#I feel insulted by how under appreciated strawberry cream cheese is

[forgetme-eternally-blissfully]

strawberry cream cheese fucks so good like it should be illegal how good it is why does no one talk about strawberry cream cheese why is this not even a topic anywhere why does no one know about the wonders of strawberry cream cheese. like it’s so versatile and yet no one mentions it. as if it doesn’t exist. doesnt the strawberry cream cheese mean something? to someone? does anyone else know about this? why has this gone untouched for so long? it’s amazing and yet it’s an unsung hero. where are the strawberry cream cheese lovers I need to find my people

[marvel-medigeek-fics]

Candid

This is my entry/fic/thing/whatever for @ruckystarnes’ summer of AUs challenge! I hope you enjoy and remember to check out some of the other submissions! 

Summary: Two rival studios. Two impossibly competitive photographers. Two days of a candid war. A high possibility of a candid romance. *wink wink*

Warnings: none! (except some puns)  

Pairing: T’Challa & Reader 

Word Count: 1963 

——

Friday. 8:07. Shutterfly Photography.

It was bound to be a slow day. Fridays are the slowest days, even without the lazy busy summer feel of the weekend of the 4th of July. You had a gig lined up for the Citywide Block Party that weekend, a celebration you looked forward to every year. Especially the food from the ice cream shop and the barbeque place downtown. Mmmmm.

The door opened just then, interrupting your salivating about the food. You recognized the person occupying your doorway. T’Challa from King’s Photos.

“Howdy,” he said, tipping his imaginary hat. 

“What are you doing here, T’Challa?” you replied skipping the formalities for your rival. 

“Such hostility!” he said in mock outrage, “I was checking to see how we were going to do the block party.” 

“There’s no we in this,”

“Check your email,” he replied simply. You looked for a glimpse of snark, but all you got was a shrug. So you sighed and checked your email. 

Once you had skimmed it, you looked up and narrowed your eyes at your rival. He narrowed his back. 

“So…we’re doing this together,” you said finally. 

“I’m afraid so. We all know what happens when we’re together.” He was no doubt referring to the fact that the last time you two had done anything together, you’d seriously bruised each other. With baseballs. On accident. 

“Let’s just wing it.” You knew this phrase would irk T’Challa, which is why you said it, hoping to annoy him enough to make him quit the gig. But you also knew it was futile because T’Challa is not a quitter. 

“Yes, let’s. Just wing it.” He replied, fighting to keep the scowl off of his face. 

“Just messing with you, how about we just make our way around the park, photographing as we walk?”

“Much better than winging it. Adding to that, why don’t we try and take candid photos. The 4th of July is a pretty casual holiday.”

“Surprisingly, I really like that idea.” 

—-

Friday. 13:38. Jackson Event Center Parks. 

Armed with your trusty Nikon and it’s case filled with extra batteries, you made your way to the far end of the park. It was a perfect summer day, breezy and just barely hot enough to melt your popsicle. You snapped a few pictures of the people milling around and a few more of the band that was set up to play in about 20 minutes. 

After walking around yourself for those 20 minutes, buying an ICEE from the stand, capturing the worker serving a little girl her ICEE, you finally found T’Challa. 

“What is that?” he pointed at the cup in your hand. 

“A strawberry ICEE.” you replied, taking a sip of the slushy drink. 

He still looked confused, so you elaborated, “It’s a slushie. Come on, you should get one.” 

You dragged him to the stand, stopping every few feet to snap another candid photo of people doing people things. A couple kissing at the end of a country song. A little boy presenting his mom with a fistful of dandelions. A braid train of three girls and a very talented boy. You were so busy with admiring the little moments you had captured that you didn’t notice T’Challa come up behind you, ICEE in hand. 

“What flavor did you get?” you said, trying to distract him from looking at your photos. 

“Orange,” he said, smugly looking over your shoulder. But you looked smugger. 

In one fell swoop, you turned around, smeared the uncovered ICEE into his face and snapped a picture. But T’Challa was nothing if not graceful, and he simply wiped off the orange mess off of his face. And onto your bare arm. 

He grinned, aiming his viewfinder and you and snapping, capturing your look of indignation and your hands blocking the camera in reflex. 

“Payback,” he said grinning. 

“Haha. This is a war now, Udaku.” 

“Game on, Y/L/N.” 

—-

Friday. 17:06. Jackson Event Center Parks Grandstand. 

You had taken a lot of pictures over the course of the day, most of them not simple candids, but of the actual band you’d been hired to photograph. The band was the Decade Hoppers, a new band that you’d never heard of before. They were really getting into their music, so they were prime real estate for unposed, casual pictures. Their music was pretty good and without realizing, you’d begun bopping and grooving to the beat. T’Challa took advantage of the loss of stiff uptightness and snapped a bunch of pictures of your moves. 

“Nice moves, Y/N,” He said, coming up to you, snapping a few pictures of his own of the band. 

“Not my best moves, I’m a better slow dancer,” you replied. 

“Oh, I bet, just like the slow dance in 8th grade where you smashed my toes so bad I couldn’t walk for two months.” 

“I’ve gotten better,” you sniped back. 

“Oh, I bet, so you’ll only break two of my toes this time?”

“Only one, if you buy me a milkshake first.” 

“How about zero if I buy you dinner?” 

“It’s a deal, T’Challa. There’s a dance tomorrow under the stars and the fireworks.” 

“Sounds sparkly.”

“You love glitter.” 

“Yeah, I’ll even wear a glitter tuxedo,” he said, walking toward another angle of the stage. 

“You’d better!” you called after him, shaking your head at how quickly that had gone from insulting to taking you out to dinner.

—

Saturday. 9:43. Jackson Event Center Parks. 

The second day of the 4th of July Block Party was always really slow in the morning, most people sleeping in or lazily eating pancakes from the cafes and coffee shops in town. You got a coffee from one of the food trucks serving breakfast. Very appreciated for everyone working at the celebration. 

The coffee was warm, the air was still and there were no sounds except for the occasional banter of the food truck workers and the gleeful screams of the neighborhood kids. It was perfect and with the mere thought of that dance tonight with T’Challa, your heart was making little kicks of joy. 

After finishing your coffee, you snapped a few pictures of the food truck workers sneaking kisses, a few of a volleyball game going on across the street and another few of the sun shining over the buildings. T’Challa appeared after you had snapped a terrible picture of the styrofoam coffee cup sitting empty on the table. 

“Having fun?” he asked, trying to hold back his laughter. 

“I am, actually,” you replied. 

“Want to go have more fun and go to Grace’s?” he replied, subtly begging you to go with him to a place he hated to go in alone. Especially because his ex ran the front counter. He was justifiably scared of her. 

“I would be happy to,” you said, standing up and taking his outstretched hand. In a second he would snap a picture. 

“Still a war going on, you know,” he smirked. 

“Oh, I know.” 

—

Saturday. 10:25. Grace’s Coffee. 

The bell rang as you came into the tiny coffee shop. You had vaguely registered T’Challa taking more candid pictures on the 10-minute walk over her, but you didn’t say anything. It was kind of cute. 

You walked up to the counter, confidently and casually holding T’Challa’s hand just to tick Grace off. “Your usual?” you asked him, knowing full well you had no idea what that was. 

“No, I’ll have french toast and a venti coffee,” he replied, a sudden boost of confidence coming over him as he relayed his order to Grace. “And she’ll have hashbrowns with another venti coffee.��� 

“$10.94, sir, it’ll be right out,” Grace said, looking like someone gave her buttermilk in her cereal. 

When you had safely gotten out of Grace’s earshot and were sitting at one of those old fashioned diner tables, you whispered, “How did you know my order?” 

He shrugged, “Lucky guess?” 

You narrowed your eyes but seized the chance to take a picture of his sheepish grin and shrug. And then swiftly took another as the plates of your food slid into their places. 

“Really getting out there in the cultures this week, T’Challa. Yesterday ICEEs, today french toast, what’ll it be tomorrow?” you remarked, trying to get a rise out of him. 

“I’m more traveled than the president, woman, watch your mouth!” he said, waving a fork around your face. 

—

Saturday. 20:13. Jackson Event Center Parks. 

The night was beginning to wind down for the kids, but for the adults, it was just getting started. The snow cone stand was replaced with an alcohol truck and the music was relaxing back into sounds of the 70s, a stark change from the rapid pulse of the 90s. 

The sun wasn’t even close to going down, but the dance floor was getting fired up. T’Challa had come up behind you and whisked you off to one of the still left food trucks. Barbeque. 

“MMmmmmmm.” your mouth watered at the smell. 

“Ready for my part of the deal?” T’Challa quipped. 

“I’ll try not to stomp on your toes on the dance floor. I make no promises for getting barbeque, though,” you replied.

You ordered your usual, short ribs with extra sauce, very salty fries and an extra helping of mac and cheese. When you got back to the table T’Challa had told you to meet him at, he was waiting with an Oreo milkshake. “I thought dinner was the only part of your deal?” you questioned, digging into your food. 

“This is part of dinner.”

“Then I promise to not step on your toes for the entire night.”

“That’ll be a hard one for you, Y/N, but good luck,” 

—

Saturday. 22:19. Jackson Event Center Parks. 

“I’ll take my dance now, Y/N,” T’Challa said, just as the very beginnings of the firework show had erupted across the sky. 

You set your camera down next to his and made your way over to him. The sky was dark, but the fireworks gave off the perfect amount of light. Your hands fit perfectly together and from T’Challa’s smile, you could tell this was a positive revelation. 

The song changed from The Cupid Shuffle to a slow song with very soulful guitar chords and you made your way across the dance floor. “I’m sorry I didn’t wear my glitter tux,” he said, swaying along to the music. 

“You look great in what you’re wearing. I’m not even mad about the lack of glitter tux,” you replied, swaying back, making a conscious effort not to step on his toes. 

The fireworks kept going off in the background, but all you could hear was his breathing, calm, poised and peaceful. And your brain telling you to kiss your rival. You wouldn’t, no matter how cute he was and how sweet he had been today. 

“You look great too, Y/N,” he replied, his voice sending your brain back into kiss him, kiss him, kiss him rapid fire. “Happy 4th of July,” 

 And then he kissed you. Oh, holy macaroni. It felt so nice, you almost gave him a kiss back as soon as he pulled away. “Been waiting for this since the last time we danced and you broke my toes.”

“There’ll be none of that tonight. Just dancing in jeans and kissing under the fireworks,” you replied, smiling contentedly. 

—

 In the background of your first kiss together, the fireworks were still going off and the night was still young. Neither of you noticed the crowd behind you, cheering to the end of the fireworks. You both stood there, looking peaceful, beautiful and best of all, happy. 

It looked perfect, from the memories and from the photos someone took on your Nikons, still sitting side by side.