#One onion three hunks

[grandmagremlin]

Hi ummm this is anxiety_personified from over on ao3 this is the stupid thing my friends and I made for One Onion, Three Hunks

Literally just did it on photoshop but uhhh I guess you might like to know that our gc name is currently one onion, three hunks, the onion picture is our photo, and onion jokes are stupidly common. So uhhh yeah thanks for writing this masterpiece hopefully it sends I literally just made a tumblr account for this so idk how it works lol

AHAHAHA I LOVE IT!!! You’ve actually kinda nailed how I pictured the onion in my mind. I’m really flattered you and your friends like my story (if it can really be called that) so much, you could say I’m feeling it on all layers (horrible pun I know I’m so sorry). Thank you so much ☺️☺️

[coopigeoncoo]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤

Thank you for the tag, @andypantsx3! I am both delighted and horrified to have my work regarded in a positive fashion because apparently my emotions are just like reaching blindly into a bag of trail mix; you get what you get.

But as my homeboy Socrates said, 'The unexamined life is not worth living', so it's probably beneficial for me to slow down and do some reflection on my work as a writer and appreciate the journey of growth I've been on.

So, in no particular order, here are 5 stories I've written and why I'm proud of them.

The Cardinal Rule (Hawks x Gender Neutral Reader)

A story where Hawks learns that while humans might be awed by his flying skills, the bird population is decidedly less impressed. --- "The birds are refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed. "Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip. "They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes." Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly. "My what?" He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

This one started with a late night passing thought: 'What if birds hated Hawks?' and it spiraled out of control for there. I entered into some sort of fugue state and wrote and edited the entire thing in like, three days (which is very likely a person record for me). But everything just clicked together so easily on this one- my scenes flowed well, my jokes seemed to set themselves up, and I honestly had an absolute blast writing this. This is likely the story I reread the most because I have so much fun coming back to it.

2) An Itch to Scratch (Creature!Kirishima x AFAB Reader)

Kirishima Eijiro is everything you never thought you'd find when you packed up your car and moved to a dilapidated fishing town.  He was handsome, funny, and kind; the sort of man who took your breath away.   And that might actually be a bit of a problem. --- "Good girl ," Eijiro praised, his hands like a vice on your hips as he pulled away from your mouth with a satisfied grin.  You returned his smile with one of your own; the vibrant joy that had churned in your belly unfurled throughout your body, leaving you feeling breathless and lightheaded.   "Eiji," you gasped, eyes widening in panic as your lungs seemed to seize in your chest.  "I- can't breathe!"

I knew going in that if I was going to write a Mermay story I would want to write one that subverted expectations and common tropes. I removed the story from the typical tropical setting and plopped the Reader down into an dilapidated New England-ish fishing town, and threw in an additional surprise plot twist that I'm incredibly proud of.

I focused a lot on the world building here; on making the town and the people in it feel real and fleshed out. I really wanted to make the Reader feel connected to the situation they were dropped into and feel like I managed to do that successfully and even fell in love with the aging fishing town a bit myself.

3) Hot Dish (Shigaraki x AFAB Reader)

Down on his luck and scrambling for survival, Shigaraki Tomura was just looking for a place to score a hot meal. Instead, he ended up scoring a hot date. --- "You want gravy?" You asked, waggling the ladle of onion sauce enticingly, some of it sloshing over the edge of the spoon and falling back into the pot with a wet squelch. Tomura glared at the chunky sauce disdainfully before closing his eyes and sighing. "Whatever." "Gravy it is!" You cheer, pouring the sauce over the meat patty before passing it to him. "There you go! A hunk of meat for my favorite hunk." --- A slow, domestic romance between a volunteer at a soup kitchen and the newly destitute leader of a notorious villain organization.

Hot Dish is most popular story by far, which was honestly very surprising for me! I didn't realize how big Shigaraki's fan base was heading in because I wrote this for a server gift exchange and hadn't really read too many LOV centric stories. But I really enjoyed the challenge of trying to craft a soft romance for such a difficult character and think I managed to write a believable scenario where Shigaraki would be receptive to romance.

4) A Persistent Lack of Follow Through (Shouto x AFAB Reader)

Shouto had learned a lot from his Father; how to take a hit, how to pull himself back up, and how to hold a grudge. But one thing Endeavor could never teach his children was how to be a good partner. Shouto had to learn that particular skill the hard way. --- He had spent long, sleepless nights reflecting on the things you had told him; the reasons you left. Every moment of your acquaintance was turned over repeatedly in his head and examined until one devastating conclusion was reached: "I was a bad boyfriend," Shouto muttered dejectedly, idly picking at the label of the shochu bottle in the middle of the table. --- A story where Shouto loves, loses, and learns.

I'm very much a happy ending sort of person, so it was a real challenge crafting a story around the prompt of 'heartbreak'. Hearts, obviously, needed to get broken; but then I wanted to try and write a believable healing journey would look like for two people in a shattered relationship. It was equal parts satisfying and frustrating building the same relationship up twice, but ultimately I feel like the relationship I depicted is stronger because of that struggle.

It was also my first time writing Todoroki Family shenanigans, which is honestly now one of my all time favorite things to do.

5) The 3-Cs of 3-A (eventual Bakugou x AFAB Reader)

This one links to Ao3 because I'm still in the process of crossposting it to Tumblr.

Mineta Minoru is a perverted misogynist whose antics should have had him expelled from UA long ago. But he wasn’t. And now it’s your job to fix him. May God have mercy on your soul. --- “Well then, I’ll leave myself in your capable hands,” Mineta purred before popping open the top two buttons on his shirt, sending you a coy look from under his lashes. “Mold me into the perfect hero, Pygmalion!  Make me your Galatea!” he screamed as he ripped open his shirt, buttons flying haphazardly through the air and pinging off the walls and floor.  You throw your arms up to cover your eyes, as though blinded by the pale skin of his belly.   “Why do you always have to make this weird?” you moan forlornly, already bending down to search along the floor for the missing buttons.  

Aaaah, my passion project. This was my first foray into writing MHA fiction and my only continual WIP. I'm constantly editing and working to improve this one because it's so important to me.

I noticed very early on that Mineta is a character that authors tend to ignore or replace entirely, so his character really appealed to me because I hadn't really ever seen it explored very thoroughly before. 3-Cs is, at it's core, a Mineta redemption story where I try to mold him into the character he could have been; but it's also a place where I get to explore a lot of my ideas about what it's like for an average person to live in a Hero-centric society.

My absolute favorite moments as a writer are when people comment on chapter 1 with messages like 'I really hate Mineta, let's see how this goes' and then 10 chapters later are posting comments like 'What have you done? I actually like this grape-flavored weirdo now.' I actually had someone mention last chapter that they now were interested in a Mineta x Reader story, so I'm putting some weird vibes out into the universe and proud of it!

I think a lot of the people that I would tag have likely already been tagged, but just in case here are some no pressure tags! @confused-red-head @grxywxrrxnn @auraxins @pikatsum @lou-struck @stellamancer @namodawrites @sipsteainanxiety

[silens-oro]

wip wednesday

steapa x f!dane reader

synopsis: finan, ever the schemer, tries to play matchmaker.

an: this will be a stand alone one shot that will be filled with filth and debauchery once it is finished 😈this was written on my phone so no word count or editing. we die like s*****.

warnings: talks of sex and maiming, but neither act happens. Finance’s mouth is it’s own warning.

+

“I’ve noticed something,” Finan said as he sat next to you on the bench you occupied. All of the men had dispersed once you made it to Winchester -for food, sleep, women, or a combination of the three. You decided to head to the closest ale house for some food and drink to unwind after your long journey before you went to bed.

Your body ached, as did your belly. You tried to not let Finan’s interruption ruin the meal in front of you.

A hearty bowl of stewed beef with chunks of carrot, potato, and onion steamed in front of you, a hunk of crusty bread in your hand to dip into the thick broth. You were mid-dunk into the bowl when Finan spotted you.

“Is it that you refuse to give me a moment’s peace?” You grumbled, finally bringing the soaked bread to your mouth. You nearly groaned at the taste and feel of a hot meal. You threw Finan a look as you chewed. “You’ve lost your shadow?” You referenced Osferth, who had grown quite the attachment to Finan, as you dig into the bowl with your spoon.

“Praying, what else would be be doing? And do not deflect from my questioning.” He playfully reprimanded.

“I merely wished to know where to find the boy so I could tether him to you so you’d leave me be,” you said through a mouthful of stew. “What are you doing bothering me? Will no woman take your coin for the night?” You grinned.

“Any woman would be happy to take my coin, thank you. But my question still stands: Why do you not take a man to bed?” You dropped the bread to the table and abandoned the spoon in the bowl to turn your body to face the Irishman.

“Excuse me?” Offense was clear as day on your face as you glared at him. “Who I take to bed does not concern you.”

“Anywhere we stop, the men find their ladies of the night, but you never take anyone to bed. Why is that?” Your head tiled back as you sighed. There goes your meal for the night.

“You do not know this.” You argued.

“Ah, but I do.”

“Why does this matter?” You grumbled, bringing your cup of ale to you lips. “How would you know my whereabouts when you’re occupied?”

“Because you always have the same look on your face before I leave to hump and when I’m finished.” He had a point. “It is a good stress reliever. You seem wound up, more so than usual. If you need help-”

“No!” You stopped him mid-sentence, your dagger out in the blink of an eye and pointed at Finan. “Do not finish that sentence if you wish to keep your tongue.”

“It was merely a suggestion,”

“Merely do not suggest,” you spat. His grin only widened at your growing frustration. A few moments passed where you were both in a standoff with your stares, and your dagger pointed at him, before you stood down. The blade was placed on the table, pointed at him in warning. “There’s a reason I don’t allow any of you fools into my bed. I intend to keep it that way.”

“I think it would help. From one friend to another, you need to let loose a little.”

“Let loose? Finan, are you aware of the anatomy differences between you and I?”

“I am intimately aware,” He wiggled his thick brows.

“Then you would know that only one of us is capable of becoming with child,” Finan grimaced at your point, then his eyes lit up with a thought.

“They make a tea for that!”

“Yes I am intimately aware of that, Finan,” You mocked him. His eyes widened, scandalized, but humored nonetheless. “I have ample supply on me, but there is still risk.”

“You minx!” Finan laughed. “Okay, minimal risk. What is the next?”

“The women, more or less are agreeable to look at, yes?” His head teetered from left to right with a shrug.

“Sometimes,”

“But most times you are able to find a woman you can stomach looking at,” You stated.

“I guess so.”

“Look around this ale house,” You said, let him scope out the patrons for a moment before bringing his attention back to you. “Do you see my problem?” Finan grimaced. “My best prospect is Steapa,” you nodded your head in his direction. Finan’s jaw dropped. “And even then I’d need a few more cups.” You shook your ale cup in front of Finan. The man was not disagreeable to your eyes, but he was massive. Gargantuan. There was no question that *all* of him was to proportion.

“Steapa?!” Finan said a little too loud, garnering the man in question’s attention towards your table. You punched Finan directly in the center of his chest, causing him to wheeze and double over on the table in pain.

You gave a short wave with an awkward smile at Steapa who sighed at the pair of you before shaking his head and guzzling more ale.

“Clearly he isn’t interested, and every other man who I could stomach doesn’t have the spine to approach me. It is no surprise. Saxon men are generally weak.”

“You really are unapproachable,” Finan agreed while rubbing his chest. He flinched when you made like you were going to hit him again. “Your face is constantly pinched. You look like you’ve sucked on a lemon,” he teased as he touched the tensed muscle between your brows.

“I wonder why,” you smacked his hand away from you.

“So this is my mission for the night, eh?” Finan wrapped an arm over your shoulder to put you in a near headlock. “We’ll find you a lad to hump so we can get that dazzling smile back on your face!” He said louder than he should’ve, catching the attention of a few men within the ale house -Steapa included. You could feel the heat radiate off of your face as whistles and hoots filled the room. Finan stood before you could stop him and he was off into the night.

Steapa caught your eye. He had a questioning look on his face, to which you just shook your head with a roll of your eyes. Chugging the last of your ale, you looked to the now cold stew in front of you with a sigh.

You heard the scrapes of chairs and benches on the floor, followed by boots heading in your direction.

“Any man who approaches me will be chewing on his own balls as a midnight snack!” You said without looking up. You made a show of fiddling with your dagger before sheathing it. The men who were going to approach sat back down without hesitation. Steapa’s eyes still followed you as you stood, put the hood of your cloak up and fled the ale house to find refuge in your bed.

[phiixomath]

housewarming

Hunk plugs in his speaker, queues his favourite cooking playlist, and gets to finely chopping up vegetables after he decides he wants to serve the skewers with fried rice. He dices larger for the skewers and, once that’s done, he sets up their kitchenette with stations so he can most efficiently skewer, grill, and wrap the pork belly. He begins doing that, piercing each chunk of pork with bell peppers and onions in between. He creates a trayful of the skewers then starts placing them on a small, oiled skillet, three at a time.

The loud sizzle is a sorely-missed sound, and he revels in it as he turns the skewers on each side so they’re evenly cooked, generously basting them with what’s left of the marinade.

The delicious aroma hangs heavy when he’s done with the first skewers and he gingerly slips off a piece, blows on it, and gives it a taste.

Hunk doesn’t even try holding back a satisfied noise. The pork is so, so incredibly soft, and his teeth barely have to pierce the skin before it melts in his mouth. It bursts with flavor, not to mention the light char which adds some smokiness. He nods in approval, popping another piece into his mouth. It’s followed by a square of bell pepper and it elicits a nice crunch.

He dusts off his hands when he hears a shuffle. He looks up to see Pidge slowly come into view, clearly woken up from a nap, holding Steampunk.

“Good morning,” Hunk teases.

“Hey. I smelled something good.” Their voice is gruff with disuse as they reach the kitchen. Steampunk leaps from her arms and onto the floor, heading toward her scratch post and thankfully away from the food. Pidge dusts their clothes. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Pork skewers and fried rice.” Hunk grins and lowers the music. “And Lance that texted he and Keith are bringing home dumplings, so we’ll have that, too.”

Pidge hums in interest. They walk over to Hunk and reach onto their tip-toes so they can look over his shoulder.

“Here.” Hunk turns around with one of the skewers and eases a bit of pork onto a small fork, holding it up to Pidge’s mouth so they can taste. Their drowsy expression wanes as they chew and they comically blink several times as they process. “Wow. That’s delicious.” Some of their internal battery seems to recharge as they take another bite, finishing off what’s left on the fork. Hunk happily relinquishes the rest of the skewer after making sure to wrap it around a napkin, so Pidge can snack while he grills the rest. They mumble a ‘thank you’ around a mouthful of pork belly and go to lean against the opposite counter.

Like when Hunk first met them, Pidge usually prefers to do their own thing. He and Lance respect it, give them their ample space, but it warms Hunk’s heart whenever they embrace co-living.

Like now, when they wordlessly start setting the table.

“You’re gonna join us?”

Pidge shrugs. “Sure.” They kneel to refill Steampunk’s food and Hunk smiles, turning back to the stove.

He finishes grilling all the skewers and sets them off to the side, quickly moving on to tossing rice with some finer chopped vegetables and soy sauce and sesame oil. Pidge takes out serving bowls to scoop it into.

[lunawish]

HEADCANON : edelgard & food

i’ve compiled a list of dishes she likes, is neutral to, and dislikes from the dining hall (after going through each dish… one by one) and i’ve noticed some pretty interesting trends!  (2023 gany here: it was fucking wild that I did this before the datamined shit was out ... fuck)

in general, edelgard likes food with a sweet flavour profile. she likes vegetables, and she likes fish. the one exception is the “sautéed pheasant and eggs” dish. this dish is interesting because the description says:  “thin slices of bird meat and shredded cabbage, mixed with scrambled eggs and sautéed with spices. invention of a certain noble. ” this is the only non-vegetarian, non-fish, and non-dessert dish edelgard likes (not neutral to, but likes). coincidentally, it’s the only dish that her, ferdinand, and hubert all like collectively. thus, it is fair to deduce that edelgard invented this dish. 

the commonality of her non-vegetarian favourite dishes is that they’re all, somewhat, vegetable heavy still. this entails that edelgard doesn’t actually like meat. she likes fish and that makes sense given the fact she spent most of her time in enbarr, which is by the coast as shown in this figure: 

naturally, she would take a liking to the taste of fish. and what’s interesting is that she also likes the “sweet bun trio”, “fish and bean soup” and “onion gratin soup.” and i think all three of those is to reflect the time that she spent in faerghus given that the sweet bun trio is a “traditional pastr[y] from faerghus”. the latter two are soups, which are essential to keeping yourself warm during harsh winters like in faerghus and given how south adrestia is, and given the fact that petra is from brigid and hates the cold, it is more than safe to say that in adrestia, you do not need to drink soup to keep yourselves warm during winter. 

in her neutral foods, it is predominantly fish dishes with a few pheasant dishes and the jerky from the monastery. let’s address jerky first. jerky is… ambiguous. the description for the “sautéed jerky” dish doesn’t list what type it is, so for all we know, it could come in an abundance of different types of meat. and we know the fishing pond is rife with different types of fish, so it is safe to assume that the majority of the jerkies served at the monastery are fish jerkies. 

now with pheasants – it was difficult for me to come up with ‘why’ she would like it or not mind it. the truth is, i think in moments of scarcity she’s eaten it to sustain herself. after all, her life hadn’t always been glamourous. we know in “our world” pheasants are across north america, europe, parts of northeastern asia, and the middle east. thus, it is fair to assume that once again, she was introduced to pheasant meat during her time at fhirdiad. to her pheasants and poultry can be comforting in terms of taste, but just because an item of food is comforting doesn’t mean you have to find it delicious and that is the case with edelgard and poultry. 

now onto what she dislikes. all the food she dislikes are meat centric dishes. most of them are described as “tasting like the wilderness” or something along those lines. from this we can easily deduce that edelgard doesn’t like meat, which i have theorized before. most of those meat are also very heavy in their flavour profiles such as the pickled rabbit meat skewers, which are described as “hunks of rabbit meat are pickled in bacchus, skewered, and roasted over an open flame to create this flavourful dish.” most of the meats she dislikes are typically associated with game meat such as rabbit, fox, and the beast meat used in the “beast meat teppanyaki” dish. 

now what is there to be drawn from this analysis? 

edelgard by choice is a pescatarian with heavy preferences towards vegetables. fish is her main source of hearty protein and it is what’s available the most, thus, she makes good use of the resources around her. she has a very heavy sweet tooth and prefers sweet, light, and sour flavour profiles. if needed, she would eat meat as well but mostly in the forms of birds / pheasants for they are easier to hunt, and more efficient for sources of energy. she loathes the taste of meat despite the fact that eating meat is a luxury and associated with the nobility. 

[familyofpaladins]

1, 8, 17, 22 :)

Hi anon, thanks for the ask!!! :D

1. How did you get into tmnt?

SO. When I was little, at my babysitter's we sometimes got to watch tv/cartoonsand everyone once in a while it worked out that I got to watch the 2003 series! I liked it a lot! Then i got old enough to not need to go to the babysitter, and we didnt have cable like my babysitter, (and we only got one channel at our house) so I wasnt able to see it anymore.

Cue a few years later when we moved and were able to get more channels. I was channel surfing for saturday morning cartoons and saw some familar characters, it was the turtles! So I started watching that channel as the aired the last season of the 2003 series and also got to watch the Turtles Forever movie on tv! They started to do reruns of the beginning of the show and then replaced its time slot with a new show.

I proceeded to mostly forget about it. About a decade later i see a few of my mutuals posting about the Rise series, get bored and decide to watch it. I love it. I read some fanfiction and then go about with other shows. Then the rise movie came out last year and I rewatched the series again. Then I was like. Hey I really liked the 2003 series when I was younger, but I dont remember much of it now. I should watch it again. so I did.

Read some fanfiction and then was entranced with Lego Monkie kid for a few months. My monkie obsession faded and I started reading fanfiction for tmnt again.

And then.... idk I just got more involved with the fandom and started watching the 87 series then bought a 5 movie set (the three movies from the 90's, the 2007 TMNT movie, and the batman one) from Walmart and now I'm suddenly collecting whatever media I can and have actually written my very first ever fanfic for the Rise movie.

TLDR: watched the 03 series when I was little. Then watched the Rise series out of college and then rewatched 03 and now I'm obsessed with all turtles lol

8. Favorite villain/antagonist?

Oh man that's hard. There's so many good ones. Ones I love to hate and ones I hate to love. I think 2003 Karai is pretty cool as an antagonist. She's so loyal to her father and wants to please him, but she's also honorable and that clashes with his methods sometimes so she has this struggle with that and then she fights the turtles in loyal vengeance of her father but then she ends up helping them because it's for the greater good and I just... I like characters who start out bad but have a change of heart and are dragged to the good side. (Baron draxum is also pretty cool both as a bad guy and as a "Dragged to the good side" guy lol).

17. What's your favorite pizza topping(s)?

I love pizza, but I'm such a picky eater, so theres a lot I dont like lol. But I love ground hamburger and bacon! Theres this one pizza place that has a "bacon cheeseburger" pizza that has hamburger, extra cheddar cheese I think, onion, and a garlic butter crust! I dont like big hunks of onion. but other than that it's my favorite kind of pizza! (I also like ham as a topping!)

22. Have you watched/read any of the iterations more than once?

As I mentioned above, I watched the 2003 series twice (but really could almost count it as once since I only remembered about 5% of it lol). I've seen the Rise series twice now and the movie 3 . No wait 4 times now (watched it twice as I was writing my fic).

And I've seen the Batman vs the tmnt movie 3 times :D (I really like that movie, I'm so happy i have it on DVD)

[whentherewerebicycles]

made this gorgeously simple asparagus soup tonight, which was a hybrid of one hot + one cold soup recipe… I ended up eating it kinda lukewarm ahaha so probably the worst of both worlds but still soooo delicious. the texture was creamy and velvety but still quite light with a nice slightly tangy flavor. I used leeks instead of yellow onions just because I was curious about what it would taste like and the answer was: uhh not sure if I would’ve been able to discern a difference but this version was very good! here is what I did:

melt three tablespoons of butter in a Dutch oven, then sauté a thinly sliced leek and 5-6 cloves of minced garlic for 8-10 minutes

add 1.5 bundles of asparagus (chopped into half inch pieces) and 4-6 cups of vegetable stock, then salt and pepper it and bring the soup to a boil

turn down to a simmer, cover, and cook for 30 min or until very tender. then blend it!

add 1/4th cup grated Parmesan (apparently you can substitute 2 TBS Dijon mustard if you want it to be vegetarian but I didn’t care) and the juice of half a lemon

serve at whatever temperature you want I guess with chopped chives and crunchy croutons. I tore a big hunk of sourdough into pieces, covered them with olive oil and garlic powder, and baked at 400 for 8 minutes. do not skip this step croutons are so good

[specialmouse]

RECIPE!! if any of this isn't food safe yes it is. i'm fine.

ingredients:

1 SKINLESS SALMON FILET: i get them in a bag of 6 at wegmans, they come frozen and individually vacuum-sealed. i thaw it in a bowl of water about thirty minutes before i want dinner. the skinless part is important because idk what to do with the skin on lol

MISO MARINADE: miso paste (i have red), rice vinegar, soy sauce, oyster sauce (optional), sesame oil, grated fresh garlic (i didn't use it this time, but i recommend it), brown sugar (optional, i don't use it but it adds that sweetness) -- if you don't want to marinate your salmon in anything you don't have to obvi, just make sure to season with salt and pepper afterwards so there's some taste there, and i recommend a squeeze of lemon as well. i don't use measurements when i'm cooking but i'd say like. two spoonfuls of miso paste; 3:1 ratio of soy sauce to vinegar (soy sauce should be the main ingredient here), like a spoonful of oyster sauce (or less), and a spoonful of sesame oil. i'd use about three cloves of grated garlic for this serving size. whisk together so the miso integrates

place the thawed salmon in the mixture and make sure every side is coated. place the container in the fridge covered while you make the salad

SALAD: ingredients: fresh corn, red onion, tomato (these are roma but i don't think it matters as long as it has substantial flesh on it), and cucumber. i usually add baby bell pepper to this as well but i didn't have any :-( cut the corn off the cob; to avoid it going everywhere i hold the cob in the bowl vertically and cut down. i dice the cucumber and tomato, then for ease i use a mandolin to slice the red onion, then cut those slices vertically so they become slivers. you don't have to use a mandolin but i recommend getting one if you eat a lot of onions like i do! i used half a cucumber, two roma tomatoes, two corn cobs, and half a red onion. this made enough for three people, i have leftovers. save that half an onion for later!!!

DRESSING: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, lime juice, lime zest (optional but i accidentally bought a grater for 15 dollars and im gonna fucking use it) italian seasoning, fresh thyme if you nasty and you know i am, and red wine vinegar. toss! that! salad! and let it sit in the fridge.

PRE-COOK PREP: dice that half an onion, and also dice a shallot (all of this is optional, but i love saying i put a diced shallot in my food it makes me feel like a chef). grate some more garlic also if you're up to the task, but you're already headed to flavor town so you'll be fine. also wash yer broccoli and set aside.

SALMON: that marinade, salad, and the pre-cook prep took me about 15-20 minutes i think. the hardest part is behind you! hot oil awaits! online will tell you you need a high smoke point oil like avocado oil. that is what i used, but i've found vegetable oil (with a hunk of butter, also) works just fine. hopefully i'm not leading you astray. anyway, heat your pan on high and put your oil in. either spit (if you're alone like i was) or flick some water into the pan and if the oil starts going crazy, it's time to get crazy! place your salmon in the pan. let it sit for about 30 seconds then start spooning the hot oil on to the side facing up. then i spoon some of the marinade onto that side as well. after 3-4 minutes, flip the salmon and turn the heat off. spoon the still-hot oil onto the cooked side, but NOT more marinade; the reason i used marinade on the non-cooked side is because the raw fish bacteria soaking in there will (should?) be cooked off when i flip it. not so with the other side. let the residual heat cook the other side for like 2 more minutes, then set the salmon on a plate. there's probably a way to do this where all components of the meal come out at the same time but i'm just one man and i'm fine not eating my salmon piping hot.

BROCCOLI: in that same pan, add the diced shallots, onions, and grated garlic. turn the heat to med-high and add the broccoli. then add the rest of the marinade as well as some extra soy sauce. cover the pan and let cook for like... 5-6 minutes? you don't want the broccoli to be too soggy, you want some crunch. you can take out pieces and test them if you're not sure, it's not chicken so you'll be fine.

AND YOU'RE DONE! plate everything up! top the salmon with diced green onion and sesame seeds, and spoon what's in the pan onto everything and let it soak it up. enjoooyyyy!

Im cumming and squirting and farting and throwing up

[wonderlandleighleigh]

I wanted to let you know that there is a line you wrote that I think of at least once a week. "Sometimes simple ingredients make for lovely meals." From your 2nd installment of fashionable people (and I've been reading since day 1 of you posting fashionable people). Not sure why that line of all times, but my brain won't let it go. And it makes me feel better when I'm cooking :)

Oh I'm so glad. Thank you for reading! I know Rose isn't much of cook, but things like soup are pretty straightforward.

I save the carcas from my Thanksgiving turkey every year and make soup with the leftover bones.

But more frequently, I make pasta sauce. Since I currently work from home, it's easy to do an all day sauce, and the bade ingredients are simple, though I do throw in a few special things if they're lying around.

So in the spirit of a quiet Sunday morning, here's how I, a Jewish American woman with not a single lick of Italian lineage, make a simple pasta sauce:

Let some olive oil get hot in your sauce pot (I use a Dutch oven usually) and add chopped onions. Let them get tender before adding your garlic and let that get fragrant.

Add tomato paste and, if you have it, either anchovy paste or miso paste (this makes the sauce vegetarian and adds umami while mellowing out the tomato. I know it sounds weird but it works).

Once a fond starts to build up on the bottom of your pot, add crushed tomatoes (San marzano if you can but whatever you got) and your diced tomatoes. If you've got fresh, those also work but take longer to break down and can be pricy sometimes.

If you have other veg to add like mushrooms or carrots, throw them in now. Then goes your worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, oregano, marjoram, Italian seasoning or whatever you have. Sometimes, if I have it on hand I'll throw in a small hunk of parmessan cheese.

Let it all come to a boil and then set your heat to low and let it simmer until dinnertime. Check it every little while to give it a stir. I found that the stove in my new place runs hotter than the one in my last apartment, so I had to baby the sauce more. I'll cook it for less time next time I make it.

Once you're ready to eat, make your pasta and throw it into your sauce, and enjoy. If you make a big batch, it makes for great leftovers. The last batch I made fed three people for dinner, two containers were sent home with my mother and @dettiot took some for lunch a day or so later.

[raziroo]

Cotton Candy

Pairing: Lotor x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Saying "Shit" twice

Word count: 2,076 (yay) (also, I edited this, I still need to update the word count)

Author’s Note: I'm crap at writing dialogues, and this is my first time writing for a gay couple. I'm so sorry if it seems forced or unnatural or shitty. Don't be afraid to call me out.

Story Moodboard!

It’s with a grunt of effort that I manage to lift the carton containing the cotton-candy-maker.

‘Here, dad,’ I say as my dad takes the box from my hands. ‘That’s all?’

‘Yep, that’s all of it. We’ll conquer this carnival with our delicious cotton candy,’ I nod, doing jazz hands while saying the last part. Dad chuckles. I grin.

‘Hey, Honey!’ I turn back, squinting to spot where my other dad is in the crowd of bustling people. Where, where…? Yep, there he is – in his embarrassingly brilliant sunshine yellow and bottle green striped shirt and hot pink trousers, a sharp contrast to his natural bright red hair. Don’t say that it can’t look that bright; you’ll never know just how blindingly bright bottle green can really be until you see the shirt my dad’s wearing. And trust me, he usually dresses in simpler tones; such bland tones that you’d be surprised to know he was capable of wearing colourful hues as well. It’s only that he’s very passionate about his job, and so whenever we set up a booth in fetes such as the current one, he never misses to match the shop logo.

‘Hul-lo, father dearest, how seems to go your day?’

‘Oh, quite lovely, if I do say so.’

‘Well, that’s simply charming –’

‘Alright, enough,’ my other, not redhead dad snaps with an exasperated sort of smile on his visage. You see, my not redhead, a.k.a. brown-haired dad happens to be British. And that means that me and dad would rather paint our teeth blue than to not tease him. ‘You both need to shut it and start helping me with the decorations, now. You know I’m trash at all that.’

‘Aw, now don’t get discouraged,’ I say, patting dad on the back. ‘After all, not everyone can be as blessed as me, can they?’

‘Hey, why don’t you go look around for a bit? You’ve been helping out since before I have.’

‘Yeah, he’s right, pet. You should.’

I huff, rubbing my palms on the fabric of my jeans. ‘You guys sure? I’m not tired, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘We’re not worried, we’re just saying you should also get a look, you know? There’s a lot of surprising booths this time around. I mean, there are aliens participating too, so…’

‘Hmm,’ I play with my bottom lip a little, then, ‘yeah, okay. I’ll be back in like, an hour? Forty five minutes? Sound okay?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘Bye, then.’ And with that, I turn on the heels of my Converse, wandering about the pretty stalls and eager children and kissy couples and aliens with curious features.

It really feels bizarre, just how astonishingly fast mankind has accepted the existence of aliens. It seems simultaneously ages and just a day before when conspiracy theorists raged all around the world, presenting baseless theories and concepts as to why and how the three-man squad on the Kerberos mission disappeared. Then came the Galra, bringing along with them global terror – because alien life, intelligent alien life existed and humanity remained oblivious all these millennia, and now they were actually attacking us. It could’ve been, perhaps even was, in some other dimension, the end of Earth. But then a defender appeared; Voltron appeared in all its glory, bringing along with it proof that however much these purple aliens claim that humans are scum of the universe, humans were, in the grand scheme of things, the ones that saved the universe too.

It feels even more puzzling to actually be on a first-name basis with the leader of Voltron; that’s right, I’m personally acquainted with Keith Kogane. It was around six months after him leaving the Garrison did I come across him. He’d been loitering around the neighbourhood, had ended up in a fistfight with some other kids, and along with that a split lip and bruised cheek. I’d been watching. When the fight ended, I (somehow) persuaded him to come along so that I could at the very least provide him with a band-aid.

Long story short, we’d bonded over how our moms were no-shows and how dads were the best and we became surprisingly close friends; the only difference was that after the death of his old man, he lived alone. I’d been adopted by my two current fathers. I told him about how when they’d initially adopted me, I was excruciatingly shy. I wouldn’t even come out of my room except meals. It was only when I came to know that they knew how to make candy floss had I timidly approached them if I could have some, because previously I’d always been grossed out at the thought of having to eat that. I’d overheard this group of kids saying that cotton candy was actually just dyed granny hair, so that’s where that came from.

I love cotton candy now. So much so, that even at the age of twenty-six, I will pout if someone takes some of mine without my permission. As if I’d ever allow them to.

Speaking of Keith, I haven’t seen him in years. We lost all contact when he turned eighteen, and then he went off into space, and even when he came back, I didn’t get a chance to meet him. I bear no ill will, though. He must have formed some close relationships. Our past friendship is comparatively much more trivial.

I spot a booth selling grilled corn. I instantly head there.

As I’m about join the crowd of humans and aliens who also want corn, a familiar call of my name leads me to pull a three sixty.

Lo and behold. Keith Kogane.

Despite him having obviously grown a lot, the face was still the same. I’m sure that, if he gets a split lip and bruise on his cheek right now, he won’t look all that different.

There’s a questioning hesitance on his features; he’s probably wondering if he’s got the right person. My pleasantly surprised smile and raised eyebrows assure him. As I step away from the grilled corn stall, I notice a motley crowd behind him; some are purple, some are holding Voltron plushies, and some look way too curious to be in a carnival. The introduction is going to be fun.

‘Keith! You're gonna live a hundred years - I was just thinking about you. But anyways, it’s – it’s great to see you,’ I say with a little giggle. ‘Though I am kind of surprised you actually approached me. The sixteen-year-old you would never.’

He smiles awkwardly in return. ‘Y – yeah… I, just… oh God, this is – I’m sorry,’ he says, his inner turmoil evident.

‘It’s all good. I know you’re shit at small talk, so… like, introduce me? Maybe?’

He nods rapidly, brows furrowed. ‘Yeah, um,’ he turns to the people behind him, telling them my name, how we met, the whole affair. I give them a wave. Most of them greet me back.

‘And, this is Shiro and Curtis,’ he points to the tall, white-haired yet young man, holding hands with a tanner guy, ‘Lance, Pidge and Hunk,’ he points to a lanky, bright-smiled guy, a buffer, kind-seeming person, and a short chestnut-haired woman who, despite wearing baggy jeans and a baggier tee, looks somehow better dressed than me. ‘Then that’s Allura, Coran, and Romelle, they’re Alteans,’ a woman with enchanting beauty and a regal aura surrounding her, a redhead who’s significantly older than the rest with an impressive moustache, and a youthful appearing girl with a big grin, ‘and Lotor, he’s Galran. The Galran Emperor, in fact.’ Lotor is a tall, lilac-skinned man with aristocratic features who shares the same cheek markings as the Alteans. Oh, and he’s unfairly gorgeous, his hair a luscious mane of white which I just know will be soft. It’s hard not to stare. You remember how I said Allura looked like royalty? Yeah, the way this man carries himself, he has the aura and visage of a God. Even in a white tee-shirt and jeans he looks way better than should be legal.

I rip my eyes away.

‘So…are Noah and Oliver here too? I’d love to see them. I mean, I never did get to thank them to permit a possible criminal to sleep in their house.’

I laugh. ‘Never mind that, but we actually sit up a stall here. I could, you know, maybe even get you guys something to eat.’

‘Free? Please don’t.’

‘It’s nothing, really, just… I don’t know, accept it as a small thank you present for not letting the planet go to shit.’

A bit of thinking. Even after a nod from Shiro, it was Lance who said yes. Good ol’ Keith.

When we reach the stall, my British dad is the only one we find there. He looks up, about to say something to me, when he notices Keith.

‘Dad. You remember Keith?’

‘Your possible criminal friend who turned out to be the saviour of the universe Keith?’

‘That Keith. He wanted to see you.’

‘Oh? Well then,’ he dusts his hands, stands up, and greets Keith. Both of them engage in a conversation.

‘You guys wanna try something?’

‘What do you got?’ asks Pidge.

‘What do we got? Um, we got chocolates, candy, marshmallows, jellybeans, tortilla chips, ice cream, popcorn – butter, cheese, caramel, peri peri – Lays, like, a lot of Lays, and the good old cotton candy. What d’you want?’

So, after providing the humans with two Cream n’ Onion Lays, a pack of tortilla chips, a double scoop of butterscotch and chocolate, a small tub of popcorn, and three cotton candy sticks, I turned to the aliens.

‘I’m assuming you guys aren’t familiar with a lot of this stuff, so you could either pick whatever looks to be good, ask your friends, or I could recommend something. What’ll it be?’

Romelle was the one who asked, ‘What’s ice cream like?’

‘It’s sweet. It’s cold. And it’s like… heaven in mouth.’

‘Ooh. I want an ice cream. The… pink one?’

‘That’s strawberry. You can eat it in a cone, or in a cup.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Well, the cup you can’t eat. The cone is like a crispy biscuit,’ judging by her face, she didn’t know what biscuit was. ‘I’ll just give you a cone. It’s all on the house, so no worries if you don’t like it.’

I watched eagerly as she licked the ice cream. An unreadable look crossed her face. Then – ‘This is almost as good as Hunk’s cookies!’

‘Really?’ Coran asked, twirling his moustache. ‘Well, then…’ he squinted to read the names of the various flavours. ‘I would like “cookies and cream”. Yes.’ A cone of cookies n’ cream was served.

‘Allura?’

‘Do you have something that isn’t sweet?’ That was a plot twist. I’d have taken her as someone who appreciated sweeter foods.

‘We do. You want spicy?’

‘…Sure.’ Peri Peri popcorn was given and enjoyed.

And last… ‘Lotor. What would you like to have?’

It takes me a lot of will to not laugh at Lotor’s way too analytical expression. ‘What would you recommend?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Out of all this stuff, candy floss is my favourite.’

‘Candy floss… the item that looks simultaneously like a cloud and an old woman’s hair?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I would like a helping of candy floss, then.’

As I hand Lotor a stick of cotton candy, I wait with anticipation for his reaction.

‘How am I supposed to eat this?’

It takes me a moment to process that. ‘Uh, you just… pinch a little of the stuff in between your fingers, then eat it. Or you could just, um, go in directly, which I’m thinking isn’t really your style.’

He narrows his eyes, but follows my instructions nonetheless. Only a second after putting the stuff in his mouth, Lotor purrs.

Everyone around him, being me, Coran and Romelle (Allura’s off telling Lance how great Earth food is), looks with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Lotor appears as if he’s just died inside. The berry-shaded blush on his face is adorable, though.

'I didn't, like, poison you or something, right?'

'No. It's that... I would never in my lifetimes have expected something so tooth-rottingly sweet to be this delicious.'

'So you're okay?'

‘Yes. In fact, I quite like… this cotton candy.’

I grin.

[coopigeoncoo]

Hot Dish, Chapter 1: The First Course

Chapter Links: One, Two, Three

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura/Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+

Tags: Sexual content, Exhibitionism, Chikan, Heavy Petting, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Safe Sex, Consentual Sex, Swearing, Romance, Soft Shigaraki, Posessive Shigaraki, Domestic fluff, Mutual Pining

---

Down on his luck and scrambling for survival, Shigaraki Tomura was just looking for a place to score a hot meal.

Instead, he ended up scoring a hot date.

--- "You want gravy?" You asked, waggling the ladle of onion sauce enticingly, some of it sloshing over the edge of the spoon and falling back into the pot with a wet squelch. Tomura glared at the chunky sauce disdainfully before closing his eyes and sighing.

"Whatever."

"Gravy it is!" You cheer, pouring the sauce over the meat patty before passing it to him. "There you go! A hunk of meat for my favorite hunk."

--- A slow, domestic romance between a volunteer at a soup kitchen and the newly destitute leader of a notorious villain organization.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to Ao3!

Chapter 1: The First Course

It was the busiest time of year at the soup kitchen.  The weather had recently turned bitter cold and the promise of a warm meal and a respite from enduring the brutal weather was too good of an opportunity for people to pass up. You had started volunteering during high school, looking for a way to beef up your college applications, and found a great deal of personal fulfillment helping out others in your free time. 

Now in college, you still made time to regularly volunteer even though your budget would greatly benefit from you picking up more shifts at your part time job instead.  But you were driven to altruism by that stubborn organ beating in your chest; reminding you of how much you loved the regulars, your friends in the volunteer group, and the feeling of contributing something meaningful to society. 

As much as you enjoyed the work, there were definitely plenty of things about it you wish you could change; the biggest being the terrible feeling you got when the time came to shut the door and cut the line off because you'd reached maximum capacity for the night.  Having to turn people away, hungry and cold, always gnawed at your conscience and you desperately wished that you had a Quirk that could somehow stretch your food supply farther- make every bite more filling or every pot bottomless.  

But you didn't.  So as soon as the last pan of curry was placed up onto the chafing dish you waved to get the attention of the volunteer at the door, a massive literal bear of a man, who then began to make apologies to the people queued up outside as he closed up the entrance.  

"Looks like Scruffy Hot Guy didn't make it in today," Kiyomi, your long time friend and fellow volunteer, teased with a gentle elbow to your ribs.  

"Oh, hush!" You chide her sharply as you scoop up rice. 

"Relax!  It's not like I'm going to tell the guy you think he's- what were your words?  'Brooding and mysterious'?"

"I deeply regret telling you that," you grumble irritably as you slide a plate in front of Kiyomi for her to ladle a serving of curry onto.  Laughing at your expense, you watched as she gave the curry a stir, counting the remaining chunks of chicken and mentally calculating how to divide them up fairly amongst the remaining guests in line.  The next few plates were distributed without incident, people quietly thanking you both as they received their entrees and continued down the line as you and Kiyomi chatted together.  

You were dishing up one of the final scoops when a deep, growling voice interrupted you.

"That ain't enough rice," the man in front of you grumbled in complaint.  He was unbelievably tall, his head nearly scraping the spotty and discolored ceiling tiles as he crossed his arms across his chest, flexing his basketball-sized biceps in an obvious bid to intimidate you.  You had never seen him before, but that wasn't terribly uncommon as people generally filtered in and out as they moved around the city looking for new job opportunities.  

"Excuse me?"

"I said that ain't enough damn rice.  That might be enough for a small thing like you but I need more."

"I'm sorry, sir.  Everyone gets the same dinner serving size to keep things fair.  Further down the line we have protein bars and fruit that you can supplement your meal with-"

"I don't want protein bars!" The man yelled.  "Damn things taste like sawdust!"

You were about to offer another apology and attempt to diffuse the situation when another voice spoke out from behind the irate man.

"Take the food or get out of line."

"What did you say?" The man screamed, spinning around to confront the man behind him.

"Scruffy Hot Guy," Kiyomi gasped in delight.  Sure enough, the object of your idle gossip appeared from behind the screaming man; somehow managing to appear both disinterested and profoundly irritated by the goings on in front of him.  

"I'm hungry and you're holding up the line.  Move, " he practically growled from behind his facemask, his red eyes narrowing in warning.  The large stranger threw his head back, clearly amused by the willowy man's implied threat.  

"Oh, yeah?  Tell you what, why don't you just give me your portion then?  No way a stick like you needs to eat much."

You didn't clearly see what happened next.  There was no scuffle or physical altercation, just Scruffy Hot Guy hooking a finger over his facemask, preparing to pull it down, as he disappeared behind his aggressors' wide frame.  The next thing you knew the large man was reeling back, white as a sheet, as he tripped over his feet in his hasty scramble to the exit.  

Scruffy Hot Guy stepped forward in the line, now occupying the space in front of you as he adjusted his facemask back into position and pulled the sides of his hoodie forward to obscure his face as best he could.  

"That was amazing," you breathed, scooping up a slightly larger helping of rice onto his plate now that there was one fewer person in line.  "What did you even do to that guy?  A Quirk thing?"

"Nah," Scruffy Hot Guy shrugged, scratching at his neck uneasily under your scrutiny.  "I just showed him my face.  Guess I must be pretty ugly."

"I sincerely doubt that," you laugh as you push his plate down the line towards Kiyomi.  "But even if you were, I'd still give you my number if you asked for it," you said, staring directly into his eyes and raising your eyebrows imploringly.  His eyes widened, obviously stunned by your flirtation.  The skin above his facemask burned a brilliant red, temporarily coordinating with his eyes in a very fetching way. 

He mumbles something under his breath as he quickly averts his eyes, hunching his shoulders as he shuffles down the line; grabbing the completed tray from Kiyomi’s hands before loading up his coat pockets with protein bars and trail mix packets and sliding into an open seat on the far end of the room.    

Kiyomi shakes her head, laughing at your rejection as she preps the final plate of the evening.  

“What?” you huff in exasperation.  “You can’t blame me for shooting my shot!  I’ve been waiting weeks for an opening!”

The last person in line, an old woman who came around every week or so, tsked disapprovingly.  “The Gods take the time to craft a man with a butt like that and you wait weeks to make a move?  Are you really that stupid?”

“Hey!” You screech indignantly while Kiyomi throws her head back, cackling.  “I’m not stupid!  Just…cautious.  You never know what someone is really like, you know?”

“True enough,” the old woman hummed, gently rummaging through a pile of overripe bananas. “But I take it that you have a better idea of what sort of man he is now?”

You spared a glance over to the far side of the room, where Scruffy Hot Guy was slowly savoring his meal; his hood pulled low down low to obscure his face while he ate. 

“Yeah, I think I do.”  

Scruffy Hot Guy hadn’t seemed to be particularly receptive to your first advance, but he also hadn’t outright rejected you either.  So you’re currently stuck occupying some sort of weird flirtatious limbo; unsure if you should continue your pursuit or abandon your efforts entirely.  

Deciding to play it by ear, your life cycled through your normal routine until your next shift at the soup kitchen.  

“Well, well, well!  Look who it is!” Kiyomi crowed in delight as Scruffy Hot Guy stepped up in front of you again.  “Our very own Hero has returned to us!”

��Please, Kiyomi,” you scoffed as you slid a grilled fish onto a plate.  “He’s better than a Hero; he’s a good person.”

“Aren’t they pretty much the same thing?”

“Not always,” you mumble, using your tongs to scrape at some fish glaze that had burned at the bottom of the serving dish, entirely missing the interested gaze of Scruffy Hot Guy quietly assessing you.  

"Oden today," you said as you ladled broth into a large soup bowl, chunks of fish cake floating up to the top.

Scruffy Hot Guy peered at the bowl, seemingly unimpressed by the offering.

"Not a fan?"

"It's fine," he mumbled, placing the bowl down gently on his tray, careful not to spill a single drop despite the bobbing radish slices sloshing the broth about.  

"If you have an allergy or something there are some leftovers from yesterday I can reheat for you."

"No, nothing like that," he shook his head gently, pausing to spoon some seven spice on top of his bowl.  "I usually try to pack some of the food away for later.  But soup doesn't travel very well."

You hummed thoughtfully as he finished his meal selection and took his seat.  Once the line had died down you ducked back into the kitchen, snagging a disposable coffee cup and lid before making your way back to the cafeteria.  Silently, you deposit the empty cup next to Scruffy Hot Guy's tray before continuing on past his table to grab a tub of dirty dishes to haul back to the kitchen for cleaning.  

"Thank you," he said quietly as you passed behind him, carefully spooning a hardboiled egg into the cup you'd left him.  

"Of course."

"We have to stop meeting like this," you sighed dramatically, passing him a bowl of stir fried vegetables. 

"How else would we meet?  It’s obvious we run in very different social circles."

"What makes you say that?"

"Really?" Scruffy Hot Guy scoffed.  

"I'm serious!" You pouted, looking critically down at the parts of your ensemble visible around the disposable apron you were required to wear.  You took a lot of pride in your appearance, a good portion of your slush fund spent on building your wardrobe and keeping your nails finely manicured.  Friends had joked about your high maintenance appearance in the past, but you personally likened yourself to a painting; already beautiful to start with but an absolute masterpiece with the right frame to accentuate your features.  Finding no obvious flaws in your appearance, you narrow your eyes at him peevishly.

"Are you saying you'd be ashamed to be seen with me?"

" What," he sputtered, his voice pitched somewhere between shocked and indignant.  

"Don't you 'what' me, mister!  I'll have you know that I'm hot enough to roll with any crew."

"That's not the issue."

"It's not?  So you think I'm hot then?" you pry coyly, fluttering your lashes.  Choking on air, he slams his bowl of vegetables down onto his tray and quickly bumbles away as you laugh.

"Where’s the bun?" Scruffy Hot Guy asked, staring down at the lump of meat you were serving up.

"It's hamburg steak, not a hamburger."

"So it's a burger.  With no bun."

"Right.  No bun, but there is gravy.  You want gravy?" You asked, waggling the ladle of onion sauce enticingly, some of it sloshing over the edge of the spoon and falling back into the pot with a wet squelch.  Scruffy Hot Guy glared at the chunky sauce disdainfully before closing his eyes and sighing.

"Whatever."

"Gravy it is!" You cheer, pouring the sauce over the meat patty before passing it to him.  "There you go!  A hunk of meat for my favorite hunk."

Cheeks rosy above his facemask, he mumbled something intelligible before calmly stepping away.  Smiling widely, you spun on your heel to face Kiyomi.

"He didn't run away!"

"He didn't run away," she confirmed, laughing as you pumped a fist in victory.

"Soooo," you drawl sweetly. "Am I ever gonna get a name out of you?" 

Scruffy Hot Guy visibly stilled, obviously deeply uncomfortable by your current line of questioning.   

"No need to answer if you don't want to.  I won't pry.  I can just call you by the nickname Kiyomi and I gave you," you offer in concession, laying a generous serving or rice gratin next to a small pile of lettuce leaves.  

"What name is that?"

"Scruffy Hot Guy."

A sound that could be best described as some sort of plaintive wail escaped Scruffy Hot Guy as he scratched nervously at his throat.  

"You should-," he paused to swallow thickly.  "You should call me Tenko.  It's better than- than that."

"Tenko it is, then.  Hot Guy Tenko."

"You're insufferable," he growled.

"Well, misery loves company so how about you and I suffer together over coffee sometime?"

"Don't turn my insults into propositions," he chided, selecting a small pouch of dressing for his wilting salad.  

"Sorry, no can do.  I'm nothing if not persistent."

"Persistent?  That's a considerate way to frame that bratty attitude of yours."

"Oh?  What would you call me instead?"

"I would call you what you are," Tenko says, the space between his eyes crinkling with malicious glee. "An absolute Pest."

"Tenko!" You gasp, a gloved hand raised above your chest in mock outrage. "Save the cute nicknames for when we're in private!"

Tenko grunts irritably as he rolls his eyes and steps away from you.  

Kiyomi whistles sharply, waving a hand to fan at her face. "Goodness, that was intense.  When's the wedding going to be?"

"Spring next year.  I want a long engagement so I can save for my dress," you grin, sending a wink at Tenko when you catch him trying to sneak a glance back at you.  He glares back before dropping his head and digging into his meal.

The past few months had been the absolute lowest point in Tomura's life.  His Master had been brought low and imprisoned in Tartarus, the League was fractured and forced underground, and all of his available resources had been drained during the frantic scramble for survival those first few weeks he spent on the lam.  His life of ease and luxury had been erased in an instant; falling to ashes around him like he had dusted it with his Quirk himself.  The summer months outside hadn’t been awful, but he had been forced from his favorite hiding spots once the weather turned colder.  

These days, he spent the majority of his waking hours holed up in various arcades; lifting near empty play cards from unminded purses and pockets and taking hits from unstubbed cigarettes he pulled from the ashtrays to keep his hunger at bay.  Whatever prizes he managed to win he would deliver to Toga during their brief meetups; small things like cell phone straps and plush animals that meant nothing to him, but that she would cradle to her chest with a delighted squeal like they were precious treasures.       

When the League had split, Twice had tearfully supplied them all with maps of the areas he was familiar with.  They were bizarre, scrawling things, folded up like origami cranes and written in a mix of precise pencil notes and wild glitter pen scribblings.  The maps turned out to be just as useful as they were visually abrasive, though.  He’d taken the time to write out common Hero patrol schedules, potential hide outs, the stores that sold the cheapest burner phones, and places to grab free meals.  That was what brought him into the soup kitchen that first day.  

He hadn’t been expecting a lot, because little was all he seemed to be capable of receiving these days.  Little food, little sleep, little peace, little comfort.  But he definitely hadn’t been expecting you.

You threw Tomura through a loop like you pitched for the Major Leagues; with a devastating and seemingly effortless force that left him awestruck and barely holding onto the metaphorical bat.  

There had been plenty of women before.  They were always there, buzzing about the fringes of wherever people of power congregated.  But interactions with them were simply transactional, trading calculated touches and honeyed words for money or influence; things Tomura was awash in for years and freely utilized to sate his desires.  

So flirting was a bit of a new experience for him.  

He didn’t know what to do when you smiled at him; guileless and simply pleased by his presence.  When you flirted with him it was out of some misguided, but sincere, desire to be closer to him.  There was no angling for his money because there was no longer any money to be had.  The mere idea that you found him somehow valuable and worthy of your attention was as flattering as it was bewildering and left Tomura floundering more often than not.  

Tomura didn’t understand your interest.  He’d seen himself in the mirror and held no illusions about his appeal.  He was pale and lanky; crusty and scarred.  He’d seen his partners hide grimaces when his shirt came off, their fingers giving his flaking skin a wide berth as they hesitantly set a course across his back and shoulders.  

And as distasteful as his body was, Tomura knew his personality wasn’t much better.  

There wasn’t a single thing about himself that should draw your attention.  But he still desperately, recklessly, wanted it just the same.  

“Shit,” Tomura whispered, dropping his head forward to thump against the window of the pachinko machine he was seated at, the wild pinging of the steel balls synchronizing distressingly well with the frantic beating of his heart.   

You had been pulling on your regulation hair net when a flier on the bulletin board in the volunteer lounge caught your eye.

“Oh, no,” you moaned miserably.  “We have a Hero Day coming up?”

Various groans of confirmation came from the other volunteers, each sounding as excited at the prospect as you were.    

“Who is it this time?” 

“Mt. Lady and Uwabami.  They got into a spat at some televised fundraiser so their PR teams are shoving them together here to kiss and make nice for the cameras,” Kiyomi explained as she slipped the strap of a plastic apron over your head.    

“Great.  Just great,” you sneered as you hip checked the door open and made your way to the dining room.  

“So, is today finally the day?”

“Is today the day for what? ” Tenko asked, waiting impatiently for you and Kiyomi to finish serving his tempura.  

“Resolving this obvious tension between us by going out on a date together?”  

Tenko narrowed his eyes, an inscrutable look on his face.  “And where exactly would I take you to?  A different soup kitchen?”

“Nah, this one’s pretty nice, don’t you think?”

Tenko sent a brief look off to the right, where a wet mop was propped up in the corner near the section of floor missing a large chunk of linoleum.  “Nice.  Sure. ”   

“Well, nice enough for a first date at least.”

“If this place is first date worthy I can’t imagine what sort of place you’d consider for a second one.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see then, won’t you?” you replied with a wink.

“I guess I will,” Tenko said as he slid his tray down the line before looking back over his shoulder.  “Well?  Are you coming or not?”

Eyes wide, you spin around to face Kiyomi who’s silently mouthing the word ‘Go’ while shooing you away with frantic hands.  Tugging off your gloves and hair net, you dashed out from behind the counter, skidding behind the last patron in line who called out as you passed:

“Get it, girly!” he cackled as you made a brief detour to dump your used sanitary into a trash can.

"I'm working on it, old man!"  You hollered back, sliding into the chair opposite of Tenko while the other occupants of the table scrunched their chairs and trays towards the far end of the table to give you two some semblance of privacy.  

"Hero Day?" Tenko sneered down at the flier on his tray that was advertising the fast approaching special event.

"Yeah," you sighed. "It gets really busy here on Hero Days, so we like to give the regulars a heads up.  The Hero agencies usually donate larger quantities of better quality food, so the bigger meals draw in folks who would normally hit up other soup kitchens."

"So they bribe desperate people with food to act as props for their social media campaigns?"

"Yep," you agreed as you passed Tenko his plate, which he slammed down over the faces of Uwabami and Mt. Lady grinning up at him from his tray.

"Disgusting, " he spat as he stormed away to his usual seat.

The force of everyone's collective will power wasn't enough to stop Hero Day from arriving at the soup kitchen.  The entire crew of volunteers had arrived unreasonably early that morning to clean the facility from top to bottom in preparation for the arrival of Mt. Lady, Uwabami, and the veritable fleet of sidekicks and photographers they would both bring.  Once the janitorial work was completed and the entire front room smelled overwhelmingly of bleach, everyone migrated back into the kitchen and began assembling and bagging up sandwiches to be handed out to the scores of hungry folks who would be drawn to the large event but unable to make it inside before the line cuts off and the doors close.  

You were stacking large boxes of finished sandwiches against the back wall when one of the volunteers, a middle-aged man with a bat mutation, paused in his work of spreading mayonnaise across slices of wheat bread when his ears twitched.  

“They’ve arrived,” he warned quietly as he resumed his work.  “And they don’t sound particularly happy.”  

Kiyomi snorted.  “What else is new?”

Another ear twitch.  “Oh.  Now they’re arguing with the Program Director.  Things are getting heated.  Someone should go up there and back her up.”

Everyone was quiet at the idea of having to go toe-to-toe with two Heroes and their sycophantic entourages.  

“Not it!” Kiyomi called out, thrusting her hand into the air.  The rest of the volunteers quickly followed, tossing their hands into the air to opt out.  You had been halfway across the room, carrying a large box of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that prevented you from raising your hand.  

“Real mature tactic there, everyone,” you snapped irritably as you set the box down and made your way to the door.  

“Have fun!” Kiyomi said cheerily as she waved.  You stuck your middle finger up in return and made your way up the hall to the dining room. 

The scene you arrived at was chaotic.  

Your Program Director, a usually sweet and accommodating woman, was red in the face and absolutely screaming at a sharply dressed man in an ash gray suit.  Mt. Lady and Uwabami were seated as far from each other as physically possible in the moderate sized room, shooting icy glares at each other while their makeup teams toiled to get them camera ready.  The tables in the dining room were already half full despite it being a couple of hours before you were set to open; the seats occupied by people in ill-fitting clothes with dirt smeared artfully across their faces while they passed the time tapping on the screens of expensive, top of the line phones.  You hurry to your Director’s side, making excuses to the man in the suit and guiding her away from the altercation with a firm hand on her elbow.  

Her eyes begin to water as her adrenaline crashes, and you grab a handful of scratchy napkins from a dispenser for her to dry her face with as she sobs. 

“What’s going on here,” you ask gently, rubbing soothing circles on her bicep.  

“Mt. Lady was worried about how the PR photos would turn out so she decided to hire some extras to pose for pictures with her,” she sniffed, dabbing at her face with shaking fists.  

“ Some extras?  We’re already at half capacity with all these people here!”

“I know .”

“And she’s just going to give away food to people she’s paying who can already afford to eat?  While actually hungry people line up outside?”

The Director nodded miserably while you scrubbed a hand down your face, furious.  

“I fucking hate Hero Day.”    

There wasn’t a force on Earth that would force Tomura into the soup kitchen on the day when it would be swarming with Heroes and their worshippers, but his stomach was still making a strong case for itself despite his iron-clad will.  Being able to obtain regular meals made missing one even harder because the gnawing hunger tearing through his gut was an unfamiliar pain that demanded his full attention.  One hand held a nearly empty can of coffee, all he could afford with change he found on the ground today, while his other hand was buried deep in his coat pocket, systematically bending each of Father’s fingers into a fist before carefully straightening them out again and setting about to bend them once more.

He continued fiddling with his macabre fidget toy as he watched tiny snowflakes drift past the covered bus stop he was currently tucked away in; the plexiglass walls doing nothing to trap in heat but they did stop the blustery wind from chilling him down to the bone.  A soft knock next to his head drew his attention away from the falling flurries as he quickly spun to investigate the sound; finding you standing outside of the bus shelter, waving gently.  

Snowflakes had settled onto your eyelashes and they glittered fetchingly under the sickly yellow glow from the streetlight overhead.

"Mind if I join?" Your voice was muffled and distant through the plexiglass, but Tomura heard you clearly enough.  He nodded his assent and you beamed at him, quickly jogging to the entrance while pulling a large shopping trolley behind you.  

"Brr!" You exclaim as you settle next to him, closer than he should have allowed but still not as close as he wanted.  The trolley was situated in front of you both, and your thigh ended up brushing against Tomura's when you leaned forward to root through it.  He inhaled sharply at the innocent contact, his skin tingling with something other than chills where you pressed up against him.  

"Are you hungry?  I've been making the rounds with sandwiches and fruit and have some leftovers.  I've got ham and swiss or turkey and cheddar."

"Whatever's fine," Tomura said as you passed him a sandwich and an oblong apple that he immediately pulled down his mask to take a bite of.  It was mealy and so cold it caused his teeth to ache, but he polished it off in record time and dropped the remaining core into the plastic bag he extracted the sandwich from.    

He examined you from under his lashes, tugging down his hood to obscure his face as you did a quick tally of the remaining supplies in your trolley.  

"You're not at the soup kitchen today?"

"Nope.  Not my usual shift anyway.  I go in and help prep for the Hero Day visits, but me and the other volunteers leave early when the camera crews roll in.  We split up and pass out food on the streets instead."

"Didn't want to stick around for some autographs?"

"Hardly," you snorted inelegantly, tugging your gloves further down onto your fingers.  "We can't pass up on the donations the Hero Agencies offer up, but I refuse to participate in their meaningless virtue signaling.  If they actually wanted to help out they would just volunteer normally like the rest of us," you sniff in irritation, grinding a scratched off lottery ticket under the heel of your boot.  

"But instead they roll in with a cavalcade of reporters, serve up a couple of meals, and then wait for people on social media to tell them how thoughtful and good they are for putting on a show.  It's like a fireman showing up to a house fire, spitting on the flames, and then having people applaud them while the house is still burning."

"Like, Heroes have the money and the influence to actually help people, to really make a difference.  But instead they just waste their resources on meaningless stuff and- ugh, I don't know.  I guess I'm just frustrated because I can't imagine a scenario where I would prioritize acquiring fake internet points over providing a living, breathing person with a meal."

Sighing in frustration, you cross your arms and lean against the wall, your head tilted back to observe the falling snow like Tomura had been doing when you arrived.  

"Think we'd be better off without them?" Tomura asked, peeling off a section of bread crust and popped it into his mouth.

"Hmm?  Without who?"

"Heroes.  Do you think they're necessary?"

You're quiet for a moment, thoughtful.  Obviously weighing your words carefully before replying.   

"It's hard to say, I suppose,” you begin hesitantly. “This is the way the world's been the entire time I've been alive; so I don't have anything to really compare it to.  But I believe that things could be- should be , better than they are now.  I want there to be change, but I don't know what the best course of action for that sort of thing would be."

Tomura hummed, a sound of acknowledgement if not agreement, as he finished off his sandwich and pulled his mask back into place.  His meager disguise once again in place, Tomura leaned his head back and joined you in watching the snow flutter to the ground.  The small flurries had all but disappeared and were replaced by fat, puffy flakes; dramatic bits of fluff that stayed airborne for longer than seemed possible before they settled delicately onto the ground.

"I really love night time snow.  It's so romantic, don't you think?" 

"Can't say I've ever given it much thought," Tomura said, attempting to keep his voice level and casual and you slowly and cautiously slid towards him on the bench, the distance between you narrowing at a glacial pace that had Tomura nearly writhing in anticipation.  You came to a stop achingly close to Tomura, the remaining gap an open invitation for him to reach out, to touch, to accept whatever beautiful and intangible thing you were offering up to him.  

If Tomura were a good man, someone with a noble heart or a modicum of self-restraint, he would have tried to resist the temptation echoing in that sliver of space between you.  But he was, at his core, selfish and greedy; traits that had only been compounded by the past few months of hardship.  With so few things to his name, what he did possess became infinitely more precious and jealously guarded.  And here you were, entirely of your own volition, offering to become one of his rare possessions; to lay down willingly in his hoard- a priceless jewel amongst common trinkets for him to admire.          

The back of Tomura’s hand made contact with you first, gently skirting up the outside of your thigh.  You gasp, a sudden, breathy sound that sends a large cloud of condensation exploding into the air in front of your face as his hand continues its journey up the side of your body.  When his hand reaches your shoulder he carefully extends two fingers and sends them walking over your shoulders, a measured, unhurried march as they make their way across your back.  Once his arm is fully behind you he extends his thumb and wraps your bicep in a three fingered grip and pulls you towards him, the distance between your bodies erased as the grooves and divots of your bodies mold and settle into one and other.  

“Oh, Tenko,” you breathe, nuzzling into the cradle of his shoulder.  “Can we stay like this for a while?”

“Of course,” Tomura says as he runs an index finger across the swell of your cheek, smirking as you lean into his touch.  “I’m not planning to let you go.”     

Tenko had slid in through the soup kitchen doors a few minutes prior and you couldn't help the feeling of exhilaration that roiled in your belly and bubbled up your sternum as he drew closer to you in line.  The shift in your relationship was a recent and exciting novelty.  Every interaction was littered with relationship firsts; delicate threads of moments that would weave into precious memories you bundled your heart into to keep it warm in Tenko's absence.  

He was next in line, paused before Kiyomi as she placed a nearly expired rice ball donated from a local convenience store on his plate.

"You sure you want onigiri tonight?" Kiyomi asked, grinning fiendishly at Tenko as she added a couple of pickled plums next to the rice ball.

"Are there any other options?" 

"Well, you do have the option of this hot dish right here!" Kiyomi cackles as she elbows you roughly in the side, sending you stumbling out of place.  You grumble, rubbing at the impact point with your forearm so you wouldn't have to change your gloves.  

"I hope that you aren't offering her up to everyone in line," Tenko warned, his gaze steely as he narrowed his eyes at Kiyomi.  She swallowed thickly, shaking her head rapidly from side to side.

"No!  Of course not!"

"Good," Tenko said as he reached out for the plate you were holding out to him, running two fingers softly across the exposed band of skin above your glove, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.  

"I've never been one for sharing."

Ever since that night at the bus stop Tenko had been staying late with you at the soup kitchen, awkwardly holding a mop in a pincer grip as he unenthusiastically pushed it around the edges of the room while you and the other volunteers closed up shop.  Once the doors were locked and you’d waved good-bye to your fellow workers, you and Tenko would set out into the city together.  On days when you had a lot of homework or a looming exam he would escort you to the train station, both of you shortening your gaits to draw out the precious few minutes of time you could spend together.  But when your schedule was more flexible you would wander around aimlessly; examining the garish holiday displays set up in store windows or settling on a park bench for extended bouts of people watching.    

Today found you both wandering through a pop-up market, weaving through crowds of harried shoppers and visibly distressed men trying to point their girlfriends and wives to vendors hawking less expensive potential Christmas gifts.  You were comparing the prints of a few different scarves when you noticed the first flurry drift through your line of sight.  With an excited squeal, you turned to find Tenko, sliding your arms around his waist and bouncing happily on the balls of your feet.

“It’s starting to snow again!”

“So it is,” Tenko said, a smile present in the timbre of voice.  Tilting your head back to gaze up into the inky sky, you sighed happily as the tiny flakes multiplied and spun around in dizzying patterns above you.    

“You weren’t kidding when you said you liked snowy nights,” Tenko said, observing your dreamy smile with soft eyes.  

“Yeah.  It’s as close as us city dwellers can really get to seeing a sky full of stars.  When I was a kid I would pretend that all the snowflakes in the sky were shooting stars, each of them racing as fast as they could to grant my wishes,” you admit bashfully, slightly embarrassed by your past whimsey.  

Tenko hummed thoughtfully as he gazed at the icy flakes darting through the sky.  

“They’re going to need to go faster than that if they want to beat me,” he said, dropping his head down to nuzzle into your neck.  “Because there isn’t anything in this universe that wants to grant your wishes more than I do.”  

“Is that so?” you giggle as Tenko buries his face under your coat collar, his chilly cheeks and warm puffs of air making your skin break out into delighted tingles.  

“Yes ,” Tenko sighed against your skin, mask bunched up over his nose as he layered kisses across your collarbone. 

“Well, that’s pretty convenient since all I find myself wishing for these days is you.”

“You should wish for something better.”

“I don’t think there is anything better,” you say as you comb your fingers through the loose strands of hair falling across Tenko’s forehead.  “Not for me, anyway.”  

Tenko’s arms tightened around your waist to an almost painful degree, like he was trying to pull you through his layers of flesh and sinew and into his chest; tucking you tightly into the space beside his heart, caged safely behind his ribs.  

And you were happy to let him try. 

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Dutifully, the large, fluffy dog followed after her, sitting at her feet and resting his head on her lap as he, with rapt attention, watched mother take one of the small tarts filled with onions and goat cheese from the tea tray set between the two women.

...

After a bit of questioning of servants (and the procural of lemon cakes), the girls were able to easily locate their mothers. Ella knocked as the three of them were already walking into Lady Rhea’s solar, Rhaenys offering them a soft smile and a nod as the Lady of Runestone and the queen finished their conversation.

...

Ella filled her plate with the offerings spread across the table. Thick slices of bacon, cod in a white sauce that smelled of coriander, melon sliced into cubes, berries, peppers and mushrooms cooked together in black pepper and cinnamon, bread with butter and marmalade; everything at once seemed like the ideal food to break her fast with. A servant poured black tea,  sweetened heavily enough with honey that she could smell it, into Ella's cup as she used her teeth to tear a hunk out of the bacon on her fork.

- Rhaella 4: The Dragon Has Three Heads

I am really on my George shit with this fic. I have described (at least minimally) food in every chapter so far

[kummatty]

The lamplight in the Store gave a soft make-believe feeling to our world which made me want to whisper and walk about on tiptoe. The odors of onions and oranges and kerosene had been mixing all night and wouldn’t be disturbed until the wooded slat was removed from the door and the early morning air forced its way in with the bodies of people who had walked miles to reach the pickup place.

“Sister, I’ll have two cans of sardines.” “I’m gonna work so fast today I’m gonna make you look like you standing still.” “Lemme have a hunk uh cheese and some sody crackers.” “Just gimme a coupla them fat peanut paddies.” That would be from a picker who was taking his lunch. The greasy brown paper sack was stuck behind the bib of his overalls. He’d use the candy as a snack before the noon sun called the workers to rest.

In those tender mornings the Store was full of laughing, joking, boasting and bragging. One man was going to pick two hundred pounds of cotton, and another three hundred. Even the children were promising to bring home fo’ bits and six bits.

The champion picker of the day before was the hero of the dawn. If he prophesied that the cotton in today’s field was going to be sparse and stick to the bolls like glue, every listener would grunt a hearty agreement. The sound of the empty cotton sacks dragging over the floor and the murmurs of waking people were sliced by the cash register as we rang up the five-cent sales.

If the morning sounds and smells were touched with the supernatural, the late afternoon had all the features of the normal Arkansas life. In the dying sunlight the people dragged, rather than their empty cotton sacks.

from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou

[thiswasinevitableid]

Number 13 with the OT4

Here you go! I went NSFW with this one. It's set in the 40s.

13: Cat

The clock chimes four p.m as Joseph settles down in his chair, notepad in hand. The fog is already gathering around the city, and the only thing that can distract him from thoughts of curling up in bed at home with a book in his hand and his husband in his arms is the case before him. Joseph specializes in the clients other psychologists find too strange. And no case is stranger than that of Indrid Cold.

“Were you able to try my recommendations?”

Indrid adjusts his red spectacles, the color making for a striking contrast between the pale hair that he wears longer than is fashionable, and says calmly, “It seems to be working. Or, at the very least, I have not yet turned into a savage beast just from holding Duck’s hand.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Should we talk about the next steps?”

“If you please. I’m certain there must be a threshold and I wish to do everything that falls before it. Duck deserves as much.”

Indrid came to him on the arm of a worried husband, chewing on his lip as Joseph reviewed the papers his four previous psychiatrists and sent to his office. They summarized his case as a delusion stemming from superstition that manifests as a psycho-sexual complex.

Put simply: Indrid believes that if he experiences too intense an emotion, particularly desire, he’ll turn into a massive, man-eating cat.

In spite of all the notes mentioning concern for the effect this must be having on Indrid’s husband, Duck Newton’s only worry on their first visit was that Indrid was stressed and frustrated.

“I don’t care if we never even share a bed. I just want him to be happy. To know that I love him.”

Indrid refused hypnosis and any talk of medication. And it was abundantly clear that all his previous doctors told him he was crazy and needed to get over his fear. So Joseph adopted a novel approach; he took Indrid at his word, and focused instead on helping him find ways to express and accept love that didn’t send him into a panic or cause him to shut down.

Indrid still thinks he’ll turn into a huge cat if he gets too angry or aroused, but now he’s less convinced his husband will leave him for being too cold and distant. Joseph doubts that could ever be the case, but arguing that point hasn’t gotten them anywhere. And by the end of the session, Indrid is ready to kiss his husband on the cheek.

Once the other man is gone, Joseph closes up shop and heads home. Barclay won’t be back until after the dinner rush, so he settles in at his desk to work on his paper about Lycanthropy. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the page until a shadow falls across it.

“Hey, blue eyes.” Barclay bends down to kiss him, coat still smelling faintly of butter and onion.

“Hi, big guy. Let me put this mess in order, then I’ll make us dinner.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Barclay is already stripping off layers, and Joseph knows he has until he’s down to his undershirt before his brain stops cooperating.

“I like eating together when we can. And I got caught up in work.”

“Saw your handsome client again?”

“I don’t really notice that about them. After all, I’m married to the biggest hunk of heartbreak in the city.”

“....You saw him.” Barclay grins, tugging Joseph into his arms.

“You can’t prove anything.” Joseph tucks his hands into Barclay’s back pockets.

“Can too, babe. You told me about him last month after three belts of gin, and you always work on the werewolf stuff after you see him.”

“I guess that’s true. Without giving away too much, his case brings the idea of unbidden transformation to mind. But I’m trying to think about work less.” He brushes his fingers across Barclay’s auburn beard, “Right now, all I want to think about is you.”

—--------------------------------------------------------

The walk home from Dr. Stern’s office offers two benefits: inspiration for new art and a chance to build up his courage.

He’s once again grateful that Stern doesn’t dismiss his beliefs as a foolish superstition from his homeland. Setting aside all the ways that assumption is insulting to his intellect and his upbringing, it also proves how little past doctors listened. The curse is specific to Indrid’s village, not the entire country of Sylvain, and only applied to people born on the 31st of October. And if he had stayed in his village, the curse would be less of an issue; the land he was born into would keep the curse at bay and he would be able to do everything except have sex with his spouse.

But if he’d stayed there, he would have died of a broken heart.

When a party of scientists from the United States took up residence at the lodge across the street, Indrid found them to be a passing curiosity. But when he was wandering in the woods, distracted as he drew, and literally stumbled over Duck Newton, he knew there was no going back.

Duck, a botanist, initially used his work as an excuse to see him. He’d ask Indrid if he’d seen particular plants, if any of them had interesting properties or stories attached to them, and–if the answer was yes–if Indrid could show him where to find them. But after a month of that, Duck’s inability to lie resulted in the admission that he hated going even a day without seeing Indrid’s smile.

They weren’t children, they each knew what love felt like, how powerful those first weeks of flirtation could be. But there was no escaping the sensation that they had each found a missing piece of themselves.

At the end of the six month research venture, Duck proposed. Indrid shut his eyes and confessed about the curse, keeping them closed so he wouldn’t have the image of Duck leaving him burned into his mind. When warm fingers closed around his own, he looked down to find the other man still on one knee.

Looking back, he curses his own naivete; he was so certain he could still be a tender, affectionate husband, even outside the safety of his home town. But he cannot bear any chance that he’d transform and harm the man he loves. So he withdrew, flinched from touches, hating himself all the while, even contemplating fleeing and leaving Duck to find another.

Finding Dr. Stern, patient and so handsome Indrid can’t help but think of Roger Taylor or other dapper men on the silver screen, has brought him back to himself to a degree. At the very least, he no longer fears Duck thinks he hates him.

When he enters their apartment, Duck is asleep on the couch, book flopped open on his chest. Indrid takes a deep breath, bows, and kisses the top of his head.

“Hmwazat? Oh, evenin sugar.” Duck grins at him, lets out such a charming sigh when Indrid kisses his cheek that Indrid does it twice more.

“Appointment when that well, huh?” His husband sits up, holds out his hand so Indrid will join him on the deep red cushions, “or does seein’ Stern just make you a little, uh, frisky?”

“Of, of course not.” Indrid keeps his hands in his lap, even as he aches to pin Duck on his back.

“Couldn’t blame you if it does. Fella’s got a face that’d stun a bird outta the sky. Not quite as remarkable as yours, though.” He leans in, reciprocating the kiss on Indrid’s right cheek. God, Indrid misses kissing him on the lips, the way his tongue would play between them, slipping his hands under Duck's shirt…

“I, we should stop. I’m sorry, sweet one, I’m getting, it’s too-”

“It’s okay.” Duck twines their fingers together, “bein by your side makes me feel like the luckiest fella in the world. Kissin’ is just a bonus.”

“But I want to. And I can’t want to intensely because even that may set it off but I…all of me aches for you.”

“I know, sugar.” His husband tips sideways, shifts so he can lay with his head in Indrid’s lap. This is safe, they tested it two weeks ago, “we’ll get there. Even if we don’t, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I promised forever, and I fuckin meant it.”

Indrid studies their linked hands, matching gold bands glinting in the light, “I know.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s not certain they’re correlated, but the more Indrid is able to express his emotions and his affection to Duck, the more he’s able to do all the other things he’d hoped for from his life here. After a few inquiries, he’s been hired to teach painting classes for adults looking to broaden their horizons or take their minds off the chaos of the world.

Better still, the building where he teaches is only a few blocks from the botanical gardens where Duck works. He has an hour to draw, dine, or dawdle on his own before he joins his husband and the front gate and walks arm in arm with him through the park, laughing about their day.

He’s found a restaurant with a view of the duck pond in the park, settles on a corner stool so he can watch the cook at the grill while he eats his apple cobbler. It’s not busy, but he’s still not expecting the man to pause at the counter and smile at him.

“Long way from home?” A smile parts a bearded face when Indrid stares up, surprised.

“How could you tell?” He replies in Sylph.

The man tips his head at the medallion peeking out from Indrid’s shirt. It’s a bright orange stone, native to Sylvain, and wearing a piece of it is said to protect her children when they travel beyond her borders. The cook lifts his wrist, revealing a bracelet with an orange triangle at its center.

Indrid studies his countryman more carefully; deep brown eyes, full lips, and a face that was made to be caressed. Before he can ask his name, a flock of tourists push through the doors and he returns to his station. Just as Indrid is leaving, a baritone voice as dark and rich as fine chocolate, catches his ear.

“You local?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come back soon and I’ll have something special for you. Something from home.”

Indrid returns after teaching his Friday class. The cook murmurs, “Don’t order” in a tone that makes Indrid want to kneel at his feet. He’s so busy trying not to turn into a mindless panther, the clank of a plate on the counter surprises him. On it are a pair of doughnuts, and when Indrid bites them he’s met with a burst of salty cheese, sweet blackberries, and honey.

“Just like home?”

“Better.” He wipes his mouth, wishing he could unhinge his jaw and swallow both down at once, “Do you make them often”

“Only when I’ve got a good reason to.” Strong arms rest on the counter, “Like when someone walks in here looking like a moonrise on a summer night.”

Indrid notices the wedding ring on the man’s hand and decides it’s safe to tease, “Tsk, does your beloved know you keep the old habits?”

(In Sylvain, it’s as common to have two or three partners as it is to have one).

“His only rule is I have to share” The cook winks and Indrid could swear he feels claws pushing at his fingertips. His face must give him away, because the other man straightens, “Sorry, just nice to have someone from home to joke with. I, uh, I’m Barclay.”

“Indrid.”

Barclay lifts the empty plate, “More?”

“Please.”

They talk on and off as customers come and go, and Indrid tells Duck about it as they walk home. His husband is genuinely excited on behalf.

“If the fella seems nice, we oughta have him and his husband over for dinner sometime. I know you been homesick, and it wouldn’t kill me to practice my Sylph, so if we could make friends with some folks from back your way, that’d be real swell.”

—--------------------------------------------

“This is the place.” Joseph hits the buzzer for apartment 7B. Once they’re allowed in and up the stairs, Barclay knocks eagerly on the door, bottle of wine in his other hand. When the scuffed wood swings open, Joseph sighs.

“I was wondering if this would happen.”

Duck stares back at him, “Didn’t know you were, uh, so intimate with Sylph culture.”

“I…it’s not good practice to reveal personal details to clients.” He smiles at the red glasses over Duck’s shoulder, “Hi, Indrid.”

“This does, ah, explain why you aren’t dismissive of my cultural beliefs.”

“Close mindedness is a terrible thing in a scientist.” He steps back from the door, “but I really shouldn’t have dinner with you three.” He kisses Barclay, “it’s pushing it to even suggest Barclay stay, but you’re not his patient and, well, as I said I don’t talk about work.”

He says his goodbyes and returns to the foggy street. As he stands under a light, contemplating whether to return home or find some other way to pass the time, a shadow falls next to him.

“Figure ‘Drid and I don’t gotta be joined at the hip. And it’d be a damn shame for you to spend the night alone.” Duck smiles, then winces at his words, “uh, I mean, in the, uh, y’know, friendly sense.”

A friendship with a patient’s husband is a terrible idea. But Duck is standing there with his lopsided smile and an ass just begging to be groped and Joseph is only human.

“I appreciate the company, even if I’m not really sure of my own plans.”

“We could walk through the park. They’ve redone some of the gardens and they look damn good.”

“Lead the way.”

They wind around lawns and between trees, under a silently arrived at, mutual agreement to not mention Indrid. It doesn’t take long to discover how charming Duck’s laugh is as it bounces through the air, or for the polite distance between their shoulders to shrink to the barest hint of space.

Duck stops, staring at the mud near a broken sprinkler, “Huh, told ‘em we had foxes here somewhere. Look, you can see the tracks.”

“How can you tell?”

The other man explains the finer points of predator prints, adding, “trained as a tracker before I went overseas on the research trip, just in case.”

They talk travel while circling the park’s centerpiece; a fountain displaying all the signs of the zodiac in marble. When the botanist spies the shape of Leo, he goes quiet.

“Hey, uh, Joe? Thanks for everything you’re doing for ‘Drid. He was so goddamn frustrated by the last fella he saw I was sure he was just gonna give up. That quack even tried to tell him I was the problem, because if I were better lookin surely ‘Drid wouldn’t be so scared of sex.”

Joseph raises an eyebrow, “There are so many issues with that. Starting with the fact that anyone with eyes can see how Indrid looks at you and that you have the kind of body that most people would kill to get their hands on.”

Before he can apologize for overstepping, Duck smirks and murmurs, “Startin to see why you and ‘Drid get along so well.”

They steer the conversation into safer waters as they turn back towards Duck’s apartment. As they climb the steps, Indrid’s laughter ringing out above them, Duck links their arms together under the guise of steadying Joseph on the steep stairs. Joseph feels the contact long past the point where they say goodnight.

—----------------------------------------------------------

He’s going to have to stop seeing Dr. Stern.

It was bad enough when Indrid was dreaming of Duck holding him down in bed and demanding he do what a husband should. Or when his sleeping mind conjured images of Joseph pinning him to the couch in his office and promising him he’ll prove it’s all in his head. Now he’s dreaming of slipping behind the cafe counter and dropping to his knees when Barclay tells him he won’t be paying for dinner. Not with money, anyway.

Worst of all, he’s begun dreaming of the four of them together, woken up to a sting of his nails or teeth losing their points, or to the sound of what he fears are fading snarls.

There’s an odd air in the office and a just-visible tension in Joseph’s shoulders when Indrid takes his seat.

“We’re going to try something intense today. I want you to generate and hold onto the kind of intense emotion you’re most afraid of. You don’t have to tell me what you’re picturing, but I have a theory that may crack this whole issue.”

“I, my only fear is that if I do transform I’ll-” His eyes widen as Joseph sets a small revolver on the table to his right.

“I’ll be ready if you attack me. It won’t come to that. I promise. But I know you’ll feel safer trying this exercise if you can be assured you won’t hurt anyone. Now, close your eyes and picture something to generate either anger, fear, or lust.”

It takes him a moment to settle on the fantasy of the four of them camping out in the forests back home, of hands on his throat and hips keeping him in place as they each took whatever they pleased from him. The itch in his hands grows and he whispers, “I can’t, I’m going to become a monster.”

“Stay with me, Indrid. Even as the emotion fills you, remember you’re here, that you’re Indrid Cold, an artist, who’s sitting in my office.”

“I, I” he does as asked, the itch subsiding even as he pictures Duck forcing his head between his thighs while Barclay works his cock into his ass.

“There we go, you’re doing so well.” Joseph’s soft, firm tone may as well be part of the fantasy for what it’s doing to him, “remember to take deep breaths, it will keep the panic away, good, perfect.”

His cock is perking up, a situation that usually shuts him down, but tonight he lets it, uses Joseph’s voice as his anchor as desire swallows him up. Gradually, Joseph coaxes him to leave the fantasy, to return to a calmer state and he does, opens his eyes to find not a claw in sight.

“There never was a curse.” He murmurs, turning his hands this way and that.

“It seems not. I suspected your body was so used to panicking at the thought of passion that you mistook some of its symptoms, like dizziness or a tingling in the hands, as proof of an oncoming transformation.”

“Am I cured?”

Joseph studies him, blue eyes sparkling with pride, “Only you can tell me that.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of all the times for Duck to get the flu. He came down with a fever the night Indrid returned home from visiting Joe with a triumphant smile on his face. Had Duck not been laid up in bed with sweat dripping down his spine, he’d have gladly dragged Indrid under the blankets and made up for lost time.

For the last two weeks, Indrid has looked after him while whispering ideas that are so filthy they’d make a peepshow look tame. Tonight, Duck is finally well enough for them to try some out. Better still, Indrid’s taken on extra art classes, leaving him time after work to do the place up nice before his husband gets home.

“Oh!” Indrid sets his supplies by the door, clapping his hands as he takes in the candles and flowers dotting the apartment, “oh it’s lovely.”

Duck leans against the couch, “Know what they say, gotta keep the spark alive.”

Indrid locks the door and purrs, “So they do. And there is a fire I’ve been dying to start.” He draws Duck into his arms, kissing him hungrily while Duck pushes a coat from narrow shoulders to cup his hands around the back of his neck. Indrid always loved that, when they were first flirting in Sylvain. Now, it sets him melting backwards onto the couch, Duck straddling his lap to grind against him. Indrid pants and moans, already more ruined with desire than Duck’s ever seen him, parting his lips whenever their faces grow close.

“Fuck, I missed kissin you so goddamn much.”

“Likewise” A string of kisses down his cheek, “sweet one, I am going to devour you, you will not be able to get out of bed for days, goodness, please, please kiss me some more.”

Duck obliges, then yelps playfully, “Careful with those lovebites, sugar.”

Indrid pulls back from where he was nibbling Duck’s lip with a put-upon sigh, “Very well, my delicate, American–oh, oh dear I drew blood.” He raises a hand to his own mouth.

They notice the claws at the same time.

“No!” Indrid scrambles up, knocking Duck to the floor, “No, nono, it can’t be, it’s not real-” he doubles over with a groan of pain, face morphing and limbs shuddering.

“Stay with me ‘Drid, please, it’s gonna be okay.”

Indrid doesn’t stay around for more reassurances. There’s a heart-rending yowl as he leaps from the window. Duck calls his name, panicking as he runs to the windowsill. The two story fall didn’t so much as slow his husband down, his still-changing shape fleeing into the park.

He wrenches the phone from its’ cradle, prays that someone is at home on the other end.

“Hello, this is the Stern residence.”

“Barclay, it’s Duck, you fellas gotta help me. That curse ain’t bullshit and now ‘Drid is all alone turnin into god-knows-what! Please, he ran into the gardens, that place is so big I might not find him on my own, if, if someone sees they might hurt him. I know ‘Drid ain’t Joe’s patient anymore but-”

“We’re on our way.”

The phone is barely hung up before he’s out the door and into the night. Scanning the ground with his flashlight reveals strange tracks, too big to belong to anything native. He follows them, nearly loses them twice before they stop in a thicket. He kneels in the dirt, raises the beam and finds it reflected back in two points.

“‘Drid? Do you recognize me?”

“Yes.” His husband creeps into view, pale fur glinting in the light, glasses gone and now-yellow eyes huge with fear, “Why did you follow me? I, I could have been a mindless beast, could, could have killed you.”

“You ain’t mindless. And you ain’t so much a beast as a…werecat? That a thing?”

“Apparently. The stories made it sound like I’d become a panther or somesuch. A monster that still has its faculties is far less terrifying. At, at least on my end.”

A rustle breaks the air, followed by “Duck?”

“Over here Barclay!”

The other two men come into view, both stopping beside Duck to stare at Indrid.

“Oh my lord.” Joseph crouches, “Indrid, you’re gorgeous.”

“Took the words right outta my mouth.” Duck holds out his hand, “c’mon sugar, let’s get you home.”

Indrid wiggles free of the clutching sticks, leaves stuck in his pale fur. His clothes are tattered, his ears are still slightly back, and his tail is lashing.

“What if someone sees me like this?”

“They should consider it an honor. But, uh, since a lotta people are jerks, here” Barclay already has his peacoat off, holds it open so Indrid can put it on. Joseph takes off his fedora, setting it on Indrid’s head to hide his ears and then turning up his collar so his face is mostly hidden.

“Does that work?” the doctor smooths down the fabric.

“Very well.” Indrid purrs, “and wearing things that smell like you both is very comforting.”

They swiftly back to the apartment, none of them breathing easily until they’re inside. As he removes the loaned clothes, Indrid looks at his feline state with frustration.

“Why aren’t I changing back?”

“It could be that being afraid fed some sort of adrenaline reaction that is keeping you that way.” Joseph’s voice loses its professional tone as he adds, “I’m so sorry, to both of you. I ought to have repeated my experiment, ought to have thought about how intensity of emotion only increased with actual interactions instead of imagined ones.”

“Babe, there’s no way you could have known.”

“It was my job to find out. And instead I put you both in distress and danger.”

Indrid cocks his head, then reaches out and takes Joe’s hand, guiding it up so he can rub his fuzzy cheek into the palm.

Joseph laughs, then blushes, “Duck, is it rude to say your husband is wonderfully soft?”

“Ain’t rude if it’s true.” Duck cautiously takes Indrid’s hand, kissing the knuckles as he pets up his arm, “holy shit, you weren’t kiddin.”

Indrid’s smile turns dreamy as he tosses a gaze at Barclay, “Care to get in on the, ah, heavy petting?”

“Uh huh.” Barclay loops his arms around Indrid’s middle, scritching his sides, and whispers something in Sylph that makes Indrid purr louder.

“I’m not sure this counts as that.” Joseph smiles as Barclay leans around to kiss his wrist.

“It could. I, ah, I mean, I, never mind, forget I said anything, please keep petting my soft, soft head.”

“Say more, kitten.” Barclay tightens his hold and Indrid wriggles with a pleased moan.

“I, I may also not be turning back because all I can think of is the three of you taking me. Claiming me.”

“I suppose we did find you..” Joe licks his lips, glancing at Duck with a look that suggests they’ll back off if this isn’t okay.

“That we did. Which means you’re ours. In fact, I got just the thing to prove it. Don’t go nowhere.” He steps into the bedroom, pulling a black box from the bottom drawer of the dresser, “see, ‘Drid had been sayin he wanted to try a different kind of setting for his necklace, and I was savin this for a special occasion.”

“I’d say seeing him in all his glory is pretty fucking special.” Barclay nips the end of one of Indrid’s ears.

“Damn right it is.” He opens the box, revealing the thin, red, leather collar, silver ring at its center that a charm or stone could fasten to.

“It’s perfect” Indrid bites his lip, “will you put it on for me?”

“Of course, sugar.” Duck carefully winds the leather around his throat, slips two fingers beneath it to be certain it’s not too tight. Indrid touches it, then darts forward to kiss him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Duck rests their foreheads together for a moment, then looks at Barclay, “okay big fella, you start figuring out all the ways to make him purr. I got business with the doctor over here who pointed a gun at my husband.”

“It wasn’t loaded.” Joe clearly has more protests ready when he notices Duck’s smile, “but it was very rude of me to do that.”

“He likes being hit.” Barclay rumbles, sitting on the couch and yanking Indrid into his lap.

“That so? Okay doctor, put your hands on the top of the sofa” He shoves Joe forward, grabbing his ass with both hands as the taller man follows his orders. Once he’s stable, Duck swats the right side over and over, laughing as Joe cries out.

“Oh, those are very nice sounds.” Indrid tips forward enough to kiss Joe’s shoulder.

“Guess I better make him make some more.”

“SHIT!” Joe white knuckles the couch, “yes, yes, again.”

His pleas are drowned out by a needy yowl, and they both look over to find Barclay with a tail wrapped around his fingers. The cook grins, tugging it again while hooking his other finger through the loop of the collar. Indrid yowls once more, nearly all the yellow gone from his eyes when they land on Duck.

“Fuck it.” He hauls Joe up by the back of his shirt, “punish you another time, I been waitin a year to fuck ‘Drid and my patience just ran out.”

“Understandable” Joe pants, plants precise kisses along Duck’s jaw, “but I have a recommendation first.” He removes his tie–he must have just come home from work when Duck called–and loops it through the collar, knotting it off into a make-shift leash. He tugs it once and Indrid nearly falls into his arms.

“Good boy.” Joseph kisses him, “take him to the bedroom, big guy.”

They pile through the threshold, stripping clothes off into haphazard piles. Duck grabs a box from the closet, pulling out the spare dick he bought and a harness to fit it in. As he’s wrestling with the straps, there’s muffled moaning from the bed; Barclay has found the lubricant and condoms, thick fingers working Indrid open while Joe holds tight to leash and kisses Indrid relentlessly.

When Duck joins them on the mattress he fists a hand in Joe’s hair, messing up the carefully slicked strands as he drags kisses from his lips to his chest.

Joe is kiss-dazed when he pulls back and says, “Alright, big guy, it’s Duck’s turn.”

“Kitten’s all yours.” Barclay crawls around to join his husband. Duck thinks for a moment, petting Indrid’s back reassuringly.

“Sugar? How do feel about, uh, gettin deflowered by two people at once. Or even three.”

Pointed ears twitch with interest, “I would be lying if I said it was a new idea to me.”

“Then here’s what we’ll do; you’re gonna open that sweet mouth for Barclay, use this” he runs a firm hand up an already dripping cock, “on Joe, and I’m gonna fuck you like you’re an alleycat in heat.”

Indrid flails for a condom, remembers his claws, and hands it to Joe while Duck slicks his cock up. Joe rolls gracefully onto his back, legs spread so invitingly Duck almost suggests a change of plans to shove his dick in there instead. But Indrid is purring, high and delighted, and pounces on him with a joy that makes Duck smile.

“Shhhit, oh that’s good. But you need to stay still, be a good boy so Duck can get into, well, you.” Joe snickers as Indrid nuzzles his cheek.

When Duck pushes in, Indrid gasps, jerking his hips so Joe echos the sound.

“Fuck, ass looks just as good with my cock in it as I thought it would.”

“And if you do not begin using it this instant I will wail so loud it wakes the whole block.”

“Can’t have that.” Duck winks at Barclay, who grabs the leash to guide Indrid’s head up.

“Damn, big fella, every part of you is king sized ain’t it?”

“Heh, yeah.” Barclay blushes proudly, “think you can take it, kittenfuck, ohfuckIndrid” His other hand grips Indrid’s hair as he laps at the head of his cock. Duck enjoys the show, grinding his hips slowly as Indrid’s mouth stretches wider and wider. Barclay is grunting with every thrust, then groans as Joe snakes a hand up to toy with his balls.

“I never can keep my hands off you.”

Barclay blows him a kiss, it’s tenderness contrasting with the force with which he fucks down into Indrid’s throat. He rubs the base of Indrid’s skull, “if it’s too much, kitten, snap twice.”

Indrid gives a thumbs up. Then he yowls, garbled and long, and digs his claws into Joe’s shoulder as Barclay and Duck begin thrusting at the same time.

“LORDalmighty that’s nice, fuck, good boy, scratch as much as you need.” Joe’s feet kick erratically as Indrid fucks him. Duck speeds up his thrusts at the sight, grabs Indrid’s tail and bites down.

“MMMphhhh!”

“Can you do that again? Face is even nicer to fuck when he yowls.”

Duck bites harder, growls as he watches dark claws cling to Joe’s arms.

“Fuck” Barclay grits his teeth, “fuck I’m gonna paint your stomach white in ten fucking seconds, your mouth is so fucking good I can’t even be disappointed it’ll be over so fast.”

“You found him too, big guy, you can use it whenever you want.”

“G-guess that’s true. Fuck, ohfuck, Indrid, kitten, yes.” Barclay groans and Duck can see Indrid frantically swallowing as he cums down his throat, “c’mon, I gave you a treat, be good and finish it.”

When the cook finally releases him, Indrid gasps, begging for something in his native tongue.

“Can have as many kisses as you want.” Barclay replies, all traces of roughness gone as he cups Indrid’s face and peppers it with kisses. Where he feared jealousy might lurk, all Duck finds is happiness that someone else sees Indrid for the treasure he is and wants to treat him right.

“You’re always so thoughtful.” Joe watches his husband with admiration, fingers working his own dick with swift circles. He cums as Indrid sinks his teeth into his chest, looking just as gorgeous doing so as Duck dreamed he would.

Duck grabs Indrid’s hips, forcing him to pull out so Joe can open his arms to Barclay. Then he lets go, Indrid resting on his forearms as Duck blankets him with his body and reaches a hand around to his dick.

“Want me to make you cum, sugar.”

“Yes” it’s nearly a sob, “please, I’ve waited so long.”

It takes three strokes before he’s spilling on the blankets, a strange purrmoan filling the room as he begs for Duck to please, beloved, please, claim what’s his. Duck pumps his hips, humping the texture of the harness and the curve of Indrid’s ass until he cums with a moan that’s months in the making.

He pulls free and tosses the toy to the floor. Then warm, soft fur wraps around him as Indrid holds him close.

“When I was hiding, I was so afraid you would not love me once you saw me like this. I, the fact that you not only love me but want me” Eyes that are fading from yellow to brown meet his own, “I could not have asked for a finer man.”

“Seems to me you got three.” Duck smiles as Joe rests his chin on his shoulder.

“It…it is common for Sylphs to have such arrangements. But only if everyone wishes it to be so.”

“Hell yeah I do.”

“Me too.”

“You already know how I feel.” Barclay kisses Indrid softly, “gotta remind you not everything from home is a weird curse.”

Indrid studies his hand as it returns to normal, then takes in their shared state of delighted dishevelment and replies, “You know, I’m beginning to think it was a blessing in disguise.”

[ranty-ramblestein]

(captions~)

So, I actually looked up a list of all cranny items that I’m missing (aka the ones I can reorder through the catalog), and I’m only missing five!? So, of course, none of the animals on the Archipelago unlocked any, meaning I was going to make the gallery, but... I made a joke about Hans in today’s first post, and I realized I didn’t want to lose Hans, so today’s Daily House winded up being his house, but also the upstairs that would inevitably become Klaus’ Room!

Oh, but I should probably explain the joke?  My Pocket Camp Character was Onion (still is, kinda.  I haven’t deleted the app, but everytime I check in for a new event I see the feature bloat building...), who's boyfriends with Hans, but later on I unlocked Klaus (who I remember visiting in Marriland’s New Leaf town at one point, but had completely forgot about) and thought he would be way cuter as Onion’s boyfriend... But I got the idea that Onion is really loyal to his boyfriend and didn’t want to dump Hans over something as artificial as looks... not that he can stop staring at Klaus!

I get the idea that Hans is waiting for Onion to just approach him with polyamory... but also I think it would really be funny is Klaus is straight.  Anyway, the idea of the three of them staying in one house would be torturous for the lust-stricken human.  (”Wow, you can really tell this idea was created by an asexual person,” you say.  I agree.)

I made Klaus’ upstairs room first, and decided to base it on his symmetrical New Leaf house, so check down below for that, along with the rest of build!

pic 1: This winded up being the only new soundscape idea I had, lol. pic 2: Aww, Bunnie was visiting Reneigh in the big room! (Reneigh should def be in the girlboss room!) pic 3: I went through a list of 2.0 furniture to find out I was missing exactly 5 more items, and no one on the beach unlocked any of those, but I joked about Hans and Klaus roommates in the last post... pic 4: And I get points toward the next rank for all the roommates I have set up!  Anyway, I have to suggest the theme I decided on in last post! pic 5: "Hey, how about you leave the big ideas to me?" Croissant suggested.  "Yeah, alright," Hans chuckled, "Make sure to leave some room for my boyfriend, whenever he gets around to leaving camp!" pic 6: I decided to finally use the two-layer island... pic 7: for the two-story house! pic 8: I revealed the boundaries of the house once again, huehue~ pic 9: I brought in some Pocket Camp stuff, and made it super cozy for snuggling while projecting old movies! pic 10: Klaus is hiding a Robust Statue behind their house!  He needed more art outside~

I decided against the orange lights later on, but I decided to pull up Klaus’ list of furniture and mostly focus on using all of those~

Waait, I thought these didn’t count as being in the catalog when I haven’t scanned the cards!?  Hmmm... Did they pull back that nerf?

The moss jar is kind of standing in for a marimo...?  Or is that what those moss jars are supposed to be already?  The moss ball furniture item isn’t in water...

Filled with symmetry!  I even got him a striped couch to stand in for the dead classic sofa~

I gave Klaus his fave NH music, but I could’ve made his fave NL music play!  Milonga is in this game, after all!

I set up the stressbuzz music again!  His bed has healing bubbles to match the soundscape, the TV is chattering, and I made the bath a little drippy!

...I tried.

No Soundscape down here!

Looking through the computer variants, I thought this would be a hilarious idea!

Klaus’ room is sectioned off so they still have a living room, dining area, and kitchen, sadly... That protein is Klaus’, btw!

Imagine sitting on a sleigh while you eat dinner, lol.

The gray stripes on the lamp are a bit hard to see, huh?

“Oh, right, the theme name!” Croissant remembered after he took the photo.

“Now we just need to find the second German hunk!” Hans laughed. “Oh, it’s not your boyfriend?” “No way!  He likes wearing dresses and long hair like you! And he’s certainly not German!” Hans laughed. (I think the lore was that Onion is Spanish-American...?) “Oh, huh, another gender non-conforming man, huh?  I’d love to meet him!” Croissant smiled. “He always has green hair, so he’d probably say the same!” Hans laughed again.

I was originally gonna add an exclamation mark, but I think it’s funnier if only Portia’s Theremin Fence deserves punctuation marks, lol. (...Wait, apostrophes count as punctuation marks!?  Uhh, I just meant sentence-ending ones!)

He was singing, lol.  Not exactly what I was thinking of when I said podcast!

I love this silly, top-heavy dude.

[tealquacks]

They Share A Kitchen

An intrulogical (can be read as platonic) fic

Originally posted here : https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317644

While the light and dark sides preferred to keep their distance from one another, they had to share some parts of Thomas’ mind. The imagination, for example, was split down the middle just like the two sides that ruled them, a mix of gnarled trees and fluffy clouds, unicorns and demogorgons, living in hostile harmony. They also had to share a living room, a few hallways, and the kitchen. Almost as if Thomas’ subconscious was trying to push the sides together. 

But the sharing didn’t bring them any closer, especially considering recent events. The “dark” sides avoided the “light” sides and Roman avoided everybody. All the shared spaces did was give Logan reasons to share more fun facts at the breakfast table.

“Studies show certain animals that inhabit areas close to human activity have begun to develop nocturnal tendencies in order to avoid said humans,” Logan had said one day over a bowl of dry cereal. 

“And what does that have to do with anything?” Virgil grumbled. Patton yawned.

Logan sighed. “I’ll answer your question with a question. Why do we always wait until eight am to get our breakfast?”

Virgil looked down into his coffee cup, and mumbled something. 

“What was that?”

“...To avoid Remus and Janus.” 

Logan had huffed triumphantly. Really, he found their little schedule fascinating. He made a little schedule on lined paper, marked out by half hours. He practically had their movements tracked down to the minute. Weeks worth of observation, neatly graphed out. It almost made Logan want to cry. 

Six am to seven am seemed to be the hours where Janus, the resident morning person, dragged Remus to the kitchen and got himself a cup of coffee and made himself breakfast, before making a hasty retreat to his room. Remus made breakfast after him, then left at around seven forty five am. Then the ‘light’ sides (minus Roman) claimed the kitchen from eight am to ten. Sometimes even to ten fifteen, depending on what Patton and Virgil made. 

Roman grabbed whatever leftovers there were at ten thirty. Afterwards, (around 11) Janus would emerge to get another cup of coffee and an early lunch, and Patton would get a cup of tea to drink and chat with him. Roman would slip into the kitchen at noon to get water or a snack, then right at twelve o’ eight, Remus would bolt into the kitchen, grab something to eat, then dash away before Patton could enter for another cup of tea at around twelve o’ twelve. At two, Virgil and Patton would sit in the kitchen and chat.

There were only two ‘dead zones’ Logan could find, where nobody visited the kitchen. Between two thirty and four, where everyone kept to themselves in their room until dinner (which Janus and Remus ate at four, himself, Virgil and Patton at five, Roman at around six if he remembered to eat), and from three am to five thirty am. Logan never had the chance to observe the kitchen that early in the morning— which is to say he never had an excuse to disrupt his sleep schedule. 

Even then, his curiosity plagued him. Virgil sometimes woke in the night to grab a midnight snack, but was he ever there at three thirty am? Some mornings there would be a pot left on the stove, or flour on the counters. Maybe it was Roman, trying to cook but only succeeding in making a mess. Or Janus? No, Janus always cleaned up after himself, it wasn’t him. Did Patton wake in the night to cook or bake…?

The logical thing to do was to ask if anyone went into the kitchen at those hours. The logical thing sounded like far much more trouble than simply staking out in the kitchen and waiting to see if someone came along, then ask them if their late night (early morning?) visits to the kitchen were a part of their routine. That would cut out any unnecessary conversation. Certainly it would be the best option— avoid any conversation that could possibly turn into an argument and distress Thomas, while also ridding himself of this curiosity. 

All of those events led to now. Logan sat on the couch, close enough to hear if anyone entered the kitchen, but obscured enough by the couch that he wouldn’t be seen. Not that that mattered, both the kitchen and the common area were pitch black. Not a single sliver of moonlight shone through the windows. He checked his watch. Two fifty-one. He’d been sitting there for an hour.

Logan briefly paused his train of thought. Why did he care so much? He wanted to complete his chart. Why did it matter to him? 

Logan sighed. The mystery person wouldn’t be here for at least another forty minutes. And that is assuming that they follow their schedule every single day. It made sense that there would be nobody in the kitchen. Every single metaphysical person was asleep. Except for him. 

Being thorough is important. What if he had missed something? Or this person's trips to the kitchen add a whole new variable to his chart? Who knows. He certainly didn’t, so he had to find out.

He checked his watch again. Three twenty am. Huh, overthinking truly was a great way to pass the time. Only fifteen minutes to go until the truth revealed itself to him in the form of one of his fellow sides stumbling into the kitchen. Maybe it would be Patton, taking sock-muffled steps into the kitchen on his way to bake, or Janus with a novel and a desire for a cup of tea. The possibility that simply nobody went to the kitchen between three thirty am to five am hung in the air. It didn’t make him any less curious. 

Footsteps. Heavy, thundering things in the kitchen. Logan jolted. Slowly he turned around to look into the kitchen, and found that the lack of light made his eyes useless. All he could see was a shadowy figure in front of the cupboards. He heard one open, then shut a minute and a half later. 

Logan watched the shifting darkness. Metal scratching metal—what the hell was that? He cringed at the harsh sound. More scraping noises. If he could feel anything, he’d classify the prickles running up his spine as fear, or anxiety, but since he certainly had no emotions, he chalked the sensation up to being cold. Even then, Logan flinched hard when the shadowy figure used a food processor. Three thirty five am.

More metallic scraping (sharpening a knife?) mingled with mindless humming. Maybe it was Roman, making himself food. He hadn’t eaten that day, so he would certainly be hungry. So certainly, if Logan were to turn on the light, he would see Roman in his Beauty and the Beast onesie. But then again, Roman was a shit cook. There wouldn’t be any scraping of knives or sounds of rustling in cupboards— maybe the rustling of a cereal box. 

Could it be Patton? No. Patton always loudly sang while cooking. Or maybe it was Patton, and he was just  being considerate of the other sleeping sides. How would he even confront the mystery chef? ‘Hey, not to sound weird but I’ve been keeping track of everyone’s kitchen time and I want to know if you do this every night. I have a chart. Yes, it is laminated, and color coded. Tell me about your schedule.’

Logan stared into the darkness of the kitchen unblinking. Rustling of… something, more chopping and scraping noises. Something sizzled, and Logan slowly breathed in. Oh, it smelled wonderful, rich and herbal… garlic, maybe. And onion. He checked his watch. Three thirty am, and he still had no clue who the hell was making food. What were they making? 

The fridge opened, and Logan could finally see. The cold light glinted off a long, sharp knife. Logan swallowed. There was a hunk of meat on the cutting board. Peering into the fridge was, well, someone, but when they turned their head, Logan could see the bright shock of white in their hair—

“Remus?” Logan exclaimed, bewildered.

Remus jumped and let out a panicked shriek. Logan stood up from his place at the couch, and blindly stumbled to the light switch. Remus flinched at the sudden light, and Logan just blinked as he took in the sight before him.

Sitting on the counter was a baking sheet with a raw rack of lamb perched upon it, covered in some sort of seasoning. On the stove sat a pot of golden broth that barely simmered, and the source of that delectable smell— a skillet of shallots and rice. Another pan of perfectly cooked mushrooms sat close by. Logan blinked.

“What is this?” Logan asked.

“Food,” Remus answered, “and I would’ve let you have some if you hadn’t scared the shit out of me, ‘figuratively’.” 

Logan raised an eyebrow. Remus looked as disheveled as ever, even though he only wore a pair of boxers with little octopi on them. For once he wasn’t wearing his eyeshadow, and his hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. A grain of rice was caught in his moustache. What an odd thing to notice.

“I apologize for interrupting your cooking,” Logan deadpanned, “but if you would be more specific?”

Remus shoved the pan into the fridge, then picked up a bottle of white wine. He took a long swig out of it before pouring a bit into the pan with the rice. It sizzled loudly, and he started mixing vigorously.

“I’m making garlic and herb crusted roast lamb and mushroom risotto,” Remus said.

Logan blinked slowly.

“What?”

Remus looked up from his pan, a little smile on his face.

“Come on, Logan! You’re the smart one, you should know what a risotto is!”

Logan sat down at the kitchen table, staring dazedly at Remus. 

“I know what a risotto is,” Logan said, “a northern Italian dish made with rice and broth until it reaches a creamy consistency, sometimes made with white wine or butter. I didn’t know you knew how to make it, though.”

Remus added a bit of the simmering broth to the rice.

“Why not? I mean, gluttony, envy, greed, all those dirty little sins Thomas associates with me,” Remus said with a shoulder wiggle.

“Well—“

“Are you jealous of my skills? I know how to keep a man happy, Logan. Don’t you know? The fastest way to a man’s heart—“

“Is through his stomach.” An idiom Patton had taught him. Remus nodded rapidly.

“Yes, like gutting a deer! You carve open the stomach and poke through the diaphragm to cut the esophagus and pull everything out! And then you yank out the heart!” Remus cackled manically, pouring more broth into the pan and stirring. A bit of rice flew out. “It’s really tasty. Deer heart, I mean.”

Logan nodded, “And very nutritious. High in potassium and protein.”

 Remus nodded even more, his white streaked hair flopping into his eyes. Logan was still in shock over this whole thing. Who the hell knew Remus could cook? Certainly not him. Now came the hard part, talking.

“Did you know that sheep don’t have teeth in their upper front jaws? And that like, a bunch of sheep are gay!” Remus rambled.

“Do you do this every night?” Logan questioned.

“No,” Remus responded, “most of the time I cook in the buff— it’s freeing!”

“That’s… I mean. Uh. Do you cook every night,” Logan deadpanned.

Remus shrugged.

“On and off. Some days I do some days I don’t!”

Logan opened his mouth, then shut it. Remus, as far as he could tell, was every single bit of chaos Thomas had (that wasn’t already represented by Roman). As Remus himself had said, he was the opposite of rational thought. Remus added a little more broth to the rice, stirring quickly. 

“It’s my turn for questions— I have about seven,” Remus said. Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Remus started rattling his questions off.

“One, why’re you in the kitchen? I’ve never seen you up this late, not very logical of you.”

Logan shrugged, not sure what to say. Lying was Janus’ thing. So he straightened his tie, and said:

“Recently, I have been collecting data about the habits of the other sides, namely, when they use the kitchen. A pattern started to emerge, but there were gaps in my data, one of which exists because of the other sides waiting to make dinner, but the other gap I could not fill, nor could I simply ignore. I assumed everyone would be asleep—“

“—And you got me instead!” Remus chirped. “A pleasant surprise, isn’t it?”

Logan started at the knife laying on the counter. Next to it laid a sharpening steel. His wandering eyes landed on Remus’ back. So pale...

“...It’s certainly a surprise. Where did you—“

Something struck him right between the eyes before clattering to the ground. Logan blinked in shock, before realizing Remus had simply thrown a spoon at him.

“It’s my question time, whore!” Remus exclaimed. He summoned another spoon 

Logan nodded.

“My apologies,” Logan said, “go on?”

Remus’ brows furrowed, but he continued.

“Questions two, three, four, and six—“

“Six?”

“I’m going out of order. Question two: is Roman still a shit cook? Question three: why are you surprised? Four, how long were you sitting there, and six, do you want to eat with me?”

Logan’s eyes went wide as he tried to take in all the questions. Remus stirred in a little more broth, but he never took his eyes off of him. A little disconcerting, but in character for him.

“Well,” Logan started, “Roman is not the most skilled in cooking. His ideas are creative, but the execution tends to be subpar. While cooking he is easily distracted, which leads to burnt things. The food he summons is wonderful, though. However, this information may not be recent nor accurate because I have not seen Roman since the events after the wedding.”

“The events— you mean when Padre flipped out and turned into a frog? And Jannie told everyone his name, and Roman got princey pissed?

Logan nodded.

“Yes. But to answer question three as honestly as I can, I did not have any reason to believe you had any cooking skill, especially not of this level.”

Remus tilted his head. “Why so?”

“Because of what you represent to Thomas,” Logan explained, “all of his “bad” creativity. I had no reason to believe you could make anything good, let alone what smells like a finely made risotto.” 

Logan expected Remus to throw something at him again. Instead, Remus seemed surprisingly calm, looking down at his risotto. Logan straightened his tie again.

“Not only that,” he continued,” but also because Thomas does not possess cooking skills of this caliber.”

Remus chuckled.

“Thomas also does not possess knowledge of a lot of the shit you and Jan talk about. Like, philosophy and psychology and a whole lot of other stuff. Roman knows spanish! So who’s to say that I can’t cook? Besides, Thomas’ perception of me hasn’t done shit since the split, ya know? He has no power over me. He sees me as bad, yeah, and I don’t give a fuck. If you ask me, if Thomas let Janus take control instead of Prudey-Patton, we’d be sailing much much much smoother. But that’s only my opinion of course!”

“Really?” Logan asked, surprised.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I think Janus would be a much better ‘morality’ than Patton. He has good opinions of the shit Thomas should be doing. And, he likes me! I’d say it to his face.  Patton’s face. Actually I might have? I’m not sure! I’m not sure…”

“I don’t think you have,” Logan said, “but it would be unwise for Janus to take Patton’s role, since Thomas is attached to Patton and the sudden shift would be detrimental to his mental and emotional health. Besides, I don’t think Janus could actually take his place, since he also acts as Thomas’ self preservation.”

 Remus rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. Question four! Let’s go!”

“I was sitting on the couch for about an hour and forty four minutes. Before that I was in my room. I came out and sat on the couch at one fifty one, so I wouldn’t be tempted to go to bed.”

Remus whistled low. He let go of the spoon, which kept stirring the risotto even without his touch.

“Goddamn, that’s dedication. I can’t even sit still for half that time! What would you have done if nobody showed up?”

Logan looked awkwardly down at his hands. Honestly, he hadn't thought of what he would do. 

“Go back to my room and sleep,” Logan answered, “but stay up this late for at least a week in order to make sure I had proper data.”

Remus crossed his arms and leaned back against the stove. With one hand, he tapped his fingers to his thumb in a quick rhythm— index finger to thumb, middle finger to thumb, ring finger to thumb, pinkie to thumb, over and over again.

“It really must mean a lot to you. Which leads to question five!”

“I thought you said you were—“

“Going out of order? Well, I’m not! I’m unpredictable like that. Question five! Why does charting our schedules mean so much to you?”

Logan stared at the knife laid on the counter. For a split second, he considered standing up and leaving. Because how could he explain the reason he decided to chart their movements? There were so many, each one sillier and more trivial than the last, each one of them soaked in emotion, so much so there was no denying how he felt, and if the others found out they’d never ever listen to him ever ever again— 

But on the other hand he so desperately wanted to tell him, just to get the words out, so they’d stop pushing on him. Logan fiddled with his tie. 

Logan took a slow breath in.  On the counter laid the knife. Logan’s eyes flicked around the kitchen. Sharpening steel, cutting board, some leftover herbs, Remus, the streak of white in his hair. The air was cold, the floor was hard, the chair felt sturdy, and his tie was smooth. Sizzling of the pan, his own foot, tapping restlessly on the ground, Remus’ quiet humming. The air smelled like chicken stock and a bit of garlic. None of Remus’ usual reek, surprisingly. Logan moved his tongue around a little. His mouth tasted like spit. Nothing more, nothing less. He breathed out.

“I realized that all I do is pointless. Every plan and suggestion I give is ignored, or unwanted, unless I push and push… but even then, I’m not listened to. The chart is what I believe Janus would call a ‘coping mechanism’. I know this, too, is pointless, but knowing that I can complete this without any interruption, without any need for input from the others is comforting. It does nothing, and yet I’ve dedicated a good deal of time towards it.”

Remus stared at him, expression unreadable. That was until a bright, manic smile split his features, and he clapped his hands.

“So it’s like jacking off!” Remus exclaimed.

Logan made a face, looking at Remus with nothing but unbridled confusion.’The spoon in the risotto kept on stirring by itself.

“...And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Well, it makes you feel phenomenal, it’s something you do for yourself, and it’s good for stress relief!”

Logan blinked slowly, then looked down at his lap, desperately trying to keep his composure.

“That is a good metaphor. Just like masturbation, this chart is, in the end, pointless.”

Remus snorted, and rolled his eyes. He sat down at the table next to Logan, and their knees bumped. Remus set both his elbows on the table.

“I don’t see how it’s pointless.” He said, “It’s something you’re doing to make yourself feel better because everyone else is shit. As you said, a coping mechanism. What makes it pointless?”

“It serves no purpose,” Logan deadpanned.

“Ya see, Logan, when you really, really think about it, everything is pointless!” Remus exclaimed. “Every meal we eat and person we see and every idea we have and every place we go and every happy moment is pointless, because in the end it’ll all go away! It’ll all be for nothing! Thomas will die and we’ll go with him, so everything is pointless!” 

Remus leaned closer. Their foreheads touched. How was Remus’ skin so warm? Logan swallowed, trying to push the tingling sensation in his chest down. Fear. It was fear. 

“Every single little thing is pointless!” Remus whispered intensely, “It’s true, you know it is, so don’t you agree?”

Logan looked him dead in the eyes.

“No, I don’t,” Logan said darkly, “Because while death is inevitable, Thomas’ life still matters. It might not matter cosmically, but his happiness and well being matter to me, and I will do everything in my power to give him a wonderful life, a life he can smile at even when he is close to death. So all those things you just said were meaningless? They matter more than anything. To Thomas, and to me.”

Remus smiled, wicked and sharp, waggling his eyebrows.

“So your chart isn’t pointless,” Remus said mischievously, “nothing you do is. As a part of Thomas, anything and everything you do matters. And if you say it doesn’t, then that makes you a hypocrite!”

Logan’s eye twitched. Ah, dammit, he just got played like a cheap kazoo by a guy who eats deodorant. 

“I guess you’re right.”

Remus dramatically leaned back, arms outstretched like a bird.

“I know!”

Logan sighed, hands in his lap. The risotto kept on stirring itself. Was it done? How long had it been? Logan looked at his watch. He couldn’t see, his vision clouded. He blinked. 

“I don’t know,” Logan said, “I’m Thomas’ logic I don’t know why he won’t listen to me anymore. Why none of them ever listen to me. I don’t feel like I belong among the sides even more. I’m a part of Thomas. It’s hard. I know I’m needed, but I don’t feel that way, and I can’t stop feeling. I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried. Really, everything feels pointless, because none of my efforts yield anything of value.”

Remus pat his head.

“There there,” Remus said, “now about these feelings. Have you tried turning that big brain of yours off and on again?”

A chortle escaped Logan’s month. Then, a teardrop landed on his glasses. He ripped them off and slammed them on the table, taking deep, slow breaths to calm himself. They didn’t work, and dissolved into hiccuping, pathetic sobs.

“Oh boy,” Remus said. He didn’t move his hand from Logan’s head, gently stroking his hair like how one would pet a cat. Oddly enough, it was a little calming. Logan thought for a second of what the others would see. Remus, in only boxers, petting him as he cried. Remus made a few cooing noises.

“Why did I even tell you all this?” Logan whined, sniffling wetly.

Remus removed his hand. Logan heard him stand, then rustle around a bit.

“It’s like, four am,” Remus explained, “everyone is dumb as fuck at four am. Even you, Raisin Brain.”

“Raisin Brain?”

“A pun on the cereal and a reference to how scrunchy and smart your brain is, like. A raisin? It is also something that proves my point. But I get you, sometimes the thoughts just have to come out. Here, try some.”

Logan looked up from his hands to see Remus, offering him a spoon with some of the risotto on it. He’d mixed in the mushrooms. The risotto was as pale as his skin. Logan took the spoon from Remus, and put it in his mouth. His teary eyes went wide at the taste. The rice was cooked wonderfully, and he could taste the wine and chicken broth. The mushrooms in the dish added a wonderful earthiness,  and Logan forced himself to chew slowly, relishing every last flavor before swallowing.

Remus peered down at him anxiously, twiddling his moustache with the hand not holding the spoon.

“What do you think?” He asked. Logan wiped his eyes, running his tongue over his teeth to catch the last bit of the taste.

“It tastes wonderful, the wine and the mushroom… it’s a very well done dish, you should be proud of yourself.”

Remus clapped his hands, dropping the spoon and letting it clatter on the floor. He jumped up and down, hopping back over to the pan of risotto and taking it off the heat and letting it rest on the stove.

“Won’t it get cold?” Logan asked. He sniffled.

“Not unless I want it to,” Remus said, “and I don’t want it to! I’m serving it with the lamb, which I’m gonna roast. But it has to marinate for a while. Here, while we wait…”

He grabbed the bottle of white wine from the counter and sat at the table with Logan, offering the bottle to Logan. How long had it been since he’d had wine, or anything alcoholic? One week and three days. How long had it been since he’d had wine somewhere that wasn’t his bedroom? About a year and a half. He couldn’t risk being drunk in front of the others. Then they wouldn’t view him as serious and smart, just as a silly, drunken idiot—

None of those others were here. They were all asleep.

But what would Remus think? Would he care? He could hold this moment over his head for the rest of Thomas’ life, and he would no longer be able to keep him in check. He’d truly be useless, unnecessary.

“I can hear you thinking from here, Teach,” Remus said, brows furrowed, “I can get you some water instead?”

Logan nodded. Remus snapped his fingers, and the golden wine faded until it was clear. Logan hesitantly took the bottle, gingerly sipping. Yes, that was water. He couldn’t help but take a deep gulp, almost choking on the cold, wonderful water. He lowered the bottle. Logan furrowed his brows. 

“Wine to water? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?” Logan questioned.

Remus smirked, “I think my way is more fun. I still have more questions, if you’re game?”

“I’m not ‘game’. If I was, I’d be chess,” Logan said.

“I’d be strip poker!” Remus cackled, throwing his head back in glee. When he composed himself, he looked at Logan. “But that’s not what I mean. I mean. Okay! Question eight.”

Logan blinked. He put his glasses back on, sniffling pathetically.

“I thought you only had seven questions—“

“Question eight!” Remus proclaimed, “why are you so self conscious?”

Logan spluttered.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Uh. It’s like, four am, and you’re in your usual clothes. I’m in my boxers. It’s a little weird.”

Logan looked over Remus. Pale, a few small scars unique to him. The octopi boxers. 

“I prefer to remain clothed,” Logan said, “especially in places where I could be seen. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Remus snorted.

“Whatever, I’ll get an honest answer from you one day. Now, question seven and six— question seven! What should I cook tomorrow? Er, tomorrow at this time. Time is weird.”

Logan paused, sipping the water slowly. He could say some basic dish, and join him for that, or he could test the theories building in his head, test the limits of the chart by throwing a new variable into the schedule, that variable being Remus.

“Croissants!” Logan exclaimed. He took a deep breath. “Yes. Croissants. Homemade croissants.”

Remus’ brows shot up. He flicked his wrist, and a piece of worn looking paper appeared in his hand. He glanced at the paper, eyes going wide.

“Ah, fuck, this recipe takes like, twelve hours just to prepare the dough, holy shit! This’ll take all day—“

“If you begin the preparation at three thirty am, you’ll be done at four forty pm on the dot.”

Remus looked at Logan with a bright smile. There was still a grain of rice stuck in his mustache, as white as the streak in his hair. Logan blinked slowly, suddenly struck with the urge to say something was pointless so Remus would get closer, press their foreheads together and do… something. Remus flicked his wrist, and the recipe disappeared in a burst of smoke.

“Perfect!” Remus exclaimed, “Come around the kitchen then, tomorrow, I mean. And I’ll make you the Cwossaints.”

“Croissants,” Logan deadpanned. 

“Oh, keep talking French to me, honeycomb! Ah! But now, it is time for the last question, question six!” 

Remus struck a pose, and a pan flew out of the fridge and clattered onto the stove. Pale, polished bones stuck up— oh, the lamb. With a snap of Remus’ fingers, the pan suddenly burst into a plume of green flame, lapping at the walls and the ceiling, leaving no mark, as Remus’ destruction typically did. The rich smell of garlic and cooked meat filled the kitchen. Logan stared at Remus, unblinking. 

“Question six,” he repeated.

Remus made a face, but nodded and spoke. “Yeah, question six! Do you want to eat with me? The lamb and the risotto? I promise, it’s heavenly! And good company would make it even better!”

Logan stared at the stove. Alright. Pros and cons. It was four am, but he could still be logical, weigh his options. 

Pros: A good meal, conversation with someone who listened.

Cons: lack of sleep, another distraction, what if the others find out. 

“I’m sorry,” Logan said, standing from the table, and gingerly pushing his chair back, “but I really should be going back to sleep. It certainly smells wonderful, but I really must be going to bed.”

Remus crumpled a little, dropping the pose.

“Yeah, sure, whatever! I’m sure Jannie will eat it for breakfast. But you’re eating the cross-I-ants, or I’ll skin you.”

Logan nodded, and took a step backward. 

“I will.”

Remus stood, picking up the wine bottle and passing it to Logan. Logan took the bottle, filled with water, not the wine. He gave Remus a tight lipped smile, and walked to the stairs. Logan set his hand on the banister.

“Remus?”

“Yes?” 

Logan didn’t dare look at Remus.

“You have a grain of rice in your mustache.”

Remus cackled as Logan ascended the stairs, not looking behind him. It was as if he was a child again, running away from some sort of shadow monster that emerged only in the darkness. Running away, not from Remus, but from something. A lot of things. The water in the wine bottle sloshed.

Logan reached his room and flung the door open. His bed was perfectly made, indigo sheets pulled up nice and trim with no sign of being slept in. The lights were still on, bathing the room in clinical white light. His desk was covered in papers that he should’ve already looked over. A well loved indigo office chair sat in front of the desk. He set the wine bottle on his desk, and leaned over his chair. There was his chart. Almost reverently, he took a green marker, and, in the once empty space, wrote Remus’ name. 

There. It was done. He’d finished it. It was neat and tidy, and his. He exhaled slowly. Carefully, he undid his tie, then slipped off his shirt. After that, his shoes, then his jeans. He folded them neatly, and set them at the foot of his perfectly made bed. Sleep. Sleep sounded good. So did a lamb dinner. But there would be croissants, another excuse to sit at the kitchen table and be asked silly, harmless questions while studying the pale skin of Remus’ back.

Logan snapped his fingers to turn the lights off, and sat down in the office chair. Nice and comfortable. He relaxed, and took slow, deep breaths to take himself to sleep.

Each breath smelled like cooked lamb and wine.