her breath away. It was an oval set in a platinum band, with two small rubies on either side of it, neither pretentious nor too understated, just absolutely perfect.

 “Oh my God,” she breathed, watching in fascination as he slid it onto her finger. “Robin! When did you... how did…”

 “I bought it a month ago,” he admitted. “Had it stashed in my bedroom, waiting for just the right time to ask you. Somehow…” he paused, tossing a pointed glance towards the kitchen. “The box ended up in my suit pocket tonight, the suit I’m assuming August picked out and had delivered here for me to change into this evening.”

 August shrugged good-naturedly, grinning from ear to ear as Belle moved to his side and Gideon flew into his arms from his mother’s.

 “I actually wondered if Roland had found it and tipped you off when I first got here and saw the setup,” Robin continued. “If perhaps you’d arranged for it to be in my pocket so the stage would be set.”

 “You mean when you thought I was planning to propose?” she questioned. “Oh my God, do you really think I’m that devious?”

 “I’m counting on it,” he hummed, kissing the top of her hand. “I had this ring designed for you, Regina,” he continued, his tone now soft and private. “The rubies--they represent our hearts, you know. Two hearts brought together by the most unusual of circumstances, still managing to create something beautiful out of years of pain.”

 Words deserted her again as she stared at the ring, holding her hand up so it caught the light and sparkled, feeling her heart reach out to the man to which it had always belonged.

 “It’s perfect,” she breathed, cupping the sides of his face as she swallowed. “And I love you. So very much.”

 He leaned in and gently kissed her pulse point, her eyes closing upon contact as one of his hands dropped to her rib cage just over where the heart that had once been Marian’s pulsed steady and strong.

 “I love you, too,” he muttered. “With all of my heart.”

 She laughed just before he kissed her again, startled when he practically fell into her as Roland and Henry tackle-hugged him from behind. She leaned back abruptly, touching her lip, fairly certain it had been cut as she picked up her napkin at dabbed at it.

 “Are you bleeding?” he asked, reaching out to her as he tried to unsuccessfully shake off the boys.

 “Barely,” she answered. “You?”

 He grinned, shaking his head.

 “No. And my nose made it out unscathed, as well.”

 She cackled, remembering how she’d practically broken his nose the night they’d met, feeling that somehow a split lip was actually a good sign on this crazy road they’d been travelling. Everyone gathered around them then, wine glasses in hand as Marco topped off hers and Robin’s, and they rose to their feet, moving into a circle of family she’d craved all her life. She had a son, a son-in-waiting, a fiancé, a father-in-law to be, friends, cousins...God, life had been good to her, and she was more thankful than ever for the scar on her chest, feeling it tingle as Robin’s arm slid around her waist and drew her close.

 “To us,” Robin said, raising his class in her direction before extending it towards everyone else. “And to family.”

 “To Regina and Robin,” Alonzo echoed as everyone raised their glass. “And family.”

 They drank, and she took it all in, laughing as Marco confessed they actually had trays of lasagna for everyone just in case the night turned into an engagement party, feeling loved and fully accepted as each member of Robin’s family and her own hugged her in turn and offered their congratulations.

 “God, I’m surrounded by men,” she mused later as Robin fed her a bite of chocolate cake topped with dark chocolate ganache, so delightfully decadent it made her moan. He chuckled, gazing around the room at Alonzo and Marco, at August and Frank, at Henry, Roland, David, Neal and Gideon and nodded his agreement.

 “Face it,” he whispered, stroking the side of her face. “You’re outnumbered, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 She chuckled as she chased down chocolate with wine, leaning into him fully as they sat on the sofa while others danced and chatted.

 “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she grinned, taking a deep breath. “After all, we could always adopt a little girl.”

 He paused then, eyeballing her before smiling from ear to ear and placing a soft kiss to her temple.

 “That we could,” he returned. “And I’m certainly game.” He then claimed her mouth fully, sealing the deal and their lives together before she could get another word in edgewise.

[truckthesefeels]

Rob the Bank (then take me home)

Armitage Hux, under extenuating circumstances, extreme duress, and the influence of alcohol (again), attempts to purchase a greeting card. He brings his live-in werewolf along because it’s Kylo’s fault they need one.

A direct sequel to Dog Whistle, with the added element of being almost not about werewolves at all. It’s probably necessary to read the first part first.

Rating: M Warnings: mild exhibitionism, alcohol use, non-main character death mentioned in passing, unseasonable discussion of St. Patrick’s Day, werewolves (if you squint), soft as heckkkk (except for the references to past violent crime) Words: 3200

[Dear anon who requested this: sorry... that this took ten years and that the one thing you asked for does not actually take place. Dear everyone else: sorry that I only listened to Placebo and Kate Nash while writing this and as a direct result it turned out insane and also unmoored in space and time.]

He sees how they look at him, when he stands next to Kylo. They—anyone, little old ladies, families at bus stops, store clerks. This store clerk in particular. Rough piece, they’re all thinking about Kylo. Thug. They’re looking at how Hux shines his shoes and thinking that Hux has found himself a nice side of beef with his hired muscle, and then they’re thinking that he probably takes it rare with a little au jus. Not their fault: lycanthropy aside, Kylo still looks like someone who would tear your throat out. Probably with his teeth. Probably in a back alley somewhere.

He certainly isn’t someone who looks at home in a Hallmark store.

But of course they're in a Hallmark store.

Hux is halfways to drunk in a Hallmark, actually, because they're intended to be going to Ren's great-aunt's cousin's funeral. On his mother's side. Or something. It is definitely supposed to be a funeral; Hux was never quite sure of the relation and now he has no idea. He isn't quite sure why he'd let Ren convince him it was appropriate to pre-drink a funeral, either, even the funeral of a ninety-six-year-old woman he's fairly certain Ren's never met. Now that he's gone and done it, it turns out it was a terrible idea and there's no way Hux can attend.

The thing is, when he found Ren, he didn’t know what he was finding. When Hux let Ren into his home, he didn't know what he was letting in. He’d thought it might kill him. And when he let Ren into his bed, when he let him in and then climbed straight in on top of him, he absolutely didn't know that Ren was staying. (He must have assumed, as one would assume with almost anyone, that he was dealing, here, with an adult. Surely this adult lives somewhere. Surely he'll leave eventually.) Except that it seems like where Ren lives now, is with Hux. In his house, in his bed. On top of him and underfoot and huge and permanent.

He goes, sometimes, and then he comes back, and then one day over mostly burnt toast at the breakfast table he’d looked up and asked, “Will you go to a funeral with me? On Friday. I mean, you don’t have to. I just haven’t seen my family in a while, so it’s kind of…”

He didn’t say what kind of thing it was. Hux didn’t ask him to. It was a surprise to learn that he had a family at all.

And Hux, who hates his toast cooked any further than a four on the toaster’s little dial, somehow said “Of course I’ll go” without thinking about it for a second.

He’s done plenty of thinking between now and then, thinking he hates himself for agreeing, thinking of course he agreed, and then that of course he’d go for anyone, anyone who asked him—he would not, that’s a lie, but then there’s no one else who would ask him and there never has been—and so, that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? He thinks now, again. He’d have said yes to Ren, and by some vagrancy of fate it was Ren who had asked him. Here they are.

Every display in the damn store is green and Hux can’t understand it.

“Okay,” Ren mutters to Hux out of the side of his mouth. A pep talk—possibly directed at himself. He glares around like he too has noticed the unhealthy colour scheme. “Okay, we’re going to do this as fast as possible. Get in, get out. Clear mission. You like those, right?” Ren has his shoulders hunched in like he’s afraid he’ll knock over some piece of kitsch and be made to pay for it. Hux knocks a shoulder into him, because Ren could burn the whole fucking store down and Hux would probably help, it’s that awful. Also it’s slightly by accident because Kylo stopped walking when he hadn’t expected and he’d been using Kylo to keep him going in a straight line. “D’you think all the sympathy cards are gonna be fucking St. Patrick’s Day themed too?”

“Oh, Christ, is that what’s happening here?” It’s overwhelming. The clerk can go fuck herself, on second thought—it’s not her fault what she thinks of Kylo next to Hux, but the look she’s splitting between the two of them, like she’s listening in and wondering whether she should call the police or not, absolutely is.

Hux hates it here. He hates it, hates it, and yet here he still is.

He opens his mouth to tell Ren what he damn well thinks and all that comes out is: "Ren.”

Ren turns to him, still mid-glare, some concern sliding in like he thinks Hux might be about to embarrass them—as if he would ever—and Hux’s mouth is still hanging open. He’s not sure how to shut it without incriminating himself. “I'm so fucking happy," Hux says. Caught. “Ren. I am.”

Then Ren gets a read on Hux—on something about Hux that Hux is not doing on purpose—and smiles, wide and without hesitation. Both his dimples show at once: his whole sullen face is changed to something completely else. "Yeah," he says, slow and silly when Hux was deadly serious, but at least it’s not a question when he says it.

Somehow he's right in Hux's space so there’s nowhere to go that wouldn’t trap Hux up against the St. Patrick's Day cards—who the fuck gives a St. Patrick's Day card, Hux would like to know, and he’s Irish—and he buries his face in the side of Hux's neck and just... doesn’t do a thing, although Hux might have let him. Hux holds his arms very stiff at his sides. "Yeah," Ren says again, like they're telling secrets. As, indeed, Hux supposes they must be. Ren’s chin digs sharply into his shoulder when he presses as close as possible there and then tries to get closer. "You didn't know?"

He didn’t know and he couldn’t be expected to. There’s no baseline for it.

Ren does this thing that no partner of Hux's ever has: he stays. Not just in Hux's bed but really with Hux. But in Hux’s bed, too, yes. After, when they've both come spectacularly and filthily and when usually, one might roll over and—well, roll over and spoon, or fight over who doesn't get the wet spot, or call a cab or something—Ren doesn't go. He always stays instead. He stays, almost unimaginably heavy on top of Hux, lets himself go soft there, lets himself settle in to breathe like he's not squashing all the life out of Hux. Hux knows enough about wolf physiology to have... theories, about what exactly it is that Ren finds satisfying in this. But the problem is, Hux likes it. He would like to lie like that forever, wet spot and crushed ribs be damned.

He’d choose it over almost any other thing, he’s just realized.

Maybe Kylo really did know it already. Maybe Kylo can scent it or something, how absolutely calm and still Hux goes, how much he doesn't ever want to push Kylo away. Maybe it explains where Kylo had found the guts to ask Hux to come along with him.

Here next to the cardboard sign that says Luck O’ the Irish, he shoves Ren off with a sharpish push to the middle of his chest. "Ren! Sympathy card! For Great-Aunt Whoever." Hux needs him to be at a non-distracting distance for this. Not so close that Hux is thinking about getting closer, too. "Just... just pick one and we'll mail it in. It's that rack." He's pretty sure. That rack’s not as green. Ren's pectoral muscles are still distracting even at arm's length, and it probably isn't helping that Hux has somehow failed to reclaim his hand from where it's spread out against them.

Ren's grin widens somehow. Like this is what surprises him. "You're fucking trashed, huh?"

"It was not my idea.” He’s a little wobbly, though, true enough. “And I am the—the goddamned voice of reason, here; I'm insisting that we don't go. You can't go to a funeral like this. It's disgraceful. We'll send a card."

"Hux, I had one beer. With lunch." Ren sounds so soft, and Hux knows what that tone means. It means Ren’s biting back the kind of full-blown smirk that’s worse than his grin, that will have Hux spitting at him.

"Before a funeral,” Hux spits anyway: “it's completely inappropriate."

"You had whiskey. And like four sweet potato fries. And then three more whiskeys."

This is perhaps true too. Hux hasn't been to a funeral since his own father's, and in fact he'd worn the same charcoal tie to it that he is wearing today. He must not have shoved Ren away as hard as he'd thought he'd done, because Ren is right back in his space again, looping his arms carefully around Hux's back. Something about the sure way he does it tricks Hux into doing the same. Now Hux is half-drunk and hugging in a Hallmark store. It's more egregious than being nuzzled against the St. Patrick's Day cards was somehow, perhaps because he is an active participant in it.

He very much regrets mentioning any kind of happiness, ever, fleeting as it is turning out to be.

"You could just have told me you didn't want to go," Ren says. Hux thinks Ren's actually swaying them back and forth very slowly and calmingly, foot-to-foot, although that could be his head sloshing around. Either way, it's very nice. It doesn’t quite mesh with the smirk Hux had thought Ren was holding in. Makes it hard to keep scowling into the side of his head, especially since Ren can’t see that Hux is doing it.  "I didn't even know Aunt Maz; I was only going for Rey."

"Sorry." Rey, Hux knows, is the only member of Ren's family that he still talks to, or at least the only one he ever talks about. Hux isn't totally sure what their relation is, either. Sister? Cousin? Packmate? “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Shouldn’t have what, he doesn’t quite know.

He isn't totally sure what happened to the rest of Ren's family, but now that he knows they exist, he has some theories about why Ren's face looks the way it does when he doesn't talk about them. One of the reasons he has never asked is because not all of Hux's theories involve all the members of Ren's family being alive. This, if nothing else about Ren, is something that Hux can understand very well.

"Hm," Ren says after a minute, like he’s carefully considered it and Hux's apology just doesn't signify. "Let's go home. I'll email Rey later—don’t think she really expected me to show anyway." But he doesn’t stop anything that he’s doing.

Hux squeezes. Ren is, among his many dubiously good qualities, very solidly squeezable. His hair smells amazing even here in this terrible place. Not participating was really never an option.

"That... claim." He didn't know he was going to say that either, but he’s had four whiskeys at noon and now it's said.

Ren goes still and stiff in his arms. This is not something they've spoken of since the very first time, when Ren swore not to do it. Or swore not to hurt Hux, like that was the same thing without question.

"What is it? Exactly?"

"We don't need to," Ren says quickly. Extremely quickly. "That... other pack. They're not—it's not a problem, I told you. I know I got cut up pretty bad." This is an understatement; even with Ren's impossible healing, Hux can trace the scars across his face and down his side and he does so now. He can track those scars even through the dress shirt that Ren had to buy specifically for a funeral that they’re not going to ever make it to now. They are marks of Ren's physical protection, of his stupidity, of his willingness to let himself be gutted for someone he didn't even know. "But I won the challenge. The issue is settled. They're not. Um. Not coming back for you."

He holds Hux tighter when he says it, even as he stretches a little, preening a bit under Hux's touch. It's stupidly endearing, if not entirely reassuring, but this is not what Hux means. He only has one question.

“It wouldn't make me... like you? It's not the bite?” He only has one question and he’s not even sure if the answer makes a difference.

“It doesn't make you a—not like me, no. Jesus.” Ren pulls back now, gives Hux a frantic little shake by the shoulders like he knows what Hux was thinking and he’s not sure if he hates it or not. “But it's a permanent alignment, Hux. You'd be mine, and. And it can't be undone.” Ren’s voice is nervous but the thing underneath that is pitch-black, predatory. It’s there in the way his fingers dig into Hux’s flesh, the way he pulls back but even so he’s looking. It's another feeling Hux knows well. “You could never undo it.”

“And you are also mine?” His huge worried thing, his huge hungry thing, so keen to protect Hux from everything and anything and especially from himself. Just dangerous enough that a little protection might be warranted. This doesn’t count as a question because Hux knows the answer without thinking about it.

“I am. Yes. I would be.” He’s so still. But still there.

He knew the answer, and even so Hux’s blush heats up from the bridge of his nose to the top of his forehead—hopeless. He is filled hopelessly with an unexplainable love, right up to the same rising waterline. He should have—should have checked for it. Should have known. It must be pouring out of his ears.

Ren is on him, slamming him back into the St. Patrick's Day cards so hard this time that the cardboard shamrocks rattle. Something jams into his kidney and it fucking hurts, and the sound is like two six-foot tall men have tackled each other in a shop full of tat. Which they have. Hux can't believe that no one has come to try and interrupt the scene they're making, and he doesn’t care to stop until someone does. Maybe the confluence of capitalism and false sentiment has created some kind of liminal zone where no one can touch them. Maybe the shopgirl isn’t here clearing her throat at them because she’s busy dialling 911.

Maybe it's because Ren has one rock-solid thigh pressed into Hux so hard and so sweet, but his hand on the back of Hux's neck is gentle. He'd kill anyone who tried to look twice. Hux would definitely help him. No scene could matter.

“The last funeral I went to...” Hux is slurring not because of the whiskey but because his nose is mashed up against Ren's ear and he's not inclined to change position. “The last time, it was,” he chokes on My father, can’t say it. It was a decade ago and on a different bloody continent is even lonelier, somehow. “I'd have shot him myself,” is what he ends up saying, unsteady, “only somebody got to it first. So I shot them instead.”

“They can't have you,” Ren growls, as he holds Hux and holds him and holds. As if the people he’s talking about aren't already dead. “They can't get to you. I won't let them.”

Completely inappropriately, now Hux is the one who’s trying not to laugh. He thinks what’s bubbling up inside him might be something much worse than what this card store was built to withstand. A black kind of joke, a joke like a tar pit if it’s a joke at all, but Ren is here. Ren is here and Ren has him, and Ren knows from bad. Hux lets himself kiss Ren first one time, just a peck, and squeeze him tight around the ribs some more. “It's not a fucking blood pact,” he says. This part, the trial, is a confession. “It was ruled self defence; I was acquitted.”

He’d walked out of that court with his knees shaking and caught the first fucking flight across the Atlantic, destination anywhere else, running, but here he is now in a fucking Hallmark with an impossible person. With something he doesn’t let himself look at straight on on a good day, let alone when he’s drunk before two.

He slides his death grip up from Ren’s middle to his huge tense shoulders, to his disaster of a haircut, to both sides of his glowering face. Holds him there white-knuckled while Ren stares straight back.

 He’s going to tell Ren that he means it, that he’s happy with him, that he’d rip anyone in half that tried to stop him now—fangs or no. That he’d let Ren put his teeth in his neck if that’s what this means, and he thinks that it might be. That he’s serious, so serious, they have to leave right now or it’ll be Ren he’s tearing into and they’ll both be arrested.

He’s going to let Ren take him home, and it’s their home, together, like it was never Hux’s home when he was alone. Before that he’s going to let Ren hold his hand – in the street, in the taxi, in the goddamn queue line to buy a sympathy card that Ren will barely even check to make sure that there are no leprechauns on it. He’ll probably sign the card next to Ren’s name. Tomorrow.

Before that, after that, sometime in between those things:

He’ll be the one to hold Ren down for once. He’s going to close the blinds at three PM and do a shoddy job of it, and he’s not going to care if the neighbors can see it when yanks off Ren’s tie. It’s a tie that he borrowed from Hux, the navy one with a little stripe to it, which is also inappropriate for a funeral. The whole incident almost made Hux want to ask Ren if on top of everything else he was colour-blind like a dog. He doesn’t care; he won’t care where that tie lands or about any of the rest of it.

In Hux’s bedroom in the middle of the afternoon, tipsy and so certain, so certain now, he’ll push Ren down and bite at him when Ren is the one who hesitates. They’ll be as naked as if the idea of going to a funeral had never existed. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe this will be all there ever was, this huge and simple thing, and nothing else will happen after. Ren will open his eyes suddenly into Hux’s messy, determined kiss, will push at Hux a little until they’re staring at each other, and Hux will look straight down into him and realize it was possible to be more naked even than that—to be completely bare before another person and to be completely unafraid.

“I won’t hurt you,” Ren will say. The second time he’s said it, exactly like this.

[thiswillbereportedtomanagement]

Which gourd reigns supreme? Photo by a2gemma.The season of the gourd is upon us once more, my friends. Littering my home with assorted decorative gourds has never been my style, but I get a rabid gleam in my eye when the edible ones start popping up at the grocery store. While I wish I could say that all gourds are beautiful and deserving of love, the truth is that some are far more delicious than others. Here is an objective ranking of the season’s best offerings.Dead Last: Spaghetti SquashSpaghetti squash is unmitigated trash and I will fight anyone who insists otherwise. No, Barbara, it doesn’t taste “just like spaghetti,” it tastes like shredded, squash-scented water chestnuts—in a word, betrayal. Serve me a pile of watery, worm-like squash guts with bolognese on top and see how it ends for you.Truly the worst of all worlds, spaghetti squash is too watery to stuff, too bland to make an appetizing soup, and too stringy to cube and roast; the mere thought of spaghetti squash pie filling makes me want to die. Literally the only recipe that’s piqued my interest is this one from The Kitchn, and that’s only because I’m horny for pasta carbonara in general. Sure, spaghetti squash is edible when smothered in pork fat, cream, and cheese, but what isn’t? Demand more; ban spaghetti squash. Next-To-Dead-Last: Sugar Pumpkins Cooking your own pumpkin for pie is so overrated it pains me to even mention it. First of all, you should make sweet potato pie instead. Second of all, sugar pumpkins are an enormous pain in the ass to deal with and don’t even taste that good, which is proven by the fact that even canned pumpkin usually isn’t made from conventional pumpkins. In fact, many producers use non-pumpkin species of C. maxima and C. pepo specifically because “[t]hese squash varieties can be less stringy and richer in sweetness and color than pumpkin.” (Emphasis mine.)What I’m about to tell you may come as quite a surprise, but those cans of orange puree labeled…Read more ReadIncredibly, the non-pie applications of sugar pumpkins are even worse. Their aforementioned stringiness is not improved by roasting, and their complete lack of flavor makes a poor choice for a gratin. Stuffing a whole pumpkin makes for an admittedly stunning presentation, but you’d have to stuff it with something really tasty to make up for the taste of the pumpkin itself. I guess you could make pumpkin soup from scratch, but honestly, why on earth would you? If the autumnal season feels incomplete without hacking up some round, orange gourds, stick to carving pumpkins. At least those know their place.For the next few weeks, no pie will be more discussed, written about, and hyped than the pumpkin…Read more ReadAlso-Ran: Acorn SquashIt’s rare to see acorn squash roasted, gratinéed, or made into soup—the classic preparation is split in half, stuffed with something delicious, and baked until soft. This could be because half of one is the perfect entrée size, but I think it’s really because flavorful stuffing hides the fact that acorn squash is mediocre as hell.In accordance with Vermont hillbilly tradition, I grew up eating acorn squash split and roasted with maple syrup, salt, and a lot of butter. It tasted good to me then, but that had more to do with the maple syrup and butter than with the squash itself. I remember excitedly scraping the roasted surface off and pushing the mushy, unseasoned innards around my plate. At its best, acorn squash is like a disappointing pear: too-soft, slightly gritty, with about a third of the flavor you were promised. Sure, it’s better than sugar pumpkin or spaghetti squash, but that’s an exceedingly low bar to clear. We can do better.Second Runner-Up: Butternut and/or Honeynut Squash Butternut squash is deliciously sweet, with firm orange flesh that holds its shape when roasted. It’s also ubiquitous and relatively easy to prepare, making it a crowd-pleaser of a gourd if there ever was one. The one drawback is its tough skin, which must be removed—and, once it has, makes the squash a slippery nightmare to cut up. (Butternut’s little cousin, the brutally adorable honeynut squash, is nearly identical in taste and texture, but less of a beast to deal with.) If you’re having a hard time cutting into the tough rind of that winter squash, try giving it a…Read more ReadI like roasted squash best of all, and for that reason alone, I have to give butternut its due. It caramelizes readily without turning to mush, so high heat—400ºF, minimum—is your friend here. If you can manage to split one in half without goring yourself, it roasts up beautifully with nothing but butter, salt, and maybe some brown sugar, though I personally like to roast it in big chunks seasoned aggressively with olive oil, salt, whole fennel seeds, and red pepper flakes. From there, you can eat it as-is, or purée if with stock, simmered aromatics, and a bit of cream or butter for soup. Its firm flesh also lends itself well to lasagna and layered gratins. I’ve never roasted a butternut squash explicitly for pie filling, but I’m not above it. First Runners-Up: Kabocha and Hubbard SquashThese two squash varieties are so similar I’m lumping them into one entry—and where pure flavor is concerned, they can’t be beat. Kabocha and Hubbard squash are beautifully sweet with edible skin, and they take on a soft, almost fluffy texture when cooked. That texture, while delightful, is actually what knocks them back to second place; I prefer a squash that holds it shape when cubed and roasted.Don’t let that dissuade you from roasting them, though, because if you do it right they’re nearly unbeatable. The classic “split it in half, smother with butter and salt, and roast for an hour” preparation works gangbusters here, but for smaller cubes, I recommend pan-frying in your fat of choice until tender and broiling briefly if desired. Straight out of the pan, roasted kabocha (or Hubbard) squash is soft and fluffy on the inside, with pleasantly crisp-tender skin—but if you let it cool, it becomes downright fudgy in texture. This might be my favorite way to eat these squash varieties, actually: roasted, fully cooled, and tossed into a hearty grain-based salad with a punchy balsamic vinaigrette and plenty of fresh herbs. Deep-fried, tempura-style, is a close second. Whether it’s Leslie Knope, the non-Lisa Simpsons, Vernon Dursley, or your racist uncle who draws…Read more ReadRoasted squash is old news, though. What sets these apart is that they succeed—no, excel—where every other gourd fails: as a custard pie filling. Until now, I’ve insisted that scratch pie filling is a waste of time, and here is the sole exception. These gourds are richly flavored and and honest-to-God velvety in texture; if you’re going to make pie filling from scratch, use kabocha or Hubbard squash. Miss Seasonal Gourd 2017: Delicata SquashI fully admit my bias, but as a roasted squash enthusiast, there was never another candidate for the top spot. Sweet, tender, easy to butcher, with edible skin and enough structural integrity to survive a hot oven, delicata is simply the perfect gourd. If you want to roast a delicata squash, and you should, prep is super easy: just scoop out the seeds, cut into your desired shape (I like friendly little half-moons the best), and season to your liking. The skin is actually the best part, so don’t you dare peel it off. Like kabocha, any leftovers will take on a pleasingly dense, fudgy texture when cooled, making a lovely addition to salads.Roasting is where delicata squash truly shines, but don’t count out other preparations. Its robust flavor also makes a delicious soup—miles better than butternut, honestly—and, when seeded and thinly sliced, a truly excellent gratin base. If you feel like showing off a bit, stuff a whole delicata with just about anything you like for a hearty, entirely self-contained vegetarian entrée that looks just as good as it tastes. Truly, there’s nothing this squash can’t do, save for pie filling—but that’s why God gave us sweet potatoes.

https://skillet.lifehacker.com/a-complete-ranking-of-edible-gourds-and-how-to-eat-the-1820184189

[benazirs-blog]

HI folks,  this is the second time I made this dish.   The first time it tasted ok but I did not have all of the ingredients that I needed.  I have eaten this with shito the first time I had made this. This time I have made a stew to go along with it.  When I seen the waakye sticks I right away pounced  and snapped them up.

I have been looking for recipes on how to make the stew to go with this yummy dish  from Ghana.  I found waakye sticks finally at African stores here in Chicago.    Recently  here in USA in the states of Texas and Florida  as well as the Caribbean and Puerto Rico has been ravaged by Hurricanes Harvey and Irma.

I pray that for those people have lost everything can rebuild and have some closer over the love ones that they have lost.  Also my brave surviving friends who rode out those nasty storms or was evacuated can piece their lives back together again and  Jose can keep its distance.   Ameen.

With enough said  we can get  on with the recipe for making this dish.

    Rice and beans part:

I added 1 cup  of dried or frozen blackeye peas or cow peas  that has been washed  in  to  the pressure cooker,  1 bullion cube, 4 cups of water, 1 pinch of  red chili powder, 3 dashes of maggi or knorr aroma and 1 pinch of baking soda.

I turned on the pressure cooker to high heat  and waited for the safety button to pop up and cooked for 20 minutes.

The beans was nice and soft and now it is time to  add 2 cups of rice in to a coldero  and rinse the rice until the water becomes clear.  Any type of rice can be used for this dish.  Add  the beans from the pressure cooker in to the pot and an  additional 6 cups  of water, 3 waakye leaves cut in half and distributed  all over the beans and rice, 1 more pinch of baking soda. 

Bring to boil  on high heat and place aluminum foil under the lid and cook for 20 minutes on low.  Stir occasionally and when the rice is soft and absorbed by the water turn off heat and let sit for 20 minutes.

   Stew part:

Now for the stew there are proteins of choice here they are 1 kg or lb of chicken, lamb, goat, veal, beef, smoked turkey, tripe,  turkey, oxtails,  gizzards, liver, kidneys,   fish or other seafood of choice such as shrimp, crab, clams oysters or mussels  either  fresh or frozen, 4  goat’s feet  1 cow’s, 6 lamb’s or goat’s tongues,  1 heart from either cow, goat or lamb,  1 can of either  zabhiha halal corned or canned fish in either brine, oil or tomato sauce is great for stew too.

Wash and clean the protein of choice,  scale and gut the fish if needed or ask your fish monger to do it.  Take of the fatty part on the smooth part of the tripe and add 1 drop of dish detergent  in a huge mixing bowl full of water and  rinse after changing  the water a few times.  Snip with a pair of kitchen shears  and put back in a large bowl full of water and add 1 oz of white vinegar for final cleaning and rinse a few more times.

The  tougher meats like the tongue, tripe,  gizzards,  turkey, oxtails, beef, lamb, goat, veal, goat’s feet gets cooked in a pressure cooker with 4 cups of water added for 30 minutes then the pressure escapes, pressure cooker gets opened then if it is still a little tough then add 1 cup of water if needed and  again for another 30 minutes and turn heat off.  If using shrimp, devein  and take the shell off of the shrimp and boil the crab if using.  Shrimp gets fried in peanut oil until pink. 

Kidneys and liver gets their membranes and cortexes  removed. It is the white center of the kidney. The brown part is what you want to keep.  Take a big bowl  fill it with cold water and add  3 pinches of kosher salt and  let soak at least a minimum of 10 minutes and drain and keep rinsing  6 times or more.  Then add 1 oz of white vinegar to the large bowl with more water and make sure it is full.  Add the liver and kidneys  and   keep rinsing  until you do not see any more blood coming from them and that the water is clear.

This gets fried in a skillet in 1 oz of peanut oil.  Cook until done  and there is no more water coming out of them.  The can of zabhiha halal corned beef  and canned fish gets added in at the last minute after you put the stew on.

Q: What am I going to do with the brine or oil from the cans? Do I throw it away?

A: No you don’t because this would give the stew some flavor.

Q: what about the stock from the meat after  it cooks in the pressure cooker.

A: This is what you do, is when you have stock from the meat you cook in a pressure cooker  and have some stock as a result you add it to a coldero and bring it to a rapid boil to greatly reduce the stock.   This you would need for the stew.

There is an alternative for cooking meat in the oven that you heat the oven for 400F  or 200C.  In a roasting pan you can add  turkey tongue, fish, chicken, turkey, oxtails, goat, lamb, beef, veal, smoked turkey or oxtails.  Spray with cooking spray or add 1 cup of water before you add your meat.  This oven baked method may take longer then the pressure cooked method it is  20 minutes for fish  and for other meats it is 30 minute intervals until done.   With both pressure cook and oven methods if cooking tongue please remove the skin.  Hearts gets cut open in half and all of the coagulated blood or blood clots in lay man’s terms  are removed before you  chop it up in to bits before you cook it.  This can be either fried in peanut or palm oil.

Just be diligent and keep checking.   The fresh or frozen fish can be pan fried too using peanut oil.  Just make sure you thaw your meat or fish first in the fridge the night before cooking.

I wanted chicken so chicken was my protein of choice and I cooked it in my cast iron  skillet in 1 cup of water unseasoned. The reason why I did this because I did not want to get the food too salty. It is important when you make African food is to precook your meat to save you some time. The rest is just as we say,  “It’s just gravy” or “easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

Spice blend in mortar and pestle:  I added 1 broken piece  of star anise and  2 cloves which I ground and set aside.    I added to a small bowl to set aside when I made the stew is 1  bay leaf and 1 pinch each of rosemary leaves and thyme.

For the stew part itself and the home stretch:

In my blender I added 1 habenero or scotch bonnet deseeded, 1 small piece of ginger washed peeled and  chopped, 2 cloves of garlic, 1 onion or shallot, 1 tomato chopped, 1/4 cup of water for ease of blending.

Ok you can add either  1 oz  cup of peanut oil or red palm oil, If you used oil to precook your meat you may not need much anymore. Please use discretion.

Add the blended tomato mixture in to the cast iron or caldero if using and stir until the raw smell goes away.  Add the seasoning from the spice blend  in to the pot  along with the contents of the mortar and pestle, 1 bullion cube or 3 pinches of bullion powder or vegtea seasoning. Crumble the bullion cube  and add it to the food if using bullion cube.

Stir then add 1 pinch each of crayfish, curry powder, red chili powder, 3 dashes of maggi or knorr aroma,  stir again and add protein of choice,  1 tbs of  tomato paste and 1 cup of water stir  and cook until you get a thick stew.

Boil 2 chicken eggs or 6 quail eggs until they are hard boiled then crack to remove shell and add to stew at the end.  Turn off heat. Enjoy with an icy non alcoholic brew, 1 sliced avocado and shito.    As you see this gets eaten on top of the waakye itself and it is very much apart of this dish.  Anyway when I had made this I ended up adding the palm oil, stew base, spices and everything else on top of the chicken.

It is because I did not want to dirty up a bowl and there was barely any stock coming from the chicken. This turned out lovely anyway.  So  as usual I am giving lots of options here.  Even if I want to make banku  then I can just eat the stew with this too if i do not want to make the rice and beans part.

Cheers!!!!

Waakye And Stew HI folks, this is the second time I made this dish. The first time it tasted ok but I did not have all of the ingredients that I needed.