#Nacho Fry

[rabbitcruiser]

Snack a Pickle Day

Snack a Pickle Day is a day for snacking on pickles. Pickles, which usually mean pickled cucumbers when spoke of in the United States, are preserved in a brine or vinegar solution, and flavored with herbs and seasonings. The word “pickle” is derived from the Dutch word pekel, which means brine. The pickling process was invented around 1440, and many people were making pickles in their homes by the 1600’s. This was helped with the invention of the mason jar in 1858. Pickles are a low calorie food and high in vitamin K, but they may also be high in sodium. Each year Americans eat about 9 pounds of pickles.

How to Observe Snack a Pickle Day

The day should be celebrated by snacking on a pickle! Pickles can be eaten on their own or with a meal. They can be put on a hamburger,or chopped into a relish and put on a hot dog. Sometimes they are served on a stick, and sometimes they are even deep fried. There are many types of pickles to try:

Bread and butter—part of sweet family of pickles; has onions and bell peppers; sometimes have a waffle-esque shape; solution of vinegar, sugar, and spices; name comes from Omar and Cora Fanning, Illinois cucumber farmers who started selling the pickles in the early 1920’s and filed for the name in 1923; name derived from how they traded their pickles for things like bread and butter during rough years.

Cinnamon—bright red and flavored with cinnamon; sometimes a Christmas treat.

Dill—made with dill herbs or dill oil; have been served in New York City since at least 1899.

Gherkins—smaller and usually sweeter; made with Burr or West Indian cucumbers; sometimes “gherkin” is a generic term used for pickles in the U.K., Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand.

Kool-aid—soaked in kool-aid and pickle brine.

Kosher dill—dill pickle with lots of garlic in the salt brine.

Polish—somewhere between kosher dill and sour.

Sour—fermented longer in brine, which makes them sourer.

Sour mixed—sour pickles cut and mixed with other veggie such as onions, cauliflower, carrots, and peppers.

Sour relish—made with finely chopped sour pickles with other vegetables; also called “piccalili.”

Sweet—usually made with vinegar, spices, and sugar; includes sliced sweet pickles, or “cross cuts”, which are cut crosswise into chips.

Sweet mixed—sweet pickles mixed with other vegetables.

Source

[basement-buddy]

Warmup doodle but I’m craving curly fries

[ladysophiebeckett]

they couldn’t go with ‘armanpapi’ bc it has too much sexual connotation. ‘armandaddy’ is the right amount of cringe.

[thelovelyblark-barg]

honestly I'm trying to find humor in the tomato allergy thing because I'm just craving a bowl of spaghetti right now, but even if I get some decent gluten free noodles the sauce WILL incapacitate me for a few days.

I've always been avoidant to red sauces so I think unconsciously I've realized it made me sick I just... Didn't pay enough attention to it? White sauce pizzas are better, alfredo pastas are better, ect

the realization that tomatoes caused a good chunk of my migraines though- that made me upset because it, along with the whole celiac thing, explained how I felt after 99% of sleepovers through-out school

[loveshotzz]

I’m drunk and ordered nacho fries from Taco Bell before I go to bed because of that incredibly acted Joe Keery comercial.

[cherryyluvs]

Third Wheel Trouble

Mark was supposed to have a romantic skating date with you. But thanks to Debbie, he now has an unexpected plus one, his very nosy little brother (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

Mark had been looking forward to this date for days, just him and you finally. A nice, normal perfect night out where he can give you all his attention instead of you know, saving the world.

Just the two of you, holding hands, maybe even sneaking a few kisses in if he was lucky.

So when he walked into the living room all freshly showered, decently dressed for once and ready to head out.

Of course, Debbie had other plans.

“You're taking Oliver,” Debbie said, completely ignoring the way Mark choked on his own spit. “What!?” Nearly dropping his skates. “Mom, no. No way it's a date!”

“And Oliver's a child who wants to get out the house” She said while ruffling Oliver’s hair. “You'll be responsible. Right Mark?”

Mark’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Turning around expecting Oliver to protest but nope! The kid was already smiling, shoes on and ready to go.

“But–”

Before another word, Debbie gave him that Mom look.

Mark groaned, pressing his fingers into his eyes before throwing his hands in defeat. “Fine”

It only got worse from there.

When Mark pulled up, you were expecting a cute night out with him. Instead, the first thing you noticed when you slid into the passenger seat was.. “Oliver?”

You looked between the two of them, the way Oliver was happily kicking his feet in the backseat while Mark looked like he wanted to crash into oncoming traffic.

“Oh my god” You beamed. “Your mom made you bring him. Didn't she?”

Mark scowled. “Don't ask.”

But it was too late, you were already giggling.

This was going to be fun.

At first it was just a few minor interruptions, every time Mark tried to subtly hold your hand. Oliver skated right between you two. Mark tries to whisper something cute? Oliver slurps his milkshake obnoxiously loud.

Mark dares to make flirty eye contact? “Why are you staring at her like that?

Mark was losing it, and you? You were loving it. Barely holding it together, biting your lips to keep yourself from laughing as Mark sat there, completely dead inside.

And then?

“Oh!” Oliver's eyes widened. “You're the girl Mark won't shut up about?” Mark choked.

“Oliver!”

“What?” Oliver blinked innocently. “You talk about her all the time”

Your smirk grew, turning to face Mark, resting your chin on your palm. “All the time?”

Mark, red faced and flustered, grabbed a fry and shoved it into Oliver’s mouth.

“Eat.”

“He's adorable” You giggled watching him munch on the fries.

After an hour of skating, Oliver finally gets distracted by the snake bar. Seizing the opportunity, Mark grabbed your hand and pulled you to the edge of the rink, away from the chaos.

“Finally” He muttered, pressing quick kisses to your knuckles.

You smiled. “Desperate, are we?”

Mark exhaled, leaning his forehead against yours. “You have no idea” Your breath hitched , caught up in the warmth of his body and the cool air of the rink. The distant hum of music surrounded you, the twinkling lights above casting a soft shadow over Mark’s face.

He looked at you, like you were the only person in the world. He was just about to lean when–

Thud.

A tray of nachos and cheese hit the ground.

“Aw, come on!” You and Mark turned your heads at the same time. Oliver stood there, arms crossed, and a big frown on his face.

Pointing an accusatory finger at mark.

“I leave for 2 minutes and you guys are already being gross?”

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oliver”

“What?” he huffed, walking up and standing between you two. “Mom said to make sure you weren't doing anything weird”

You blushed, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. Mark, however, looked like he wanted to pass out from the secondhand embarrassment. “Dude, you're, like, the worst chaperone ever.”

Mark looked at you helplessly, but you smiled. Grabbing his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze,

“Guess you'll have to be sneakier next time” you teased, bumping his shoulder playfully.

Mark lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Next time, I'm leaving him at home."

[hetalia-club]

he's getting every nacho fry they have in that store.

[cassowariess]

I think Nacho MUST have cared about Tuco at one point and been his genuine friend when they were younger.

But by the events of BCS I don't think Nacho has much love for Tuco at all. He literally told Mike: "you would have done the world a favour" if Mike had killed him instead.

clutching one stuffed animal named "Tuco was definitely thinking about Nacho when he was screaming about how you can't trust the people you love" and another stuffed animal named "MM said Nacho has love and affection for Tuco" and hiding under the covers as the fact that Nacho tried to have Tuco murdered taps on my window

[rabbitcruiser]

Snack a Pickle Day

Snack a Pickle Day is a day for snacking on pickles. Pickles, which usually mean pickled cucumbers when spoke of in the United States, are preserved in a brine or vinegar solution, and flavored with herbs and seasonings. The word “pickle” is derived from the Dutch word pekel, which means brine. The pickling process was invented around 1440, and many people were making pickles in their homes by the 1600’s. This was helped with the invention of the mason jar in 1858. Pickles are a low calorie food and high in vitamin K, but they may also be high in sodium. Each year Americans eat about 9 pounds of pickles.

How to Observe Snack a Pickle Day

The day should be celebrated by snacking on a pickle! Pickles can be eaten on their own or with a meal. They can be put on a hamburger,or chopped into a relish and put on a hot dog. Sometimes they are served on a stick, and sometimes they are even deep fried. There are many types of pickles to try:

Bread and butter—part of sweet family of pickles; has onions and bell peppers; sometimes have a waffle-esque shape; solution of vinegar, sugar, and spices; name comes from Omar and Cora Fanning, Illinois cucumber farmers who started selling the pickles in the early 1920’s and filed for the name in 1923; name derived from how they traded their pickles for things like bread and butter during rough years.

Cinnamon—bright red and flavored with cinnamon; sometimes a Christmas treat.

Dill—made with dill herbs or dill oil; have been served in New York City since at least 1899.

Gherkins—smaller and usually sweeter; made with Burr or West Indian cucumbers; sometimes “gherkin” is a generic term used for pickles in the U.K., Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand.

Kool-aid—soaked in kool-aid and pickle brine.

Kosher dill—dill pickle with lots of garlic in the salt brine.

Polish—somewhere between kosher dill and sour.

Sour—fermented longer in brine, which makes them sourer.

Sour mixed—sour pickles cut and mixed with other veggie such as onions, cauliflower, carrots, and peppers.

Sour relish—made with finely chopped sour pickles with other vegetables; also called “piccalili.”

Sweet—usually made with vinegar, spices, and sugar; includes sliced sweet pickles, or “cross cuts”, which are cut crosswise into chips.

Sweet mixed—sweet pickles mixed with other vegetables.

Source

[cassowariess]

I love how Nacho is one of the most traitorous bitches in the history of television and yet I can't really fault him for his betrayals.

I fully believe Tuco would have eventually killed him (side business or no side business) because all it took for Tuco to beat No Doze to death in Breaking Bad was No Doze literally saying something to back up Tuco. Nacho was right when he said "it's him or me." Tuco was a ticking time bomb with drugs frying his brain.

I don't even think I have to explain Hector. He would have killed Papa Varga because that's what him and Lalo did to the hotelier for turning down their money. So into the chair he goes.

Nacho's biggest sin (and what makes him a bad guy) was joining the fucking Cartel in the first place. You can't be Mexican/Chicano and not know what the Cartel do to people. So now you have this situation where the Cartel are a threat to you and your family and you have Shocked Pikachu Face.

[jaceeverett]

"So here's the thing," he laughed, somewhat embarrassed by how ridiculous teenaged Jason had been, to be honest, "I loved to play sports, as in the whole being active thing, but I was horribly competitive and always wanted to be the star. And if I couldn't, I quit," he shrugged both shoulders sheepishly. He had given up football when he couldn't be the quarterback, had quite soccer when he wasn't as good as Kellan, got kicked off the wrestling team for pulling someone's hair, it just hadn't been in the cards for him. "Nice," he smiled sincerely when she mentioned sports, nodding his head, "got a favorite, or is it just whatever season is in and you're into?" Because that, he could understand. When she asked about food… well, that was the million dollar question, wasn't it? "Nachos," he answered after careful consideration, "as long as the sauce is hot and the chips are fresh, I feel like there are less variables that could screw things up, right?"

"Ah, so you preferred to watch over playing sports?" She asked with a grin. She always viewed Merrock as her home since she moved, but forgot people were fortunate enough to grow up with such strong ties to the community. It was shown when people showed up to support even a high school football game. "More of a big sports fan in general, have been coming to their home games for a while, and couldn't miss it today." she laughed. "But came here straight from work, otherwise wouldn't have bothered with the line. What do you think's better, the nachos, or the fries? I feel like they are the safest options."

[vegan-nom-noms]

Dinner Recipes:

Pasta

Gnocchi

Burgers

Curry

Meatloaf

Noodles

Lasagna

Fajitas

Burritos

Cottage Pie

Paella

Ravioli

Soup

Buddha Bowl

Pizza

Nachos

Tacos

Risotto

Pot Pie

Wellington

Stir Fry

Meatballs

[bowielit]

if stan twitter existed in the 1960s every british band that became popular after '63 would get abhorrently assaulted by accusations of reheating beatle nachos. they would be saying stones are rummaging around in beatles nacho recipe book. monkeys r frying them up in the oven. kinks just stole the salsa. the who is under the kitchen floorboards.

[neighbourscat]

𝐈𝐌𝐔 || 𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫  𖨂 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 . .. . attached!rafe cameron X detached!black!fem!reader. ||

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫  𖨂 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 . .. . lowercase intended! second person reading-perspective. mature language! mentions of societal divide: status and racial. wordcount :: 3.4k!++

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫  𖨂 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 . .. . imu, vontee the singer ft. cash cobain ! || void, the neighbourhood !

UNABLE TO SETTLE, UNABLE TO STAY STILL

the kildare roller rink wasn’t just a place — it was an experience. a fever dream of neon lights, thumping bass, and spinning wheels that blurred the world into streaks of color. the second you stepped inside, the scent smacked you first — warm buttered popcorn, cherry slushies, and the unmistakable tang of sweat and cheap cologne. it wasn’t fancy, but it felt like magic.

a glowing sign flickered above the entrance, its bubblegum-pink letters whirring, promising a night of reckless fun. inside, the floor stretched out in smooth, polished wood, reflecting the colorful lights that swung lazily from the ceiling. strips of LEDs ran along the perimeter of the rink, pulsing in time with the music — bright yellows, electric blues, hot pinks, and fiery reds, shifting and twisting like a living thing.

at the center of it all hung a massive disco ball, spinning slow, catching the light just right so that every corner of the rink sparkled. the DJ booth sat raised above the chaos, an old-school neon "ON AIR" sign blinking as the latest pop banger blasted through the speakers, bass so deep you could feel it in your chest.

skaters moved in waves — some gliding effortlessly, weaving through the crowd like they were born with wheels strapped to their feet. others stumbled, laughing, grabbing onto each other, the joy of it all infectious. the regulars showed off, spinning, dancing, their wheels catching the light with every move.

the arcade corner hummed with life, screens flashing as kids mashed buttons, trying to beat high scores. the air buzzed with energy — squeals of excitement, the clack of skeeball tickets spilling out, the occasional groan of someone wiping out on the rink.

near the snack bar, friends crowded around tables covered in sticky soda rings, sipping from oversized slushie cups, fingers dusted with nacho cheese and pretzel salt. a jukebox sat in the corner, untouched but glowing, a relic of a time before playlists and aux cords.

the best part? the feeling. that sense of being young and invincible, like the night could stretch on forever, like nothing outside the doors mattered. just music, motion, and that electric rush of wheels on wood — it was perfect.

the brilliant purple wheels of your skates stuck a little around the thin beer-stained carpet as you dragged yourself toward the booth where your people were spread out, their table covered in a mess of half-eaten pizzas, empty slushie cups, skittles packets, and crumpled napkins — purple and pink lights streaked across your skin, shimmering against the rings on your fingers.

milah was the first to spot you, leaning back against the booth with that easy smirk of hers. “look at’chu go! lookin’ all graceful and hot!” she had to shout over chris brown’s vocals; fine china. an early 2010s classic, honestly.

you rolled the last few inches, gripping the table to stop yourself, one hip knocking into naima’s shoulder as you slid into the space next to her. “hush, ‘kay? it’s an art form. trust.” milah’s smirk flattened and jabari, mid-sip, raised an eyebrow. “an art form? almost ate it jus’now.”

milah bit down on her lip, concealing a laugh. you ignored his slick comment, stealing a fry from the basket in front of naima. chris brown faded into soulja boy’s kiss me thru the phone, smoothly, and naima couldn’t contain herself — singing and rocking her body as she did so. chewing on naima’s fries, you let your eyes scan the meal area;

at one table, a kook quad in oversized sweatshirts and scrunched-up socks shared a basket of fries, their brightly colored nails tapping against their phones as they gossiped between bites. one of them laughed too loud, head thrown back, her roller skates tapping against the floor beneath the table.

at the counter, a kook couple argued over their order, the girl poking a manicured finger into the guy’s chest while he waved a hot dog in his hand like a weapon. strange, but .. whatever, right?

at another, a trio of pogues rested back in their chairs, their skates propped up on the table, arguing about .. everything. another late-night debate it looked like. which was cool. you popped into a few whenever one called for an outside perspective. an extra brain.

someone walked by holding a massive slice of pizza that drooped comically, hot cheese stretching dangerously close to the floor. and in the corner, a girl with a mess of curls and ripped jeans counted a wad of crumpled bills, nodding along as a friend whispered something in her ear — something about a bet, a deal, or trouble waiting to happen.

it took a moment for your eyes to land .. a small bundle of kook girls surrounded rafe cameron and topper thornton like they were part of the decor — pretty, expensive, and placed exactly where they wanted to be. they lounged in the neat booth ( one of the best ); male arms draped over the backs of the seats, feminine nails tapping against soda cups, their grating laughter somehow cutting through soulja boy.

one of them, blonde, with sun-kissed skin and a permanent look of boredom, twirled a straw between her fingers, her eyes lazily drifting around the area like nothing here was worth her full attention. the other, wearing a cropped designer hoodie and hoop earrings the size of her fist, leaned into topper, whispering something against his ear that made the corner of his mouth twitch — not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl.

across from him, a girl with long, dark waves and a country-club grin popped a gumball into her mouth, watching the rink like it was a stage and she was waiting for something hilarious to happen. beside her, another girl checked her reflection in her phone screen, adjusting her golden hair even though it was already perfect.

they weren’t just here to skate. they were here to be seen, to exist effortlessly in a space where everyone knew their names. and above all, they were here because rafe was here.

and rafe? he didn’t seem to care. or maybe he did, but not in the way they wanted him to. his gaze had once been stuck to the rink, now .. the meal area. he barely touched the drink in front of him, barely reacted when one of the girls traced a lazy pattern across his arm, “hey?” she tried. and nothing.

because the truth was, while they sat close enough to feel important, none of them really had his attention.

but someone else did.

your eyes refocused on your friends, you didn’t notice it .. you couldn’t feel rafe staring — and no, he wasn’t being discreet or quiet about it either. topper could practically see the distorted hearts wizzing and floating around the crown of rafe’s head like a social media filter. he followed his friend’s line of sight and choked out a laugh .. rafe disregarded him. and topper let out a quick sigh of relief; realizing that he had put up a ‘chill-out-rafe’ mental wall.

“wanna bet on who busts their ass first?” dark waves and popping bubblegum; shelby kennedy. topper, blood rushing, gave a frantic nod, drumming his heavy hands on the table — shaking it. rafe remained silent, unmoving. as the girls pulled clean fifties from their wallets, topper knocked the table — rafe switched his gaze, finally. “yo .. bro ..? wake the hell up. get out a fifty, let’s go.”

rafe watched as they disappeared, leaving their trash and other belongings, they’ll be back for it. he wasn’t in the mood to overlook the rink and laugh at anyone who tumbled and tripped over another. unfortunately ( very fortunate ). alone, his blue eyes reverted — and you were gone. you and your entire group. the table had been cleared.

in under a few seconds? he thought, irritated.

he stood from the booth, grabbing his phone and dropping it into his back pocket. rafe stepped from the meal area and touched down on the lower level of worn carpet. he moved slowly, methodically, a quiet predator in a room full of noise and blinding lights.

he studied it all. not with interest, but with the heightened focus of someone looking for a specific target. searching. rafe glanced at the cliques gathered in clusters ( scanning every body as they whirled past, each face fleeting ); preteens spinning in circles, arms thrown out, laughing so hard. couples skating side-by-side, oblivious to anything except their own little world. over the skater girls practicing spins, the boys messing around, showing their tricks.

beyoncé’s blow dissolved .. the instrumental of loveeeeeee song came to life — and his stare locked on you like a trigger had been pulled; complete. fro; big and bouncy, you were skating near the far side of the rink, natural and unbothered. effortlessly weaving through others, smooth and in tune with rihanna’s lyrics. you made it look easy — so much easier than it really was.

rafe didn’t move, didn’t blink. he just watched — every curve, every glide, the way your body .. gyrated with the rhythm of future’s verse. he could feel the quiet hum of the crowd around, the background noise fading into static as his world narrowed down to just you ..

he moved around more, casually, not in a rush — there was no need. he wasn’t about to rush into anything. and he found his spot .. where the overhead lights seemed to glitter even brighter. he stood at the barrier walls, hands pushed into the built-stone. he tilted his head just slightly, forearms resting on the ledge now, watching with more intensity.

— doja cat’s need to know.

there was a .. strange tug at the pit of his stomach, something unfamiliar and strong, a feeling that seemed to melt through him the more he watched. rafe swallowed thickly, his grip on the edge of the rink tightening almost unconsciously — you rolled to a smooth stop, needing to fix your belt, resting against the wall.

and rafe, with zero shame, kept his eyes lingering. the lights above flashed in time with the tempo, the world flickering between dark and neon as you approached, your gaze never leaving his. and as you drew closer, you slowed just enough to close the distance; a spark that could light something dangerous if either one was brave enough.

you came to another stop, one skate rolling slowly as your body leaned forward, the curve of your lips pulling into a knowing smile. “we’re not havin’ this conversation again. it’s not happenin’, can’t ..” he pressed in carefully .. you shook your head, teasingly, backpedaling. rafe’s tongue poked at the inside of his cheek, nodding, his heart fluttering, “okay. alright-“ you chuckled at his defeat, holding for good steadiness.

rafe repositioned a bit; unfolding his forearms, his big hands now grasped the stone around your hands, not yet letting his skin touch yours. not even a graze. “you look good ..” and you were already over it. the small-talk. the reunion catch-up. the pretending.

“i kno’,” you answered with a controlled smile, now holding your hips, distancing yourself — rafe tried not to frown, of course. he straightened up even more, saying, “i’ve been texting .. calling ..” you didn’t care to answer him anymore. you couldn’t do it anymore. what you and rafe had .. was strictly behind closed doors. after hours. one on one.

it started out like one of those things you didn’t think would manifest — just a flicker of heat in a summer of madness. it didn’t make sense, not really. rafe, with his reckless energy and that cocky, smug look always on his face, and you, with your defiant, jumpy spirit that seemed to constantly burn just beneath the surface. the kind of girl who made him feel both alive and insecure, and maybe that was why he was drawn to you from the start.

it was supposed to be just about the rush — the kind of stupid thing you do when you’re young, when you want to feel something real even if you don’t admit it to yourself .. just for a little while. and it was easy .. slipping into each other’s orbit without hesitation — secret moments in quiet places, whispers exchanged in the shadows, those stolen touches that meant more than either were willing to admit. the chemistry was undeniable, the tension between palpable, and before either knew it, you were wrapped up in something that wasn’t quite love, but it wasn’t exactly casual either.

rafe had thought it would stay that way. after all, he had a reputation to uphold, and you weren’t the type to settle down. at least, that’s what he told himself — what he had to tell himself so he could keep his cool.

but somewhere along the line, things shifted. rafe’s feelings, once so easily buried underneath layers of arrogance and pride, began to claw their way to the top. he wanted more — he wanted to see you when the lights weren’t dim, when you weren’t just throwing yourself at him like it was all one big, thrilling game.

he started to catch himself thinking about you when he was supposed to be focused on other things — like work, or his family, or anything but you. his hands would itch to have you, his chest would tighten with the need to see your face, to hear your laugh. those tiny, fleeting moments of vulnerability you let slip through your cool exterior had him hooked. and before he could control it, he realized that he wanted more than just another summer fling.

the problem was, he hadn’t been prepared for the way you pulled back — the more he tried to get close, the more he realized it was a game. you weren’t scared of him, or his reputation, but afraid of the mess that came with being close to him.

there was no fight, no confrontation — just an invisible barrier he couldn’t cross, no matter how many times he tried. you couldn’t be caught. not in something real. not with him. not on this island. not in this lifetime.

the disconnect wasn’t just physical — there was something in your eyes that he couldn’t ignore, something that told him: you were protecting yourself from him, from whatever it was that he was beginning to feel.

“.. i don’t really understand-like-we didn’t end on bad terms? y’know?” a half-shrug. and then a scratch to the back of his head, glancing elsewhere; thinking hard about this next statement. “i jus’, i just don’t-“ apologizing in advance for what he was about to say. “-we were cool, right? like, before the sex, before the extra fuck-shit?”

your face scrunched at that: cool? no. it was never cool. it was totally, undoubtedly unhinged.

“.. why won’t you call .. or text me back?” spilled into the beginning instrumental of void, the neighbourhood. the venue, once buzzing with life, felt distant and somewhat empty. the sound of laughter and movement had gradually eased, matching the flow of void. it was like .. being in a short indie film, almost, the way everyone just .. slipped into formation. dark, eerie, and super emotional.

the pretty lights slowed, shifting between two; deep blue and fiery orange, casting a surreal glow over everything. the colors danced across your dark skin, highlighting the soft curves of your cheekbones, the smooth column of your neck, the sharp glint of your jewelry. a silver and gold name-plate chain rested just above your collarbone, catching the light every time you inhaled and exhaled — a flicker of beauty against the cool blue washing over.

his gaze traced the swirling paint on your skin, mesmerized, like he’d never really looked at you before. but he had. over and over again. and every time, it hit him differently. every time, he felt hot.

the deep blue light softened your features, making you seem almost untouchable, unreal, like something he wasn’t supposed to have in any lifetime. and then the orange would spill in, bringing you back to life, making you shimmer, setting you apart from everything else in the venue. like fire and ice, flickering in tandem, unable to settle, unable to stay still. just like you.

you shifted your weight, your bracelets sliding against each other with a quiet chime, your fingers now pressed to the rink wall. rafe followed the movement, the way the lights kissed your skin — how he should have, how he’s been dying to — the way the shadows curled, as if the whole place was bending to your existence. cinematic material. blue and orange against black skin. unmatchable.

he wasn’t sure if he was breathing.

the way your lips folded together like you were swallowing words you wouldn’t say .. the way your shoulders sank, as if you were preparing for something. “were we .. ever really friends? i mean-“ you scoffed, dropping your chin. “-it was like .. weird. as fuck. shit wasn’t normal, it was confusin’.” brown eyes up: “you looked at me like i was disgustin’.”

“fuck no-“

“uh, yes, rafe-the fuck? yes. we stand on opposite sides of life .. in every aspect. ‘nd, well .. when we started our thing, it was fun. fun, risky, different-whatever.” there was no official label. there was no official title, but you both knew not to entertain anyone else. he for sure couldn’t. “.. but then, it ..” you lowered your head again, calculating .. because how would you say: ‘you were getting too clingy, so i had to push you away. you were getting reckless; touching and trying to kiss in public spaces. acting like a boyfriend’ without saying that exactly. without coming off too harsh, too evil.

guys that looked like rafe never went for girls that looked like you. not usually. sure, times were different, but still, there were people all over kildare that saw things through one foggy lens: white and black. good and bad. kooks and pogues. kooks advanced with the kooks. pogues advanced with the pogues. you were afraid: you saw how shit hit the fan with john b and sarah .. and they’re caucasian. you and rafe teetered that tightrope with the clandestine sessions — but he wanted to spring off and dive into what was today’s current society.

divided and picky.

it took you a moment to raise your head — rafe was gone. you glanced over both shoulders, confused and wary .. how long had he been gone? but the real question, how long have you been talking to yourself? you looked around for him. it didn’t take long though, rafe towered and shadowed over everyone who was near; he was pushing past a couple of kooks standing around the rental counter, ignoring the few sideways glares tossed his way.

rafe grabbed himself skates, dropping onto a bench without hesitation — now you’re nervous — his fingers worked fast, yanking the laces tight, looping them over and over. he wasn’t thinking about balance, wasn’t thinking about how he wasn’t good at this. he was only thinking about getting out there .. with you; fingers tugging the belt hoops of your jean shorts, palms glued to your hips as you skate and grind against his front.

your expression didn’t change much — still wary, still guarded — and he could feel it .. how you were unsure if you should stay or speed off.

up on eight wheels, rafe stomped onward, heading toward the stone opening. you didn’t want this much attention. didn’t want people looking at you. and he didn’t care.

now .. the rink glittered with multiple shades of pink, green, and baby blue — bed peace, jhené aiko and childish gambino. the playful atmosphere was back and so beautiful. jhené’s voice matched the calm, light spin of the disco ball .. you weren’t sure how it happened, why you gave him the green light — but one second, you were gliding alone, the next, he was there. behind you.

rafe’s hands, hot and burning, snaked around your waist, fingertips digging in just enough to let you know he was really there — solid, unrelenting, unwilling to let you pull away this time. his latch wasn’t forceful, but it wasn’t tentative either. it was certain.

his chest pushed against your back as you rode, his body heat bleeding through the thin barrier of fabric between. with his arms around you, he didn’t need to be great at skating. rafe let you lead and tug him along, let you set the pace, his hold adjusting with every gentle, fluid motion.

afro, stretched and full, rested just below his chin .. you smelled of sweetness. home and comfort and safety. and maybe coconut and almond. rafe squeezed your middle, biceps bulging, delicately burying his chin deeper into your hair, truly enjoying the scent of you. you heard the soft hums of relaxation and content from rafe .. the same huffs that you once woke up to — his pinkie brushed the belt of your shorts like he wanted to memorize this feeling.

like he wanted to stay right here.

[girlmostlikely]

A black bean crunchwrap supreme, large nacho fry, black bean and cheese soft taco, a side of guacamole, extra fire sauce packets, a few breakfast salsa packets, and a large Baja blast zero.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Don't yuck AGSZC's yum

Genesis: Banora White apples in everything. In his stir-fry. Slices of it in his soup. Banora White soup. Banora White with rice. Banora White juice mixed in his pasta sauce. Banora White on his pizza. And Genesis is the type to put ketchup on pizza.

Sephiroth: Maple syrup and pasta. Leave him alone.

Cloud: Pickles dipped in warm milk with honey.

Sephiroth: Milk-cooked pasta with chocolate sauce. Please leave him alone.

Zack: A peanut butter- cheese-bacon-nacho chips-ham-chicken-yogurt-beef-spam-pickle-banana-and jam sandwich. Downed with an energy drink.

Sephiroth: Macaroni and cheese with jam mixed into it. Leave him alone.

Angeal: Whatever leftovers are in his fridge thrown into a giant pot because he'd rather die than let food go to waste. His favorite combinations are those that have rice, then he can use the argument that it's "just fried rice" when he has nachos, a cut up slice of pizza, shrimp and two kinds of pasta in the pot.

Sephiroth: Lasagna but one layer is cake because he needs to feel alive. Leave him alone.