#I think he’d like salt and vinegar flavor

[womb-complex]

he look like he eat great value/store brand chips

[impala-dreamer]

Pondering Fate While Ignoring The Obvious

A Ten Inch Hero Story

~Priestly has got it so bad for Tish that he can barely see past the end of her... well, her back end, anyway. He's love sick and forever rejected, constantly stuck inside his own head. When a new girl in town starts messing with him, he quickly loses his cool...~

Boaz Priestly x F!Reader

2,511 Words

Warnings: Nuttin' but fluff and banter. ;)

A/N: This is another square for my @jacklesversebingo card. The prompt is "Backhanded Compliment/Convenience Store/Sugar Addict"

Now listen- I've never written for this movie before, but I had so much fun doing it. If you've seen the movie, I think you'll love this. If you haven't seen it, you may not totally get it, but you'll still love it because it's cute and fluffy and I said so. Give it a chance ;)

Another day, another spicy Italian with no oil and no vinegar. How you could eat a hero dry was a question he could never quite grasp the answer to, but in the end, did another weird order really matter? He’d put a condom on the bun if they asked for it. Maybe not a used one, but then again, Tish was looking extra spicy herself today.

Tish. Goddamnit. There she goes flirting with every male in existence except him. There she is leaning over the counter in that not-so-sneaky way that pushes her tits up and out, giving everyone and their mother a look into the valley of the Promised Land. 

For fuck’s sake, if she’d only do that for him. 

Then again, nothin’ he hadn’t seen before. 

Fingers snapped in front of his face and Priestly blinked himself back into reality. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, still half dazed and half hard after staring so intently at his coworker. 

Piper sighed. “Yeah. You gotta make a run down the street.” 

He sighed harder. “You know, you ladies are capable of patronizing the convenience store now and then. It’s not really hard. You just pick out what you need and exchange it for cash.” 

The tiny blonde pouted and batted her lashes. “Please? My feet hurt from standing all day.” 

He scoffed. “And mine don't?” 

“I’m not used to it. I’m delicate.” 

Priestly scratched at the bright green spikes that sat atop his head for the day, masquerading as a hairstyle. He frowned but relented. “Fine. Gimme the list.” 

He saw her from the street. He wasn’t purposely peeping through the window like a stalker, but he felt like it all the same. It wasn’t his fault, not really. Things mostly stayed the same around town, so when something was different, when someone new showed up, it tended to stick out a bit. 

The new girl at the register was cute, not particularly daring in her style or makeup palette, but she was attractive. Probably the thing Priestly noticed first was the lollipop stick hanging from her painted lips. 

His entrance was announced by the jangling of bells and she looked up as he came in. She smiled around the pop and twirled the white paper stick between her fingers. 

“Welcome.” 

He looked back at her over his shoulder and nodded. “Hey.” 

Slowly, she pulled the treat from her mouth and licked the very tip. Her tongue was as red as the pop and Priestley was sure that his cheeks were turning the same shade. He cleared his throat quickly and turned back, going about his business. 

The store was otherwise empty except for Mr. Jacobson, the old man who never seemed to go anywhere but was always wherever you went. He was currently lingering at the end of the aisle, amazed at the sheer amount of chip flavors the new millennium had to offer. 

“Back in my day we had regular and salt & vinegar, and we were grateful!”

Priestly laughed under his breath and looked over the rack at the register. She was laughing softly as well, and when their eyes met, she didn’t shy away. 

He did; quickly tearing his gaze from the cherry pop and focusing on the aluminum foil instead. There was no use flirting with her anyway- she’d never go for him. She looked too normal, too pretty to fall for his shenanigans. Best not to even think about it. 

Arms fully stocked, he headed her way, keeping his eyes on the black and gray tiled floor and praying she wouldn’t make his heart race any faster. 

She sucked hard on the Blow Pop and then took a bite, making him jump. Sugar crackled between her teeth and she winked.

“I hope you overcharge them,” she said dryly, staring him down. 

Confusion took the place of shyness and Priestly’s face scrunched up. “What?” he snapped, jerking away from the counter. 

The girl rolled her eyes and went about ringing up his order without another word. 

Cash exchanged, Priestly thanked her and walked out, still wondering what the hell she was talking about. 

Monday. 

Priestly stared out the front window, wondering if the day was going to go his way or not. He knew he shouldn’t bother pondering the Fates, because they always seemed against him, but he liked to think he had some hope tucked away somewhere beneath the Manic Panic hair dye and all the metal sticking out of his head. If there was, he couldn’t find any today. 

Tish was late, as usual, probably rolling out of some strange guy’s arms and fishing for her bra underneath the bed. 

Someday… someday, that’d be his bed she was searching under. Someday, those would be his arms she rolled out of. He just had to keep hoping.

Or not. He really didn’t care. 

The sun was too bright, the grill was too hot. He hated everything. 

Except the sound of bubblegum popping behind him. He didn’t seem to hate that. 

With spatula in hand, he turned and startled just enough to make the bubblegum appear between coyly smiling pink lips. 

“Hey.” 

Priestley squinted. “You’re that chick from the store.” 

Annoyance crept onto her face. “And you’re that dude with too much eyeliner.” 

He laughed before realizing she was insulting him and ended up jolting up on his toes awkwardly, half a smile curled on his lip. 

He cleared his throat. “Priestly.”

She squinted. “Like Elvis?” 

He shrugged. “And you are?” 

“Hungry.” 

Slapping a five on the counter, she picked up her hero and spun away, heading toward the door. She turned to push it open with her backside and popped her gum again. 

Her eyes were glued to him and Priestly felt his stomach flip. He met her gaze and she smiled. 

“I always do.” 

He wanted to say something, to ask her what the hell she was talking about, but she was gone before the words reached his tongue. 

“Always do what?” 

Jen turned her head his way, but her eyes were still locked on the computer screen. “What’s up?” 

He sighed. “Nothing. Just a weird girl from…nothing.”

It was nothing. She was just the weird girl from down the street. And anyway, he was supposed to be hating everything today, not shifting his ponderance to the mystery of the gum chewing, pop crunching girl from the convenience store. 

“Nothing.”  

Blue hair; don’t care. 

Priestly cracked an egg on the grill and watched the edges sizzle. He wasn’t great at a lot of things, but cooking eggs was something he did exceptionally well. The butter bubbled around the perimeter, curling the whites just slightly, and he pushed the tip of his spatula against it. 

Not ready yet. 

The girls were, yet again, chatting about men, and he kept one ear on the sizzle and the other in their conversation. 

“I just don’t understand how hard it is to find. It’s right there.” Tish laughed and pushed a delicate hand back through her hair. “It’s a clit, not the Holy Grail.” 

Priestly raised a brow. “Some would call it that though,” he interjected. 

She rolled her eyes. “You would.”

Offended, he sucked in a quick breath. “Ya know something-” 

She turned, one hand on her hip, waiting. “Yeah?”  

His lips pursed and dejected, he turned back to the grill. “Forget it.” 

“Thought so,” she laughed. 

God, she was such a bitch sometimes. OK, most times, but still.

Tish went back to leaning on the counter and he took the opportunity to peek at her ass. 

Behind him, a throat was cleared. 

Priestly sighed, knowing what was waiting for him when he turned. Or, rather, who. 

“You again.” He batted his lashes. 

She smacked her lips. “Me again.” From her pocket, she withdrew a pink Starburst and fiddled with the wrapper. 

He eyed the candy and followed it to her mouth. Her lips were darker today and it reminded him of the cherry pop. “You eat too much sugar, you know that?”

She smiled gently. “And you dye your hair too much. That isn’t good for you. All those chemicals are gonna fry your brain.” 

“Joke’s on you, it’s already fried- shit!” Fried egg. Burnt to a crisp. “Damnit.” 

Sugar Girl swallowed a laugh and the Starburst. 

He turned around, annoyed at himself and her laughter. “Are you- do you want something?” 

“Yup.” She nodded and took her order from Piper, who was holding a small, paper-wrapped hero. “Thanks.” 

Green eyes narrowed on her smile. She was weird. Way too weird. And kinda rude. 

“You ever gonna tell me your name?” he asked, calling out as she pushed open the door. 

“Sure,” she replied, “Soon as I get my free sample.” 

“Huh?” 

Confusion always seemed to linger when she left, that and the smell of strawberries. Or cherries, or whatever she’d been sucking on. 

Sucking on…

His eyes flickered over to Tish and he wondered if she was as good at sucking things as she claimed.

It was raining and he was cranky. 

He’d missed his alarm, the car wouldn’t start, and a passing bus nearly drenched him head to toe. 

It wasn’t supposed to rain at the beach. It was practically against the law. Nature’s law, anyway. 

And to top it all off, Tish was bragging about the amazing night she’d had with a handsome stranger visiting from New York. 

“He’s just in town for a few days, so it’s nothing serious,” she explained to a wide-eyed Piper who was drinking down every word. “But man, I wouldn’t be mad if it was. He’s… tall and handsome and-” 

Priestly cleared his throat. “Ya know I’m pretty tall.” 

She clicked her tongue. “And?” 

His heart ached at her callousness. “And… just thought I’d remind you.”

Maybe she didn’t know what she was doing to him, but he thought his advances were fairly obvious. Maybe she was just a bitch.

Jen derailed his thought train with a shopping list she’d printed out. 

He shook his head. “No.” 

“Please?”

The shop on the corner was the last place he wanted to go. Nameless Sugar Girl was the last person he wanted to see. “Why do I always have to go?” He pouted and gestured to the window. “It’s pouring rain out there.” 

Jen looked up with puppy-dog eyes. “Which is why I’m asking you to please go.” 

A heavy sigh was his only reply. Priestly grabbed the paper from her hand, crumpling it beyond repair, and set out into the downpour. 

He was dripping by the time he made it down the street. He sneered at the water on his face, rolled his eyes at the welcome mat, swatted viciously at the bells as they rang above his head. 

“Rough morning?” she asked, watching his huffy entrance. 

He scowled. “You could say that.” 

A peppermint rolled on her tongue and the red and white stripes caught his eye. “Well, lemme know if you need any assistance.” 

Priestly ran a hand through his teal-tinted hair and shook out a puddle’s worth of rain. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

It took him a while to collect the goods, having trouble finding the right paper towels that would fit into the holder in the bathrooms. He’d never had any issues in the store before; seemed like someone had rearranged. 

Someone. 

He looked across the rows of sundries and wondered what her deal was. Hell, he still didn’t even know her name. Not that he wanted to, of course. 

Of course. 

Finally, and with much annoyance, he arrived at the register. 

She laughed softly as he unloaded his arms. 

He shook his head. “What?” 

“I… I shouldn’t even touch this one.” 

He had no clue what she was talking about, he never did, and he was at the end of his rope. 

His patience snapped. “What?”

She sat back, clearly hurt by his tone. “Your shirt.” 

She pointed at his chest and he looked down, reading the big black letters upside down. 

‘Save a tree, eat a beaver’

His shoulders fell. “Oh. Yeah. Whatever.” 

“Yeah,” she echoed, the sting heavy in her voice. “Whatever.” 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Dropping a can of coffee onto the counter, he slapped his palms down on either side of it and leaned in. 

“Ya know, everytime I see you, you’ve got something snarky to say.”

Her eyes went wide. “Snarky?” She frowned. “I thought I was flirting.” 

The fight drained out of him along with the blood in his cheeks. Confused once more. “Uh… what?” 

Pushing herself up off the stool, she mirrored his pose, hands falling dangerously close to his. “Flirting,” she said again. “It’s an ancient ritual in which a sexually interested party attempts to lure their prey into bed with witty and charming wordplay.”

He balked. “I know what flirting is!” 

She glared. “Then why haven’t you picked up on the fact that I’ve been trying to pick you up for weeks now?”

“I uh…” His elbows buckled and he stood up fully. “You have?” No way. She wasn’t…

Memories of the past month flooded his mind. Each time he’d seen her she was smiling at him, not being snarky. She was teasing him, answering the ridiculous sayings on his shirt. 

‘I sell crack for the CIA.’ … “I hope you overcharge them”

‘Surf naked.’ … “I always do.” 

‘Orgasm Donor - Ask for your free sample’ … “As soon as I get my free sample.”

It had been smacking him in the damned face and he hadn’t seen it. She had been playing with him the whole time, not trying to annoy him. She wanted him to notice her, but he was too busy dreaming of Tish, wondering when she’d notice him. 

He sucked in a stunned breath. “You have. Wow.”

A tiny smile returned to her cherry lips. “Come on, I know you’re not as dumb as your fashion sense implies.”

Priestly felt a dip in his gut, something fluttering around inside. He grinned. “Oh, I’m way dumber.” 

Reaching across the counter, she grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him close. “Good.”

Her lips were soft, the kiss as sweet as the candy she was always eating. He breathed her in as her tongue swept over his.  He was stunned, confused but in a good way. Maybe he needed to push Tish aside and pay more attention to the world around him. Maybe this was a good thing. A really good thing. His eyebrows raised in surprise, his blood pressure raised even higher.

She pulled away slowly, her lips lingering on his. 

“You get it now?” 

She waited, blinking at him with the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. He should have looked sooner, closer; should have given her a chance.  

“Yeah,” he whispered in a laugh. “I think I do.” 

Another kiss, a press of her hand at the nape of his neck. 

“You ever gonna tell me your name?” 

She smiled. “Y/N.”

He reached for her cheek; fingers landing lightly on her soft skin. 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” 

2023 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

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[feralaot]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do aot characters and their gas station orders. Hope you have a good day!

no problemo

AOT characters and what they get at a gas station

modern

eren: mint juul pods, I don’t know why but I feel like in a modern au he’d vape a lot. I just think it’s funny and so him, you know? he’s probably also gonna grab like 4 monster energy drinks because he absolutely thrives on those. like his bloodstream is probably mostly citric acid

mikasa: she’s very nitpicky and gas stations make her uncomfortable (they aren’t “clean” enough) but she usually gets a bag of teriyaki jerky and has to fend off eren whose prying hands are always trying to get into the bag

armin: phone chargers. if the gas station has phone chargers he’s getting all of them. also probably an ungodly amount of redbull, it makes him implode but he can't stop drinking it

jean: gets beef jerky which he initially intends to share but very quickly becomes a greedy bastard and keeps the bag to himself like a goblin

connie and sasha: picture this, you give two eight year olds 20 dollars and send them into a gas station. what do they come back with? probably party sized bags of chips, slim jims, gummy worms, chex mix, swedish fish, various other candy... and of course, some apple juice, for a bit of finesse. basically the dream feast of small children. that’s these two

historia: water but she won’t under any circumstance drink aquafina. she says that true water drinkers know all water don’t taste the same

ymir: cigarettes and probably some kind of flavored water, she doesn’t really drink water unless it has some kind of flavoring

levi: gets a single black coffee and leaves

erwin: gets a pack of soft pretzels and leaves

hange: party sized bag of sunchips which they devour within ten minutes, it’s kind of intimidating

reiner: granola bars. he gets so many of them and he always offers one to bertholdt but bert hates them so reiner just has to eat like 5 granola bars by himself

bertholdt: at a gas station I don’t think he’d really get anything other than anxiety

annie: gets an xl slushie and mixes all the flavors or tries to make some kind of pattern with them. she drinks gas station slushies fast enough that she doesn’t have to swirl her straw in the flavorless ice chunks at the bottom

porco: a quart of soup, courtesy of pieck, because he never has money. any kind of soup really but especially broccoli and cheddar. he doesn’t even use the spoon he just slurps it straight out of the cup

pieck: it depends on the day but usually a few sodas and a bag of salt and vinegar chips which she forces porco to eat part of because she can never finish them

zeke: gets an s.pellegrino and a hot dog with a disgusting amount of toppings on it and just stands outside watching people while silently consuming the fruits of his endeavor

[heyitssmiller]

Chop It Like It’s Hot

Chapter 3: Sun’s Out Buns Out

Chop It Like It’s Hot Masterlist

Let the pining begin.

@lumosinlove

“Oh my god, there’s ducks!” Finn said excitedly, pointing to the ducks swimming in the pond nearby. Their next challenge was taking place in a small park on the outskirts of the city, which made Logan a little nervous. He was just getting used to the setup of the kitchens, and now he had to deal with this. Finn let out an aww as a group of ducklings followed their mom. “Look at ‘em, they’re so cute.”

Logan looked warily at the setup of grills a few feet away. “I don’t think we’re here to look at ducks.”

“Good morning, recruits!” Dorcas called, waving them over. Leo stood beside her, hair turned golden in the sunlight. Logan blamed the reason he was suddenly too hot on the weather.

Ah, yes. That new development Logan refused to think about too hard.

He was happy with Finn. They’d been happy together for years now.

So why was he crushing on Leo like he did with Finn back in college?

Logan wasn’t blind – he knew the signs well enough after pining for Finn for five years. He just didn’t know what to do with these feelings. And they’d learned from all the miscommunication and wasted time in college – he and Finn told each other everything now.

He just wasn’t sure he could tell Finn this.

How would that conversation go? Hey I know we’ve been happily together for three years now but I also kind of want to kiss that tall blond guy who’s been teaching us how to cook. 

Yeah. That would go over well.

“Today we’re going to be testing your creativity by having you make your own burgers! We’ll both give you examples, but you’ll need to come up with your own original ideas for this challenge.” Leo stated, dumping ground beef into a bowl. “I’m going to make a jaeger schnitzel burger. So for the meat I’m using a mixture of different meats. Schnitzel is traditionally pork or veal, but you need the right ratio of lean meat to fatty meat to make a good burger, so I’m adding some additional fatty beef.” He formed patties out of the meat and placed them on the grill. “What really sets jaeger schnitzel from regular schnitzel is the mushroom gravy on top.”

He smiled, which Logan was quickly realizing was completely unfair. “Creating a gravy is a little hard on a grill, but I’ll do my best. Basically we’re going to melt butter in a pan and fry these onions until they begin to brown. Then add the garlic and cook it for another minute. Add the mushrooms and cook until they’re golden and some of the liquid from the mushrooms has evaporated.”

Leo switched back to his burgers and flipped them before returning to his sauce. “To thicken this into a gravy. We’re going to add flour and stir. Then it’s just beef broth, vinegar, thyme, sugar, salt, and pepper.  Now the burgers are done, so we’re going to take all of this off the grill and plate it, making sure there’s plenty of gravy on this burger.” 

“And I’m going to make a burrito burger.” Dorcas took over. “First we’re going to take our meat and add some seasoning to it: chili powder, garlic powder, onion powder, crushed red pepper flakes, dried oregano, paprika, ground cumin, sea salt, and black pepper. Make sure to get the seasoning mixed in there thoroughly. Then we just throw these patties on the grill and let them cook. What really sets this burger apart are the toppings.”

She reached into a bag on her table and pulled out refried beans, salsa, pepper jack cheese, and lettuce. “I made the refried beans and salsa from scratch last night since we definitely don’t have time for that today. So once these burgers are cooked, we just add the toppings and we’re done. Easy enough, right?”

“This challenge is a blind taste test so that we can’t pick favorites.” Leo added. “Which means you guys are going to be on your own for this challenge – we can’t help you in this round.”

Everyone groaned.

“Just don’t burn yourselves and you’ll be fine. You have forty-five minutes and your time starts now!”

***

Mid-Episode Interview:

*Logan takes his hat off to run a hand through his hair with a sigh*

Logan: I… I might be going home today. *laughs* You know, I hate cooking. The only reason I went on this show was because of Finn. He seemed so excited about it, you know? So for the past seven weeks, I figured if I got eliminated I’d just stay in the city and spend time with him when they weren’t shooting the show. I haven’t really cared if I got eliminated or not. Now, though?

*His gaze loses focus for a few seconds, then he looks back at the camera*

Logan: I don’t think I’m ready to leave just yet.

***

Finn quickly glanced over at Logan as he dropped lamb chops into a hot pan. The brunet had come in second to last place in the earlier competition today and clearly wasn’t happy about it. There wasn’t much he could do right now, but he’d find something to cheer him up with after they were done filming for the day. Alex was in the city visiting their family – maybe the two of them could stop by the house and say hi, if it wasn’t too late.

“Non-stick pan, Lo!” He hissed as Logan grabbed a regular pan to put his potato cake in.

“What?”

“Use a non-stick pan. That way it won’t stick when you flip the cake over.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“How’s it going over here?”

Finn glanced up to see Leo at their shared station. “Good! I think. The lamb chops were a little hard to cut and my tapenade is kind of a mess, but I’m hoping it tastes ok.”

“And the potato cake?”

“The fact that I’m going to be flipping a potato cake is hilarious because I am not graceful at all.”

Leo laughed. “It’s not too bad, you’ll see. Logan, how about you?”

“Well, I’ve learned that I hate the taste of fennel.” Logan groused, sprinkling red pepper flakes on top of his fennel salad. “So I’m hoping to mask that flavor as much as I can.”

“It’s definitely not for everyone. Your chopping skills have really improved over the past couple of weeks, though – look at those potatoes!”

Logan looked up and smiled.

A smile Finn definitely recognized from college.

He glanced back and forth between the two, speculating. Maybe it wasn’t just Finn dealing with new feelings he wasn’t sure how to process yet.

After time ran out Finn glanced down at his two identical dishes – one for him, one for Leo – with a sigh of relief. It was still a little messy, but overall he felt pretty good about it. No matter what he was miles ahead of where he started, so he was happy with himself. He was still a little worried to be tasting his own dish, though. At the end of the day he was still a bad cook, after all.

When it was finally his turn to be judged, he grabbed both plates and placed them on the table before taking a seat opposite Leo.

“This feels like a really weird first date.” Finn teased, watching the faintest hint of a blush spread across Leo’s cheeks.

Oh my god, he’s adorable.

“I can definitely see some inconsistency in the cooking of your lamb chops.” He hurried to say, flipping one of the pieces of meat over for Finn to look at. “See, this one’s nice and brown while this one is undercooked. This boils down to variation of size in your meat. When you’ve got all kinds of different sizes, it’s hard to consistently cook them.” He cut up a piece of lamb and put it in his mouth. Finn probably stared at said mouth a bit too long before following suit.

“Well? What do you think?”

Finn shrugged, swallowing his bite. “I like it.”

Leo smiled. “You know what? Me too.”

 ***

Logan was up next. He sat down hesitantly across from Leo, looking down at his plate and hoping it was enough to save him from elimination.

“Your presentation is really good, Logan. The potatoes are nice and golden, the lamb looks perfect.” Leo said, and something about his words and calm demeanor soothed Logan instantly. He smiled. “Thanks, chef.”

“Ready to try this?”

“Let’s do it.” Logan stabbed his food with his fork, took a bite –

And instantly coughed.

It was so spicy. The kind of spicy that makes your throat close up and tears come to your eyes.

“Oh my god.” He gasped, making a mad dive towards his glass of water and downing it as fast as he could. “Jesus Christ, that’s so hot.”

Leo hummed, setting his fork down. He seemed completely unfazed. “Too much red pepper. You said earlier you were trying to mask fennel flavor, but I think you did too good a job at that.” He watched Logan with a small smile and pushed his own full glass of water towards him. “You ok?”

Logan gaped at him, but gladly accepted the water. “How are you not dying right now?”

“I literally have a show about cajun cooking; I’m used to spice. You should try ghost peppers sometime.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” Leo looked back down at his plate. “Overall, your dish was pretty good. Could’ve used a little less red pepper, but the rest of it was spot on.”

Logan felt his shoulders relax a little. “Thanks, chef.”

***

Logan was in the bottom two.

Fuck.

Finn’s heart had continued to drop as name after name of the safe contestants got announced, including his own, and Logan’s didn’t. He knew Logan didn’t really care if he got eliminated or not, but this had been so much fun to do with him. Finn didn’t want to see him go yet.

“And the recruit who will be leaving us today is…”

Finn honestly couldn’t name the person who got eliminated – all he knew was that Logan was staying. He let his tense shoulders relax and stepped forward to give him a hug. “That was close, Lo.”

“Yeah,” Logan’s voice was muffled in Finn’s shirt. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next week.”

Finn leaned back with a big smile on his face. “You wanna stay?”

“I mean, I’m a really bad cook,” Logan shrugged. “But I’ll stay as long as I can.”

“Logan?” Both boys turned at the voice. Leo stood off to the side, looking slightly awkward.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to talk to you about today’s challenges and ways to improve. I’ve got a few tips I can share, if you want.” He glanced at Finn. “Can I steal him for a second?”

“Go right ahead.”

Leo flashed him a smile before motioning for Logan to follow him.

Finn couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could read Logan’s body language like a book. When he fiddled with his hat, Finn knew he was nervous. When he met Leo’s eyes and didn’t look away as he spoke, he was serious about whatever he was saying. When his gaze flicked down to Leo’s lips, he wanted to kiss him. When he subconsciously leaned forwards and tilted his head up slightly, he was going to kiss him.

The strangest thing was… Finn wasn’t jealous. He should be, shouldn’t he?

But Logan didn’t kiss Leo.

He seemed to catch himself at the last second and he drew back sharply, refusing to look at Leo again. He muttered something and turned to walk away, catching Finn’s gaze as he did so. His eyes widened guiltily, steps slowing as he crossed the room to where Finn was waiting.

Finn gave him a small smile and grabbed his hand reassuringly.

“I think we need to talk.”

[star-spangledstud]

ROAD TRIP

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (female!) reader

Summary: You take the boys on a road trip. Steve has a big surprise.

Warning(s): fluff, an overload of sappy goodness and a snoring Bucky. 

Word count: 3700-ish. 

Just as the sun reaches its peak and the wind sends humid blasts of air through the air-conditioning system, Steve glances in his rear-view mirror for the fifth time in three hours. From a distance, he can barely make out the car that trails behind him along the highway. The shiny black vehicle behind his is surrounded in a cloud of sand much similar to the one that follows his own car, and slightly obscures his view. 

Even though he can hardly make out more than the outline of Sam’s car, his eyes are perfectly capable of inspecting and basking in the glorious view ahead of him. For hours it’s been nothing but sandy panes and distant canyons stretched across the horizon along the mostly deserted highway. It’s an incredible contrast to the busy streets of Brooklyn he’s so used to seeing and for the first time in months, he finds himself able to relax without having to think about missions and lurking alien threats.

He knows it was your idea to take the cross-country road trip with just the four of you, and the only reason why he even agreed to tag along in the first place was exactly that. Steve doesn’t think of himself as a particularly good driver, but with the roads mostly deserted and his best friend right beside him, he feels mostly chilled out, excited even, and he’s glad he came, because the scenery would have been lost on him if he hadn’t.

Speaking of best friends, Bucky is snoring so loud in the passenger’s seat his voice almost completely overtakes the sound of the mellow tones of Mac Demarco’s voice on the radio. Bucky has been fast asleep all morning, and even with the sun shining directly through the halfway opened window and onto his face, he looks extremely peaceful. A tad uncomfortable perhaps in his current position but peaceful, nonetheless. To this day, seeing his best friend content brings a feeling of happiness to Steve’s insides that he can’t quite put his finger on. It brings him a sense of relief that he’d been searching for years.

Even though Steve can barely hear the radio, he does hear the honking coming from behind him seconds after passing by an exit sign. He quickly glances in the mirror again and is immediately greeted with flashing headlights that shine bright, white light into his eyes. He signals back by flashing his taillights a few times in a row, and contemplates whether he should wake Bucky up now or let him sleep until they get off the road, but decides not to wake him until he pulls off the highway into a mostly abandoned parking lot that overlooks a field of cacti and dried grass blinking in the sun.

“Hey sleeping beauty,” Steve says with a cheeky smile while he nudges him gently, “bathroom break.”

Bucky groans and extends his arms above his head, his eyes falling on the gas station in front of the car. He watches an elderly gentleman entering the gas station wearing a cowboy hat and leather boots and rolls his eyes while he opens his door.

He steps out of the car and makes a straight line for the bathrooms, leaving Steve standing with his arm leaning against the burning rooftop of the shiny black vehicle as he waits for you and Sam. Apparently, Bucky is not a morning person, even though it’s technically already way past noon, and hopes his friend gets a coffee before getting back in the car.

Steve smiles brightly when you exit the passenger side, and his smile grows even bigger when you offer him a wave after stretching out your limbs. Sam locks the car and follows you over to where Steve is standing, the two of your engrossed in a discussion about which flavor of Ben & Jerry’s tastes better. Both of your sandal-clad feet drag across the sandy road, gravel rolling beneath your toes and bouncing off into the sea of sand like flying fish while you’re busy trying to convince Sam Chunky Monkey is an awful first choice. Cookie dough is clearly the best flavor.

“Pee break,” you explain when you fall in line with Steve’s step, “Where’s Buck?”

“Pee break. He beat you to the punch,” Steve says, grinning as he watches you enter the shade.

“She had four bottles of water,” Sam explains when you walk ahead of the guys, “your girl is thirsty as hell, my friend.”

He pulls down his sunglasses and winks at Steve, but Steve doesn’t reply. He punches his friend in the arm instead and begins to follow after you as he raises his middle finger in Sam’s general direction. 

He waits for you to finish going to the bathroom by the snack isle, and proceeds to watch you in amusement as you pick out two bags of sour candy and a bag of salt and vinegar chips from the spinning rack. Sam and Bucky are outside pumping gas while the two of you scour the isles of the gas station, picking up bottles of cold water, a watermelon Slurpee for you and more snacks along the way.

Steve takes in your appearance when you take a stand next to him in line. Your skin is glowing, highlighted cheekbones flashing brightly in his direction when you turn your head the other way. The Slurpee you’re sipping on tints your lips a soft shade of red, and your eyes sparkle when you meet his longing gaze.

“You tired of driving yet?” you ask as the two of you get in line for check out.

Steve drapes a heavy, glistening arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head. His lips, soft and warm against your skin, still give you goosebumps every time they come in contact with you.

“I wanna ride with you next,” you mumble when he kisses your lips, batting your lashes at him in a way you know he can’t resist. 

It was your idea to ride with Sam in the first place, claiming you wanted to get to know him better while simultaneously allowing Steve and Bucky some quality best friend time. Of course you didn’t know Bucky would be out like a light the entire drive, and you secretly missed the company of your boyfriend already. You couldn’t be happier when he agreed to take the trip with you, and so far it’s exceeded all your expectations and then some. Hell, even Bucky looks like he’s enjoying himself.

“How long before we get to the motel?” He asks when you place everything in your arms on the counter.

“Three hours or so,” you say after greeting the cashier, “there’s a diner on the same street where we can eat.” 

“Hmm,” he kisses your cheek and whips out his credit card before you find yours in your cross-body bag, “my girl’s done her research.” 

“Of course,” you beam when the cashier hands you the bags, “it was my idea after all.” 

Sam gladly trades you for Bucky. According to him, the Ben & Jerry’s discussion brought a cliff between your relationship that can’t possibly be fixed, and he needs time away from you to think about the future of your companionship. You laugh and flip him off as you gather your belongings from the backseat of his car, and skip happily to Steve, who’s leaning against the trunk while he waits for you.

“Forgot my sunglasses,” you say between pecks, “I’ll go get them real quick.” 

But he grabs a hold of your arm before you can turn around and from his back pocket appears a pair of black Ray-Bans. He gently pushes them onto your nose, and ten minutes later, the four of you are back on the road. 

The motel you booked earlier that morning - talk about last minute - is located in an old mining town on the edge of the desert. From the window of the room you share with Steve, you can see the bright neon sign flashing against a background of tumbleweeds and cacti illuminated by the undergoing sun. You plop down onto the king bed, hand rubbing your stomach after the heavy meal the four of you just shared while Steve grabs your overnight bags from the trunk of the car. 

“Come here,” you whine with outstretched grabby hands when he finally shuts the door behind him.

He chuckles, but follows your command, getting on the bed until he’s hovering over your body, warm breath scented like vanilla milkshake fanning across your face.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, “for coming with me.” 

“Of course,” he says, “I wanted to come and so did the guys. You reminded us how important it is to take time off, even with our jobs.” 

You were terrified of the thought of dating an Avenger when you first met Steve in your local coffee shop in Brooklyn. You’d seen them on the news plenty of times of course, but had never come face to face with one of the mighty heroes until then. The two of you hit it off right away, and it didn’t take him very long to ask you to be his girlfriend. You remember the day like it was yesterday, and remember even more vividly how scared you were before meeting the rest of the team for the first time. 

It was your idea to take the road trip, because you wanted to get closer to the people who Steve trusted with his life. You liked all of them and wanted everyone to come along, but sadly not everyone on the team could get vacation time simultaneously, so instead of bringing the whole gang along, it was just the four of you. You’d been driving for two days straight now, and so far everything had gone smoothly. 

You’ve grown to love Sam, because the two of you can just bicker about absolutely nothing for hours on end, and you share the same dry, sarcastic humor. Bucky was harder to read in the beginning, but after seeing you and Steve together, he’s grown to love you like a sister, and you him like a brother just the same. 

“I know how much you love your job,” you say, “I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to rip you away from it.” 

He shakes his head, “of course not, baby. Like I said, I wanted to come. I enjoy spending time with you, and I can’t wait to spend two weeks with you and my best friends in a cabin by a beautiful lake.” 

“I hope you know I’m going to push you in the water,” you smile. 

“Baby,” he snorts, “do you really think you can move me even an inch? I’m the mighty Captain America.” 

“You may be Captain America, but I’ll catch you off guard and have you soaked in no-time.” 

He kisses you deeply, savoring the sweet taste of your cherry Chap-stick and the scent of your vanilla body splash. Then, he gets up from the bed, taking your arms and pulling you up with him. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, frowning when he slips on his sneakers. 

“We’re going for a walk,” he explains, “come on.” 

You follow him outside, enjoying the lingering heat on your bare arms when the two of you walk around the premises of the motel. He grabs your hand and holds it, thumb rubbing gentle circles over your skin that leave you feeling warm from the inside as well. The two of you are silent when you walk, the only sound audible being the gravel beneath your feet and the occasional car driving along the road behind you.

An hour later, you return to your room and within minutes of your heads hitting the pillows, both of you are knocked out cold.

The cabin you rented for two weeks is even more beautiful in person than in the pictures you found of it online. It’s the perfect mixture of modernistic architecture with classic log cabin vibes, which are created by the wooden log exterior and glass panels that give a perfect living room view out onto the glistening lake. Inside, the interior is eclectic, futuristic furniture with deer heads mounted to the walls. You and Steve share the master bedroom upstairs, while Bucky and Sam each have their own room on the ground floor. There’s a fireplace in the living space that is connected to the kitchen, which you immediately begin to fill with the groceries you picked up shortly before your arrival. 

Remembering you have to feed three hungry men who eat like bears, you immediately start dinner while the three of them explore the surrounding area. Sam is particularly excited about renting a boat, and you’re not opposed to spending some time out on the water yourself. You decide to make something simple, pasta Alfredo, and make sure to place a handful of beers in the freezer to chill while you cook. Steve and Bucky may not be able to get drunk, but they can still enjoy a cold one. 

After dinner, Bucky and Sam disappear again for another walk with just the two of them, and when you voice your concerns regarding them getting lost in the woods, they - including Steve - have no trouble reminding you of their Avenger status. You’re embarrassed for a moment, until Steve kisses your cheek and the guys apologize to you. The grins never leave their faces, though. 

“Those two are awfully happy to spend time together,” you mention while washing the dishes, “I feel a bromance blossoming right before us.” 

“I’ll pretend to know what a bromance is and agree with you,” Steve places a dried plate back inside the cabinet, “I love you.” 

You smile, cheeks heating when he squeezes your side with his fingers before kissing you softly on the lips. You marvel at him, amazed with how much of a perfect boyfriend he is, and kiss him twice more before the sound of running water brings you back down from the cloud you’re doing cartwheels on. 

“I like your dress,” he says, “it’s very pretty.”

“Of course you like it,” you state, “I wore it for you.” 

Steve drops the towel in his hands onto the counter and moved behind you. He pushes you hair to the side and his lips ghost over the bare skin of you neck, fingers playing teasingly with the spaghetti straps of your pastel pink summer dress. 

“Did you, now?” He whispers in your ear, hands caressing your bare shoulders and upper arms in a slow manner. 

You hum in response and shudder when he kisses your neck, softly sucking and biting on the exposed skin. The way he manages to instantly find just the spot you like does something funny to your heart rate and breathing every time, and just as you’re about to order him into your bedroom, the front door opens, and two laughing men stumble inside. 

Steve groans from the loss of contact, but steps away from you nonetheless, and he follows the sound of laughter into the living room while you finish doing the dishes alone. Tomorrow the two of them can do it, you think in annoyance. This is your vacation too, after all, and the person who cooks is never the one who cleans. 

Just before you enter the living room, the three men are speaking in hushed tones. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but the conversation falls silent the second you walk in and the atmosphere feels tense. You want to say something about the newfound silence, but swallow your words when Steve speaks first.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Steve asks with a twinkle in his eye when he spots you, and you nod hesitantly, eyes scanning the guys’ faces.

Your feet graze the beautiful old rug, and you lean against the bookshelf that’s stuffed with encyclopedias and classic board games like Monopoly, scrabble and Clue. There’s a painting above the door you only just noticed. It’s a replica of The Allegory of Painting by Vermeer.

“Something wrong?” You ask, afraid of work-related issues rising during your first night at the lake, but Steve waves them away when motions for you to join him after ordering the guys to finish cleaning up the kitchen space. 

it’s warm outside when you step onto the wooden porch, and the sound of fireflies and lizards hidden from view creates a smile on your face. It’s extremely peaceful and quiet, just what the guys need; an idyllic getaway from their jam packed schedules as Avengers and the fast-paced New York City lifestyle. It’s nice to see Steve this relaxed, you think when you take his hand, and you follow him down the trail that leads around the lake.

This is the Steve you fell in love with nearly two years ago now. You loved him, every part of him, but you had to admit you preferred casual Steve over his alternative persona. With you, he could be his authentic self. No fronts, no righteous facade, just Steve, with flaws and imperfections and questions about life in the 21st century that he only dared to ask you because you’d never laugh at him for not knowing how to work induction plates and FaceTime.

“This place is incredible,” he says when turning back to look at the slowly disappearing cabin. 

It is. It’s better than any of the places either of you have stayed at since you started dating. Hell, it even beats Tony’s penthouse suite and the mansion he owns in the south of Greece. He let you two stay there for your one-year anniversary. You smile when thinking back on that time. 

Usually, you wouldn’t even dream of walking around outside late at night, but you’ve never felt safer with Steve’s hand clasped tightly in yours. You want him here, and the look in his eyes he gives you every time he tries to secretly glance at you lets you know he wants to be here just as bad. Exactly that is what makes your relationship work; it’s a companionship just as much as it is a friendship. 

It’s nearly impossible for you to imagine him on the job when he’s strolling alongside you on the trail illuminated by the light of the moon, nearly impossible to imagine the brute force he’s accustomed to using on a daily basis. Steve’s not a violent man by nature, but his willpower to win a fair fight and keep the world safe from inner- and outer-worldly threats require him to use his power and strength all the time. You know it’s a part of him and it most likely always will be and you’ve accepted it, but still, having a super hero boyfriend brings baggage you only have time to think about when you’re spending quality time with him. It’s during those times that you realize how busy he actually is, and even though you don’t blame him for it, it still saddens you. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks, watching you bite your lip in thought. 

You smile at him, “I’m just very happy you came.” 

“Honey,” he presses, “I already told you I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” 

“I know,” you reply, “but I also know your job is your life, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m trying to take you away from it.” 

He takes your face in his hands and bends down until his eyes meet yours, “Don’t ever say that again, you hear me? I mean it. I. Want. To. Spend. Time. With you. Too much work isn’t healthy, and I need you to tell me to stop when I go too far.” 

The two of you continue walking further along the trail, until finally, you pass between a group of tall trees. 

Your jaw drops when you reach the clearing, tears pricking the corners of your eyes when you look at what’s in front of you. A dozen torches, spread around the clearing in the shape of a heart light up the entire area. In the center, a blanket and two fluffy pillows are spread out across the grass. Beside it is a picnic basket, filled to the brim with fruits, snacks, and a bottle of expensive wine. 

“What is this?” You ask when Steve leads you closer to the blanket, “Steve! Did you put Sam and Bucky up to this?”

You walk closer towards the scene, face glowing in the orange flames, “this is amazing!” 

“Y/N,” he says, pulling on your wrist to catch your attention, “I love you, baby.” 

You look back at him just in time to see him falling to one knee, and when he shoves his hand into his back pocket to retrieve a blue velvet box, your vision blurs until you’re rapidly blinking to keep the tears at bay. 

“I’ve loved you from the first moment I met you,” he says, “you keep me grounded when my head is too far up in the clouds. You make me want to be a better man every day. You shine brighter than any light in New York City, and I want that shine to be for me, and me alone. I want you to take my name, Y/N. I’m not worthy of you, but I promise you I’ll do my best every day to try. Please let me try.” 

You’re crying, ugly crying now, and you don’t even realize you’re shaking your head until he finally speaks the words you’re dying to hear spill from his heart-shaped lips, “Marry me, baby.” 

“Yes,” you manage between cries, “of course I will!” 

The diamonds sparkle around your finger when he slips it on, and you’re hanging onto his neck for dear life the second he lets go of your hand.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your hair, “love you so much.” 

“I love you too Steve,” you sniffle. 

Yeah, this really is the nicest place the two of you have ever been. 

[ziracona]

Do you have any favorite drinks and foods headcanons for ilm?? I feel like Meg would like Shirley templess 👀

Hmmm for sure but there’s so many characters I don’t know how to comprehensively answer this, haha. Meg probably would enjoy that. I think she drinks sometimes for fun or bc it seemed like a good idea at the time, but actually prefers non-alcoholic, because it’s not that great to her, and also because you have to not take your adhd meds if you plan on drinking that day as they interact, and amphetamine > depressant lol. I think she enjoys fruity mixed non-alcoholic stuff a lot. Specially if it got that 👌 zest 👌 to it.

Meg is a huge nerd who likes most of her favorite foods for fan reasons. Her favorite food is chocolate chip cookies with blue chocolate chips because of Percy Jackson. Favorite drink she would probably say is coke, but in reality it’s probably some kind of non-alcoholic cocktail she wouldn’t think to name.

Jake has a proficient pallet from being rich and can actually tell a huge difference in food quality, but hates this and is determined not to be the spoiled rich shithead who only deins to eat from a plate prepared by someone who graduated prestigious culinary school at the top of their class. Has forced himself to acquire a taste for lean meats and nuts. Would request like salted cashews if Meg was getting snacks & she’d throw a fit bc mixed nuts isn’t a treat and he would be offended she was judging his pick. Secretly really appreciates diligently and artfully prepared food. Does not like lamb. He will hunt and there’s not much he feels bad about eating, but he saw a lamb going to get slaughtered as a kid and absolutely will not stomach that as food ever since. Would feel weak & has probably only mentioned it to Dwight, or maybe Claudette, bc she’d never judge or be mean, or maybe Quentin, Kate, or Adam, because Quentin & Kate would agree, and Adam is like, the chillest man ever.

Dwight likes sea salt and vinegar chips, beers, Pepsi, pretzels, steak, and (secretly) those frosted animal crackers. Gets shit constantly for his taste in food and drink. Just wants to be left alone. One time Claudette drank a beer with him to make him feel better bc everyone else was making fun of him for liking beer and she is sweetheart.

Claudette enjoys a dish her mom makes out of fried onions, squash, artichokes, and optionally also mushrooms, probably more than any other food in the world. It is really good. Favorite drink is sparkling grape juice. It makes her feel like she is drinking champagne, but it actually tasted good, and won’t get her drunk or hungover. Also likes tea a lot. Most green and white tea types especially.

Nea likes almost anything with a cronch when you bite into it. Enjoys fish too, and curry the way Min makes it (which is very rushed college student but like, rushed college student with standards). Really likes empanadas after being introduced to them. Also genuinely really loved both Claudette’s amaranth oatmeal and her realm cookies, and since she and Quentin kind of ‘grew up’ inside the realm, it’s also like, surreally and kind of heartbreakingly, a nostalgic and comforting childhood memory to her. They remind her of times she was more okay as a teenager. :’-] Favorite drink is probably a kind of complicated cocktail that is very strong but also sweet and tangy, nursed for a long time. Or a sports drink if she’s on the go. (Lol her fave drink is just the alcoholic version of Meg’s).

Min likes anything spicy that is prepared well, but especially likes meat dishes. Girl wants her protein so she can kick ass. Really loves Ace’s cooking. Smell is 70% of taste. Spice it up, fam. Only knows how to cook 3 dishes on her own, but they’re a good 3. Doesn’t have a single fave. Although she does greatly enjoy just like, devouring a slab of meat if Anna cooks. It makes her feel like a powerful wild beast to just shred a flank with her teeth and she digs that. Fave drink is baijiu, although more in a competitive way because it’s alcoholic af & she can stomach it than actually for taste or pleasure. For taste she will just mooch off Nia & Ace, who both like fruity alcohol.

Ace likes a homemade bread recipe of his mother’s most (I think he and Frank are the only two with stated favorites in-fic?). Makes it a lot for the girls and for friends, and everyone likes it so this works out well. Enjoys martinis and any fruity alcohol, but is good about not actually getting drunk past lucidity. Also enjoys just really nice brands of various juice (mango is probably his favorite?)

Quentin likes his Dad’s pasta recipes probably most, but doesn’t have a favorite from among them. Also likes red velvet cake a lot because he only ever gets it on his birthday and it makes him happy. His mom died when he was really young and he pretty much doesn’t remember her, but one of the memories he still has is of her giving him birthday cake. It’s the time of year he always feels closest to her. Favorite drink is energy drinks because he’s stupid and likes to play god with his body and knock back adderall with shots of redbull. Didn’t like energy drinks so much before Freddy, and back then probably Coca-Cola or something was the fave, but now energy drinks are associated with comfort in his head, so he genuinely likes them. Also really likes M&Ms. Used to treat himself to a bag from the school vending machine if he had a shitty day, so they are also associated with comfort.

David likes chips (as in fries cut UK style/thick, not American chips). He is enlightened and sees the true value of all potato products as well, and honors them as such. Also is the enjoyable kind of person who genuinely & visibly appreciates most all good food. He likes beers too (you and Dwight, buddy) although he’s got better taste in them. His favorite drink is probably coffee though. He likes strong coffee, full body, with just a little bit of cream and sugar so it’s still bitter but has a pleasant edge to it. Not sure why that’s his favorite. He just really likes it.

Laurie likes strawberry milk. Would give that answer if asked for fave food or drink. If prompted further would consider, then suggest that as her drink, and some kind of really nice soup as her favorite—probably pumpkin. Will genuinely enjoy any gift of food someone picked out for her with some thought. Also loves Mac’n Cheese a lot, but would not admit to that to everyone because she’s kind of embarrassed that as many times as she’s had it in the past two years alone, her heart still sees a warm bowl and years for the good shit.

Kate likes fruit. Mangos, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, peaches, pears, pomegranates. Has the patience to eat a pomegranate too. Would just say “fruit” if asked. Loves to pick it fresh. Favorite drink is probably a smoothie, but she would insist that counts. What flavor would vary, but she leans towards blueberry or raspberry on default because she likes the colors.

Tapp likes Chinese food. Mostly this is because Chinese takeout was the nicest thing he could ever afford on the reg as a treat. However, he gets to eat real chow mein and mapo tofu (former made by Ace, the latter by Min—spicy mapo tofu being one of the 3 dishes she knows), and decides those are now his favorite food. Would not ask people to make that because it would be being a hassle, and he would think it wouldn’t matter and would be stupid & not worthwhile to request a dish when visiting a friend, but gets excited internally when they make that & gives sincere and generous compliments. Tried and failed super badly to learn how to make both, but Rachel Thomas (who didn’t know at all how to either but is great at teaching herself shit) helped him figure it out and now he makes them as often as he can without feeling like it will get old/annoy the people living with him. Favorite drink is whiskey but that’s for depression reasons. For genuine enjoyment, he likes probably just juice. Orange or pomegranate.

Adam shares Min’s enjoyment of spicy foods, but is really into trying new things and genuinely doesn’t have a favorite. If he had to pick, he’d probably say Bulla cake, because it is his favorite desert/treat. He really enjoys them & they are nostalgic to him. Good memories of his childhood. His uncle wasn’t always great at knowing what to say, but used to pack him one to take to school any time he knew Adam was stressed or intimidated by an exam or due project. Even if it went bad, he had a comfort reward for making it through. Always buys them when he’s somewhere he can. Favorite drink is tea. He likes a wide variety, but masala, jasmine, and ginger are some constant favorites. Would actually know, care about, and adhere to proper boiling/steeping times per tea type.

Jeff likes baked goods. He really enjoys the baking process itself a whole lot, especially if he has people he can cook for/share with. Definitely has created several original & very good bread recipes. Prefers bready goods to sweet ones. About the sweetest fave he has is basic scones (just bread/no nuts or fruit or filling. Slightly sweet bread with a little sugar on top, meant to be paired with jams etc when eaten). Likes those a lot. Favorite drink shifts from subtype to subtype, but is always one of his homemade craft beers. Also enjoys Dr. Pepper (ah I knew I was forgetting—both he & Joey also have some stated canon favorites. So does Susie).

Jane’s favorites are both things her dad makes. He has a really good ceviche recipe and a complicated secret recipe bean dip, and Jane likes snacking on those with a bowl of chips while chatting on the porch. Slow meal extends both fun of chat and fun of conversation. And her dad has a really good sense of spice use. She can make both well too, but is convinced they taste completely different when she does & distressed by this. Her dad insists they taste the same, but also always sympathetically packs her some time take home anyway. Her favorite drink is probably either coffee or wine, out of familiarity and comfort. She’s not very particular though. As a treat she enjoys moccacinos with a ton of whipped cream a whole lot though.

This was already super long so I’m gonna stop here, but I wood cry if I didn’t include at least Philip in what is now clearly just a survivor lineup. So honorary addition:

Philip likes anything really cold and refreshing. Prefers things with a little bite, so he would pick a cola or alcohol over a fruity drink. Not a big preference past that. Always touched and surprised any time a friend goes into a gas station pitstop and comes back with /any/ ice cold beverage for him, no matter how many times it happens. The gesture to him is very much genuine kindness instead of a friendly nothing. For food, he likes anything with enough substance to actually make him not hungry. So meat dishes are a big plus, as is nice bread. He doesn’t have a favorite meal-meal, probably, but there is a kind of cookie made entirely of egg whites and sugar, that is beaten and fluffy and sweet like a cloud and really delicious somehow despite having almost no substance. Philip had no knowledge of these, but Claudette made him some one morning she was feeling happy not too long after they both first went home to Montreal, and the meringue chocolate chip cookie variant she made was one of the best things he had ever eaten, and probably is his favorite food. They’re like little bites of the concept of sweetness without it being an overdose, and have a very unique and pleasing texture. With the chocolate added, it’s just right. 👌 And then also, of course, it was a gift welcoming to his new home, from the person who more or less is his new home. : )

[purplesurveys]

952

I can see the sunshine in your eyes Survey by xflirtykaosx

What does your Town's name begin with? A.

What number how do you live at? It’s a number between 1-1000.

Are you a seafood fan? Yes. Runs in my veins. If humans are on average 60% water, I’m pretty sure the rest of my 40% is just seafood.

Do you prefer dark, brown or white chocolate? White chocolate doesn’t count as chocolate but it’s still my favorite kind. I find that milk chocolate can sometimes be too irritatingly sweet, and I don’t usually enjoy bitter foods so I don’t do well with dark chocolate either.

Give me a random word in another language. Tell me what it means. I’m pretty sure I’ve filled this out before because I remember answering this exact question...anyway, more Filipino lessons! My laptop is currently sitting on top of a kwaderno, which just means notebook.

Can you cook Thai food? I just can’t cook. But Thai cuisine is something I really want to learn to master.

Do you get easter eggs at easter? Some years. I have relatives who will sometimes hold Easter egg hunt parties, and the older kids’ crew like some of my cousins and I are still allowed to join so that we don’t miss out on the fun, heh.

How long does it roughly take you to do the weekly or bi weekly shopping? My parents usually take an hour. Though back when we were still under an enhanced lockdown and stores kept a strict control of how many people were allowed inside, my dad used to take six hours :( He’d leave around 7 AM to start lining up, but there were always people who arrived way earlier so he usually had to queue for a few hours.

Who taught you the most valuable lesson in life and what was that lesson? I’ve touched on this before but the first death I was directly affected by, my grandfather’s, taught me the world will never slow down for your problems and in the end you’ll have to learn how to simply suck certain things up. I remember having to write an excuse letter to my teacher saying I’ll have to be absent for one day to attend to my grandpa’s wake, and all she did was stamp on it and say my absence would be excused. Didn’t even check up on me. It was in the middle of an exam week and a week before the UPCAT. It was such a jarring experience and toughened me the fuck up overnight.

Which city would you like to visit- Rome, Tunis, London, Madrid or Paris? Tunis just because I feel like it would have the least amount of tourists, and I’m also all about going to less-familiar places. Madrid would be nice too.

Would you rather visit Australia, Germany, Croatia or Jamaica? Croatia.

Have you got perfect vision? Far from. My vision is pretty much useless without my glasses, and I like to tell people that without them I can only make out colors haha. Which is obviously kind of an exaggeration but I’m also not 100% lying when I say it, so. 

What colour bedspread or blanket is on your bed now? It’s a multi-colored geometric design so there’s magenta, pink, lime green, orange, gray, and white, among a few other colors.

What colour is the door to your house? Brown.

Would you prefer a pet rat, mouse, snake, lizard or spider? I’d rather these animals are out in the wild, but if it was a situation where I had to save one I’d pick the snake.

What song(s) do you put on repeat often? I don’t tend to listen to music when I’m sad/depressed so I haven’t any songs on for quite a while now. The last one I discovered and really got into is a song called Lose, by Niki.

How many letters long is your last name? Six.

Can you play the violin? If not, would you like to? I can’t, but yeah it’s one of the instruments I’ve always wanted to learn to.

Can you keep a pokerface and not show your emotions easily? Passively, if that makes sense? I have no problem pretending to be happy or looking unbothered like, over dinner or if I’m with friends. But if someone had suddenly told me something upsetting or harsh to my face, I usually immediately show my hurt or anger or disappointment or displeasure or whatever negative emotion I would instantly feel in that moment. My eyebrows and eyes always give everything away.

Are you a good liar (tell the truth this time)? Maybe not around the people who know me best. I wear my heart on my sleeve with the people I’m most comfortable with.

Are you wearing shoes, just socks or nothing on your feet? Nothing. I might wear socks tonight, we’ll see.

What word or phrase is disgusting in your opinion and you hate hearing it? I hate having to hear or use the word ‘gunk.’ I think of dirty fingernails every time and it just makes me wince.

Do you like the smell of a barbecue or bonfire? It’s alright, but I don’t live for it. It certainly gives a comforting sensation though.

Do you prefer to write etc, ecetera or something else? Etc, and it highkey makes my blood boil whenever I read ect hahaha.

Do you think rainbows are pretty or overrated? I think rainbow prints and/or designs are overrated themselves, but seeing real-life rainbows tend to make me feel happy.

Are your lips chapped? Nope.

Have you ever fallen into a hole or crevice whilst hiking? I don’t think so. I’d be able to remember it if I have.

Ever been quadbiking? Was it any good? Nah but close, I guess? My family once did this thing where we rode on the trunk of a 4x4 while a professional drove through sand dunes in Ilocos. It was a lot of fun but I couldn’t entirely enjoy my time knowing I was in the land of the Marcoses lol

What is different about you than others you hang out with? I have a lot of unpopular opinions when it comes to Filipino food hah, like I hate well-loved dishes like sinigang and bulalo.

Are you more skeptical or gullible? I’m honestly really just both, depending on the context. Like how I’m skeptical when it comes to religion, ghosts, the afterlife, etc, but I’m equally gullible in a way that I’m terrible at recognizing sarcasm sometimes.

How often do you drink sodas or fizzy drinks? Once a year and it’s always simply to try it out and see if I’ve changed my opinion about it. I have not been converted in the last 22 years.

How many cups of tea or coffee do you have a day? Just one cup of coffee. I’m scared to have multiple ones haha, I’m scared of the palpitations or long-term effects it might give me.

Has anyone ever called you apathetic or unemotional? No. I’m the most un-unemotional person I know.

Favourite crisp/chip flavour? Just good ol’ plain. Nothing beats a simple potato flavor with a bit of salt.

Do you put salt and vinegar on your fries? Salt yeah, vinegar no.

What accent is the sexiest? Whatever accent Florence Pugh and Carey Mulligan have; they sound lovely.

Do you currently live in the same country you were born in? Yep.

What's your current mood? A little sad but I’m honestly glad my workplace gave me SO MUCH work to do over the weekend because it can keep my busy tonight. 

Do you struggle to articulate your thoughts and feelings? Not really. I like describing my emotions and sharing my thought processes.

A romantic meal, a trip to a theme park or go to a concert? Probs the romantic meal. I like the atmosphere and it’s always nice to have food involved hehe

Prefer being in control in a team enviroment, helping out or taking orders? I like being a mix of all these. I never want to be 100% a leader giving orders or 100% a subordinate waiting for tasks.

Do you like carrot cake? Not really.

Don't you hate it when people say 'I don't mean to be rude but...'? Especially considering 98% of the time they ARE trying to be rude? It will always depend on how they say what follows. Like how it will always be irritating to hear “I don’t mean to be rude but your work sucks,” but I can stomach it better and even be motivated to do better if it was said as “I don’t mean to be rude but there are areas you can tweak more to make the work better.”

Would you say yes from a drink of a friend of a friend? Only if I already know them well enough. Otherwise, no.

How good is your memory? Pretty sharp, a little too sharp for my liking. I’m able to store too many memories, some of them I don’t even want to remember anymore.

On a scale of 1-10 how was this survey? Did you enjoy it? 10! It was a delight to answer.

[ikesenlemonadestandstories]

Level 12

I everyone enjoying their week? I hope so? It’s been pretty busy for me recently but that’s alright :) Makes the time move quick I guess!

Tagging: @loudartanimeeclipse​

Master List here or check the tag Ikesen AFK

Warnings: Alcohol

Happy Reading, T~

Level 12

You weren’t sure exactly why you were so jittery. You played video games with these people, how bad of an impression could you really be leaving? Technically they already knew you; they were just putting a face to a name. Crap. You made sure to glare at Rose while she pushed the door to the room open. 

“Look who I found?” her voice was chipper as you both entered. 

“A hobo?” Yukimura asked, only to receive a stern look from the broad-chested redhead next to him. 

“Bite me.” You shot back as you walked into the darkroom.

“With pleasure. I’m sure you taste as sweet as you look.” The redhead beside Yukimura spoke up.

“Excuse me?” You asked, sharing a collective eye roll with your friends. If that wasn’t Shingen you weren’t sure what you were going to make it out of of this situation.

“I said I’m sure you taste-”

“Yea, no, I heard you. I was giving you a chance to change your answer since you’ve got to be kidding.” Your eyes scrunched as you grabbed your drink and headed for the empty spot beside Sasuke. 

“I would never lie about a woman’s beauty. Especially with someone as effervescent as yourself.” You caught sight of a vague hand motion and decided you were done with the conversation. 

“Okay, well, thanks. Can I sit here? Is it safe to sit here?” You asked, pointing at the unoccupied spot in the booth.

“Depends.” Sasuke’s response was short, but he scooted over towards the blonde beside him anyway. 

“Depends on?” You paused, hoping he would answer your question. When he didn’t, you looked towards the man beside him who gave you minimal attention. “Alrighty then. We gonna do names, or do you prefer to be identified by your hair color?”

“I’d prefer not to be identified.” The blonde spoke up as he poured himself what looked to be more sake. 

“You know me as Shingen, happy to finally meet you face to face Princess.” Bingo. Shingen bowed before holding a glass of his own up in your direction in a toast before sipping his drink. “The sourpuss over there is Kenshin. Don’t mind him, he’s always like that. You already knew that though didn’t you?”

“I probably should have been able to guess who they were, shouldn’t I?” You leaned over and whispered the question into Sasuke’s ear. 

“Yes, but it’s always good to clarify.” He attempted a smile, and you returned it with ease. 

“So no Yoshi? You guys forget to invite him?” You wondered as you polished off another drink. Starting to feel a little less crabby. Maybe you’d eventually be happy you’d gone out. 

“Unfortunately he’s at work, so he was unable to attend. He was invited, though.” Sasuke clarified. 

“I’ll tell him you were asking about him.” Shingen smiled, “He’ll be happy to know a beautiful goddess like yourself was asking for him.”

“You don’t have to do that. In fact, if you’re going to phrase it like that, I’d prefer you didn’t. I can give him hell for it myself.” You cringed.

The rest of the night seemed to go by without a hitch once the introductions were over. You were pretty sure that Kenshin finished the entire bottle of sake himself, which sounds even more impressive when you account for how sober he acted. Shingen kept his beverage intake to a minimum, but the man packed more sweets away than anyone you’d ever seen before. The sheer thought of how much sugar he had consumed made your stomach roll. Rose, Yukimura, and Sasuke were sufficiently sauced, and you made a mental note to be as loud as humanly possible tomorrow morning at work, assuming they all showed up. 

Either way, you smiled to yourself as you walked home. The, now definitely colder, air nipping at your skin. In a spur of the moment decision, you decided to stop by the convenience store and pick up some snacks on the way home and warm your hands up for a brief moment. A little drunker than you intended, you mumbled about the minimal selection of artisan chips while the man behind the counter just snickered at you. 

Whatever, you weren’t wrong. The chip selection here sucked, how were salt and vinegar the only flavor they had beside plain? Screw it. Picking a random bag off the shelf, you stalked off towards the counter and let the bag tumble out of your hands.

“This all you gettin?” he asked an amused twinkle in his visible blue eye.

“Well, it’s really all you’ve got, so, unfortunately, yes.” Your expression still sour, the crankiness from the day rushing back in.

The young man laughed out loud, and you couldn’t hide the blush on your cheeks, mentally scolding yourself for thinking the man making fun of you at the convenience store was hot. 

“What if I told you I had a secret stash?” The humor never leaving his expression. 

“I’d say it sounds like a good way for me to get kidnapped, mugged, or arrested. So no thanks, I’ll stick with my garbage chip decision.” You rest your elbows on the counter wondering when he’d ring you out, if ever. 

This time his laugh was contagious, and you found yourself unable to fight the smile as you handed him the two whole dollars the bag cost. 

“Stop by again sometime. Maybe rethink that chip decision?” He smirked as he handed you your plastic bag and receipt. 

“Maybe I will.” You smiled at him, only sort of aware you still looked like a homeless woman. 

“Alright then! See you around Kitten, be safe getting home at this hour.” He called after you as you walked through the door. Fighting the urge to pause and ask him who he was, and if he happened to play Endless Isle. 

No, there was no way. Kitten was a typical enough nickname, right? You shake your head at the implication of your lost train of thought and the simple pet name. Definitely too much alcohol, it was time for bed. 

[haberdashing]

For Convenience’ Sake

AU where Crowley works in a convenience store and Aziraphale is one of his odder customers, as inspired by this post and this ask.

on AO3

Working whatever shifts he could get at the local 24-hour convenience store, Crowley had seen his fair share of unusual customers. The drunks, the stoners, the idiots, the pranksters... some days, it seemed like that lot outnumbered the “normal” customers, the ones who came to the store with a specific purchase in mind and just wanted to get what they came for without too much fuss.

But one of Crowley’s more unusual customers didn’t fit clearly into any of his typical categories, and what’s more, he was quickly becoming a regular there.

The man appeared to be about the same age as Crowley himself, but he always wore an outfit that made him look like he’d come straight from the Victorian era, with a fancy, perfectly-fitted beige suit (Crowley couldn’t tell if it was always the same suit, or several identical ones that were all equally well-tailored and blemish-free) complete with a tartan bow tie. The feeling that the man had somehow fallen through time and missed a couple centuries in the process wasn’t helped by the fact that, the first time Crowley saw him, the man entered the store at roughly three in the morning, slowly circled the shop while repeatedly stopping to closely examine seemingly-random products, and then wished Crowley a good day as he exited the shop about half an hour after entering it without buying a single thing in the process. (Crowley had wondered at first if it was a very elaborate method of shoplifting, but most of the items the man had stopped to inspect were far too bulky to hide upon his person, and besides, that fancy suit of his didn’t look to have much in the way of pockets or other places to stash ill-gotten goods.)

Most customers who wore get-ups that nice treated Crowley like he was the dirt beneath their feet, making it clear that they thought they were far superior to him just because they had money to their name and Crowley, working a dead-end minimum wage job at a convenience store, clearly didn’t, but the man in the beige suit was a clear exception to that general rule. He made a habit of politely greeting Crowley whenever entering or leaving the shop, asked Crowley the odd question (and some of them were odd indeed) here or there, and generally seemed to actually see Crowley as a fellow human being rather than a mere automaton made to serve him. It was perhaps a bit sad that such human decency made the man in the beige suit stand out from so many other customers that Crowley had to deal with from day to day, but so it did.

For months the man in the beige suit came and went at odd hours without Crowley having the slightest clue who he was or even what his name was, but Crowley didn’t think too much of it at the time; he could say the same about a number of his regulars, after all.

But all that changed in the middle of one particular overnight shift.

A half-asleep Crowley had groaned a little when the bell at the front of the store that let him know a customer had entered went off, but his groaning stopped when he saw who it was that had entered the shop. The man in the beige suit was polite enough, at least, and though he seemed a bit strange, he never made himself too much of a bother. He could think of few other people he would rather have seen walk through that door--actually, now that he made himself stop and think about it, he couldn’t think of a single customer he would have preferred to have there instead.

The man in the beige suit waved at Crowley as he walked inside. “Beautiful evening out there, don’t you think?”

Crowley was pretty sure that the time was well past “evening” at this point in the night, and he had no clue as to whether it was nice out or not given that he’d been working inside for several hours and would be working for several more, but he gave a quick nod in response, just to be polite.

“It’s a good time for a little stroll around the neighborhood, I say. Nice and quiet.” 

Crowley made a non-committal grunt in response, holding back a litany of comments that went through his head about how going for “a little stroll around the neighborhood” this time of night was probably a good way to get yourself killed if you weren’t careful, and the man in the beige suit didn’t especially strike him as the careful sort, thinking it wiser to just hold his tongue and judge in silence.

The man started perusing the items available within the store in a way that Crowley associated with him and him alone, as if this was the only time he’d ever been inside a convenience store and he was going to examine every last bit of it while he had the chance. Crowley watched him go about his business, partly out of boredom, partly because there wasn’t much else to do, but partly because something about this strange Victorian-looking man interested him in a way few other store regulars could even dream of.

After a couple minutes, the man in the beige suit stood in place by the slushie machine and looked over at Crowley, asking, “What flavor is the blue... frozen beverage you have here?”

“Frozen beverage” was as good a way as any to describe them, Crowley supposed, especially because even he was struggling to remember exactly what corporate insisted on calling them here.

“It’s... blue.” Crowley said without thinking, then shook his head, knowing that some customers would scream and yell and throw a tantrum for him giving such a useless answer. (The man in the beige suit, on the other hand, barely seemed to react to his less-than-helpful response.)

After blinking a few times in the hopes of it helping him wake up a bit, Crowley added, “Blue raspberry, I think.”

What exactly a blue raspberry was, Crowley couldn’t say, and he was fairly certain one wouldn’t even remotely recognize the contents of the machine as being similar to the actual fruit it was named after--really, that stuff tasted blue more than anything, hence his initial response--but that was an idiosyncrasy Crowley was willing to ignore, given how many other idiosyncrasies the store contained at any given moment.

“Blue raspberry, you say? That sounds positively delightful,” the man in the beige suit said.

(Not only did the man look like he had just come from the Victorian era, half the time he sounded that way too, Crowley thought to himself.)

The man in the beige suit walked away from the slushie machine, and for a moment Crowley thought that that would be the end of the conversation, but then the man picked up two sizable bags of crisps and held them in the air with the labels facing in Crowley’s direction.

“Which of these do you think would go better with the blue raspberry frozen beverage you have available over there?”

One of the bags of crisps was, apparently, sour cream-flavored, while the other was salt and vinegar-flavored. The bags were of two different brands, neither of which Crowley could remember ever having tried himself.

This wasn’t the weirdest question the man in the beige suit had ever asked Crowley, but it stood a decent chance at breaking the top five, at least.

Despite his lack of first-hand experience with those particular brands of crisps on their own, let alone when paired with a blue slushie, Crowley didn’t hesitate in responding.

“Oh, the salt and vinegar ones, definitely.”

Crowley’s response may have been slightly biased by the fact that Crowley himself adored salt and vinegar crisps, to the point where he’d had a few days when those were all he could make himself eat. He didn’t know whether the man in the beige suit shared his taste in crisps, but he had asked what Crowley thought would go better with the slushie, after all, and that was his own opinion. Besides, he couldn’t imagine sour cream crisps going very well with... well... blue.

“Wonderful.” The man set down the package of sour cream crisps and headed towards Crowley, his tight grip on the salt and vinegar crisp package only loosening when he gently set them down on the counter. “I’d like to buy these crisps and your largest size of blue raspberry frozen beverage, please.”

Crowley rang up the order. “That’ll be four pounds even.”

Crowley purposely neglected to mention that he’d applied his own employee discount in order to bring the man in the beige suit’s order down to that price.

To be fair, Crowley’s manager had told him that he could apply his employee discount to the orders of other customers using his own discretion so long as it wasn’t being used for sneaky business like telling customers the usual price and then pocketing the difference.

Also to be fair, Crowley was pretty sure his manager had had that in mind as a way of pleasing customers who wouldn’t shut up about how they deserved a discount for any of a number of bullshit reasons, not as something he could give to a customer who not only didn’t seem to mind the regular price but, at a glance, didn’t even appear to register that the price he was being charged wasn’t what it should be on the basis of simple maths.

“Here you go.” The man handed over a twenty-pound note, as Crowley knew from experience that he would--Crowley half-suspected that the man would use even bigger notes to pay for his orders if the convenience store would accept them.

“That’s sixteen pounds in change back for you, then.” Crowley handed over the change, which the man in the beige suit stuffed into a wallet that then seemed to disappear into the pockets of his suit, as well as a cup, lid, and straw for the slushie. “The... frozen beverages are pour-your-own.”

“Oh, I- I didn’t expect that... can you show me how it’s done?”

Usually, Crowley would have declined in a heartbeat.

For one thing, asking to be shown how a machine like that works usually seemed to mean doing it for the customer, often wasting a good deal of slushie material in the process, and being unable to assist any other customers that entered in the meantime until he was done.

For another thing, leaving the register unattended and turning his back to the rest of the store seemed like a good way for someone to get rather a lot of shoplifting done while he’s distracted, and his manager would definitely claim that it was all his fault if that happened.

But instead, Crowley found himself leaving his spot at the register and saying, “Sure, not a problem.”

“Oh, thank you.”

As the man in the beige suit and Crowley walked side-by-side over to the slushie machine, the man asked, “Say, I’ve never formally introduced myself to you, have I?”

Crowley shook his head. “Don’t believe that you have, no.”

“My name’s Mister Fell. I run a bookstore that’s just down the road.”

Crowley believed the man, but hadn’t the slightest clue where the book shop in question might be; then again, he’d never been much of a bookworm, and now on the rare occasion that he had money left over to spend on luxuries books wouldn’t even come close to making the list.

“Do you have a first name, Mister Fell?”

Crowley regretted voicing the question as soon as he’d finished asking it. It was rude, really, the kind of absentminded rudeness that he knew from experience could turn even seemingly mild-mannered customers into beings that appeared to be composed entirely out of pure rage in the blink of an eye.

“I do, yes.” Mister Fell replied, his tone making it clear that he considered his response a sufficient answer to Crowley’s question.

Well.

Crowley supposed he deserved that.

Maybe Mister Fell’s first name was an embarrassing one; maybe Mister Fell felt that giving away his first name to a mere convenience store cashier was beneath him; maybe Mister Fell was in the same position Crowley himself had been in some years back, where he’d had a name that was supposed to be his own but just didn’t feel quite right, to the point where he felt awkward giving it out when asked, even before he’d come up with a name that fit better, or even realized why that first name had felt so wrong to begin with...

Regardless, Crowley supposed, the reason Mister Fell had behind not giving out his first name was really none of his business.

“And yourself?” Mister Fell asked.

Crowley glanced down at his name tag, which had his first name prominently displayed. Clearly Mister Fell wanted to know more than just that, then.

Technically, Crowley’s manager had told him that employees weren’t supposed to give out their full names to customers. Something about corporate not wanting liability for angry customers tracking down employees that had pissed them off on the clock.

Technically, Crowley didn’t give a damn what the rules said about giving out names right now.

“The name’s Anthony J. Crowley.”

“What does the J stand for?”

Crowley could feel his face heat up as he sputtered, “It’s just- just a J, really.”

That right there? That was a flat-out lie.

What the J actually stood for was a name that Crowley had thought sounded cool for about two seconds when he was eighteen and had fervently regretted choosing ever since, one that he had grown to detest almost as much as the name his parents had saddled him with at birth after looking at his nether regions and making an assumption on his gender based on that and that alone, one that he didn’t tell anybody if he could find a way to avoid it. Honestly, he’d probably have changed it ages ago, but Crowley knew well enough that legal name changes required time and money and effort, and he seemed to have a chronic lack of all three these days.

It wasn’t the first time that Crowley had told that particular lie about his middle name being “just a J, really.” It was one of his more common go-to responses when people asked about it. In fact, he had used that statement, or ones similar to it, enough that Crowley was beginning to get letters addressed to “Anthony J Crowley,” the lack of a full stop after the J suggesting that the one who’d addressed it thought his middle name consisted solely of the J rather than it being an abbreviation for something, or, taking things one step further, letters addressed to “Anthony Jay Crowley.” Both of these amused him, and both were much preferred to letters that actually used his real full name when addressing him.

Mister Fell nodded. “I see. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Crowley.”

Crowley returned Mister Fell’s nod with one of his own. “Likewise.”

Mister Fell slowed his walk to a stop as he arrived in front of the slushie machine. “Now, how do you use one of these, exactly?”

“It’s pretty easy really, see, you just-” Crowley grabbed the cup that Mister Fell had set down and placed it under the blue part of the slushie dispenser. “You just put the cup under the flavor you want-”

“Got it.” Mister Fell’s arm joined Crowley’s own in holding onto the slushie cup, which was now slightly crinkled because of the force of their combined grips.

“And then you press this button right here, and it comes right out of the top and goes- oh.”

Crowley abruptly halted his speech as he noticed that a small bit of the blue slushie substance that the machine had just dispensed had fallen not into the cup but onto Mister Fell’s arm, leaving a small but noticeable blue blemish on his otherwise-pristine beige suit.

Mister Fell’s gaze followed Crowley’s own in moving from the slushie to the newfound stain on his suit. “Oh dear.”

Crowley immediately snapped back into customer service mode, all too aware that one wrong move at this point could lose him Mister Fell as a customer, if not his very job. “I’m so sorry about that, sir, that was a complete and total accident, I swear-”

Mister Fell stayed silent in the face of Crowley’s apologies, the expression on his face unchanging and difficult to read, which only put Crowley even more on edge.

“There’s some napkins over here, let me just try to wipe that down for you-”

Crowley hastily grabbed a fistful of napkins and shoved them, still largely bundled up within his fist, towards the stain in Mister Fell’s suit, only realizing how close he had gotten to Mister Fell and how personal, even intimate, such a gesture could seem when his fingers brushed briefly against Mister Fell’s arm. His arm, from what little Crowley could feel of it, was cool and smooth and soft, probably the result of him never having had to do the sort of manual labor that was the only means Crowley had to keep himself going, and Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if the other man had noticed in turn how warm and rough and scratchy Crowley’s own skin must seem to him in comparison...

Crowley shook his head a little to stop that particular train of thought from going too far and kept moving, dabbing at the stain with napkin after napkin, yielding a comically large amount of blue-stained napkins but little actual reduction in the blue spot on Mister Fell’s suit.

“That... that didn’t actually help much, did it... I’m so sorry.”

Mister Fell shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. Accidents happen, and you did your best to make it better. It may not have entirely succeeded-” Mister Fell’s gaze dropped back to the stain on his suit, and his expression looked slightly pained. “-but it was a noble effort just the same.”

Crowley had to stop himself from laughing at the sheer oddity of the turns of phrase this man used without so much as blinking an eye. This convenience store was about as far as “noble” as Crowley could imagine, and he was pretty sure applying the adjective to anything he did on the job would be a gross misuse of the word--and, come to think of it, “effort” might be overstating things a bit, too.

(For a brief moment Crowley returned to a pattern of thinking that he had perfected over the years by reminding himself that really, all one needed to work here was to be a warm body present in the store at all times, that literally anybody could do what he was doing on the job here--but never mind all that, Mister Fell was talking again.)

“Thank you, Mister Crowley. Thank you very much for your assistance.”

That definitely hadn’t been what Crowley had been expecting to hear, and he could swear that his heart skipped a beat upon hearing it. Somehow, after years of retail customers calling him by the first name listed on his name tag, being addressed by surname actually felt more intimate to Crowley than the alternative.

“You’re... welcome?”

He could barely string two words together, he sounded like an idiot, especially compared to Mister Fell-

Mister Fell, whose face had settled into a thin but clear smile now.

“I think I can handle working this machine by myself now. And really, don’t worry about the stain--I suppose one could say it even gives the suit character, in a way.”

Crowley nodded dumbly, though he didn’t entirely buy Mister Fell’s argument (and didn’t entirely believe that Mister Fell did either, for that matter) and returned to his register, eyes firmly locked on Mister Fell... who proceeded to fill his slushie as cleanly and smoothly as if he’d done it all his life, to the point where if he didn’t know better Crowley might have suspected that the request for his help in the matter had been some sort of elaborate practical joke.

After filling his slushie, Mister Fell took a single long sip of it, let out a contented sigh, and slowly but surely began to amble towards the shop’s door, slushie and crisps in hand. Before leaving, though, he turned back towards the register and towards Crowley, saying, “Goodbye, Mister Crowley, and may the rest of your day be a good one!”

Crowley wasn’t even sure what day it technically was at this point--the shop had a clock in it somewhere, but he never could remember where, so he wasn’t sure if it was past midnight yet or not--but that didn’t really matter, he supposed. The sentiment was a nice one just the same, and one that customers rarely bothered to extend towards retail workers without prompting, at least in Crowley’s experience.

(Also Mister Fell’s lips and tongue were already tinged a slight bluish-purple from trying a sip of the slushie but Crowley probably shouldn’t have found that as interesting to think about as he actually did-)

“Thank you,” Crowley said with a nod and a grin, “And the same to you, sir!”

Mister Fell left the shop, but Crowley’s mental image of him, of this dapper Victorian-looking man in a fancy beige suit and bow tie who apparently ran a local bookstore carrying a sizable bag of crisps and with his lips and mouth turned blue from the large slushie he was carrying, lingered on, and though Crowley had to deal with plenty of drunks and idiots and pranksters throughout the rest of that shift, that grin remained upon his face the entire time.

[salt--cookie]

Wasabi had her first child at a rather young age. Well, “had” wasn’t exactly the right word. He was adopted, but that was obvious. Wasabi couldn’t get a partner to stay with her and they weren’t even close to being the same flavor. He was Mustard Seed, underbaked, an awful mixture of ingredients, scared all the other kids. And well, Wasabi was fully baked but just about the same.

Their relationship wasn’t stable. Not after Mustard Seed became a teenager. That’s when Wasabi started to think about if she could artificially create life. Wasabi... kinda got on a high whenever her experiments succeeded, and Mustard Seed knew this, so putting her behaviors with life was an awful combination. He didn’t stay at the house alot anymore. If he did he was only around, never in. The lab was in their basement, inside wasn’t safe.

When he was 18 he left the city for a bit. Found a nice gal named Vinegar. Brought her back, accidentally got her pregnant. As soon as she gave birth, she was gone, left their baby crying on the ground. Seed was 19 and had no experience and no help, so what could he do? ...I guess going back to the person who raised him was probably a good idea, huh?

Wasabi was more than shocked to see she had grandkids already. Seed was more than shocked to see how positively his daughter reacted to Wasabi. Seed was still terrified in that house. He basically had zero contact with his mother for little under five years, who knew what she was capable of- who knew what she’d done? 

In the meantime she’d adopted a weird little creature, it was dog-like. Short legs, long ears, a tail. It was made of meat. It had a curly yellow stripe down its back, and it seemed to have a bun- or, maybe just an abundance of fluff??- wrapped around its legs. Its drool was a weird blotch of red, yellow and neon green. Wasabi called it a Hot Dog, and it had a puppy recently, which Mustard, Seed’s daughter, lovingly named Hot Doggie.

Wasabi gleefully told Seed that they were the result of those life experiments, and where much better than her first attempts. ...first attempts? Well, a lion muffin, a flame bat, a cotton candy bird, an orange slice mouse... just about all of those neat pets you’ve been seeing around, they were gifts! And they were all excellent, the life-based ones were immortal, you know! But Hot Dog, it was her magnum opus!

Seed was terrified. He needed to get out of there, he needed to get his daughter out of there, he needed to get that dog out of there- Mustard wouldn’t part with it. Wasabi didn’t let him. She hadn’t seen her son in five years! And what, he was just going to leave and take his daughter and her dog with him because he was scared of an experiment going wrong? She was doing fine, she was making money, they were all safe and anything not safe was perfectly contained and exterminated in the lab! Seed made a compromise with her, he’ll stay, however if anything, fucking anything, happens to him or his daughter he’s leaving and never coming back. And that’s how it was until Mustard was 10.

Seed was closely watching Wasabi that fateful day. Salt had given her a squid he’d accidentally killed, thought she might find it amusing. She did indeed! Gave her a whole new chance for science, sure she’d figured out how to create new life, could she use that same technology to bring something back from the dead?

Damn right she would. And damn right she did. Was it successful? ...well.

Seed was watching her closely. He still didn’t completely believe in this creating new life stuff. He was nearly 30 at this point, Wasabi going on 50. Wasabi decided to try and make a wasabi-flavored pet, and this squid was perfect.

Was it alive? Well it was moving and screaming, so yeah, probably. Was it stable? Hell no.

Wasabi injected it with some magically enhanced powerful wasabi, then used the same life creating science on it. It rose up, grass green, screaming, flailing it’s tentacles wildly, spitting balls of wasabi.

Seed ran up immediately. He grabbed his daughter, grabbed his dog, tried to shush and coddle the both of them, mainly for his own sake. He didn’t make a run for it, just encase it did calm down or encase Wasabi took care of it. But it was too fast. It came flying up the stairs, and went straight to Seed.

Grabbed him up, making him drop Mustard and Hot Doggie. All three started crying. Seed was flailing wildly, trying to fight best as he could. Crying, screaming to be let go of, grabbing at the tentacles holding him and trying to tear, trying to kick it in it’s big stupid evil eyes. The second he got one good kick in, right in the pupil? Wasabi was trying to help just as much as a fifty-year-old could. 

Wasabi covered tentacle right into the heart. Seed was dropped, both from the monster and the living world. It seemed satisfied, and calmly turned into a tiny, happy squid the size of the one experimented on. Wasabi crushed it as hard as she could, unknowing what it had done to her son.

When she noticed, she had just about the same reaction as Seed’s face and Mustard. Eyes shocked in absolute terror, tears streaming down their faces.

She didn’t know if she could bring him back. She didn’t know if she could. After that last back-from-the-dead experiment? And what if a revived Seed killed her, or worse, his daughter? This was awful.

She tried to comfort Mustard, only to have her kick at her and cry into Hot Doggie. Hot Doggie looked more angry than Wasabi had ever seen him, snapping, the hair on the back of his neck erect like a fleet of soldiers.

She didn’t know what to do. She took her son’s body down into her lab and cried for several hours. Days. Weeks. Eventually she found it within herself to try and clean him up a bit, get that wasabi off him, try and pretend there wasn’t a giant hole in his chest...

She bought a coffin. It was a nice one, too. One Seed would’ve liked. Following a proper technique for once in her life, she buried him. She didn’t tell Mustard. She asked? She said that daddy was on vacation and he loved her very much. She remembered what she saw? She hadn’t gotten that far yet.

Mustard came out while he was being buried. She wasn’t stupid, so she realized what was happening fairly fast and cried collapsed on his grave for the rest of the day, Hot Doggie right beside her. Wasabi cried with them too. This was awful.

Mustard didn’t talk to her for a long time. Wasabi didn’t know if she actually could, really. If she did she hadn’t heard it. Would Wasabi ever try to bring something back from the dead again? Of course. She had to bring back her son.

And she did. Well... “did” isn’t the right word. She found a dead cookie and decided to try on them. It worked. Well... “worked” isn’t the right word. They  were alive, kind of. They could walk. Their head fell off sometimes. They had no memories and no way to speak. She let them out, someone else could find them and try and rehabilitate them, Wasabi needed alive in the sense of nothing ever happened to them.

In the meantime, Mustard was failing a ton of her classes and took up graffiti. You would most likely find her sitting outside the school crying with a brand-new trauma-based mural on the wall.

It wasn’t a good time for any of them. It isn’t a good time for any of them. Wasabi’s starting to lose her sanity over bringing her son back, and Mustard has no way of telling anyone about this, if they found out they’d charge Wasabi for murder and she was her only care source.

Mustard eventually met a friend, her name was Popcorn and Mustard couldn’t decide if she was a good or bad influence. On one hand, Popcorn was the only think making her happy aside from Hot Doggie, but on the other hand, Popcorn skipped class for the hell of it and wasn’t doing well and seemed proud of herself for it.

...but it was a friend who wasn’t a dog, wasn’t it?

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Instagram Live- Joel Fry x OC

Joel Fry x Isabel Abbott

Description: Isabel decides to do an Instagram Live video with Joel to introduce him to the app. 

Word Count: 2k

“Joel you’re supposed to start it after you set the phone up,” Isabel scolded, but she couldn’t stop her giggles while watching Joel struggle to set the phone into the tripod. 

“Well then why don’t you do it?” Joel suggested, laying the phone down so any viewers would be looking at the ceiling of their kitchen. Isabel rolled her eyes playfully, but still walked over to him and began setting the phone up. 

“Sorry you guys, I recently got a tripod and Joel has been having a hard time understanding how it works,” she explained before leaning closer to her phone. “He’s a bit old fashioned,” she whisper-yelled to them. 

“Hey, I heard that,” Joel called, sounding offended. Isabel’s eyes widened and she shot a panicked look to the camera before giggling again. 

“I’m surprised you could, old man,” she joked, walking back over to him.

“I’m only a few years older than you,” he pointed out, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She scrunched up her nose at him then shrugged nonchalantly. 

“Same difference.” Her husband rolled his eyes then glanced at the phone with his hand around her. 

“Just tell everyone what we’re doing.” Isabel scrunched up her nose then muttered a small ‘bossy’ before looking at her phone. 

“So Joel and I were bored today and I was thinking about doing a Live Video on Instagram. Then he told me that he’d never done one,” her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened in a very dramatic surprise before shrugging. “Which I guess makes sense in retrospect since he doesn’t post, like, ever.”

“I never had a reason to,” Joel shrugged, which made her look at him. 

“So you don’t want to show me off? I see how it is,” she joked, turning away from him. 

“Aw come on Isa,” Joel pouted, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Why would I have to post you when everyone already knows how beautiful, incredible and talented you are?” Isabel attempted to hold back a smile, but ultimately couldn’t as she faced him once more.

“Fine, you’re forgiven.” Joel grinned then pecked her lips. 

“Anyway,” Isabel drawled out, facing her phone. “So I thought that you guys could help me introduce Joel to Instagram Lives and we can answer questions and stuff,” she paused and leaned out of the camera’s view to push ingredients onto the counter in front of the couple. “While we bake red velvet cookies!” She finally concluded happily. The man beside her chuckled at her enthusiasm then nodded. 

“Yep, we have a party we’re attending tomorrow and Isabel wanted to make cookies,” he added as he dug through the kitchen drawers. “This is your mum’s recipe, right?”

“Yep,” she responded, then looked at her phone yet again. “So little known fact about me, my favorite flavor of cake and cookies is red velvet. And my mum used to let me help her bake these, she made the recipe specifically for me. Now when I stress bake, these are my go-to cookies. And don’t worry, I’ll tell you the ingredients as we go, I just need to pull up my mum’s recipe real quick.” She used Joel’s phone to find the recipe as he set the measuring cups beside all the ingredients. He leaned against the counter and watched her intently, only looking away when she found the recipe.

“Alright, so for this you’re going to need all-purpose flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, salt, unsalted butter,” she paused then leaned closer to the camera. “If you only have salted butter, that’s okay. You don’t have to use the previously said salt. Anyways, you’ll also need granulated sugar and light brown sugar, eggs, red food coloring, side note: I prefer gel food coloring because it makes it easier to mix and it’s easier to find in stores.” 

“How thoughtful,” Joel teased, which earned a small shove from the girl. 

“Finally, you’ll also need vanilla extract, whit vinegar and, of course, white chocolate chips,” she took a deep breath after speaking. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get started. You guys go ahead and start asking questions and we’ll answer as best as we can.” She set her phone down then instructed Joel to work on the wet ingredients  while she did the dry. As she began measuring, she looked at the phone. 

“Okay uh, @rosiedays asks: what was it like working with the Emmas in Cruella?” 

“Oh they were lovely,” Joel responded happily. “It was so nice getting to know them between filming. I think they were casted excellently.” 

“Agreed,” Isabel spoke. “I actually have plans to go to lunch with Emma Stone soon. Joel, why don’t you pick a question.” The man nodded at her then leaned closer to get a better look at her phone.

“Oh God, there are so many pouring in,” he laughed softly before picking one. “@isaabbottfan, great name by the way,” he chuckled. “Said: what was your favorite blooper from the movie?”

“Gotta be when Bobby scared Joel, Emma and Paul after Cruella crashes the Baroness’ black and white ball,” Isabel responded as she began to mix the dry ingredients together. “He barked right before Craig Gillespie yelled action, so the camera was able to catch it.”

“Then when they got Bobby out of the car to calm him down, Emma ranted for like five minutes about how much she loved him,” Joel continued with a laugh while he mixed the wet ingredients.

“Can’t say I can blame her, he’s a good dog,” Isabel shrugged. “Joel, start pouring the wet ingredients while I stir, slowly.” The man nodded then picked up his bowl, beginning to pour. As she mixed, she looked back at the camera. 

“@lilylaura: Can you sing Call Me Cruella?” She hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe while the cookies are baking.” 

“Oh that’ll be fun,” Joel grinned as he finished pouring in the wet ingredients. Isabel continued to mix and she continued talking. 

“Little fun fact about that song, Florence + the Machines actually asked me to help them write the song since I would be the one singing it. It was so fun to collaborate with them on it, they’re truly amazing people. If you haven’t listened to them, I would highly recommend it.” Joel nodded in agreement then glanced at the comments. 

“What was your favorite scene to film together? That was by @crowbabies,” he stated, before pursing his lips in thought then looking at the woman beside him. “That’s actually a really good question. What was yours?” Isabel thought for a moment.

“Probably after Cruella and Angela broke Jasper and Horace out of prison, and everyone got to reunite with each other. I think it was such a raw moment for Jasper and Horace to see not only Cruella alive, but Angela as well. It was also fun for Jasper to dance with Angela at the charity gala,” she answered after a minute. Joel grinned then nodded. 

“Can’t say that I disagree with you there. It was fun dancing to avoid any of the Baroness’ actual guards.” Isabel nodded. 

“Joel wouldn’t stop twirling me though so I kept getting dizzy. He did that at our wedding too,” she giggled, which earned a playful glare from her husband.

“I’m gonna ignore that because you are very cute when you’re happy.” Isabel paused then looked at him confusedly.

“I’m happy all the time,” she responded softly. 

“Exactly,” he shrugged before looking away so she couldn’t see the wide grin on his face. The girl cooed loudly then leaned over to kiss his cheek. 

“Aw babe,” she drawled. “You’re so sweet!” Joel shook his head with a laugh then looked at her once more. 

“Anyway,” he said pointedly before looking at the phone. “Onto the next question. Uh, @plaguedoctorkenna said: Am I the only one who didn’t know that Joel and Isabel were married???” Isabel couldn’t help but giggle. 

“Oh yeah, for those who didn’t know, Joel and I got married just before we auditioned for Cruella,” she informed the chat. 

“No, literally, we had just gotten home from our honeymoon then we got the call from our agents,” Joel added with a small laugh before looking at his wife. “We cover the dough now, right?” Angela perked up then nodded.

“Yep, once your dough is mixed well, cover the bowl then cool it for 1-2 hours. Joel, if you please,” she gestured to the bowl and looked at her husband. Joel jokingly saluted then grabbed a towel, placing it over the bowl.

“While he does that, I’m gonna set up the camera in our bedroom so we can continue our chat comfortably,” she walked around the counter to reach the tripod and picked it up. “Sorry you guys are about to get up close and personal with me.” She walked into their room, bumping the tripod legs on just about every surface as she did so and apologizing to the people watching the Live. After a minute she set the tripod up in front of the bed then grabbed one of Joel’s guitars, beginning to strum it. She only stopped when Joel entered the room.

“Did I miss much?” He inquired as he took a seat beside her. 

“Just me getting at least three bruises on the way here,” she half joked in response then continued strumming. 

“Aw babe,” he cooed. “Want me to kiss them better?” Isabel shook her head then giggled, telling him to shut up.

“Alright, someone said they wanted me to play Call Me Cruella. I’m afraid I don’t feel like pulling up the music, so enjoy this acoustic version.” Jasper moved out of the camera’s view and grabbed a small acoustic drum then situated it on his lap. He counted to three then they began playing, Isabel beginning to sing as well. 

The rest of the Live went by in a blur. They continued to answer questions while finishing baking the cookies and even played a few more songs, including a few songs from Joel’s old band, Animal Circus. 

“Alright guys, thank you guys so much for staying and chatting with us,” Isabel chirped before glancing at Joel. “Did you have fun?” The man nodded.

“Yeah, I’d say it was a great way to get me into Instagram, so thanks for that as well.” Angela nodded.

“Definitely. He may even do a few more Lives with me in the near future,” she added, which elicited a shrug from her husband.

“Maybe.” 

“Well, we’ll talk about it,” Isabel shrugged. “Alright, we are gonna go enjoy these cookies and probably eat too many then have to make more tomorrow. Bye guys!” She exclaimed with a quick wave. Joel copied her movements shortly before she turned the Live off. 

“See? Wasn’t that fun?” She inquired, facing Joel. He laughed then shrugged. 

“Yeah, it was pretty fun to do.” Isabel grinned then kissed his cheek. 

“Why don’t you go wash your hands so we can eat these,” she suggested. The man nodded and walked off. Isabel began plating the cookies while she waited for him, then after a few minutes she received an Instagram notification. ‘@officialjoelfry tagged you in a post.’ Her brows furrowed and she opened the notification. Her phone took her to Joel’s Instagram where she noticed a singular picture now posted. She clicked on it, then grinned. 

It was a picture from their wedding day. Isabel was in her reception dress (a floor length white peasant dress with see-through long sleeves) and a flower crown that had pink roses and holly leaves and Joel had on a suit, though he was missing his shoes, tie, and his jacket was unbuttoned. The picture itself was them kissing, Joel had dipped her down just enough that she had to lean up to kiss him. While his hands held her waist, her left hand was cupping his cheek while her right clung to the nape of his neck. It was a lovely picture, but the caption is what made her smile though. ‘The love of my life 💖’ What a great first post.

[ultrajaphunter]

How to Make the Cheesiest, Crispiest Tuna MeltMaking a tuna melt isn't hard, but these tips will help you make one that's truly cheesy, crispy, and comforting.

BY GENEVIEVE YAM

August 24, 2022

Growing up in Hong Kong, I considered the tuna melt a special occasion food. The sandwich is one of my dad’s favorites, but my parents—who mostly cooked Chinese food—never made it at home. Whenever he had a hankering for a tuna melt, my family would pile into the car and he’d drive us to a homey beachside restaurant 30 minutes away that had the cheesiest, crispiest tuna melts. The hefty sandwiches were held together with colorful frilly-ended toothpicks and came with a tall pile of crispy fries. To this day, I still consider the sandwich at that restaurant to be the gold standard of tuna melts. The tuna salad, which was packed with crunchy celery and had just the right amount of mayonnaise, went down first on the bread. Melted white cheddar hugged the salad, and several slices of dill pickles provided a sweet, vinegary tang.

Those tuna melts are so embedded in my memory that I think of them each time I make the sandwich. Over the years, it has become one of my go-to meals when I’m looking for something easy and comforting. Though making a tuna melt isn’t difficult, the tips below will help you make a truly stellar one.

Pick the right kind of tuna

I prefer using olive-oil-packed tuna, which is richer in flavor and much more moist than water-packed tuna. Look for sustainably fished tuna that’s caught by pole and line, or brands with a Marine Stewardship Council label. Buying solid tuna (as opposed to chunk) allows you to flake tuna to the size you want and results in a salad with better texture.

Add some crunch and acid to your tuna salad

The tuna salad in a melt should be good enough to stand on its own, even without the cheese or toasted bread. Instead of adding dill pickles as a garnish, I incorporate chopped pickles into the salad, along with a few tablespoons of crunchy diced celery, some salt and pepper, and a quarter cup of mayonnaise for a salad that’s balanced in both taste and texture.

Use mayonnaise—not butter—on your bread

Mayonnaise is my preferred fat when I’m making grilled cheese or a tuna melt. The condiment is made with vegetable oil, which has a higher smoke point than butter, so your kitchen won’t erupt in smoke before the bread is properly toasted and the cheese is properly melted. Mayo is also easily spreadable when cold, and who wants to wait around for butter to soften when all you want is a quick sandwich?

Put a lid on it

For a sandwich that’s crispy, cheesy, and golden brown, start by placing your bread (I like a hearty sourdough) mayonnaise-side down in a skillet over medium-low heat. Top the bread with two slices of cheddar, then cover the skillet with a lid. The trapped heat will help the cheese melt evenly. Some of the cheese will melt off the sides of the bread and create a shatteringly crisp frico-like cheese skirt.

Quick-pickled onions provide crunch and tang

After the cheese has melted, place a quarter cup or so of tuna salad on one slice of bread and top it with several slices of onions that you’ve quick-pickled in seasoned rice vinegar. The onions add crunch, but they also add a burst of acid that cuts through the richness of the cheese and tuna salad.

Tuna Melt

GET THIS RECIPE

[dandelions-sea-blog]

bunnies don’t lay eggs... Chapter Two

Since this is going to now be an actual series I guess I gotta give it it’s own post.

Read On AO3 (Its soooo much better there)

Previous || First || Next

There isn’t much good about being forcibly impregnated by a delusional rabbit then kiddnaped and held against your will in its home. Honestly most monsters would be strapped to find even one good thing about that situation. But Red… Red likes to see himself as a glass-half full kinda guy.

“jesus fucking christ ,” Red moans, throwing his head back against the couch cushions. His mouth is full of whatever the fuck was kabobed onto that stick he just ate, chewing like it was an olympic sport. Red wipes a bit of drool off the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. “god - how did you fucking make that?” He asks, turning to face his couch-companion, who seems subtly delighted by Red’s reaction. The rabbit’s eyes are almost always half lidded, as if he’s constantly tired; it makes it a bit easier to read him than most others.

“old family recipe, my friend,” He says with a wink. “ma used t’ make it for us when we were kits.”

“huh, really?” Red asks, ears perking with intrigue.

“nah i just got it off the internet.”

Red chuckles along with the bunny, reaching for another kabob as he lazes out across the cushions. Despite his brother being absolutely awful Stretch is actually halfway decent- ah fuck it, he’s fully decent. Red could easily see him and Stretch being close friends even outside of this craphole situation; provided that Stretch wasn’t eaten onsight. Rabbit-Wolf friendships almost never have a happy ending, though it might be different for these so-called “Easter” bunnies. They are almost as tall as normal monsters - pretty powerful too, right up there with the wolves. Even Boss might have a hard time contending with these guys…

Red will have to give him a hand in wiping this whole miserable species to extinction when he gets out of here.

It seems like Stretch is about to doze off, his feet kicking up and laying out across the spread on the couch, jostling Red’s chains and creating a harmonic pattern of ‘ chink’ s through the air. Red shifts as well, moving himself so the chains aren’t as much of bother to his bunny companion. Napping has always been one of his favorite past times - and now that he as twelve tiny leeches inside of him draining his lifeforce away he is given plenty of opportunity to nap. For the first few days Red was furious about it; refusing to sleep out of sheer spite that he was being forced to. That asshole Blue wasn’t much help, trying to insist that Red sleep in the same room as him. It’s bad enough that Red has to sleep on the same planet as him.

Once again it was Stretch who ended that stint. Red had never before met someone who so deeply understands the art of snoozing; they could have conversations for hours about dozing before inevitably passing out. Red probably would have kept himself awake with a mixture of coffee and malice until he dropped dead if it weren’t for him. Chill guy…

“think we got time for a nap before the cuntrag comes home?” Red asks. Blue is personally offended by sleep (yet another reason to hate that fluffy fuck) and while that has absolutely no bearing on Red’s enjoyment of them, Stretch tends to feel bad if he is out when the other comes home.

“uh, ya know that’s my bro yer talkin’ bout,” Stretch says, just a dash of brotherly protectiveness in his otherwise lazy tone. “but yeah, he works late on wednesdays so we should be good.” Red still can’t wrap his head around the idea that Stretch is related to that tiny sociopath; how could anyone stand to be around that cheary little creep is beyond him. Stretch seems to pick up on this line of thought going through Red’s mind and sighs. “look, i know you hate him and all-”

“oh i wouldn’t use the word hate ,” Red assures, holding up a paw to count off on his fingers. “abhor, loathe, despite, fantasize about his death on a daily basis… take yer pick.”

“well, despite you not liking him he’s actually a pretty cool dude,” Stretch says, opening a single eye to look at Red. “and he really does love you.”

“good for him,” Red mutters, rolling his eyes. “what a romantic fella - sure knows how t’ treat a gal right.” Red kicks his foot, rattling the chain for emphasis. “though if he were doin’ this right he’d be givin’ me the ball to go along with the chain… ”

“technically speaking he gave you twelve.”

Ugh. That jokes was bad, even by Red’s standards. Still - it’s too early in the afternoon for an argument, and it has become an unspoken rule between him and Stretch not to bring up Blue unless they want to fight. And neither of them really have the energy for unnecessary grudges.

Red finds himself drifting off fairly quickly, the window above them is open and the summer air is so blissfully pleasant . In the wolf’s village it is almost impossible for anyone to enjoy the weather - the air is almost always clogged with dust and relaxing outside is more akin to a death sentence than a tranquil outing. Again, Red could easily see himself enjoying life here if it weren’t for two little things.

One, Blue . Two, his eggs.

Red resists the urge to thumb over his belly, knowing that it will just make him upset. Thankfully the eggs are a set size and wont be getting any bigger. It was the first thing that Stretch had reassured him of in those first days where Red went back and forth between sobbing and incoherent rage. And they won’t even be inside of him when they hatch - his body will force them out days prior to be incubated externally. Red is pretty sure he made at least one or two “mother hen” jokes between his sobs when he found that out. So it’s not as bad as it could be.

That still doesn’t mean Red won’t smash these fucking eggs and their “mother” the moment they are out of him. His first escape attempt wasn’t very successful without his magic (that would be how he ended up with a tether around his ankles) and Red isn’t stupid enough to think that blindly charging out into the bunny village over and over would work. Especially when he is so big now that there is no way he can even properly run. Which means he’s just going to have to wait until the babies are out of him.

Great.

“welp. i need’t go pick up some stuff for dinner,” Stretch says, sliding off of the couch. He pops his back as he goes to grab his hoodie from off of the chair he so gracelessly flung it on earlier. He shrugs it on, pulling the hood over his head. Red will never get over how absolutely adorable it is that the hood has little sleeves for the rabbit’s tall ears. “you want anythin’?”

“my freedom, my life back and the slaughter of everyone even mostly responsible for my current situation,” Red says, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“k. how’s about some chips?”

“sure.”

“what flavor?”

“sour cream and onion… if they don’t got that salt and vinegar’s fine.”

“sweet,” Stretch says, heading for the door. “see ya in, like, an hour.” Red hears the creek of the hinges and the rattle of the door slamming shut. He sighs, readjusting drowsily now that he has all of the couch to himself.

There is still a kabob left on the table, catching Red’s attention. He sighs, reaching over and grabbing the stick. Stretch really is an amazing cook, but there are unavoidable hitches to the plan of having a wolf live as a bunny’s mate. Namely diet. Stretch can make carrots and broccoli taste as good as venison, but the nutritional value is something even he can’t change. Red needs meat. It’s only been a few weeks and he can already feel himself losing strength. Eventually his bones and teeth will start to suffer - he can already feel his fur coming loose and losing its shine. The stupid fucking eggs accelerate the process, eating of 90% of his body’s resources.

Red sighs. He’ll talk it out with the rabbits later. There’s gotta be some kinda solution here… maybe they have a really annoying neighbor they want gone, or some criminals who would be better for everyone dead.

For now Red finishes the last kabob, using the stick to pick his teeth before folding his arms against his chest. He closes his eyes, letting out a long sighs as he drifts back to sleep. He dreams of home, of meat, of his brother, and of Blue tied down and tortured before being eaten alive by wolves.

What a nice dream.

[orbemnews]

The Italian town where they eat 500-year-old meals (CNN) — The signs of the Renaissance are everywhere in Italy. Grand piazzas and palazzos. Metal-spiked doors. Looming archways. And, of course, all that ever-present art in the churches and galleries. But in one city, you also get a taste of the Renaissance every time you enter a restaurant. Ferrara, in the northern region of Emilia Romagna, was once home to the Estense court, or House of Este, which ruled the city from the 13th to the 18th centuries. The court, on the bank of the River Po, was one of the most formidable cultural powers during the Renaissance. Writers including Boiardo, Ariosto and Torquato Tasso were employed by the court, and artists such as Bellini, Mantegna and Piero della Francesco worked for the Este family in their domineering, moat-surrounded castle in the center of town. Their works have survived the centuries — but so have those of Cristoforo di Messisbugo, the court’s master of ceremonies and steward. Messisbugo was one of two celebrity chefs of the Renaissance, and his prowess with multicourse banquets to impress visiting heads of state and fill the bellies of the Este great and good, led to him writing one of the world’s earliest cookbooks. His tome, “Banchetti, composizioni di vivande e apparecchio generale” (“Banquets, Recipes and Table-laying”) was published in 1549, a year after he died. In it, as well as sample dinner menus and drinks pairings, he lists 300 recipes. And it’s thanks to Messisbugo that that, nearly five centuries later, the Ferraresi are still eating the Estes’ favorite meals. Because while every town in Italy has its signature dishes, Ferrara’s are straight from the cookbook of that 16th-century court. Yes, these dishes are real Salama da sugo, a centuries-old sausage and mash. Archivo Fotografico Provincia di Ferrara First things first. To enjoy Ferrara’s best known dishes, you don’t want to visit in summer. And you’ll want an elasticated waistband — because the signature food here is heavy. The city’s best known dishes are pasticcio — effectively a pie filled with macaroni cheese, meat ragu, and bechamel sauce — salama da sugo, a centuries-old kind of sausage and mash, and cappellacci di zucca, pumpkin-stuffed pasta. Each, though, has a twist. Pasticcio’s pie crust is sweet — yes, a meat pie in sweet pastry — while salama da sugo is a kilo-heavy salami that’s soaked in water for several days and then boiled for 10 hours to soften it into a spicy, spreadable meat that’s then served on mashed potato. Meanwhile, that super-sweet pumpkin pasta is usually slathered with meat ragu on top. All date back to the Renaissance. In fact, salama da sugo was said to be the favorite dish of Lucrezia Borgia — yes, that Lucrezia Borgia — who came to Ferrara in 1502 when she married the Duke, Alfonso d’Este. In fact, her famously long, blonde, curly locks are said to be the inspiration for another of Ferrara’s famous foods: the coppia, a spiraling, four-horned bread roll, like two croissants welded together. It was supposedly created by Messisbugo for a banquet in honor of Lucrezia. Sergio Perdonati is at work by 3 a.m. each morning to bake around 1,000 coppie per day, such is his devotion to the bread. “I think it’s one of the best breads in the world,” he says proudly. His grandfather, Otello, started the family bakery, Panificio Perdonati, 90 years ago — Sergio’s sourdough starter is Otello’s original, which has survived the bakery’s bombing in the Second World War, and two property moves. All the rolls are formed by hand and the dough is made using vintage mixing machines. Today, they’ve branched out into the sweet stuff — including panpepato, a cake also dating back to the Renaissance, made with chunks of almonds and orange peel, and covered in dark chocolate. Think Renaissance cocktail flairers Cappellacci di zucca — pumpkin-stuffed pasta. Archivo Fotografico Provincia di Ferrara People have always come to Ferrara to eat. “For sure, other courts had banquets, but Ferrara was particularly well known for them,” says Dr Federica Caneparo, a historian at the University of Chicago specializing in the culture of the Italian Renaissance. “It was especially refined, and food and banquets were a demonstration of power in front of their guests, some of whom would be ambassadors from other courts.” Italian courts had a raft of foodie professions, including the “scalco” (like Messisbugo, the supervisor), the “bottigliere” (an ancient sommelier) and the “trinciante” — the “carver”, who would put on a show for the entire table by carving meat or vegetables held in the air on a giant fork (think of a Renaissance cocktail flairer, only with knives and sides of beef instead of bottles). “They were trusted people close to the Duke,” says Caneparo. “Usually gentiluomini [nobles] by birth, or by merit. The scalco was responsible for organizing banquets and, on ordinary days, the household. The trinciante also had to be a trusted person — after all, he was right next to the master of the house with all those big knives.” Ferrara’s banquets were so famous, in fact, that poet Ludovico Ariosto included a description of one in his epic work “Orlando Furioso,” she says. And no wonder — she says that they were “spectacular, with music, dance, theater, and sculptures made of sugar or ice. They’d start with a play, or music, or both, and then they’d prepare the table.” And forget our single-figure tasting menus — these banquets could have well over 100 courses. Mac and cheese with a sugary twist Pasticcio is a pie filled with macaroni cheese, meat ragu, and bechamel sauce. Archivo Fotografico Provincia di Ferrara With so much food to choose from you can be sure that the dishes to have made it into modern Ferrarese cooking are the classics. At the modern Ca’ d’Frara restaurant, guests sit on hip mustard-colored chairs and cream banquettes to eat these centuries-old dishes. And those used to molecular cuisine might find Renaissance gastronomy equally boundary-pushing. “You often find this sweet-savory combination in the Estense cuisine — it’s unique,” says chef Elia Benvenuti. His pasticcio is an intriguing mix of a dense, meaty mac and cheese, wrapped in a cookie-sweet crust. You approach it with trepidation — how can this ever taste good? — but, somehow, it works. The sweet crust even seems to cut through the richness of the white ragu and bechamel sauce. “They’re symbols of the city — part of our DNA,” says chef of the traditional dishes. “I think Lucrezia [Borgia] would be happy,” adds his maître d’ wife, Barbara. Sweetening up the savory Sweet dishes include panpepato, a cake made with chunks of almonds and orange peel, and covered in dark chocolate Archivo Fotografico Provincia di Ferrara A few minutes’ walk away, locals are spilling into Ristorante Raccano, in a 15th-century cloister. Some are here for meat cooked in the oh-so-21st-century Josper oven — what owner Laura Cavicchio describes as “one of the most technically advanced grilling machines.” But others? They’re here for Lucrezia’s beloved salama da sugo. This is normally one of Ferrara’s more savory dishes — the salama is so heavily spiced, it hardly needs sugar. But Cavicchio and her children, Gabriella and Luca Montanari, like to take it right back to its Este roots by serving it with fried custard. The salama — made with different cuts of the pig including neck, belly, liver and tongue, with neck fat binding it all together — is seasoned with spices including cloves, cinnamon, red wine and Ferrara’s ubiquitous spice, nutmeg. It’s then aged in a pork casing for around a year, soaked in water for three days to soften it up, and then boiled for up to 10 hours. By that point, it’s as soft as jam, and chef Luca scoops it out, sprinkles it on top of potato mash, and adds mostarda (like a sweet chutney), plus the crowning glory: a cube of fried custard. “This isn’t a reinterpretation — in the old recipes, you find it served with custard,” says Cavicchio, who’s combed through Renaissance recipes and history books to make it authentic. Alongside modern dishes, they also serve “Crostino alla Messisbugo” — chicken liver and sauteed herbs pate, smeared on toasted bread. It’s another hit from the great man’s recipe book. Meanwhile, their cappellacci di zucca — handrolled pasta pillows, like oversized tortellini, filled with sweet pumpkin and nutmeg — come drenched in meat ragu and topped with parmesan cheese. Again, it’s a combination that shouldn’t work, but does. Alone, the cappellacci are offputtingly sweet to 21st-century tastes. Douse them with meat and cheese, though, and it slices through the sweetness, while amping up the taste of the sauce. Ferrrara was ruled by the powerful House of Este from the 13th to 18th centuries. Shutterstock The Estes’ signature “agrodolce” (sweet-savory) flavor was a conservation method, says Cavicchio. “People had vinegar, wine and salt. Marco Polo used it.” And although at the restaurant they use modern techniques, including that Josper oven, they want to keep the tastes as similar as possible to their heritage. “Over the years I’ve acquired a way of interpreting a recipe — I change the cooking techniques and some of the ingredients, but you need to know the product to do that,” says Cavicchio. Born just over the border in Veneto, where agrodolce flavors are also fundamental, she reads as many books about the Estes’ food habits as she can and experiments to keep the final product as authentic as possible. “Messisbugo was studious,” she says. “He invented recipes with the ingredients he had and the methods available to him. He didn’t have a fridge, so he used vinegar, wine and sugar. We’re much luckier, but I think he’d still appreciate what we do. For us, [the heritage] is a richness.” The modern day foodie courtiers Ferrara’s local bread is supposedly inspired by Lucrezia Borgia’s hair. Archivo Fotografico Provincia di Ferrara Like everywhere in Italy, restaurants and food heritage are important to the locals. Over at Da Noemi — a restaurant named after his grandmother, who opened up by herself in 1956 — 23-year-old Giovanni Matteucci has a hobby unlike many people his age. He buys antique copies of Ferrarese history and recipe books. “Sweetness was synonymous with the food of the rich,” he explains. “They used lots of spices and sugar to show off their wealth.” Even recipes for glammed-up egg yolk, and lasagne, had sugar and cinnamon on top, he says. And although he says it isn’t proven that Lucrezia Borgia really did love salama da sugo above all else, we do know that she adored apples — from the shopping list she compiled for her country estate. “She ordered loads of apples and different varieties,” he says. “It’s also said that she liked garlic.” At Da Noemi, Giovanni and his mom, Maria Cristina Borgazzi, run the kitchen. Brother Luca, meanwhile, is the maître d — the modern equivalent of Messisbugo. In fact, Luca takes his role as master of ceremonies so seriously that he’s decided that their reduced pandemic seating plan will stay forever. “We can pay more attention to the client this way,” he says. Speak to anyone in Ferrara, and they’ll wax lyrical about their pride in their food heritage. Yet, although Italians flock to the city to eat cappellacci, pasticcio, salama da sugo and coppie, the dishes have never really conquered the rest of Italy, as other regional dishes like pizza or tortellini have. Not that the Ferraresi care. “Ferrara is beautiful because of the Este family, and it’s the same for their dishes,” says Giovanni Matteucci. ���People come to Ferrara for this, and we have to protect it. “Italy is based on its history. We don’t have Silicon Valley — this is our richness.” And, of course, their sweetness. Eating like Renaissance courtiers, here, is the most modern thing they can do. Source link Orbem News #500yearold #eat #Italian #meals #Town

[starryeyed-char]

Baking with Hunk

Another installment of my klance YouTuber AU! This (fourth) one-shot features some fluffy baking on Hunk’s channel, with Lance, Keith, and Pidge to help him out. I told you guys a lot of fluff was to be expected, but there’s also a lot of angst. This one sets the stage a bit for one of the next parts... which will be angsty. Lots of the things coming up soon will be angsty so... prepare yourself for those, but for now enjoy the mostly fluffiness! @elsiemcclay I’m pretty sure you’re asleep, but thanks for being such a great beta!

You can find the YT AU series here on my AO3.

Yes, I did look at the actual recipe to write this.

“Hi!” Hunk waved cheerfully at the camera. “Today we're going to be making Baked Alaska Cupcakes! They're one of my favorites, but I've never actually made them on this channel because they're a bit more complicated. Luckily, I have help!”

He reached around the counter and dragged a brightly smiling Lance into the camera. “Hunk, pretty much all of your fans know me by now. We made breakfast puffs together last month!”

Hunk rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but do they know your boyfriend Keith?” he faked a gasp as Keith came to stand beside them. “Because he's here, too!”

“Hunk, don't look so surprised. You invited us here,” Pidge hopped up on a stool. “Besides, they probably do know who Keith is. Lance talks about him enough, that's for sure.”

A faint blush colored the cheeks of both boys in question.

“Pidge!” Lance squawked in protest.

“Anyway,” Hunk stepped between them. “First thing's first, here's what you need to make them. List of all measurements in the description!” He gestured at the many things on the counter before them.

“What the fuck is cream of tartar?” Pidge asked skeptically. “And what's it doing on your counter?”

“The most important ingredient, of course,” Hunk continued, as if they hadn't spoken. “Is the strawberry ice cream! Baked Alaska cupcakes have a layer of ice cream in between the cake and the icing, which is what makes them so delicious.”

“Strawberry,” Lance scoffed. “Of course you pick Keith's favorite flavor. Hunk, you traitor. Is the cake at least chocolate?”

Hunk smiled apologetically. “Sorry, it's in the recipe. Strawberry ice cream and vanilla cake.”

Pidge grinned smugly.

“You guys are so boring,” Lance complained, collapsing dramatically against the counter. “But whatever. They better be as delicious as you promised, my man.”

Hunk nodded solemnly. “They will be. We should probably get baking, though, since they have to chill for at least two hours before—”

“Two hours?” Lance demanded, outraged. “I didn't sign up for this! I came here hungry just so I could eat a ridiculous number of cupcakes, and you're telling me I have to wait two hours?”

Hunk winced. “Well, technically closer to four hours, since we have to prepare and bake them before chilling.”

Lance simply stared at him for a moment before turning on his heel. “Fuck this. C'mon, Pidge, we're raiding Hunk's pantry for some chips.”

Pidge slid off the stool, following him out of the room. “On it.”

“Couldn't we just preheat it at a higher temperature?” Keith wondered, gesturing towards the already warming oven. “That would at least speed up the baking part, right?”

Hunk paused in filling the cupcake sheet with brightly colored paper liners, clearly unimpressed. “Keith, doing stuff like that is how to burn cupcakes.” The shorter boy frowned, and crossed his arms.

“Even I know that, dipshit, and I can't cook to save my life,” Pidge reentered the room, carrying a bag of potato chips nearly bigger than they were.

“Good thing Hunk and I are both experts, then,” Lance brought in a bag of Tostitos and a tin of salt and vinegar Pringles. Keith opened his mouth to speak, and Lance tossed him the latter immediately. “Don't worry, I know. Your favorite.”

Keith blushed, but began opening the Pringles.

“Ew, salt and vinegar?” Pidge shook their head in disgust. “I don't know how you eat those things, Keith. They taste and smell terrible!”

“Agreed, but I don't mind the bad breath,” Lance said with a smirk, sliding an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders. Keith rolled his eyes, but made no move to push him off.

“Now that you guys are done eating all my food, can we get to what we're actually supposed to be doing?” Hunk asked. “This channel is for baking videos, my viewers don't want to see you two flirting the entire time.” Pidge snorted.

“Who doesn't want to see us flirting?” Lance countered. “Besides, Hunk, I'm not eating all your food! You barely have anything in there besides ingredients! You don't even have salsa!”

“Lance, I know how to make salsa. You taught me.”

“Ugh, fair point,” Lance conceded. “Now, are we gonna get making these ice cream cupcakes, or what?”

“I've already started,” Hunk pointed out, as he pushed a bowl towards Keith. “Here, mix the dry ingredients. We can get started with the others in this bowl.”

A slow grin spread over Pidge's face. “Can I man the electric mixer?”

Hunk hesitated, but eventually his head dipped into a nod. “Medium speed,” Hunk warned. “Medium, Pidge. Lance, you pour the sugar. Keith, how's— how did you manage that?”

The boy in question looked up from stirring to sheepishly meet Hunk's eyes. His shirt, hands, and even his hair was covered in light dustings of flour. “I... may have gone a little too fast.”

Pidge looked up from the electric mixer. “That's what she said.”

“Damn, beat me to the punch... no pun intended,” Lance laughed, and Pidge groaned. He then looked over at Keith before raising a hand. “All those in favor of making Keith tie up his hair, so he doesn't get any of his mullet in our cupcakes?”

“You just want him to do that because you think it looks cute,” Pidge scoffed.

Lance shrugged. “Can't blame a guy for trying.”

“Keith, can you crack the eggs?” Hunk asked.

“'Course he can,” Lance poured more sugar into the mix. “He breaks things all the time.”

Keith sighed, exasperated, but began breaking the eggs anyway. “Lance, for the last time, it was one window! It was pretty cheap to get fixed, and that happened three months ago! Let it go!”

“We'd just moved into the apartment, and you had to go and—”

“No flirting, and no bickering,” Pidge interrupted. “Keith, we're going to need those egg whites next.”

Lance picked up the bowl Keith had been cracking eggs into, stared at it for a moment, then turned to his boyfriend. “Keith. What. The. Fuck.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, examining them himself. “What? Did I get a piece of shell in?”

“Keith. We're only using the egg whites,” Lance said, gesturing around with the bowl and nearly spilling raw egg all over the both of them. “We can't use these. You just wasted five eggs.”

Hunk shook his head, repressing a smile. “Well, if you want something done right, and all that.” He cracked five new ones in quick succession, expertly shifting the yolk from one half of the broken shell to the other so that only the egg whites fell into the bowl. He handed it to Lance. “Here, use these, then do the vanilla extract. After that is milk, and the dry ingredient mixture.”

Keith shifted uncomfortably. “I'm... I’m lactose intolerant, Hunk.”

Hunk slapped a hand to his forehead. “Right. Sorry. Totally slipped my mind, but we can use more butter and water together to substitute. Let me go check the pantry for more, real quick.”

“Ooh, wait, Hunk! Could you grab some cinnamon, too?” Lance asked suddenly.

“Uh, sure?” Hunk looked over his shoulder at him, suspicion evident in his voice. “Why do you need it, though?”

“Oh, um... I haven't done the cinnamon challenge yet?” It came out as more of a question than a statement.

“What?! No! I'm not going to have you choking on cinnamon and then coughing it up all over our batter! No, sir, not on this channel. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“With all those crazy live-stream stunts?” Pidge deadpanned, still focused on the mixer. “I wouldn't be surprised if all this reckless business was a cry for help. The number of times you get yourself into danger is ridiculous.”

Lance shifted uncomfortably. “Okay, but it's not always my fault. Remember the Nyma Incident?”

The silence that followed stretched for far too long.

“Let's not mention that,” Keith finally said, his voice tight.

“Okay, sorry,” Lance mumbled quickly. “Uh, Hunk... could you cut that out of the video? Don't think anyone needs to be reminded of that. I shouldn't have even brought it up.”

Hunk clapped a hand on Lance's shoulder as he came out of the pantry, still determined to focus on baking. “Right, of course, man. You got it. I... here's the cinnamon, but we're not doing any challenges.”

Lance took the small container, and nodded with a shaky smile. “I finished adding everything except for the milk and dry ingredients. Hunk, could you take on mixing for a bit? I need to talk to Pidge.” Hunk only offered a short nod, and Lance dragged Pidge off to the other side of the room.

Pidge cast a worried glance back at Keith. “I think he's fine, if you're worried about that. I know how anxious he gets every time someone mentions—”

“No, not that,” Lance waved a hand to dismiss their concern. “I need you to distract Hunk. I'm going to spike the dry ingredients with some cinnamon.”

Pidge blinked. “Okay.” A devilish sort of grin took over their features as they returned behind the counter. Without sparing either Hunk or Keith a look, they took the container of strawberry ice cream, grabbed the nearest spoon, and sprinted out of the room.

Hunk practically launched himself over the counter and chased after them immediately. “Pidge, remember, you have little legs! I’ll catch you! Don't you dare eat any of that ice cream!”

Lance side-stepped over to the dry ingredients, and sprinkled a bit of cinnamon into the bowl. He looked up to meet his boyfriend's glare.

“If Hunk knew you strayed from the recipe, he'd probably stick you in the oven.”

“A little cinnamon never hurt anyone,” Lance picked the mixer back up, and turned it back on.

Keith poured part of the mixture in, even as he raised an unimpressed eyebrow Lance's way. “Says the guy with a YouTube channel. I thought I was the only one living under a rock.” Lance snorted as Keith picked up the water to alternate.

They continued to mix the batter for a few moments of silence, the noises of Pidge being chased having relocated upstairs. Lance sucked in a slow breath, and opened his mouth. “Do you wanna talk about—”

“No,” Keith replied firmly, and Lance couldn't help but flinch. His features softened immediately. “Let's just... let's just make cupcakes for right now, okay? We can talk later, but only if you want to.”

Hunk returned to the room then, carrying Pidge over one shoulder. “Looks like it's time to fill the cupcake liners. One third of the way, people. We need room for the ice cream, and meringue icing!”

“Meringue,” Lance echoed, but started filling up the sheet, anyway. “Doesn't that take way longer than regular icing? The waiting period is already long enough!”

Hunk sighed. “I promise, the final product is going to be awesome, you guys just have to trust me. Besides, we won't be making it until after the cupcakes are in the fridge, and they have too cool off some before we even do that. So, we can take a video game break!”

“And eat more chips,” Pidge added, already claiming a beanbag chair in the living room.

“And eat more chips.” Hunk slid the cupcakes into the oven, and grinned at all of them. “They only need ten to fourteen minutes, so someone should be in here watching them at all times to make sure they don't burn.”

“I'll do it,” Lance volunteered. “I'd crush you all, anyway, like I did on Pidge's channel last week.”

“Lance, I won—”

“Just don't let Keith do it, because he'd probably let them burn,” Lance ruffled his boyfriend's hair, and Keith pushed his hand away with an eye roll. He, Hunk, and Pidge all filed into the living room, and Lance pulled up a stool to sit at the counter.

He could've been watching the cakes slowly rise, but he just stared into space at the countertop, lost in thought.

“Hunk, you were right,” Lance declared, patting his stomach. “Those cupcakes were definitely worth the wait, even if you just used stupid strawberry ice cream.”

Pidge nodded in agreement. “Shay is one lucky girl.”

“Not as lucky as Keith,” Lance bragged, wrapping him up in a one-armed hug.

“You know, I thought you were going to say 'not as lucky as me' for a second,” Keith grumbled, hiding a smile. “But then you just boosted your own ego. Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, I'm pretty lucky myself, but not when it comes to cooking.”

“Oh, would you—”

“This is too much gay, even for me,” Pidge observed, and Hunk shook his head, laughing.

“Okay, I think we're gonna end the video here guys! Their channels will be linked down below, and if you have any requests for stuff you want to see how to make, just let me know in the comments section! Thanks for watching!”

Before he could turn the camera off, Lance grabbed a pinch of flour and flicked it at Keith. He then retaliated by throwing a handful of powdered sugar at his boyfriend.

“I have to use these ingredients for other stuff, you know!” Hunk protested, though when Pidge dumped a scoop of sugar on him, it wasn't long before all of them were going all out.

The thumbnail ended up being all four of them, covered in flour and sitting in Hunk's equally messy kitchen, eating their cupcakes.

[findingschmomo]

[UshIwaOi] Bridge the Gap Chapter 2: Anxiety

Title:  Bridge the Gap Pairings: UshIwaOi Rating: T Genre: Established Polyamory, Child!Kageyama, Angst

In which Oikawa struggles to forgive, Ushijima struggles for words and Iwaizumi struggles to relate.They find their answers with each other, and surprisingly enough, with the boy loitering outside their window.

″He knows Ushijima is self-conscious of this, of his stoic face and blunt words, but Iwaizumi can’t help but love those aspects of his lover. Because they are a part of him, stone gates protecting his golden heart. It made the cracks in those stone walls, little fissures of a smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, all the more savory.” Links: AO3

Iwaizumi yawns into his hand, sitting up and letting his feet slide off the dashboard. He lets his hand drag down his face, catching on his skin slightly. He sighs, cracking his neck a little.

“Not enough sleep last night?” Daichi asks dryly, taking a bite of his chicken wrap.

“Rough morning,” Iwaizumi replies, “Kyoutani made another mess I had to clean up for him.”

“You can’t fight all his battles,” his partner reminds him, giving him a knowing side-eye.

Iwaizumi rolls his own eyes, “He’s still learning. Just give him time.”

“Your patience astounds me.”

Iwaizumi cracks a smile, tipping his hat up, “You’ve met Oikawa.”

Daichi lets out a bark of a laugh, caught off guard as it slips past his lips. He chuckles into his wrap and Iwaizumi can’t help breaking into his own grin, playfully slapping the man’s shoulder, “Hey, don’t be an ass.”

“I’m the ass? You’re the one who said it.”

“I’m allowed to say it, I’ve earned it.” Iwaizumi replies, leaning back against his seat. He stares out at the darkened street, nothing still coming into view, “How much longer are we stuck out here?”

Daichi quiets down as he glances at the car clock, doing some mental math, “Another hour at least.”

Iwaizumi groans, “Alright.” He twists around, reaching for a bag of chips in the back, grimacing when the one he spots is salt and vinegar flavor, “You like this crap?”

Daichi blinks, glancing at the package, “Suga’s a big fan,” he shrugs.

Iwaizumi sighs as he opens it up, “Oikawa swears by them,” He digs a hand in and shoves a chip into his mouth. He grimaces, tongue puckering at the taste, “Awful.”

“You don’t have to eat them,” Daichi points out.

“They’re the only chips here,” Iwaizumi counters, popping another chip in his mouth, with slightly less disgust.

“How’s he doing, by the way?” Daichi asks after a beat of silence, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

Iwaizumi feels his easy smile slip, the salt burning at his tongue--or maybe it’s the vinegar, “He’s fine.”

Daichi hums, hands squeezing the steering wheel, dropping the subject. They sit in an awkward silence, only punctuated with the crunching of chips every few seconds. Until, finally, Daichi speaks up again, “So what did Kyoutani do this time?”

Iwaizumi snorts, memories flooding him suddenly as he straightens himself up again, licking at a salty finger, “He’s such a moron. You know Yahaba?”

“Who?”

“Yahaba Shigeru?”

“Sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”

“He’s a junior lawyer at the firm Oikawa works at. He’s always at the courthouse though, doing god knows what there. Anyway, I asked Kyoutani to go to the courthouse to drop off some documents with the court secretary. This moron barges in there and assumes Yahaba is the secretary, barking at him to file these away properly and what not. I guess you haven’t met Yahaba, but he is one vengeful person. So, apparently, he played along, acting like some sort of sweet secretary before rolling into Kyoutani about his absolute disrespect. Really shattered his ego. Yahaba wrote up a full complaint and sent it over and I’ve had to deal with it ever since.”

“Jeeze,” Daichi mumbles, “That’s...really bad.”

Iwaizumi waves it off, “Yahaba was trying to scare him, we talked about it, it’s fine. I think it may have worked, I’ve never seen Kyoutani so terrified and quiet.” He laughs, “It was pretty funny.”

Daichi nods slowly, face still morphed in sour disbelief, “I don’t know how you do it. Tanaka can get rowdy but he means well, and he always listens to me in the end.”

“Must be nice,” Iwaizumi sighs, but he keeps his smile on regardless, “I don’t mind honestly, it adds some spice in my life. Kyoutani’s a good kid, deep down. I’m happy to help guide him along.”

Daichi hums, fingers again coming up to squeeze the bottom of the steering wheel, dark eyes staring straight ahead at the shady road in front of him. His features soften, lips curling up and he murmurs, “You sound just like a proud father.”

Iwaizumi chuckles, leaning an elbow against the car door to rest his head on his palm. Fingers dig into his cheek, another stressor rippling through his stomach, and he tries to swallow it down as best he can, covering himself up with an offended sigh, “You callin’ me old?”

Daichi rolls his eyes, “I’m being serious, Iwaizumi. You’d make a great dad.”

Iwaizumi shrugs, willing this conversation to evaporate with the hunch of his shoulders. He stays quiet, eyes focused on the road. He eats another shitty chip to occupy his mouth with something.

Iwaizumi has always wanted children. Has always wanted to be a dad to some little bundle of joy. He thinks it probably started with him being an only child. He remembers when he was younger begging his parents countless times for a little brother, hell even a little sister, but to no avail.

He remembers feeling incredibly envious when Oikawa’s nephew was born. He hated how ungrateful Oikawa had been about the whole thing. “Nee-chan made me hold Takeru after he was born and he was so squirmy and ugly it was awful,” he remembers his best friend saying at the time.

Iwaizumi never got a younger sibling, and so he set his sights on having his own child. But life has a funny way of impeding his dreams because instead he falls in love with Oikawa and Ushijima, two men with little to no interest in children. Correction: in the former’s case, he absolutely abhors them.

Oikawa has always been disgusted by children, even when he was one. Iwaizumi recalls countless times, Oikawa--always more mature than his peers, gifted, ahead of the curve--sneering at how dirty, how loud, how annoying kids were. Iwaizumi had always been incredibly annoyed at this because he loved rolling around in the mud and hunting for bugs and running and screaming. And he knew Oikawa did too, deep down inside whenever Iwaizumi coerced him to play one of his games for once.

Oikawa’s disdain for children only grew as he did. Iwaizumi remembers, one specific conversation with an upsetting amount of clarity, having burned it into his mind through the constant replays at night. They were in a cafe, back in college, waiting for Ushijima to return with their drink orders. A mother was trying to shush her toddler, screaming and crying by the counter. She was unsuccessful and soon ushered him outside with a flurry of apologies to the barista.

Oikawa had turned to him once the door closed behind her, rolling his eyes, mouth formed in a cruel sneer, “Thank god, we’ll never have to deal with an accident like that.”

And Iwaizumi had been unable to reply, mouth suddenly dry, fingers gripping the table tightly. And for once Oikawa did not seem to notice, gaze shifting to Ushijima as he brought over their cups and sat down with them.

Iwaizumi sees he’s clenched his fists while recalling the memory and tries to ease his fingers, letting them spread out on his knees. Tries to take in a breath without letting Daichi realize he’d been holding it in for so long.

He’s never talked to Oikawa about his desire for children. The other’s hatred had made the outcome of the conversation too obvious to even begin it. He’s mentioned it in passing, as a minuscule desire to Ushijima, but the other man had only shrugged, the deeper meaning of the conversation passing over his head.

Iwaizumi doesn’t want to hear about how great a dad he could be when he knows he will never be one.

The car roars to life, and Iwaizumi almost jumps out of his seat, one hand moving instinctively to his hip while he swivels to look at Daichi. The man gives him a quizzical look, “We’re done,” he explains.

“Oh,” Iwaizumi swallows, settling himself back down.

Daichi snorts, “Did you fall asleep with your eyes open for a bit there?”

“Just drive. I want to go home.” Iwaizumi retorts, perhaps a bit childishly as he squirms uncomfortably in his seat. He’s getting too old to sit in one place for so long. He feels his leg cramping up.

Daichi rolls his eyes, but the oncoming silence is amicable. The roads are mostly empty at this hour. The streetlights bright and glaring. Iwaizumi lets out another yawn, and in the millisecond his eyes squeeze shut he almost misses him.

Almost.

He blinks, sitting up and leaning over the stick shift to stare out of Daichi’s window. Said driver sends him a weird look, while also trying to keep his eyes on the road.

Iwaizumi has no time for that, lurching backward to stare out the back window of the car. Through the glass, he can see a young, gangly figure shuffling down the road. He has dark short hair, a bandage under his eye, and in one hand he twirls an orange flower.

“Daichi, pullover!”

“What?”

“I said pullover!”

Daichi spins the wheel, braking harshly as he pulls onto the side of the thankfully deserted road. Iwaizumi hops out of the car, and at that point realizes he doesn’t have a plan at all. The kid has frozen in place right in front of him. He’s clutching the stem of his flower tightly, too tightly, Iwaizumi thinks, Ushijima’s words reverberating in his mind.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi starts, holding a hand out, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The boy is staring at him, wide-eyed. He takes a step back.

“I’ve seen you around,” Iwaizumi lies because this is the first time he’s seen the kid haunting his partner’s storefront, but it’s easier this way, less explaining, “And I’ve been worried. Are you doing alright?”

The boy looks taken aback like it’s the first time a person has asked him that question. His mouth wobbles, face contorting into a mixture of emotions, too many for a young kid to already be experiencing.

Iwaizumi gives him a soft smile, “I’ll be at the flower shop tomorrow afternoon if you wanna talk. Do you need a ride home?”

The boy shakes his head almost violently, and before Iwaizumi can say anything further he is scampering away. Iwaizumi sighs, looking back over to Daichi sitting in the car, “What was that about? You know him?”

“Some kid Ushiwaka’s worried about,” Iwaizumi explains, “I’m sure he’s fine, just sneaking out. If we had our uniforms on we could have probably scared him straight,” he jokes, but it doesn’t come off genuine, his jaw a bit tense.

He’d never seen a kid so terrified, so confused, at nothing. Face contorting from fear to guilt to confusion and misery. Maybe Ushiwaka was onto something. Maybe the kid needed help.

Maybe.

“Let’s head back,” Iwaizumi continues before Daichi has a chance to question him further, “I’m too tired to think anymore.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Iwaizumi steps into the flower shop, ignoring the chime. Two customers look up for a moment before returning to their browsing. Ushijima pokes his head up from below the counter, blinking and giving a small wave.

Iwaizumi comes up to him, leaning against the counter, crooking an elbow against it, “Hey.”

“This is a surprise,” Ushijima states, tilting his head, “Do you only have a half day today?”

Iwaizumi blows some of his own bangs out of his eyes. His hair is getting too long. He shakes his head, “I set up a potential meeting with someone out here. We’ll see if he shows.”

Ushijima furrows his brows at him, but before he can question him further, a customer motions him over and he leaves his post. Iwaizumi loiters, fiddling with the seed packets, reading the directions on the back, shaking his head at all the different things that make up dirt.

He keeps flicking his gaze out the window.

The seed packets bore him and, eventually, he ends up simply watching Ushijima as he speaks to his customers. The woman worries at Ushijima, hands coming up to wave around as she describes her bouquet needs and the pressing matter of it all. Ushijima takes it all in stride, face serious, nodding along and absorbing everything with his patented sternness. Every worry a customer has is met with the same serious validation and earnestly crafted solution.

It’s so endearing it almost kills Iwaizumi, and he has half a mind to not clutch at his heart.

He knows Ushijima is self-conscious of this, of his stoic face and blunt words, but Iwaizumi can’t help but love those aspects of his lover. Because they are a part of him, stone gates protecting his golden heart. It made the cracks in those stone walls, little fissures of a smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, all the more savory.

What was not to love?

He watches as Ushijima leads the woman to the other side of the shop, pointing at certain flowers and giving detailed explanations of all her options. Iwaizumi smiles, glancing back toward the window.

He starts.

The boy is there, nervously tugging at his hoodie, even though it’s still much too hot for one. They lock eyes through the window, and Iwaizumi can almost feel the boy’s panic through the glass. He fears he might just bolt, but the boy stays planted.

Iwaizumi steps out of the shop and waves.

The boy stares at him, and then much to Iwaizumi’s surprise, he speaks. Well, it sounds more like a quiet hiss, “I didn’t know you were a policeman...”

Iwaizumi blinks, the boy’s choice of words making him pause, the childish curl around his title, rather than something more mature, officer. He had thought the boy to be late middle school, early high school, but taking in his slightly pudgy face and his vocabulary, he may be a lot younger than he looks.

Iwaizumi holds out his hand, “Officer Iwaizumi Hajime,” he offers, with a smile.

The boy stares at his hand.

Iwaizumi takes the hint, lifting his hand to ruffle the boy’s hair. He tenses beneath his touch, feet skittering back. Iwaizumi frowns, bringing his hand back.

The boy swallows, fingers digging into his own palms, eyebrows furrowing into a scowl, “Am I in trouble?” “I don’t know,” Iwaizumi shrugs, “Did you do something wrong?”

The boy scowls harder, face contorting, hands shoving into the pockets of his pants. Iwaizumi smiles at him, hopes to alleviate the stress on his little shoulders,  “You’re not in trouble.”

The boy kicks the ground.

“What’s your name?”

The boy’s shoulders shrug inward and he hesitates a moment, “...Kageyama.”

“Kageyama,” Iwaizumi repeats, with a nod, “Well, Kageyama, would you like to come inside?”

Kageyama stares at him, then flicks his gaze at the flower shop. Iwaizumi keeps smiling, “I’m sure the owner would love to meet you properly.”

Something flits across Kageyama’s eyes, a mixture of fear, anxiety, and longing. Iwaizumi pulls his arm back to open the door. Kageyama eyes the gesture, and Iwaizumi can see how tense his arms are, as his fingers pull at the fabric inside his pants’ pockets. Iwaizumi makes note of it.

Constantly fiddling. Antsy. Anxious.

It looks like a habit.

More than a habit.

It looks like Oikawa.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Iwaizumi remembers the worst night. Remembers almost sleeping right through it like the oblivious idiot he tends to be. He would have too if Ushijima had not been there.

He remembers Ushijima prodding at his sleeping form making him groan and blink at him. Remembers barely making out the fear in his golden eyes, the way his fingers slightly trembled as they dug into Iwaizumi’s arm pleadingly, forcing him to sit up.

“What?” Iwaizumi asks, voice gruff with sleep.

“It is Oikawa,” Ushijima hisses, “He is still awake.”

Iwaizumi glances at the clock, groaning, “That idiot.”

“No,” Ushijima whispers, fingers tightening their grip, “It is. It is different. I...I don’t know what to do, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi remembers following Ushijima out to the shared room of their tiny apartment and seeing Oikawa sitting at their dingy kitchen table, hunched over, feet drawn up to perch on the edge of the rickety chair, practically folding himself in half.

The light of the laptop in front of him is blinding, and Iwaizumi knows what’s on the screen without having to look at the reflection in his glasses. And he doesn’t know why Ushijima is so worked up about this, because Oikawa overworks himself all the time, infuriatingly enough. But as Iwaizumi’s mind focuses more, dread begins to pool in his stomach, cementing him to the floor.

Oikawa has not noticed them, thick headphones covering his ears, eyes glued to the screen. A hand comes away from his face, to press a key and his face winces.

His hands are bloody.

Iwaizumi tenses.

“Oikawa,” he says.

No response.

“Oikawa,” he says louder.

No response.

“Oikawa!” he shouts.

Oikawa jumps, hands slamming his laptop shut, plunging them all into darkness.

By the time Ushijima manages to flick on the lights, Iwaizumi has found his way to Oikawa’s trembling form. The taller man has ripped his headphones from his head, staring at Iwaizumi incomprehensibly, slowly regaining his senses.

Oikawa has the audacity to laugh it off, “Iwa-chan! You scared me with your brutish voice! Gosh, I thought you were asleep!”

Iwaizumi is not here to play. “Show me your hands,” he orders.

Oikawa swallows, chuckling still, “Iwa-chan, you’re always so grumpy after you wake up. Go back to sleep.”

“Show me your hands.”

“Ushiwaka-chan, Iwa-chan’s being mean to me. Can you go tuck him in for me? He needs his beauty sleep more than the rest of us.” “Oikawa, please show him your hands,” Ushijima says this time.

Oikawa’s hands remain tightly fisted at his sides, and they go a step further, balling up into his pockets. Iwaizumi glares harder, “Oikawa.”

“I’m fine, Iwa-chan.”

“Oikawa.” “I’m fine!”

“Show me your hands.”

“Leave me alone!” Oikawa shouts, standing up with enough force to knock the chair over, “I’m fine. I need to study.”

“Oikawa.”

There are frustrated tears beginning to bead at Oikawa’s eyes, his heart is starting to hammer in his chest, body trembling with fatigue now shaken up by a sudden panic, “Go away! Why won’t you let me study? I need to study!”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says again, hands coming up to touch Oikawa’s arms, right by his biceps.

Oikawa tries to squirm away from him, managing to backpedal into Ushijima’s broad chest. Oikawa gasps, breaths coming too fast, chest beginning to heave.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima says it this time.

Oikawa lets out a frustrated scream, hands coming out to fiddle with his hair, fiddle with his sleeve, with anything despite how much it hurts to do so, “I have to study! The exam is in two days,” but he hiccups after every other word, breaths coming out ragged. He feels dizzy. His arms almost feel numb, vibrating with a weird hum at his sides.

It’s like he’s dying.

If he doesn’t keep studying he’ll die.

If he doesn’t do it perfectly he’ll die.

He is going to die.

He’s dying.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi cuts through, “Breathe.”

Oikawa takes in a gulping breath, just as Ushijima’s arms wrap around him from behind, pressing him closer to his chest. Oikawa can feel his heartbeat against him, beating so much slower than his own. His heart feels like it’s going to burst right from his chest or beat so fast it just gives up and stops.

He’s dying.

“..2..1, now let it out,” he catches the tail end of what Iwaizumi is saying, and lets out the breath he had somehow held until then, “Good,” Iwaizumi says, “Now, again.”

Oikawa breathes in, squeezing his eyes shut, and lets it out when Iwaizumi tells him to. His fingers twitch at his sides, begging to pull at the hem of his shirt, play with the string of his pants, but he focuses on keeping himself completely still. Focuses on Ushijima’s heartbeat, on Iwaizumi’s words.

Oikawa does not know how long it takes to feel like he is not dying, but eventually, his breathing returns to a normal rhythm and he can open his eyes.

“Can I see your hands?” Iwaizumi says, softly, so softly.

Oikawa lets out a pitiful sniffle, that he kicks himself for mentally but slowly lifts up his mutilated hands, nails bitten down enough to draw blood. Iwaizumi’s eyebrows furrow and Oikawa tenses up.

But Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, simply brings the fingers up to his mouth to kiss them, and that, along with Ushijima’s head suddenly burrowing into the crook of his neck is enough to send Oikawa crying once more.

Ushijima makes them warm tea. Iwaizumi sits them all down together on the couch. Oikawa answers their questions.

Yes, it’s happened before.

No, it’s never been this bad.

I don’t know why tonight.

I didn’t want to make you worry.

Iwaizumi remembers feeling terrible for weeks.

-----------------------------------

Iwaizumi remembers as he holds the door out to the child patiently, and eventually, Kageyama takes his first step in.

“His name is Ushijima-san,” Iwaizumi supplies, crouching slightly as he comes to stand beside Kageyama’s nervous form, “He looks scary but he’s actually very nice.”

“He doesn’t look scary,” Kageyama huffs, scowling, shoulders hunching inward to keep from touching Iwaizumi. It’s as if he’s offended for Ushijima’s sake, and Iwaizumi can’t help the smile overtaking his face.

Ushijima looks over at them, eyes blinking in surprise at the boy beside Iwaizumi. He bows his head down to the customer, speaking softly to her before striding over to them. He stops, awkwardly in front of the boy and the two stare at each other curiously, similar stern expressions overtaking their faces.

Iwaizumi wants to laugh but he doesn’t.

Iwaizumi wants to take a picture to share with Oikawa, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he plays mediator, a familiar role, “Kageyama, this is Ushijima, Ushijima, this is Kageyama.”

Ushijima nods, “It is nice to meet you, Kageyama.”

The boy’s face seems to redden, and he chokes on his own greeting, barking it out with horrible difficulty. But Ushijima just nods, with a certain sense of understanding, and keeps speaking for him, “Do you like flowers?”

Kageyama reddens more, fists straining in his pants pockets.

Ushijima nods again, “Come with me,” he orders, and that seems to be something Kageyama is more comfortable with. A direct, simple, statement easy to follow, and something he can acknowledge without words. He simply trudges after Ushijima, with the singular focus only a child is really capable of.

Iwaizumi smiles.

He heads briefly upstairs to prepare himself a lunch. A simple sandwich with whatever leftover meat he can find in the fridge. He quickly makes another one, a bit neater, wrapping it up carefully. If he had more time he would have made it cuter, maybe shaped it in the form of some kind of animal, but his lunch break wasn’t going to last forever.

When he heads back down he finds Ushijima working with another customer, and Kageyama sitting up on the stool behind the front desk, fingers clenched around the laminated flower language chart. He looks up when Iwaizumi approaches him, and for once his blue eyes are merely curious and not hounded with fear.

Iwaizumi smiles at him, “Not sure if you’re hungry, but I’m starving. I made sandwiches, you want one?”

The boy’s eyes widen, and he stares at the offered treat, taking it wordlessly. He unwraps and bites into it, messily, scarfing it down quick. Iwaizumi blinks at him, but the boy doesn’t look underfed from what he can see. He might just be a fast eater.

Kageyama wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then quickly ducks his head down, “Thank you, Iwaizumi-san.”

Iwaizumi ruffles his hair, “You’re welcome, Kageyama.”

Kageyama frowns, but not nearly as severely as before and then looks back at the flower sheet. Iwaizumi glances at it too, “Did Ushijima show you that?”

Kageyama nods, “Did you know you can talk to people with just flowers?” the boy continues, harsh voice lilting a bit higher in newfound excitement, “You cant mess up your words if its just flowers.”

Iwaizumi softens a little, “And what do you want to say?”

Kageyama stills then, mouth stretching into a severe scowl not fit for someone so young. Iwaizumi wants to press, see if he can get some more information out, but then the chime of the door rings out.

“Iwa-chan! What are you doing here?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, child forgotten as he levels his boyfriend a glare, “I live here, Trashykawa, what kind of question is that?”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue, striding over, “We could have walked over together, you grump!” he whines, arms circling his neck to hang off of him. Iwaizumi has to readjust his footing so as not to fall, but he does so without a word.

“I’m actually about to leave,” he grunts, “Are you only getting off for lunch now?”

“There’s a lot to catch up on Iwa-chan. If you were so worried you should have come to my office and brought me lunch like a good house husband. Like you used to when you loved me.”

“You’re such an ass,” Iwaizumi huffs, pulling himself free from the other’s grip, “Go eat before you get a headache.”

“Yes, yes,” Oikawa sighs, but his brown eyes catch upon the current attendant behind the counter, “Oh, but what have we here?”

Iwaizumi suddenly remembers Kageyama and quickly looks over at him. The boy’s eyes are wide, drinking in Oikawa as best he can, mouth parted slightly in either awe or terror. Iwaizumi could not tell.

Oikawa’s smirk stretches, leaning down toward the boy to fill up all his vision, “My, my, Ushiwaka-chan’s new assistant is so cute!” he compliments, a hand reaching out to pinch Kageyama’s cheek. Kageyama startles, mouth sputtering, unable to perform words but arms coming out to shield himself.

Oikawa laughs, straightening himself up, an wiping his hand on his pants, “I’ll see you later, Iwa-chan,” he calls as he heads to the back, swinging toward Ushijima as he goes to let his fingers dance along his shoulder blades teasingly. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, turning back to Kageyama, who’s hand is touching his cheek almost reverentially.

“Kageyama?”

Kageyama jumps a little in his chair, face neutralizing as he lets his hand bunch back into his pant’s pocket.

“I’m heading back to the station. Do you need a ride home?”

Kageyama looks down at the counter, “Can I stay here?”

“As long as Ushijima lets you. But make sure your parents know, alright?” Iwaizumi says, carefully. Something passes over Kageyama’s face, like the brightness in his blue eyes, the wonder inhabited within it when he had studied his flower chart, or stared at Oikawa’s face was extinguished. But he doesn’t scowl, or frown, he just stares at him blankly and gives a little nod.

Iwaizumi takes this all in, files it away, as he heads back to work. He makes a note to start searching their database for the Kageyama family.

Something wasn’t right here.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, when Oikawa excuses himself from the table suddenly with a lit up phone in his hand, Iwaizumi is able to tell Ushijima.

“He’s an orphan,” Iwaizumi says, quietly.

Ushijima, whose eyes had been following Oikawa as he left the table to enter his bedroom snapped back to Iwaizumi, “Kageyama?”

Iwaizumi nods, “I looked the name up. Mother died a year ago, he’s been at the orphanage ever since. He’s eleven.”

Ushijima frowns.

“What happened after I left?” Iwaizumi asks.

“I let him stay,” Ushijima replies, carefully taking another bite of his meal, “We did not talk much. He asked me if he could come back tomorrow. I asked him if he had school tomorrow. He said no, so I told him it was alright.”

Iwaizumi snorts, “He most definitely has school tomorrow. I’ll look into it more.”

“Is this alright? To be taking such an active interest?” Ushijima asks, lowly.

“You’re the one that started this,” Iwaizumi reminds, taking a bite of his rice with a smile, “Something’s not adding up here and I want to get to the bottom of it. It’s my job.”

Ushijima sighs, “It seems as though you make everything your job, Hajime. Do not overextend yourself.”

Iwaizumi snorts, “I’m fine.”

“Mom! Will you just listen to me?! Please?” Oikawa’s shout cracks through the closed bedroom door, ending their shortlived conversation.

The pair at the dining table share a look before keeping their gaze on the door.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

“I’m only raising my voice because you’ve been screaming at me this whole time! Put Fumiko on the phone. No, mom, I want to hear from Fumiko. Put her on. Mom, mom, stop, just, put Fu--Nee-chan! Finally, what the hell is going on!?”

Iwaizumi feels his heart clenching, fingers digging into the chopsticks in his hand. Oikawa’s voice is strained as he yells, fear-laced between the spaces of his words, crackling every now. He wants to go in there and put the phone away so Oikawa can calm down and not deal with whatever catastrophe is going on. Wrap his arms around him and remind him how to breathe.

Oikawa’s mother has always been a quiet, calming force. Iwaizumi loves her, almost as much as he loves his own mother. Loves the way she used to tuck him in and offer him his own goodnight kiss when he slept over. Loves that she would pack extra desserts in Oikawa’s lunch just for him. There are so many wonderful memories from the past almost three decades of his life that come up when he thinks of her. None of them included her yelling.

Because Oikawa’s mother never yelled. Never once raised her voice, as far as Iwaizumi knew. And he was around more often than not. Why would she be yelling now? So much so that Oikawa had to scream back, crying to speak to his sister instead?

Fears populate Iwaizumi’s mind.

Oikawa’s mother is hurt. Oikawa’s mother is dying. Oikawa’s sister is the only person with her and they need help. They’re hysterical. They’re desperate. They’re confused. They need help, and Oikawa is the first person they turn to, and he feels powerless being so far away. It must be something awful, for Oikawa’s mother to be shouting like this.

It must be.

“I can’t,” Oikawa says, through the door, and he’s no longer yelling, but Ushijima and Iwaizumi had wordlessly gotten up to stand near the door, “You know I cant, Nee-chan. It’s too soon.”

Iwaizumi frowns.

Oikawa lets out a long, aggravated sigh, “I’ll call him, ok? But I cant go back already.”

There’s such little time between the end of that sentence to Oikawa starting the next that Iwaizumi figures he must be interrupting his sister, “I’m not leaving you! Just, I have to go. I’m not leaving. I’ll call him. I’ll text you soon. I love you.”

Ushijima and Iwaizumi move quickly back to the table, resuming their meal before Oikawa steps out of the bedroom. He looks tired, fingers pressing into the middle of his forehead. He pockets his phone and slips back into his chair.

“Everything alright?” Iwaizumi asks, without looking away from his food.

“You’re such a bad liar, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa comments, “You really think I couldn’t hear you both lumbering outside my door?”

“What happened?” Ushijima asks instead.

Oikawa shrugs, “Nothing, really.”

“Is your Mom ok?” Iwaizumi asks.

Oikawa grits his teeth, “Mom’s peachy.”

“She was yelling.”

“She was overreacting is what she was doing,” Oikawa glowers.

“Be nice to your mother,” Iwaizumi says, mostly out of habit.

Oikawa snarls, “Fuck off, Hajime.”

There is a beat of silence. An eternity of silence.  Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa, mouth parted, eyebrows furrowed in shock. Oikawa doesn’t look at him. Wont look at him. More silence. And then Oikawa’s chair is screeching back as he gets up.

“I have to make another phone call,” he mutters, and he walks away, this time to their balcony, sliding the door open and slamming it shut.

Ushijima stands up as well, before Iwaizumi can, “Allow me to speak with him.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t want to speak with him. He’s pissed. He’s furious. He wants to punch him in the fucking face for talking to him like that, in that tone, with that name. He won’t of course. Would never. But he still can’t wrap his head around Oikawa’s sudden fury, the hate that seeped into his language. He had fought with OIkawa all his life but he had never heard such malice directed at him.

Iwaizumi is hurt.

He watches from his spot at the table as Ushijima slips into the balcony. Watches as Oikawa yells at him. Watches as Ushijima says something that makes Oikawa deflate, makes him shrink in on himself and hold his face in his hands.

Ushijima has never been good with his words and yet.

What did he say?

Ushijima is still speaking and Oikawa is shaking his head. And then Ushijima has his hands on Oikawa’s shoulders, squeezing. But Oikawa still refuses to look up. And then Ushijima says something, hand moving to take Oikawa’s face, bringing it up.

And Oikawa blinks, and his gaze locks on Iwaizumi’s through the glass. And Iwaizumi can see his own hurt reflected back in those beautiful brown eyes. There’s something broken in Oikawa’s face, a defeat that hangs from his fringe that Iwaizumi’s never seen before either. He forgets himself, as he tends to when it comes to Oikawa.

Because it’s Oikawa.

Because he loves Oikawa.

He doesn’t remember getting out of his chair, doesn’t remember taking quick strides, but he’s at the glass door grappling with it to open it. And then he’s outside and Oikawa is already in his arms, clinging to him tightly, fingers digging into his back.

Iwaizumi buries his face in the crook of his neck.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa hisses, face wet, “I didn’t, I didn’t mean to, I just--“

“It’s alright,” Iwaizumi murmurs, “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Oikawa says, “It’s not, and you know it.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to say, so he occupies his mouth with kissing him and fortunately Oikawa complies greedily. Breath hitching every so often, but never enough to disrupt them.

“It’s going to be ok,” Iwaizumi reminds, when they pull away, “Everything’s going to be ok.”

Oikawa gives a nod, but Iwaizumi can tell it's not sincere. He doesn’t believe him. Iwaizumi wants to make him believe him. He’s just not sure how.

Ushijima places a hand on each of their shoulders, “We should go inside. I do not want the plants to feed off our negative emotions.”

Oikawa bursts into laughter, clinging to Iwaizumi with renewed purpose, other arm going to clutch his stomach. Iwaizumi can’t help join him in his giggles, at the straight-faced absurdity that is their beloved Ushiwaka. It’s exactly what they needed.

Ushijima is used to this, letting out a monotonous sigh and herding them back into their apartment with little else to say. They find themselves sandwiched together on the couch, Oikawa more so lounging on top of them rather than the couch itself.

Iwaizumi runs his hands along Oikawa’s legs, pushing the fabric of his pants up so he can trace designs across the flawless skin, writing a wordless apology.

“I do have to call him,” Oikawa sighs, to Ushijima, legs fidgeting a little under Iwaizumi’s ministration.

“Tomorrow,” Ushijima decides, “It is better to cool off, first.”

Oikawa nods after a moment, face leaning into Ushijima’s chest. Iwaizumi frowns at the swirls he’s making around Oikawa’s left knee, “Call who?” he asks quietly, a hint of trepidation.

Oikawa seems to hesitate, and Iwaizumi catches it only because it never happens. There’s never really been any hesitations between them, but Oikawa pushes through, “My dad.”

Iwaizumi decides not to press. Oikawa’s family life has become a recent landmine, to pick through carefully. He’d already fucked it up in the last half hour and he was energy-less to try again now. It had always been so easy, Oikawa’s life, his family, his friends. Iwaizumi knew all these topics, was part of all these circle, so intimately he had never needed to think twice about saying anything surrounding them.

This was clearly no longer the case.

Ushijima presses a kiss to Oikawa’s temple, murmuring something softly, that Oikawa gives a quiet hum to. Iwaizumi can’t hear any of it and he tries not to let it bother him.

It bothers him.

-------------------------------

Iwaizumi finds the flower shop closed when he comes by during his lunch break. He frowns, pulling out his keys and unlocking the door, closing it correctly behind him. He calls into the store curiously and hears Ushijima’s voice echo out from the back. He opens the door to the back, shelves crowded with supplies and freshly planted pots. He coughs, the scent of dirt and fertilizer hitting him off guard.

He waves his hand, and steps forward, blinking at the sight before him.

Kageyama stands by the table in the center of the room, beside Ushijima, wearing an apron much too big for himself. Despite best efforts, he is covered in dirt, hands coated with soil sleeves, blue eyes sharp and critical. He hasn't even looked up, too focused on the task at hand. Transferring a tiny plant to a new, bigger pot.

“Is the hole big enough?” Ushijima asks.

Kageyama nods.

“Then you can place it inside.”

Kageyama bites his lip, lifting the tiny plant with its clump of dirt and gangly roots and carefully settling it into his new home. He pats the dirt around it, letting Ushijima coach him through the process with a few words and a guiding hand.

Something about the scene touches Iwaizumi’s heart, and he finds himself sneaking his phone out to take a picture. He feels guilty about it once it’s snapped, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Luckily, neither of the participants seemed to have noticed.

Finally, Iwaizumi takes a step forward, “Hello Kageyama.”

Kageyama blinks up at him, “Hello Iwaizumi-san,” he murmurs back.

Ushijima checks over the plant, letting a small smile grace his features, “You did well, Kageyama.”

Kageyama shines, blue eyes sparkling, a sudden hop in his step as Iwaizumi approaches. He points at the plant, ”It’s a Tsubaki but it’s still small. It means perfection and stuff.”

“Does it?” Iwaizumi smiles.

Kageyama nods vigorously. Ushijima grabs a marker, “Write your name on the pot, so you know which one is yours.”

Kageyama takes the marker, carefully penning down the characters of his name. He is meticulous and yet the characters are written in worse handwriting than Iwaizumi’s. Iwaizumi waits patiently for him to finish, “You hungry?”

Kageyama nods. Iwaizumi motions to the large sink in the room and helps Kageyama take off his dirty apron. He turns on the water, helping the boy clean off his arms and face, wiping away at him with a damp towel. Kageyama is mostly pliant in his arms, tensing every so often but quickly relaxing when he realizes he’s freezing up.

Once he’s been cleaned off they wave goodbye to Ushijima and step out of the shop. Iwaizumi buys Kageyama an onigiri from the local conbini, watching the boy devour it greedily. When he finishes he speaks up again, “Shouldn’t you be in school, Kageyama?”

Kageyama scowls at the ground and shakes his head.

Iwaizumi sighs, crouching down to face him better, “School’s in session Kageyama, you should be there. Learning.”

Kageyama shakes his head again, brows severe, “Got suspended.”

Iwaizumi blinks at the newfound information, “What for?”

Kageyama shrugs, fingers twitching at his sides, beginning to fidget with the end of his shirt, “Fighting.”

Iwaizumi frowns himself, wondering how this sweet little boy could find himself in any sort of fight. He just seemed quiet. But his face could be quite scary, he supposes, to the untrained eye.

“When do you go back?” Iwaizumi asks, instead.

Kageyama shrugs again.

Iwaizumi crosses his arms, letting them rest across his crouched knees, “Kageyama, can you take me where you live?”

Kageyama looks at him, face warped in confusion, “Why?”

“I want to see it and meet the people you live with,” Iwaizumi responds carefully.

Kageyama stares at him, eyes clouding over with distrust, “Am I in trouble?”

“No, Kageyama, you’re not in trouble. You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

Kageyama shrugs, but his hands dig deep holes in his pockets. He’s uncomfortable, but he starts walking down the street, and Iwaizumi is compelled to follow him.

It’s a far walk. Iwaizumi should have driven, all things considered, but it’s too late to go back and do so. The walk is silent, Kageyama staring at the ground as he walks, Iwaizumi keeping pace with him and taking in his surroundings.

The neighborhood begins to crumble around him, though he expected as much. He’s a police officer, he gets called to this area at least once a week over some new crime. Usually petty, sometimes not. He keeps close to Kageyama, but it’s broad daylight out. They should be fine.

The orphanage is a bit beat up, the sign for it faded and mostly unreadable. Kageyama knocks on the door and a tired old woman opens it. She stares at Iwaizumi with surprise, then glares back down at Kageyama, “What did you do this time?”

Kageyama doesn’t say anything, simply pushes his way through and disappearing inside. The woman lets out a tired sigh, smiling sadly at Iwaizumi, “Officer, I’m so sorry. What did he do?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head, “I was just walking him home, is all,” he offers his hand, “I’m Iwaizumi Hajime. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

-----------------------------------

Iwaizumi waits a few days, mulling over his words, his thoughts. There’s a lot to think about. A lot to examine and evaluate and wonder. And none of it is easy. But he knows what the right thing to do is, what he would do.

But it’s not his decision to make.

Well, not just his decision to make. It’s their decision to make.

But he’s not sure how to bring it up, how to talk about it.

So he decides to start small.

Oikawa is occupied on the phone, a common occurrence nowadays, locked away in his bedroom. Ushijima is filling his spray bottle at the sink. Iwaizumi walks over to him, taking in a breath.

“Ushiwaka.”

Ushijima flicks his golden gaze at him in acknowledgment but returns it to the task at hand. He watches the water fill his plastic bottle to the appropriate line before shutting the flow off. He screws the top on.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Iwaizumi begins. Ushijima nods at the work gloves hanging by him, and Iwaizumi hands them over without missing a beat, “Kageyama is a good kid.”

Ushijima nods, again, “He is,” he agrees, walking away toward the balcony. Iwaizumi follows him, not bothering to slide the door shut. He leans against the railing, watching Ushijima check each of his personal plants meticulously. Feeling their leaves, taking in their scent, offering them a drink here and there.

“He’s having a hard time at his orphanage. He doesn’t get along with the other kids and gets into a lot of fights. He keeps getting suspended from school and, well, he’s just, not doing well.”

Ushijima frowns.

“So, I was thinking, well, you know, we have a big apartment.”

Ushijima nods.

“We have three bedrooms, but honestly we only ever use one.”

Ushijima straightens up, narrowing his eyes at him, “Iwaizumi, are you implying we should adopt Kageyama?”

“No! Not, adopt,” Iwaizumi corrects, quickly, his green eyes unable to look into the piercing golden gaze above him, “That’s, that’s permanent. I meant something more temporary. Like, like fostering him.”

Ushijima is still frowning, his finger a bit more jerky on the spray bottles trigger. He says nothing, going through his plants before stepping back into the living room. Iwaizumi lets out a sigh, “Ushijima, you could at least say something.”

Ushijima’s look is severe, “Iwaizumi, I do not know what you wish for me to say. You have put me in a difficult situation.”

Iwaizumi swallows, “I just--“

“Why are you only consulting me? Why is Oikawa not a part of this conversation?” Ushijima continues, bluntly as ever, tearing through Iwaizumi’s walls as if they were made of butter, “This is not right.”

“Of course I was going to ask him too! I just, well, we already know what his answers going to be.” Iwaizumi snaps.

“Then what is the point of consulting with me?” Ushijima shakes his head, adding, “You do not know his answer unless you ask.”

“Ask me what?” Oikawa asks, shoving his phone into his pocket. Frustration lines his forehead before he smooths it out with a fake smile. Another difficult phone conversation just finished and tucked away deep inside.

This is terrible timing, Iwaizumi thinks.

“Iwaizumi wants to become foster parents for Kageyama,” Ushijima bulldozes right through, regardless.

Iwaizumi wants to scream.

Oikawa looks like he wants to do the very same thing. Eyes widening, mouth quivering with indecision--to shout or to grimace or to grit, who knows--and eyebrows furrowing down, “What?” and then, after a second,  “Who?”

Iwaizumi swallows, floundering to set the situation right before it dissolves into the irreparable fight it is most destined to be, “There’s this kid, he’s, he’s an orphan and he needs help. We can help him.”

���Kageyama has been helping me in the shop the past few weeks,” Ushijima supplies context.

Oikawa stares at them, “And when was I going to be informed about all this? About any of this?”

Iwaizumi starts, “Oikawa, look, it’s--“

“Don’t Oikawa look me right now! Have you seriously been considering adopting some street urchin for weeks and haven’t thought to tell me about?” Oikawa cries out incredulously.

“Oikawa, it’s not--“

“Absolute not,” Oikawa snaps, stomping a foot down for good measure, “Absolutely not!”

“Oikawa, at least let me explain. It’s more complicated than you think, Kageyama needs--“

“I don’t care what he needs,” Oikawa seethes, hand coming up to ruffle his own hair, “I can’t believe this!”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi growls, getting more annoyed by the second, with each and every interruption, “Let’s just talk about this, please?”

Oikawa is shaking his hand, eyes blown out in shocked anger, “The answer is no, Hajime! No! Never!”

“Tooru, you’re being hysterical!” Iwaizumi shouts back.

Oikawa’s face scrunches up almost inhumanely, and he all but shrieks, point an accusing finger, “No, Hajime! You just don’t get it! Kids ruin everything!”

Something flits across Ushijima’s face, a sudden understanding, and his hand is reaching out.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Iwaizumi seethes, unconvinced.

But it’s too late. Oikawa lets out a frustrated half growl, the gift of gab lost to him when he is this furious, this hurt. He stomps back into his room and slams the door shut.

Iwaizumi rubs his face in his own frustration. Talking to Oikawa lately was like walking on eggshells he didn’t even know were there. Like Oikawa had scribbled over the map of his personality that Iwaizumi had spent years memorizing, with bright red marker rendering it now utterly useless.

Ushijima’s sigh makes him lift his head. Golden eyes remain grounded on the close doorframe, “I wish to aid Kageyama too,” he says, quietly, “but Oikawa is right,” he continues voice a bit distant as he ventures towards the door and knocks on it softly. After a moment, Iwaizumi watches Oikawa let him in.

Iwaizumi is alone.

And he doesn’t think Oikawa is right at all.