#and he got me crispy potatoes so i agreed

[3gremlins]

i watched both wolverine & deadpool and the finale of arcane today and my (shouldn't be hot take) on both is i really wish that hollywood would let those sad boyfriends say out loud that they love each other and kiss on screen. like hours of endless violence? totally fine. men saying out loud that they love each other? verboten and really just THE BIGGEST SIGH.

(at least arcane gave us on screen girlfriends but still)

[mrs-johansson]

Strangers in the night - Scarlett Johansson x Fem!Reader

Part 19:

“Hey, guys,” heard Scarlett’s voice at the front door. I smoothed out my dress and my hair before waking out of the kitchen. “What a beautiful house,” I’m guessing that was her mom. “Right? She has great taste,” oh she’s hyping me up.

They all walked in, her three brothers and two sisters with their parents. “Hi,” I said nervously with a smile. Scarlett swiftly moved to my side, wrapping an arm around my waist. Her mom was the first to come up to me and she had a smile on her face which seemed genuine and kind. “I want you guys to meet my girlfriend, Y/n, but you probably know her already,” said Scarlett. “Of course we do. It’s so nice to meet you, darling. I’m Melanie,” I held out my hand but she moved to hug me. “Oh yeah, that’s better,” I chuckled as I hugged her back. Scar’s hand still lingered on my lower back making it really hard to focus on her MOTHER. “Y/n!” Rose came running from the living room then she realized her family was there. And she still came to me, holding her hands up. I picked her up and she looked at her relatives. “Hi,” she said with a big smile. “Everything okay in the living room?” I asked and she nodded. “I just want more juice.” “How about after dinner? You can have more of that tomato bread,” I brushed a piece of hair out of her face. “Okay,” she sighed and leaned her head on my shoulder.

Scarlett’s dad was the next person who introduced himself and damn he was tall. “Hello, I’m Karsten,” he held out his hand. “Y/n, nice to meet you,” I said and shook his hand. “Hi, Grandpa!” Rose excitedly greeted the man before they high-fived.

I met each of her siblings, and I wouldn’t have thought Hunter and Scarlett would look so much alike. “Shall we go to the table?” Asked Scarlett and they all agreed. She settled them in and I left to the kitchen with Rose still on my side. “Don’t you want to be with them?” I sat her on the counter just until I got the drink out of the fridge. “No. I want to stay with you.” “Go in there, I’ll bring the food out,” Scarlett walked in. “You can’t leave me with them, I just met them,” I spread my arms. “And they already think you’re the nicest person,” she left a kiss on my cheek. “Mama?” Spoke Rose. “Yes, baby?” Scarlett opened the fridge. “Y/n is my mama too?” My mouth fell open and I glanced at Scarlett. We shared a look before she stood by my side. “Uhm…” She started. “Would you like… that?” Scarlett cleared her throat, nervous even to look at me. “Yes!” She clapped her hands and I swear I had tears in my eyes. “Okay, okay… Why don’t you see what Uncle Hunter is doing?” She took her off the counter and she happily walked out.

“I’m sorry, this was so sudden…” Scarlett started to apologize but I didn’t let her finish instead I wrapped her in the biggest hug. “Oh okay…” She chuckled, hugging me back. “She is the cutest kid, you don’t have to be sorry about anything,” I could feel a tear sliding down my cheek. “I’m so happy she feels happy with you. I still have to talk with Romain though. And thank you for being her new mommy I guess,” she pulled back taking hold of my hands, kissing my knuckles. “It’s the biggest honor.”

We brought in the appetizer and some wine, put Rose into her chair and we started chatting. “I already said to Scarlett, you have a very lovely home Y/n,” said Melanie, and I smiled. “Thank you. One of my architect friends designed everything. “It’s pretty great work,” Karsten looked around. “Thanks,” I said.

The prosciutto quickly disappeared and a bottle of wine was shared between most of us.

I brought out the main dish and everyone was happy to see beef roast with crispy baked potatoes and some different veggies. “Wow this looks amazing,” Scarlett mumbled to herself and I smiled at the sparkling look in her eyes. I got some on Rose’s plate and cut up the meat and the potatoes. “Thank you,” she said as soon as I put the plate in front of her. “You’re welcome.”

“So how did you two meet? Scarlett only told us about a mystery woman,” Hunter smiled at his sister. “We accidentally bumped into each other around November last year,” Scarlett said. “I still think it wasn’t an accident on Scarlett’s side though,” I shrugged with a cheeky smile. “Okay… That’s… Alright, it wasn’t a full accident,” I turned my head toward her and honestly I was shocked that she admitted it. “But we talked for a couple of months after that and then I finally asked her out,” smiled my amazingly beautiful girlfriend.

They asked me all sorts of questions and I was happy to answer all of them. I had nothing to hide from her family and I wanted them to know that I love Scarlett with all my heart. And also Rose.

Later in the night after they left and we put Rose to bed, we cleaned up the kitchen. “How do you think it went?” I asked Scarlett as she put the clean plates away. “Couldn’t have gone better. They love you for sure,” she said and I smiled. “That’s great.”

I finished everything and I got the bottle of wine that was half empty. Poured into two glasses and sat on the counter. Scarlett wiped her hands and took one of the glasses and stood between my legs. Her left hand rested on my thigh, caressing the exposed skin. “Dinner was nice, if you get bored of this acting thing you could be a chef,” she said and took a sip of her wine. I chuckled at her words and shook my head. “Hopefully I don’t get bored of this.” “Yeah, I kinda hope that too,” she shrugged and downed the whole glass of liquor. “Wow, wine is not for thirst you know,” I said and she put the glass down, her hands going straight to my waist. She pulled me closer, my legs sneaking around her waist. “You look good,” she leaned close, her eyes looking between mine and my lips. “I taste good too,” I gave a kiss just on the edge of her mouth. Her pupils were wide and the way her jaw clenched just drove me crazy. Scarlett never held back the lust she felt and not gonna lie that was incredibly hot. My hands trailed up her arms right to her neck. I put my glass down from my other hand and started to slowly massage the back of her neck. “I hope you’ll be like this even when we’re 50,” Scarlett murmured, the tension just growing and growing. “You don’t have to worry about that,” I finally pulled her into a kiss, deepening it immediately.

Scarlett squeezed my waist, the fabric of my dress tightening around me as she fisted it. The kiss soon becomes sloppy and desperate. She pulled the dress up to the top of my thighs and I swiftly pushed myself up and she rolled up the dress from under me. I pulled away and Scarlett was desperate to remove my dress, throwing it to the floor.

Scarlett’s eyes fell to my breast and before I could think she started kissing all over my chest. A quiet sigh fell from my lips and I tilted my head back so she could have more access. “I love you so much,” she mumbled against my skin and soon started sucking on my pulse. My breath hitched as I tried to speak but I forced it out tho. “I love you too.”

I looked down at her breathlessly as her eyes met mine just before she took a tit into her warm mouth. I gasped and my hands moved on their own accord, slipping fingers through her hair as she sucked and lightly trailed her teeth over my right tit before moving onto the left. I was trying my best to be as quiet as possible but it was very fucking hard.

I grabbed her left hand and pushed it between my legs, hoping she would get the message.

And thank god she did, because her fingers found the hem of my underwear and literally ripped it off, throwing it to the dress. I groaned and threw my head back. “Be quiet.” She demanded and I just leaned my forehead against her shoulder, whimpering under her touch.

She swiftly laid me down on the counter, pulling me to the edge of it by my thighs. Planted kisses along my thigh before her tongue licks a long stripe over my slit. I grabbed onto the edge of the marble counter, gripping it till my knuckles turned white.

Her eyes remain on me as she explores every inch of me with her tongue. I threw my head back when she sucked on my clit a bit before pulling away.

I looked down and met Scarlett's lust-blown eyes as she sticks her ring and middle fingers into her mouth to coat them in saliva before slowly easing them into me. My back arched against the counter, feeling my muscles tightening. “Fucking hell,” I groaned. She lowered herself to take my clit back between her lips, sucking as she stimulated with curling her fingers.

And then it hit me. I felt like I’m gonna break the counter from how hard I was holding on to it. My thighs naturally tried to close up but Scarlett forced them apart, the muscles flexing on her biceps. “Come, baby, come” she whined and that’s all I needed to push me over the edge. My body was shaking while Scarlett lapped up every drop. I swear to go I don’t ever want anyone else to do this to me if it’s not her. She gives me earth-shattering orgasms and I fucking love them.

I breathed heavily, trying to find a normal rhythm. “You okay?” Scarlett’s soft hands slid up my thighs and stopped on my hips. “Honestly?” I took a deep breath in and closed my eyes. “I feel like I'm in heaven.”

***

The next day Scarlett insisted on cooking and my parents and Léa were happy to finally meet her. Mostly my dad though.

They asked kind of the same questions from her and I just basically fell more and more in love with her. She was literally perfect, yes she was stubborn and sometimes thinking that she’s the only one who’s right but we can look past that.

Everyone went amazing and I was just happy that they know how joyful my life is because of her and Rose. My mother was surprised that Rose and I got along so well but I guess it didn’t help how much she pressured me into having kids soon.

Later that night we were laying in bed, watching Dateline as usual. “So our 6 months is gonna be this Saturday and I thought I could post then. What do you think of these?” I showed her two pictures and she nodded. “Nice.” “You sure you’re okay with this?” I asked, leaning against her front and she wrapped an arm around me. “Yes, and I’m gonna say yes every time you ask.” “Okay, I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable with all this social media think. Besides, after that I’m still only going to post your pinky or something, but like… you know if there’s like a picture that I think everyone needs to see, I don’t know… us at a premier or something. We need to think about these. You don’t have social media, so I’d like to hear your thoughts.” “Whatever you want,” she said and I looked up at her. “Scar, I’m serious.” “So am I. As long as I don’t have to do all this technical stuff, I’m great,” she gave a kiss on my forehead and went back to watching the show. “Well yeah, you’re not the best at that,” I mumbled with a smirk, and the next thing I knew she punched my side, making me jump a little. “You know I’m right.” “I guess you could say that.”

***

Liked by chrisevans and 10 356 289 others

y/n_cole: my love, you’re all I’ve wished for in this life❤️ everything is better with you. everything is better since you. i will never forget the moment I realized i love you and I’m the happiest that our paths crossed in this crazy world. I love you endlessly✨ 6 months and counting🤍

chrisevans I’m the happiest for you two❤️

y/n_cole way too obsessed with the idea😆

florencepugh biggest power couple in Hollywood hands down💁‍♀️

y/n_cole speaking facts there!

sarcjo_for_life deep down we all knew Scarlett was fruity… I’m just happy Y/n is her girl🔥

[thebarefootcajun]

ELEVEN

Tonight the guys were going to go out for their supper. They were headed out to a crawfish boil at a place called Les Pinceurs; it was a place that catered to crawfish lovers; boiled, fried, Étouffée, and any other way one could cook crawfish. Allen picked up Cal at the Pine Lodge Motel. He was sitting outside waiting for Allen. He looked forlorn. Allen really liked Cal and he went into man-friend pampering mode. Cal looked like he needed some loving. And Allen was just the man to take care of him.

Allen walked up to Cal and gave him a big hug.

“How’s my friend today,” he asked.

“Not so good,” Cal answered.

“Want to talk about it?” Allen asked.

“Maybe over supper,” Cal answered.

“Okay, let’s go get our hands dirty peeling some crawfish,” Allen said.

“That’s a known cure for what ails you. And the crawfish, potatoes, sausage and corn on the cob will also make you smile,” Allen suggested.

Allen could tell that Cal was really down in the dumps. He thought to himself, “this might be more serious than a plate of crawfish cure.”

They rode in silence to Les Pinceurs, but that wasn’t so unusual, they weren’t big talkers while riding through the countryside. These two men were comfortable with themselves and didn’t need idle chat. They felt each other’s vibes; you know those vibes when you love someone; just sitting near them is all you really need.

They got to the crawfish eatery and lo and behold, there was the green chevy pickup truck. Both of the guys tensed up. Maybe someone else had a similar pickup truck and it wasn’t Melli and her sidekick, George. The place looked full so Cal said, “Hey, Allen, let’s go some place else. This place looks packed; I’m hungry and not keen on waiting to eat.”

Allen agreed, “You’re right, Cal, let’s find a quiet space to eat in peace.”

Cal asked, “How about the diner where we first ate together. Let’s go to the Crapaud Diner and ask for Miss Myrtle’s service. I really liked that place and I really liked Miss Myrtle.”

Allen agreed, “Good plan, friend, the Crapaud Diner with Miss Myrtle it is.”

They arrived before the rush and Miss Myrtle saw them. She waved them over to a booth that was near a window where they could be alone. Miss Myrtle felt that was best for these two. She seemed to understand the people she waited on. She thought of herself as a sort of therapist. And she picked up on that these two were rather stressed tonight and she would make sure they calmed down a bit and enjoyed their supper.

“Hey, boys, how y’all doing tonight,” said Miss Myrtle.

They both agreed they’d seen better days and were a bit unsettled tonight for some reason.

Miss Myrtle said, “You’re in my care now, relax and enjoy you supper. The half fried chicken with mashed potatoes topped with butter and the green beans cooked with bacon are all excellent choices. It comes with homemade biscuits slathered beneath soft homemade salted butter, and an array of desserts to choose from. My personal favorite is the praline pecan sweet dough pie with a side of homemade vanilla ice cream all washed down with sweet tea for the main course and with strong black Cajun coffee for the pie and ice cream.”

“Sign me up,” said Allen and Cal at the same time.

“Anything you might want to share with me about your day,” asked Allen.

He looked worried, and after a lengthy pause, he said, “No. It’s work related.”

Allen knew that Cal was lying to him, but he understood that this must be serious. He felt confident that Cal would share with him when he trusted Allen more and when this problem was sorted out with a plan.

The meal was delicious. Food always tempers any negative situation or crisis. Crispy fried chicken, buttery potatoes and pie and ice cream do a lot for stress, at least for a little while.

They boys finished their meal. Thanked Miss Myrtle and tipped her well.

“Y’all come back, my boys,” she said as they got up to leave. Miss Myrtle just had a way with the boys, sort of like a momma bear.

They drove back to the Pine Lodge Motel. It was still early, but Cal told Allen that he had some work to do that night and so he would be staying at the motel.

Allen said, “Okay, Cal, I can take a hint. I will head on home, but I’ll miss you tonight. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Will do, my friend," answered Cal.

[luveline]

Hello congratulations on 800!!! You're a fantastic writer you deserve it!! I don't have the little corn emoji but may I please request a drabble with Remus and he has to put his foot down and take care of you after you've been burning yourself out with work? I neeeeed me some remus tlc 💕

helllo! thank you so much! i hope this is alright x

“Hey, can we put this away now?” Remus asked you. He hoped that by using we you’d be more likely to agree, but no dice. It was like you hadn’t heard him, your gaze listless behind your paperwork. He tried again, “Dove, are you hearing me?”

You blinked. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I think it’s time you wrap up for the day. You’re tired, and I know you haven’t eaten,” Remus said, standing close to the tables edge.

You shook your head. “Five minutes, Remus. Just let me finish this and I’ll make dinner.”

He rolled his eyes. You certainly wouldn’t be making dinner tonight, and he didn’t want you to. He turned away from you at the kitchen table and set about making something for you to eat. Five minutes, he agreed to himself. Five minutes, and then you’d stop.

Five minutes rolled around fast. “Alright, let’s wrap it up,” he said. You looked at him owlishly.

“I- I haven’t finished. Just, I won’t be long Remus. Then we’ll have-“

“I’m making you dinner, don’t worry, but you said five minutes.”

You smiled at him guiltily. “Right, I’m sorry. I’ll get this done before dinner.”

Remus bit the inside of his cheek but conceded. He was getting more and more worried about you; you looked exhausted. When the food he’d made was ready to be plated he cleared his throat. You didn’t hear. He put his hand as gently as he could on your shoulder. “I’m gonna put this away now.”

You looked at his hand rather than his face. “What?”

“I’m going to put your work away, okay?” he repeated, watching your face carefully.

You were beginning to say no but he was already gathering up the papers as neatly as he could to keep them organised and you were so burned out that you let him, though you were frowning at him.

“Dove, we need to have a conversation about working too hard.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. It’s like you’re sleepwalking,” he said, putting your plate down in front of you.

You picked up your fork like it was a foreign object. “It needs to be done.”

“I promise you, it can wait.”

Your eyes cleared a little, staring down at your food. You didn’t make a move to eat it. Remus resisted the urge to take your knife and cut it into smaller pieces.

He moved his chair to be as close as he could to you and adjusted his tone to be firmer than before. "Y/N? You can't do this. Alright? It'll cause more harm than good."

You nodded.

“I’m serious.”

Your voice was hoarse when you answered, “I know, Remus. I’m sorry.”

He nudged you with his elbow. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to look after my girl, or I’ll look after her myself.”

He stabbed a crispy looking potato on his plate and offered it to you. You ate it obligingly, eyes crinkling in pleasure.

“That’s a nice one.”

He grinned smugly. “I’m a good cook.”

“The best cook,” you agreed. He knew you were buttering him up in the hopes of being fed again, so he succumbed to your will and offered you another.

The further you got into your meal the more life came back into your face, although he could see your eyes were growing tired. You’d blink yourself awake, take another mouthful. He went to the tap to fill up a big glass of water for you and found you half-asleep with your face in your hand. He rubbed your back fondly and thought, Jesus, she’s an idiot. I love her so much.

[fenneykindlefire]

Amoeba Boys Blueberry Inflation (Powerpuff Girls Z version)

Click below to see the whole thing ⬇

(Mr. Wonka lifts up a lid to a dinner tray in which it shows pieces of gum) Mr. Wonka: Can anyone tell me what those are? Princess: It's gum. Mr. Wonka: Not just any gum, it's Wonka's magic chewing gum. It lets you have a three-course dinner. Just chew it, and that's all you ever need at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. These pieces of gum happen to be tomato soup, roast beef and blueberry pie. Ken: Fascinating! Mr. Wonka: I know, right? (little did Mr. Wonka know is that the Amoeba Boys each grab a piece of gum and slither away. Mr. Wonka notices them) Hey! You three, please give them back, the gum's not ready for human consumption, or amoeba consumption, in your case. Top Hat: Don't worry sir, it'll be fine! (he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it in his hat) Besides, we won't feel any side effects if the gum has any! (he throws the gum into his mouth, as does Poncho and Violet, and begins chewing) Mojo Jojo: I have a bad feeling about this. Top Hat: Mmmmmmmm.... that gum tastes like tomato soup, extra creamy with basil on top! Mr. Wonka: Yeah, spit it out. Buttercup: Uh, I think you better- Poncho: Now it's roast beef, with baked potato. Crispy skin and butter! Bubbles: Are they going to be okay, Mr. Wonka? Mr. Wonka: I don't know, I'm just a little concerned about the- Violet: Oh boy, now it's blueberry pie and ice cream! Yum! Mr. Wonka: That part. Buttercup: (notices something off) It looks like you have a little bit of blue on you. (She was right. A few blue specks appeared on all three of the Amoeba Boys' faces as they begin to spread. They stop chewing and get confused) Violet: What do you mean? Blossom: Violet, you're turning violet, and you too! Top Hat: (looks at his hands, which have turned blue) What's happening to us?! Poncho: I feel funny! Violet: We're all turning blue! Mr. Wonka: Well, I told you I hadn't quite got it right. Because it goes a little funny when it gets to the dessert. It's the blueberry pie that does it. I'm terribly sorry. (The Amoeba Boys have all turned completely blue. As their hats change to blue as well, they hearing a gurgling sound) Poncho: What was that? (they suddenly feel a pressure inside of them) Oh, I don't feel so good. (The group backs away as the Amoeba Boys begin to swell up) Top Hat: (as he feels his swelling stomach) This is so embarrassing! Violet: (as she sees her rear swell up) I agree, it is embarrassing! Professor Utonium: They're all swelling up! Blossom: Like a blueberry. (The Amoeba Boys grow bigger and rounder, not just in width, but also height) Top Hat: Oh man, we shouldn't have chewed that- Mmmmmmmph! (His along with Poncho and Violet's cheeks get flooded with juice, almost blocking their ability to speak as their eyes also turn blue (though it's hard to tell with Poncho due to the fact that his eyes are hidden underneath his hat). They continue to grow bigger, to the point where they look more like giant blueberries than amoebas. Finally, the swelling stopped) Mr. Wonka: I've tried it on, like, 20 Oompa-Loompas, and each one ended up as a blueberry. It's just weird. Top Hat: (his voice is muffled due to all the juice inside of him) Mmmmmf, didn't see that coming! Poncho: (also with a muffled voice) Are we going to pop? Or worse, what if we rot?! Violet: (also with a muffled voice) We're not gonna pop Poncho, but we're going to flatten those girls! Blossom: Uh oh... (the three blueberried amoebas roll towards her and the other two girls) AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

To be continued?

[blueskrugs]

5 Times You Posted about Him, and One Time He Posted about You | Chris Kreider

I sent an anon to @kreiderrider​ way back at the end of April for Chris’ birthday and still haven’t stopped thinking about it, so apparently I’m writing it now. also for @bobohtuzzo​ for our never-ending loop of being mean to each other with Chris gifs.

TL;DR: this is Taylor’s fault for making me a Kreider girl, and and both hers Bayan’s fault for encouraging and enabling me.

length: 2.8k words

You knew when you started dating Chris that he was not social media’s biggest fan. And that was fine. You were hardly an influencer yourself, and you were pretty sure you followed more dogs than people on Instagram. So the pictures you took of Chris– Chris being cute, Chris doing mundane things, Chris with his bitchface on– stayed firmly in a locked album on your phone.

Until one day when you were sitting on the couch, leaning against Chris while he read a book, flipping through Instagram stories on your phone. One of your friends from high school had posted a cute picture with her boyfriend, and you paused to look at it. Chris rested his chin on your shoulder to peer at your phone. 

“They’re cute,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder. You hummed in agreement. “How come you never post about me?”

You twisted around to look at him. “First of all, how do you even know that I don’t? Second of all, you want nothing to do with any sort of social media.” 

Chris flicked your nose. “Mika tells me things. And I don’t hate social media, I just don’t really get the point of it. Who the fuck cares what I’m doing every second of the day, who I got lunch with, where I got lunch? Anyway, I don’t really mind if you post about me every once in a while. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide our relationship just because I avoid Instagram like the plague.” Chris pressed a kiss to your forehead to punctuate his sentence. 

You settled back in against Chris, resuming your mindless scrolling, and looking forward to the first opportunity to show off your boyfriend. 

Chef Chris Chris loved to cook. Part of it came from his absolutely ridiculous diet, you knew, but he also enjoyed the quiet time that cooking gave him, a way to be productive without requiring a ton of energy. The kitchens in either of your apartments were often filled with the smell of something good, for lunches, for dinners on nights off, for a quick meal after a game. Chris rarely let you help him with anything, which was fine because you preferred to bake, and it let you watch him. 

There was something about watching Chris cook that you just adored. He would always end up so focused, a strange intensity in his eyes that resembled the look he sometimes got on the ice. But then you would say something– a stupid joke that you’d seen on the internet, a funny story from work, or a something ridiculous your dog had done that morning– and he would laugh, his eyes lighting up again, and his dimples showing. 

Tonight, Chris was standing over the stove making a risotto. You had begged him for it during a rare full weekend off at home for the Rangers, and he had finally conceded. One of your playlists was playing softly in the living room, and you were perched on a barstool at the island, your dog curled beneath your feet. You weren’t sure if he wanted to be close to you, or if he was just waiting for Chris to give him a piece of chicken. 

Chris was stirring the risotto intently, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth a little bit. You were already scrolling through your phone, so you couldn’t resist snapping a quick picture for your Instagram story, simply throwing an emoji of a chef in the corner.

You were checking the views on your story later that night and responding to the few people that had replied to it, when Chris saw your phone screen. 

“Hang on, gimme that,” he said, pausing the hockey game he was watching. “How did I not notice you take this?” He looked closer at your phone. “And how many fucking followers do you have, holy shit.”

You took your phone back, seeing that Brett Howden had asked why he didn’t get any dinner. “I got a bunch more after I started dating you,” you said. Chris looked concerned. “Don’t make that face, you dork. I don’t really care, and if I did, I could just make my account private.” 

Chris still looked a little alarmed at the number of people who had seen him cook dinner, but he turned back to the hockey game, anyway. 

Sing Us a Song There was a piano in Chris’ apartment. It was tucked away in the spare bedroom, and he avoided playing it when people were over, even when it was just the two of you. You had lamented that fact once, and Chris had said something about just wanting to spend all his time focused on you. You let it go, but that didn’t mean you weren’t dying to hear him play, especially since everyone who had could only compliment him.

It was nearly Christmas when you let yourself into Chris’ apartment with your spare key. The two of you had spent an entire weekend decorating, and the space was absolutely filled with Christmas spirit. You had been baking cookies, and you were dropping some off for Chris to bring home to Massachusetts and his family. You smiled as you heard the familiar chords of “Celebrate Me Home” echoing through the apartment. Your penchant for listening to Christmas music at all hours was beginning to rub off on Chris finally. You paused, though, when you realized that the voice drifting through the apartment was not Kenny Loggins, but Chris. 

You set the cookies and your purse down gently on a counter, kicking off your snow boots and quietly making your way through the apartment. You peered around the doorway of the spare bedroom. Chris’ back was to you, since the piano faced the windows looking out over the city, as he continued singing. You slipped your phone out of your coat pocket and began recording. You made sure to keep quiet as Chris began playing “The Christmas Song.” You stayed there for a minute longer before putting your phone away and walking into the room.

Chris jumped a little as you put your hand on his shoulder. “Your hands are freezing, Christ, Y/N. How long have you been here?”

You kissed his temple. “Sorry. Just came to drop off cookies and couldn’t resist listening to you for a while. I wish you’d sing for me more often.” Chris blushed all the way up to his ears. 

Later that night, back home and with a pie in the oven this time, you edited the videos you took a little bit and put them up on your Instagram story. You left it captionless.

Your DMs were soon filled with people commenting on how talented Chris was and begging for more videos of him. You screenshotted them all– maybe a little smugly– and sent them to Chris. All you got back was an emoji sticking its tongue out at you. 

Somewhere on a Beach There was absolutely nothing that you loved more than a good vacation. As the Rangers’ bye week approached, Chris was getting desperate to get out of the city, and you were looking forward to a week on a beach.

The Rangers won their last game before the break, and then the two of you were on a plane to Hawaii for some valuable time in the sun. Chris had found a rental with a private stretch of beach, and you both had bags full of books to read.

“Chris, you need to put on sunscreen!” you yelled as he walked across the sand, sunglasses perched on his nose and book in hand, on the first day. He had complained but let you cover him in sunscreen; he got burnt anyway. 

Mika made a crispy potato joke later that night in response to Chris’ whiny text. 

You got a couple good Instagram posts out of the vacation. One was simply pictures of you that you had made Chris take– “like a good Instagram boyfriend, babe” – plus a couple well-executed timer shots of both of you on the beach: sandy toes, sunburnt nose. The other was a small collection of photos you took of Chris throughout the week, in various positions in various chairs, all with a different book. Your favorite was the time you had caught him asleep on the beach, book still clutched precariously in his hand, mouth hanging open as he burned in the sun. I will never understand how he can read a book a day and still never run out of books, you had typed as a caption. 

Dog Lover Chris was sick. You were sure he had been fighting through shit for nearly two weeks but had been too stubborn to admit it, and he had finally hit a wall. You had caught him leaning heavily against the bathroom sink that morning, dizzy and nauseous, as he attempted to get ready for practice; it still took both you and Mika yelling at him, with more than one threat to call Quinn and/or his mother, before he agreed to stay home. 

You had forced him to at least eat a piece of toast before you let him collapse on the couch under most of the blankets you had in your apartment. You sent Mika a picture of Chris in his fever haze, zoned out while watching the morning news. 

You luckily had the day off, so you were able to stay close to your idiot boyfriend with a penchant for ignoring injury and illness. It started storming after you ate lunch, rain lashing against the windows and lightning lighting up the dark New York sky, shrouded with clouds. Chris was still slouched on one end of the couch, barely having moved all morning. You were sitting at the other end with a book, his feet in your lap and thumb idly rubbing circles on his ankle, having ignored Chris’ protests that you were going to get sick, too. 

Later, when you were making dinner, you peeked into your living room to check on Chris. He had thrown most of his blankets onto the floor, and he was sprawled out on his stomach, solidly asleep. Your dog had crawled up onto the couch with him and was laying protectively over Chris’ legs. You smiled at them before reaching for your phone to take a picture. 

First you sent it to Mika: “Sometimes I think he’s only dating me for my dog.” with an eye roll emoji. Mika laughed at that one. 

Then you posted it on your Instagram, this time with the caption everyone knows dog cuddles are the best medicine. Your replies were flooded with get-well wishes for Chris. 

Best Friends Everyone knew that Mika and Chris were pretty much inseparable, both on the ice and off of it. You and Irma had bonded over it one night, when what was supposed to be a nice double date devolved into Chris and Mika discussing the chances of various teams winning the Cup. It had only been November. 

You teased the two about their codependency, but honestly it was endearing. Mika ended up over for dinner more nights than not, and you texted him more than you texted your mom. Mika sometimes crashed movie nights at Chris’ apartment, and all three of you ended up in a tangled mess of limbs and blankets before the end of the night without fail. It was completely undeniable that Chris loved Mika, so it was inevitable that you loved Mika, too. 

The Rangers were having another outdoor practice in Central Park. You loved going to any practice, but the outdoor ones were especially fun to watch. It always seemed like half of New York showed up to watch, and the boys were always more energetic and idiotic than usual.

You hung around close to the boards behind one of the goals during practice. You got some good pictures of the boys warming up, including one particularly cute one of Artemi sticking his tongue out at you. As practice went on, you took more pictures as various Rangers sped past you. The best opportunity was when Chris scored a – frankly ridiculous, honestly – goal over Hank’s shoulder, set up perfectly by Mika. They slammed into the boards next to you in celebration, and you managed to snap a great angle of that smile Mika seemed to reserve specifically for Chris.

All of the WAGs and families were allowed onto the ice after practice ended. You carefully made your way over towards where Chris and Mika were lazily leaning against the boards near one of the benches, nearly running over tripping over Igor’s dog in the process when he ran in front of you, gleefully dragging a leash behind him. 

Chris was facing you, but he didn’t see you approach. You, however, could see the dorky grin he had aimed at Mika from where he was slouching against the wall. As you got closer, you took out your phone and snuck one more picture of the two of them.

You couldn’t resist posting those pictures of your boys. You made sure to tag Mika, adding on the caption someone tell me how I can get a boy to look at me the way Chris and Mika look at each other. 

Mika replied with an eye roll emoji and a blue heart. Irma replied with about five cry-laughing emojis. Chris just looked offended. 

His Turn Chris had managed to convince you to join him for a week in Connecticut, and you had managed to convince him to let you drive up. He grumbled about it all the way out of the city. 

You had your sunglasses on and your hair was loose around your shoulders. Chris’ phone was plugged into your aux, but he had turned on your own road trip playlist. (He complained about your taste in music most of the drive, too.) As you got closer to Connecticut, Chris rolled the windows down. Every once in a while, you glanced over at him, only to already find him watching you with a smile on his face, eyes crinkly and dimple showing. 

You were singing the words to a Taylor Swift song at the top of your lungs, laughing as the wind ripped the words from your throat and out the window, when Chris reached over and picked up your phone. You turned to look at him.

“Eyes on the road,” he scolded, still holding your now-unlocked phone. You raised an eyebrow but turned back to the highway in front of you. 

The song changed again, this time to a Queen song, and you laughed again. Chris started singing along with you, and you forgot that he had been taking a picture of you. 

Later that night, long after the sun set, you got a notification that you had been tagged in a new Instagram post, by @2kreids0. You squinted at your phone screen, confused. You were sitting out on the porch under the stars, and Chris had gone in for dessert (something still stupidly healthy– “It’s the offseason, Kreider!” you had protested) only a couple minutes before.

Still frowning a little, you tapped on the notification. A picture of yourself, with the sun in your face and hair blowing out the window, laughing, eyes bright underneath your sunglasses, filled your screen. It could only have been taken by Chris in your car earlier. You looked at the Instagram handle again.

“Hey, babe?” you called as Chris stepped back outside, trying to balance two bowls and two glasses of wine. He looked up at you. “Did you make an Instagram?” Chris blushed. You looked back at the picture, this time reading the caption below it: I’ll drive anywhere with you, just to hear you sing your favorite songs. 

Chris had moved to stand next to you, still blushing to the tips of his ears. “I might have.” You laughed, taking your glass of wine from Chris’ hand and pulling him down for a kiss. 

“I thought you didn’t see the point?” you asked.

Chris shrugged. “I didn’t. Then you started posting pictures of me all the time, and I started to understand why people share the things they love for everyone to see.” 

“You’re a sap, Kreider,” you said, all fondness. You smiled at him from behind the rim of your wine glass as he took another picture of you. “Is this what I’m like?” you asked. Chris let out a surprised laugh. 

The next morning you were tagged again by Chris. You rolled your eyes. When you opened the notification, you saw the picture from the night before, but there was also a second one, one you didn’t know Chris had taken. It was of you, of course, but you were glaring at something on your phone over your coffee mug, glasses on and hair a mess. This time he had captioned it get you a girl who can do both. 

“Christopher!” You were already beginning to regret showing him exactly how to work Instagram the night before. As you heard Chris laughing his way down the stairs, though, you thought that you could really get used to it, even if Chris probably had some revenge posts in store for you. 

[impala666]

The One Where Underdog Get’s Away Part Four: Yes The Cartoon!

Finally you guys! I know I got a little uninspired by this series for a little while, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pick it up since I had kind of lost my writing touch. But I looked at it the other day and I never realized how much people actually like it, plus 2020 has made me want to escape the world and go into my Friends rewrite world. So here we are, the last part of the first Thanksgiving episode!!!!

Friends Rewrite (masterlist)    Previous Part (Part Three)

It was officially the day all of you had been looking forward to, well at least most of you. It was finally Thanksgiving day and Monica was working on mostly everything in the kitchen except for Phoebe who was helping with the pies, Ross who was supposed to be helping with something instead he just sat there moping, you helped with the dishes, Joey was just going through Monica’s fridge which was nothing new, and last but not least Chandler was standing close to the door while he silently mocked all of you participating in this holiday. He mostly couldn’t understand why you were celebrating Thanksgiving, you were there when your parents delivered the news that they were getting divorced. Chandler never understood your fascination with holiday’s, but you did always seem to be in a bit of a better mood when they came around. “Mmm, looking good,” Monica announced her progres to all of us. “Cider’s mulling, turkey’s turking, yams are yamming. What?” She finally asked in annoyance at her brother after she finally turned around and saw his very long face. 

“I don’t know. It’s just not the same without mom in the kitchen.” Ross complained. But it seemed like Monica had had enough of Ross being a Negative Nelly. 

“Alright, that’s it, get out of my way and stop annoying me.” She yelled at him. 

“Oh, that’s closer,” Ross smiled and pointed at Monica as her actions were starting to remind him of one Mrs. Geller.

“I got the tickets!” Rachel yelled as she ran into the apartment. After you set the sink to drain after the last dish, you turned around and smiled at her excitement. “Five hours from now, shoop, shoop, shoop.” Rachels did her annoying imitation of skiing. 

“Oh you must stop shooping.” Chandler begged as he smiled at her. 

“I’m gonna go get my stuff.” She announced to all of you as she made her way to her room.

“Chandler, will you just come in already?” You asked your big brother as you made your way to the center of the kitchen to wrap an arm around Joey’s waist. 

“Oh, no thank you. I prefer to keep a safe distance from all this merriment.” You couldn’t help but hate when Chandler got this way, even though you couldn’t completely judge him, you were the exact same way last year when you had to spend Thanksgiving all along. But this year the both of you actually had people that cared about you to celebrate with , how could he not feel it? But instead of saying anything mature you just dropped your voice to a deep whisper and mocked everything that he just said. 

“Look out! Incoming pumpkin pie!” Phoebe announced before she made a fake plane sound as she brought the pie in for a landing, clearly trying to defuse some of the tension that you and Chandler were letting leak into the room and in front of your friends who were just trying to enjoy their holiday. 

“Okay, we all laughed when you did with the stuffing, but that’s not funny anymore.” Chandler told her while bringing the mood down again before he finally took the door handle and closed it behind him as he walked out into the hall to go to his own apartment. 

“Monica, I got a question, I don’t see any tater tots.” Joey mentioned after he rubbed your back to make sure you were okay before turning around to your chef friend. Monica and you shared a smile before she turned and gave Joey a knowing look.

“That’s not a question,” she told him before looking back down at what she was stirring. 

“My mom always makes them.” Joey started whining from the thanksgiving food that he wouldn’t get to have this year. “It’s a tradition. You get a little turkey on your fork, a little cranberry sauce, and a tot!” Joey exclaimed. Of course you couldn’t help but feel bad that your boyfriend couldn’t go to his family’s for thanksgiving because of the AD that they saw their son in, but you also knew that Joey was being a little unfair to Monica. “I mean, it’s bad enough that I can’t be with my family because of my disease.” Joey slumped down into a chair at the table with his chin in his hand trying to win her over. While you loved him there was a part of you that couldn’t help but roll your eyes a little. 

“Alright, tonights potatoes will come in the form of lumps and in the form of tots.” Monica smiled when she heard the boys stop complaining and put smiles on their faces instead. 

“Yes,” the boys cheered silently.

“You know Mon, you really don’t have to make the tots. You’re already doing so much already,” but before you could finish your sentence you felt a hand come up from behind you and put it over your mouth before you could finish speaking.

“No, no, she’s wrong. We gotta have the tots.” Joey managed to say for you.

“It’s fine, Y/N, I just want everyone to be happy.” Monica brushed you off while you softly pinched Joey on the shoulder for what he had done.

“Alright, I’m off to talk to my unborn child.” Ross announced as he rose from his chair as he took his coat with him. Before he stepped away though he tried to take a bit of the stuffing that Monica was mixing in a bowl, but it seemed he had been caught when she yelled at him and batted his hand away. “Okay, mom never hit.” He pointed out before strutting to the door and shutting it behind him as he left. 

“Okay, all done,” Phoebe cheered as she removed the mixers from the potatoes. You couldn’t help but cringe at the mistake she made before Monica could notice it as you took the chair at the table next to Joey. 

“Phoebe, did you whip the pot,” Monica’s face went to disappointment when she saw the beaters. “Ross needs lumps!” She cried as she took the pot of potatoes from Phoeber. 

“Well, I thought we could have them whipped and then add some peas and onions.” Phoebe said while she not so subtly asked for another way to make the potatoes in a way that was meaningful to her. 

“Why would we do that?” Monica asked her. 

“ ‘Cause then they’d be the way my mom used to make it, you know, before she died.” She told her while giving Monica the puppy dog look. 

“Okay,” Monica huffed as she moved Phoebe out of her way. “Three kinds of potatoes coming up.”

“But Monica,” you started but were immediately being cut off by her yelling at you not to say anything which made you shut up right away. You and Joey couldn’t help but looked at each other with bashful faces from what you had done. 

“Okay, goodbye, you guys,” Rachel beamed as she walked out of her room with her luggage and her skis in her hands. “Thanks for everything.” Her smile fell when one of her bags accidentally knocked something on the table next to the couch, and when she turned around to look and see what it was she forgot that she was holding her skis and turned to quickly, without realizing that she hit Joey in the head before it was too late. 

“Are you okay?” You immediately asked him as Rachel started profusely apologizing to him as Joey made sure to let both of you know that he was fine and that it was no big deal. 

“The most unbelievable thing just happened!” Chandler cheered as he bared his way into Monica and Rachel’s scaring you all just a little bit. “Underdog has gotten away.”

“The balloon?” Joey wondered.

“No, the actual cartoon character.” Chandler sarcastically answered. 

“Chandler,” you just stared at him unamused. “Come on.” 

“Of course the balloon. It’s all over the news. Right before he reaches Macy’s, he broke free and was spotted over Washington Square Park. I’m going to the roof, who’s with me.” Chandler declared so that he could try and get a glimpse of this giant balloon. Of course you were gonna go but you could feel yourself being taken by your hand and almost dragged behind Joey toward the door. 

“I can’t, I gotta go!” Rachel warned everyone even though all of you knew that she would want to see the balloon too.

“Come on, and 80 foot inflatable dog loose over the city?” Chandler tried to get her to see it from his perspective.

“How often does that happen?” You wandered along with him. 

“Almost never,” Phoebe answered for you as she softly nudged you on your back for you to go through the door so all of you could run up the stairs. But what no one heard, was Monica asking Rachel if she had the keys before Monica promptly slammed the door shut. 

*********

“That was awesome!” You exclaimed as you lead everyone’s way down the stairs.  

“I know! I loved the giant dog shadow over the park.” Rachel agreed with you at how weird the situation was that all of you just saw unfold.

“Yeah, but did they have to shoot him down? That was just mean.” You couldn’t help but smile at the little sentence that came out of Phoebe’s mouth made her sound so innocent, it even made a little giggle come out of you as you waited for Rachel to open the door. 

“Okay, the turkey should be crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside.” Monica smiled at the thought of the delicious sounding turkey that was sitting all for you on the other side of that door. “Why are we standing here?” She asked when nothing happened and no one was moving anywhere, all of us were just standing in the hallway looking at each other. 

“We’re waiting for you to open the door, you’ve got the keys.” Rachel said to her.

“No, I don’t.” Monica stared at her roommate.

“Yes you do. When we left you said, “got the keys.” Rachel said, explaining her side of things. While you, Joey, and Chandler stood by your apartment door watching all of this unfold. 

“No, I asked, “Got the ke’eys?” Monica changed her pitch to let Rachel know that at the time she was actually asking a question. 

“No, no, no you said, “got the keys.” Rachel was sticking to what she thought she heard, but all you could tell was that were getting a slight headache from this argument that just seemed to go around in circles, so to hide from the confrontation you just decided to lean against Joey’s chest as he kissed the top of your head while you waited for the girls to figure out what they were doing. 

“Either of you have the keys?” Chandler asked the both of them as he leaned on Joey as well, and was of course mocking Rachel and Monica as he asked them. Which made Monica freak out and try the door knob.

“The oven is on!” She yelled worried about the turkey and of course the apartment.

“I’ve gotta get my ticket.” Rachel also added when she remembered the flight that she was supposed to get on for the family trip you all pitched in for. 

“Oh wait, wait, we have a copy of your key.” Joey just now realized.

“Well get it, get it!” Monica begged the three of you. 

“That tone won’t make me go any faster,” Joey warned as he tried to get her to calm down.

“Joey!” You yelled trying to get him to realize that you all were kind of crunched for time as you pointed your finger at him.

“That one will,” Joey’s face turned to a scared one when he saw the serious look on your face before turning around and running into the apartment to get the drawer with all of the keys that he and Chandler had collected over the years. 

********

All of you were waiting for Joey to find the right key to the door, which apparently took about a thousand keys and he still hadn’t found the right one. “Can you go any faster with that?” Monica asked Joey as she walked up to him. 

“I got one key hole and a zillion keys. You do the math.” Joey told her as he turned around to try another key that turned out to be yet another failure. 

“Why do you guys have so many keys in there anyway?” Rachel added in on the yelling as she stepped down from the one she was standing on. 

“For an emergency just like this.” Chandler smirked. 

“All right, listen smirky.” Rachel growled as she grabbed Chandler by his shirt collar. “If it wasn’t for you and your stupid balloon I would be on a plane watching a woman do this right now, but I’m not.” Rachel added as she did the thing that flight attendants for when they signal the exits on an airplane. 

“I swear you said you had the keys.” Monica continued. Oh, my god not again, you rolled your eyes and leaned your head against the wall. 

“No I didn’t. I wouldn’t say that unless I had the keys, and I obviously did not have the keys!” This fight was just getting more and more childish when Rachel started jumping up and down and stomping her feet on the floor. You were honestly about to snap at them yourself, but it seemed that Phoebe had had enough as well.

“Alright! That’s enough about the keys, no one say keys.” She yelled at them as the both of you walked over to the roommates to try and calm them down. Finally there was a brief silence that you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh.

“Oh thank god,” you said under your breath. “That was just ridiculous.” 

“Why would I have the keys!?” But it seemed neither you or Phoebe were heard, or Monica was just too stubborn to let it go and prove to Rachel that she was right. 

“It’s like it never ends.” You and Phoebe just to decided to give up and let them get this over with.

“Aside from your saying you had them?” Rachel fought back at Monica. 

“But I didn’t.” Monica answered with again. 

“Well you should have.” Rachel rebutted. This was followed with a series of why’s and because’s when neither of them felt like they were at fault her. Phoebe and you shared a looked and just shrugged your shoulders while your brother and Joey did the same thing. 

“Why? Because everything is my responsibility? Isn’t it enough that I’m making Thanksgiving dinner for everyone?” Monica started directing her yelling at all of your from how stressed and angry she was getting. “Everyone wants a different kind of potatoes, so I’m making different kinds of potatoes. Does anybody care what kind of potatoes I want? No! No! No!” You couldn’t help but feel like you were being yelled at by your mother, yet you were also very impressed that she was actually standing up for herself. “Just as long as Phoebe gets her peas and onions and Mario gets his tots. And it’s my first Thanksgiving and it’s all burnt and..” the more and more she kept talking the more freaked out that her food was all ruined and the higher her voice got. 

“Okay, Monica, only dogs can hear you now.” Chandler said right when Joey finally found the right key to the door.

“Hey,” you pointed out to her. “The door’s open.” 

“Oh God,” she exclaimed as we all ran into the apartment to find that there was smoke everywhere in the kitchen. “Well, turkey’s burnt.” She slammed the bird on the stove top. “Potatoes are ruined. Potatoes are ruined. Potatoes are ruined.” Just then, of course, Ross walked into the room singing and seeming to be in a great mood. That was until he smelled and saw the smoke.

“This doesn’t smell like mom.” Ross complained.

 “No, it doesn’t, does it? But you wanted lumps, Ross?” Monica turned around and pulled out that spoon that was now stuck in the solid, burnt, black potatoes. “Well, here you go buddy, you got one!” 

“Oh God, this is great! The planes gone, so I guess I’m stuck here with you guys.” Rachel complained about her misfortune as she set the phone down. 

“Hey, we all had better plans, okay. This was nobody’s first choice.” You couldn’t really believe what had come out of Joey’s mouth, and you couldn’t help but look at him with furrowed eyebrows and an astonished look on your face. It may not have gone the way anybody planned, but it was the best Thanksgiving you had had in a long, long time. You crossed your arms and sadly turned around when you heard that it was Monica’s turn.

“Oh, really? So why was I busting my ass to make this delicious Thanksgiving dinner?” Monica yelled louder as she pointed to the burnt food behind her. Just then everyone started fighting and while you tried to calm everybody down, everyone was just too heated to listen or hear you. But that was it you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Alright, stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” You yelled at the top of your lungs as you jumped and stomped just trying to get everyone’s attention. 

“Now this feels like Thanksgiving.” Chandler smiled at the fighting that was going on, but you weren’t going to have that. You were going to make this Thanksgiving spectacular whether he liked it or not.

********

All seven of you were all sitting in your own spots in the room, no one was talking to each other and no one even dared to look at each other. Monica sitting in the arm chair staring at the wall, Ross and Rachel on the couch, you at the table with your head resting on your arms across from Joey and next to Chandler, and Phoebe who was sitting in a chair and staring out of the window and to the neighbors that lived across the street. “Ew!” Phoebe’s exclamation made all of you escape your own thoughts. 

“What” Rachel asked her. 

“Ugly Naked Guy just took his turkey out of the oven.” Sure it sounded too intriguing, it was just none of you wanted to get up. “Oh, my God. He’s not alone. Ugly Naked Guy is having Thanksgiving dinner with Ugly Naked Gal.” Once Phoebe announced it, it was like none of you could control it anymore. All of you jumped out of your seats and ran to the window just to see what was going on. 

“All right, Ugly Naked Guy!” Joey yelled his support right next to you. 

“Awe, ugly naked dancing.” It was really cute how two people that were so odd and so comfortable with being naked would make such a cute couple. 

“It’s nice that he has someone.” Phoebe, always the one to say what all of you were thinking did it again. And when you looked side to side, from Ross and to Joey to wrapped his arm around your shoulder, you leaned your head on his shoulder as you realized that it was really nice not to be alone for once on a holiday, or ever really. You had six incredible people that cared for you and you cared for them, what else could you ask for. You felt Ross softly pat you on the shoulder before he patted Joey before he finally turned and walked away from the window. Using this opportunity to reach up and peck Joey on the lips before you yourself walked away. 

********

“Shall I carve?” Chandler asked to your right from the head of the table while he held knives in both hands. 

“By all means.” Rachel smiled at him from your left when you both shared a satisfied smile. 

“All right,” Chandler agreed as he finally sunk his knives into the many, many stacked grilled cheeses. “Okay, who wants dark cheese and who wants light cheese?” You brother asked as he offered the plate, which you gratefully took from him. 

“I don’t even wanna know about the dark cheese.” Ross added to what Chandler made into a joke. 

“Does anybody want to split this with me?” Monica asked as she lifted up and sandwich.

“I will,” Joey raised his hand. 

“Make a wish.” Phoebe told them so that it could be like your very own wishbone, but it seemed Monica and Joey didn’t understand when they just stared at her.

“You know, Thanksgiving.” You mimicked doing the movements of the wishbone which they got. So then the sandwich was lifted, Monica’s hand on one half, and Joey’s on the other half. Once they pulled apart Phoebe cheered.

“Woohoo, you got the bigger half, what’d you wish for?” She asked him.

“The bigger half,” he gave his honest answer with a straight face. You couldn’t help but rest your chin on your hand and just share a sweet smile with him. 

“Alright, I’d like to propose a toast. Little toast here.” Chandler clinked his knife to his wine glass to get everyone’s attention. I know this isn’t exactly the Thanksgiving all of you planned. But for me, this has been really great. You know?” Chandler asked, even though looking down at you, he knew that you knew. “I think because it didn’t involve divorce or projectile vomiting. Anyway, I was just thinking, if you had gone to Vail, or if you had gone to Joey’s parents, or if you guys had been with your family, or if you didn’t have syphilis and stuff. We wouldn’t be all together, you know?” Chandler continued with his speech until he was behind Ross and Joey while all of you had your wine glasses raised. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is that, uh, I’m very thankful that all of your Thanksgivings sucked.” With that we all thanked him as we all reached toward the center of the table and clinked our glasses together before each taking a sip. 

“And hey,” Ross got everyone’s attention again. “Here’s to a lousy Christmas.”

“And a crappy New Year.” Rachel had to add before everyone clinked their glasses together again. You couldn’t help but think to yourself that, yep you were definitely going to be okay.   

[theonlygamergost]

Dream’s new friend -Dream SMP

I am an absolute sucker for Techno/Dream interactions, and them getting locked up together made me want to write about them, so here we are. 

English is not my first language so sorry for any grammatical error, I try my best. 

~~~~~~~~~~

They have a plan to escape, but it’s slow and very taxing on Dream’s frail body, so Techno tries his best to be a good friend and support him. Spoilers: he only knows how to be an amazing friend. 

~~~~~~~~~

Warning! Mention of torture, Swearing

Enjoy~

“Just so you know, I'm not breaking all of the blocks by myself, you're helping” he looked at the half-pig while his hands went in and out of the water, Techno grinned, “You really thought I'd let you do that all by yourself?” he let out a short laugh, “I just needed to exaggerate my inner anarchist and look lazy in front of chat, that's all. We can do a block per person” Dream smiled behind his cracked mask, returning his gaze in front of him. Meditating on thoughts while watching the water break every time he punched.

It had been a few days since Techno last streamed, they had just broken the second block, meaning that Dream was up for the third block. The bell hadn't been touched very much, Techno had ringed it twice to annoy the other man, but that was about it.

“Do you regret asking for the bell instead of freedom?” Dream was sitting not too far at a from Techno, just enough to have privacy while writing, “Not really” the pig-man was punching away the second block, “I mean, it would have been anticlimactic to get out of here in the first stream” Dream sighed, “Is the entertainment of the situation all you care about?” he looked at Techno, slightly annoyed. The men tilted his head, “Not completely, but you have to agree that getting out of here using DreamXD would have drawn even more attention on you, not only from Quackity” he noted, “But from all the server” the man with the dirty white mask looked up, resting his head on the wall behind him, “True…”. The pig-man took a quick glance at the other boy and returned his focus on punching, Dream had followed suit and went back to writing.

Dream had kneeled and started punching the third block approximately twenty minutes ago, Techno was relaxing his tired body by laying sprawled on the floor: he had underestimated how tiring the process was.

“I have been training constantly up until I came here and this has worn me out, so how are you holding up?” He turned his face to the man punching away, who laughed at the question, “I’m not, why do you think I slept so much right after?”.

Oh right, the sight of Dream huddled in a corner popped into his mind, the cellmate stayed dead still and silent for a long while after breaking the first block. Who could blame him though? He had been stuck in this prison for what- six, seven months? Techno doubted the first inmate of this cell trained daily, with the heat of the lava and the constant sweating, even he wouldn’t want to train.

“Well, it’s still admirable that you recovered from a day of punching just by sleeping it off” Dream nodded as a thank you. After a sigh, Techno went back to staring at the ceiling, this wasn’t the best idea he had ever come up with, but hey, it was the only subtle one since he couldn’t use withers and tnt to get out.

He closed his eyes and focused on the various sounds of the lava: boiling, bubbling, it seemed like a soup cooking, but the sound of the liquid flowing down wasn’t normal, he opened his eyes, “Dream, the lava is falling”. The other man stopped punching and got closer to the edge of the cell, as soon as pistons got into motion, he quickly leapt behind the netherite block line and almost got left out, as it raised from the ground. Techno scooted in front of the bell and Dream leaned on the barrier, curious to see who was coming.

Some dreadful minutes after, the lava finally revealed who was visiting: It was none other than Sam.

“Heyyy Sam!” Techno was quick to chirp a greeting, waving excessively. Dream simply gestured a salute, backing away from the netherite blocks and leaning on a wall. The man in armour hopped on the taxi platform and started making his way, still silent. “What brings you here Sam? Maybe you’ve decided to free me?” The pig-man got no reply, just a stare, “Are you here because I have called every book I signed ‘Sub to Techno’? Listen, I can’t really apologize about that-” Sam got closer, still no response. Dream eyed the bell behind his inmate and hoped that the guard wouldn’t get too close, what would even happen if he saw it? He feared nothing good.

The platform reached the cell and Sam stepped on the obsidian, Dream wanted to ask where was Quackity, why he wasn’t coming anymore, maybe Sam was here to torture him in his stead? But he stayed quiet, not wanting to wake up the sleeping lion.

“Oh I got it!” Techno snapped his finger, “You missed us so you came to see us!” Sam sighed as he started to fumble in his inventory, “Don’t be ridiculous Techno” the guard finally spoke, “I came to check if you weren’t trying to escape-” He plopped a bag on the netherite barrier, “And to bring you potatoes. I’ve heard you’re a big fan of them, Technoblade” A smirk slipped though, god was he tired of being teased with the whole ‘Potato lover’ joke.

Sam turned to  Dream and went back to rustle in his pocket, “I’ve also brought more journals and some ink for you, Dream.”. He also placed those on the barrier, the man with the white mask got off the wall and placed the bag of food on the floor while also grabbed the stationary, murmuring out a “Thank you”.

The guard looked at the two prisoners again, “You two better not be planning anything. Behave and nothing will happen to you” he said as he hopped back on the platform, and even when it started moving, he was still looking at those two. He only broke sight when he arrived on the other side, took down the netherite barrier and re-activated the lava.

Techno had been sweating throughout the entire meet-up, thankfully, the high temperature disguised his nervousness. Focusing on the slow dripping of the crying obsidian helped him avoid fidgeting or bouncing his leg. Dream was mostly focused on not looking in Techno’s direction too much, to avoid raising suspicion, he also restrained himself to tease or talk back to Sam, even though, thinking about it more clearly, in all the times Sam came to check up on him, he seemed lost in his thoughts, absent…

Both the inmates let out a sigh of relief when the lava-curtain dropped, Dream slid down the wall onto the floor, “I don’t know why he didn’t enter the cell like he usually does, but thank god he didn’t”, Techno let out a shaky breath, “That was pure stress… I thought hiding the bell was going to be easier”.

The two took a break from talking: Techno layed down again, placing an arm on his forehead, meanwhile Dream placed both books and food in their place. When he too sat down, Techno asked: “You should get some sleep before going back to punching” he tilted his head to look at the other man, who replied smiling at the friend’s concern, “Nah” he shook his head, “I don’t want to sleep, but I’ll post-pone punching for a little more” Techno nodded, closing his eyes for a little.

Silence fell again and the bubbling from the lava took over as the main noise, the elder guardian screech renewed their mining fatigue and Dream decided to close his eyes for a minute as well.

_________

The hard ground and the heat that wearing the mask had created were hard to ignore, his body ached a little and he was out of breath, “Oh wow that actually worked”, a faint voice made him realize that his mind was foggy: he had fallen asleep.

Slowly stretching his limbs, letting out a long whine and blinking a couple of times got him a bit more lucid, getting up to a sitting position. Scanning the room he realized his inmate was sitting at the edge of the lava cascade blocking the cell, fumbling with what, he couldn’t see.

“...Mh… Techno…” he mumbled with his morning voice, yawning right after. The friend looked over his shoulder to see a sleepy Dream rubbing his eyes, he smiled, “Good morning dear, I’m cooking you breakfast before you head for work”. The white-mask man smiled, “Very funny Techno…”, he stretched again. “Oh no I’m not kidding, I’m baking the potatoes” he turned to show the crispy tubers in his arms, Dream’s eyes widened. “Oh wow, you really did that” Techno nodded, getting up from his improvized ‘kitchen’, “I was surprised it worked as well honestly”.

The smell of food filled the cell, making the sleepy man’s stomach rumble, they both laughed at the sound: Dream had almost forgotten what hot food tasted like. “Here” Techno threw him a potato, almost dropping it on the ground because of Dream’s rusty reflexes.

He took off his broken mask out of excitement to taste the meal, not realizing his own action, but Techno didn’t stare at him nor asked questions about it, he simply sat down himself and didn’t speak a word, probably the easiest and more natural way he had ever shown someone his face, he silently thanked the other man for not judging him or reacting negatively.

Once he started eating it, a tear almost fell off his eye, the pig-man noticed, “Oh yeah… you’ve been eating them raw for a long time”. The potato expert looked over the hungry and content friend eating away, “I can always do more if you’d like, they taste better cooked either way” and he also took a bite. They ate in silence mostly, a couple of words were exchanged but nothing much.

When Techno (who wasn’t as hungry as Dream) finished his snack, he looked over at the ‘ex toilet’ and got up to sit down next to it, rolling his sleeves up. Dream noticed, “Umf...Whatf awe you doingf?” He asked with his mouth full, making the friend smile, “I’ll start punching so you can rest a little more, we can swap whenever you feel rested and full enough” and he did start punching, Dream nodded, looking at the potato in his hand.

Now he understood why Phil and Wilbur liked Techno so much: who he saw as friends were treated with the utmost respect and care. He glanced over at the pig-man once more. But if you never saw this side of him… how could you even try and trust him? That’s why Quackity was so traumatized…

He squinted, the view of Techno standing between him and Tommy flashed in his mind, Dream’s eyebrows knitted.

Then why did Tommy give away Techno’s kindness for a dying country and people that didn’t care for him?

A deep sigh came from the man in the corner, snapping Dream back to his obsidian cell.

As long as Dream was sincere with Techno. they would have been both down to help the other. He finished munching on his meal. Yes, Techno owed one to Dream, but now that he was alone, with no friends or allies, transforming that debt into a friendship seemed like a gift. A gift Dream would treat with respect and gratitude.

“Thank you Techno…” Techno smiled, allowing a content noise to slip out of him, “What, for cooking a potato?” Dream shook his head even if the pig-man couldn’t see him, “No… For being my friend” the man in question turned to look at the white mask- no, underneath the white mask. “I don’t have a lot of friends myself y’know, I guess you could say we are two lonely dudes keeping each other company”.

Dream giggled, they hadn’t interacted that much until now… but he was sure he was going to enjoy being around him.

[free-boundsoul]

Yeah. Exactly. I wonder if shifters know how connected they seem to people on the outside looking in. Well, when you put it like that, I guess we’re in the same boat, but also poised to help each other!

Well, maybe I have more important things to do than be your own private human dictionary. Have you ever thought of that, Freelancer? Oh, good good good. So I’m not the only one who was skeptical that they died? I’m kinda relieved. I thought I was just grasping at straws.

When you put it like that, maybe it might be more likely than I thought that a cat would come up to me. I do run hot. Plus, maybe I could borrow a few of those treats you offered earlier? Just as, y’know, insurance. And hey, if you go, perhaps another cat will choose you. Does Eren play nice with others?

Hmm. That’s an interesting offer, Freelancer. I guess we could arrange that. Purely for gathering data, of course. Not because it might be fun. You probably snore. Aww, that must’ve seemed magical for you as a kid. Even though it means that you didn’t get a picture to capture the moment, maybe you’re better off not having a smartphone at the time. You got to be in the moment and capture it in your mind’s eye without distractions or pressure or thinking about how you’re going to show it to other people. You were there fully, completely, and now you get to always have that. Barefoot in the snow? Oh hell, Freelancer. The thought is enough to make my toes fall off! You need some self-preservation.

Should we do a matinee or an evening showing? Oh, enemies to lovers can be interesting, but it depends how it’s handled. I like to see some sort of complexity or something right from the get go. If they just both scream and yell and insult each other, then I never want them to end up together. Like, there’s a point of being too mean. Lots of movies use that trope. I always think of /Much Ado About Nothing/ as the OG enemies to lovers.

You do that thing with your eyebrow, raise it up and crinkle it, when you lie. A little competition never hurt anyone, in my opinion at least. Crispiness can be an asset sometimes. Like with sweet potato fries. Those are my favorite! I’ll make sure not to serve any popcorn. Good to know. What’s your take on caramel corn? I know you’ve got quite the sweet tooth.

Maybe if it’s that cold, I could actually hold the snow in my hands without instantly melting it. I remember one winter, just after my powers manifested, I wanted to make a snowman and couldn’t. I almost, almost cried! But, then my mom showed me how to control my fire so that I melted the snow a little bit into ice and we made an ice sculpture that looked like a snowman. She’s so creative. But when it’s a dry heat, it’s not that bad! I promise!

-Damien

I was just kidding, Damien. It was a pretty poor joke, I'll admit, I'm sorry. I really don't think of you as a dictionary, even though you usually teach me new words. But you're definitely not grasping at straws. I mean, they're an earth elemental, and there was earth beneath them. Hux is always digging holes just for fun, imagine how fast he could be if he had to do it in a situation like that.

I have plenty of treats, for insurance reasons of course, though I doubt that you'll need them. Haha, Eren loves other cats, though he's a bit...persistent, so most other cats can't stand him. He just wants to be friends.

Oh, I definitely snore.... funny story, when I was a kid I used to deny that I snored. I had a dream where every so often whenever I tried to speak, I'd let out a snore... and well, I was convinced that I snored after that. So, if I get too loud, just wake me up or put a pillow over my face or something. That's a really sweet way of thinking, Damien, and you're right! Haha, I still go outside barefoot in the snow to take out the trash or get the mail or stuff. I haven't lost any toes yet.

Maybe evening if that's okay? I have to agree, if they're just yelling and hating each other, it makes no sense. I haven't seen that before, maybe that's another movie we should watch together?

I do? I had no idea. I don't usually lie so I guess I don't really think about the kinds of tells I have. Oh, I love sweet potato fries! They're so much better than regular ones. I love caramel corn when it's fresh, when the caramel is softer and not so hard. My grandma used to make caramel puffcorn balls around Christmas. They were such a mess. Have you ever had white chocolate covered puffcorn? It's pretty addictive.

That sounds like so much fun! And pretty, have you ever tried to use food coloring to make the ice different colors? We should make a snowman together! Have you ever built a fort out of the snow, the big piles that are made by the plows? When I was a kid we used to dig out tunnels if we got a lot of snow. And oh sure, I'll believe you if I ever see that. The summers I've dealt with are always so muggy.

[oikirstein]

𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐲 | 𝐟𝐭. 𝐒.𝐇𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚, 𝐓.𝐊𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚, 𝐊.𝐊𝐨𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐞, & 𝐀.𝐌𝐢𝐲𝐚

Synopsis: Mhm.

Contains: God so much second hand embarrassment, mega cringe, very not poggers

Posted: 1/30/2021

A/N: Ummmm so yeah... I definitely did not need to do this. At this point, I don’t even know if I wanted to do this. This is blatant slander and I hope you all will forgive me for the mess I’ve made :)

Edit: I’m adding this A/N after I’ve written everything...lmao sorry if these aren’t good, I’m too embarrassed for them to add more & also this was not proofread because it’s 1:30 AM and I need to wake up early to practice driving later

𝐒.𝐇𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚

I love Hinata, but he strikes me as the kid in elementary school who would bring one of those roller backpacks (with a flashy character, vibrant colors, idk like Lightening McQueen or something) and totally thought he was cool

Then at recess he would Naruto run all over the place (sometimes dragging along his backpack behind him)

Hinata is shameless and would definitely play with his food at lunch

I mean like making a well in his mashed potatoes and then pouring milk into it

He’s that one kid that rolls around in the dirt during P.E. and doesn’t mind the fact that he smells like someone mowed the grass and he was the lawn mower

At one point or another, he would get on all fours and bark at people

Believes the world is either pants or get pantsed

Was remembered as that kid in elementary school who threw up

𝐓.𝐊𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚

I hate thinking about him in this way, but it’s been brought to my attention that Kageyama would 100% have greasy hair

That boy might take amazing care of his nails and hands, but I just know the reason his hair is so oily is because he uses conditioner on his scalp

Would save a milk carton and put it in his bag for later and then forget until like a week later when his books start smelling like liquid ass

So this isn’t inherently bad, I just don’t agree with it: he pours milk into his coffee cake *gags cutely*

Kageyama in his quiet, brooding nature, is the one person people are scared to upset in class because they’re afraid of what he might do

The “emo kid”

Blasted My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, & Twenty One Pilots at 8 AM with cheap ass headphones that came free with a shirt he got

Like Hinata, Kageyama barks at people...but with his eyes

Like he doesn’t verbally bark, but he probably growls

Thinks Hinata is absolutely disgusting for mixing his potatoes and milk

𝐊.𝐊𝐨𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐞

This boy wakes up at like 2 AM to play video games, I think we can unanimously agree that his room probably smells like sweaty gym socks dipped in Monster energy drink

He has bottles upon bottles of half drank water bottles littering his floor

Kuroo has offered to help him throw them out, but Kenma is low-key proud of his collection

He saves the Monster cans to make those can guns, and he has them up on a shelf above his window

Not to mention the literal trash all over his desk from when he would snack during his games/streams

The only thing remotely neat about his room are his games

I know he organizes them and has a bookshelf to display them on

Kenma is also the type to not be able to see the floor, but know where everything is

Laundry basket is filled to the brim and is spilling onto the ground (Kuroo is starting to get concerned and believes that something is either living in there or starting to grow in there)

𝐀.𝐌𝐢𝐲𝐚

5-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, bodywash, deodorant, and moisturizer 

Not just because he bleaches his hair, but because of his haircare product choice, he has the most brittle, dry, crispy, dead hair

Osamu on the other hand probably takes really good care of his hair, and even offered some purple shampoo to Atsumu, which Tsumu declined because “My hair already looks great!”

Either doesn’t wash his face at all or uses a bar of soap

He covers up his...musk... with copious amounts of AXE body spray

Thinks he smells amazing, but Osamu’s nose literally burns just standing next him

Being best friends with Suna, he probably wears a fake gold chain, sags his pants just a bit, and says “mamas,” “shawty,” and “the boys”

He’s “not like other guys” he’s “built different”

© all content [unless stated otherwise] belongs to gellysticks 2021. do not modify or repost.

reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

[halt-kun]

Hunter x Hunter Chapter 11 - The Inevitable Outcome

Okay so I’m procrastinating and I will do one more chapter today.

Best panel of Menchi so far !

IT MUST BE NEN ! 

I would be Kurapika though.

Making Sushi is so fun.

So we have 148-70=78 people that got eliminated by the pig. They probably got killed too.

There is some pretty people with androgynous looks up there.

I don’t know if I would have guessed it was done with fish though those knives would lead me to think of that. I would definitely not know what to do with the rice. I’d probably fuck around until I make something that looks good with fish and that has a balanced taste.

I really hate when people are loud when I tell them some crucial stuff that’s just for them to know. Also it’s not any vinegar, it’s rice vinegar with some sugar. You can also use white vinegar that you dilute with water a bit and add sugar to. (the french translation talked about white vinegar too)

I think I would definitely cook the fish unless it’s something that looks good raw like Salmon.

Togashi is very good at making unique designs for characters as we can see here and later on. 

I like the diversity of fishing techniques too

Some people really caught the most random fish they saw. Like I know fish means nothing in term of animal group since it’s not derived from a common ancestor. Or if it were, all land animals would be fish too since we are just a very eccentric branch of sarcopterygii (lobe-finned fishes). Anyway I doubt the first one is a fish, most likely a lamprey. 

I know in culinary terms it might be a fish since eels are but I have yet to see any sushi with that kind of fish.

I want to eat them !!!

Like Menchi I would be very enthusiast about eating those sushi.

Leorio I know you’ve never cooked in your life but would you eat that ? I mean several fish in one rice ball. Have you even tasted them before ? Like separately ? You don’t mix meat at random. Also you know, you should have removed: the head, the organs, the skin at least ?

Gon I know you usually grill your fish on a stick but would you eat them raw like that and still twitching ? I’m really wondering if you’ve ever fished before and I’ve seen you do it. 

I love Kurapika

At least one guy cut the fish in some way. 

Okay so I judged Kurapika’s reasoning in french and he is better in english. Like in french he deduced it should be the size of an egg and the shape of a potato croquette. 

Also you should do several ones Kurapika. And several with one fish too.

LIKE HOW THE FUCK DID YOU COME TO THIS CONCLUSION !

Do you even know how to cook fish, let alone raw fish !!!

How are you even surprised.

You know Menchi you should be a little more tolerant on the taste.

Also Hanzo, do you really come from a country where sushi is common because everybody knows sushis can taste very different depending on who makes it.

I love murdery Menchi, must be an emitter 

She was a bit less picky in french, she said the rice was too crispy but still too picky.

She’s making decent critics but she should still let some pass. Like I’ve been doing sushi at least once a month for the past two years and a half and I’m still not consistent. 

Well, end of the chapter.

Menchi is very picky, we all knew that. I agree though most applicants didn’t even try to prepare the fish correctly. EVEN KURAPIKA OR GON WHO SHOULD HAVE SOME EXPERIENCE AND KNOWLEDGE DOING SO !

Yeah I would definitely have been upset by this much lack of effort but figuring out how to do sushi is already quite the challenge even with just a description of the dish. So even without that how did she expect it to taste good.

Anyway I love her, please can we have more gourmet hunters. And more cooking too.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜 

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​ @pomjompish​ @writerxinthedark​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.                                                        

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”  

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.  

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.  

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You��ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.  

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

[adultswim2021]

EPHEMERA WEEK

Bashingtons New Years Eve (December 31, 2003 - 11:00 PM)

NOTE: The above video’s quality is awful, and I’m sorry. For some reason the better-quality version wouldn’t embed!

Now here’s a real event! Arguably capping off the end of an era (though I kinda see the final episode of Space Ghost Coast to Coast as being the true end of the classic [adult swim] era’s end) comes the New Years Eve party, aka The Bashingtons New Years Eve. Here a bunch of Adult Swim stars (including Moses, from the DVD commercial) congregate at Brak’s house to celebrate the new year. Characters from different shows all interact with one another and talk about getting sexual and stuff. Meatwad, Brak and Dolphin Boy all hang out upstairs to watch Don Kennedy drive a boat around and show cool rock and roll clips. It’s all pretty special. The night went like this:

Aqua Teen Hunger Force #41: "The Cloning"

Aqua Teen Hunger Force #42: "The Last One"

Sealab 2021 #31: "Frozen Dinner"

The Brak Show #28: "Cardburkey"

Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law #15: "Blackwatch Plaid"

But by all indication the night was supposed to run like this:

Aqua Teen Hunger Force #41: "The Cloning"

Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law #15: "Blackwatch Plaid"

Sealab 2021 #31: "Frozen Dinner"

The Brak Show #28: "Cardburkey"

Aqua Teen Hunger Force #42: "The Last One"

(note: this was followed by the Y2K episode of Family Guy, the Futurama pilot and the Venture Bros. pilot according to swimpedia)

The reason for the mix-up? Not sure! But the bumpers have a pretty clear continuity and they announce the wrong shows a couple times. My guess is that they just thought “The Last One” might get lost int he shuffle, or that there was some contractual thing stating that ATHF or Birdman had to debut in a particular calendar year so they couldn’t air before/after midnight, whatever the case may be. Maybe they just fucked up and played the wrong thing by mistake. Actually, that’s likely. But let the record show that the first line-up is accurate.

Anyway, if you click on the episode titles you’ll see I gave air times that reflect the shows not actually airing at their usual on-the-quarter-hour schedule. That’s because the Bashingtons segments actually add up to the length of a 12-or-so minute long [adult swim] show, so everything kinda played a couple minutes late. To compensate for this, [adult swim] scheduled something called “Special Presentation“ for a 15 minute timeslot at midnight. I actually did some filthy, dirty math to approximate when stuff probably aired, timing out the schedule with bumper and episode runtimes and how long your average commercial break would be. I hope I didn’t fuck it up too bad. I might’ve. Well, I’m not going to check or change it.

These are notable for revealing the ultimate fate of The Brak Show (cancelled), and for featuring George Lowe playing himself promoting his book Boned by the Master, which is one of my favorite jokes. It’s just a really good title for a book, is all. I hope someday he really does write Boned by the Master. I would buy it.

MAIL BAG

For the record I didn't hate the Sonic Guys because my dad and I thought they were gay. I just though they were sublimely annoying. Also Sonics food is terrible. I prefer Popeyes as far as fast food goes. Here's my haul from last week: crispy tender chicken made to order, mashed potatos, and a crunchy fluffy biscut. Piled high with gravy and all the other good stuff. Try it if you are every in the Louisiana area!

I got noose for you pal, Popeyes Chicken is available all across our great country (the United Skates of America in case you didn’t know). And I agree with you, their food is heavenly. Sonic’s “gotta go fast” ethos may be a charmer for those we Pop-heads call “pig-mouthed” but it is not for me. Popeyes may not suck your dick with each meal like Sonic does, but at least you will drive away feeling nourished.

[katsukikitten]

Ready Set COOK!

A/N have this random ass fic I cranked out cause I watched some food network. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did writing it!

"Y/N is arguable the best cook in the dorms." Mina says salivating over the thought of dinner as 1A figures out what they are going to try to convince you to make.

"Tch. Yea fucking right. I cook the best!" Bakugou chimes in suddenly flipping through the channels with fever.

"Ha!" You laugh dryly, "Maybe when I'm having a bad day."

He grinds his teeth as he glares at you, channel surfing forgotten.

"Let's settle this." He snarls although he barely moves from his lounging position.

"How do you declare we do that spicy boi?" A hush suddenly falls over the room at your most recent and his most hated nickname.

Explosions threaten to pop but the TV blares before he can.

"THIS WEEK ON COOK OFF!"

"OH OH!" Kirishima pipes in, jumping up to point at the TV frantically.

"Fuck no." Bakugou bites out, sending daggers the red heads way.

"Oh come on Bakugou it will be fun!" He whines only to be shut down again. This time with an explosion. The hot head jumps to his feet with smoking hands.

"I SAID FUCK NO!"

"Why? Too scared you'll get your ass kicked?" You prompt, looking at your nails as you speak. He stalks your way leaning over you as you sit on the couch.

"I'm too scared you'll lose so badly you'll have to commit seppuku to regain your honor." The tension is palpable in the large living room, making some of the students feel small from its weight.

"Oh so you admit you worry about me?" You say in your most flirtatious voice, placing your hand onto his shoulder because you love to get under his skin. He jerks back with crazed eyes.

"I don't give a fuck about any of you extras!"

"Good! Now we need judges. Todoroki?" You ask but Bakugou shakes his head.

"His palette is as expanded as a fucking toddler's." The ash blonde shakes his head, "Mother fucker eats cold soba for breakfast lunch AND dinner."

"Ouch." An invisible arrow pierces the two toned boy in the chest.

"Well..." You look around the room, "It can't be biased..."

"Deku? Oh no wait then you'll use him as an *excuse* when you lose." You giggle, his cheeks burn from the sound.

"Fuck you and fuck Deku." He snarls, "What about Shinso?"

"Aaahh that's a good one. He hates everyone equally." You chime in, placing your hand in your chin as you look over your peers.

"Wow glad you noticed." He rolls his amethyst eyes although he does not object.

"Oh Denki!" You point at the electric

"OMG YES MY TIME TO SHINE BABY!" He fists his hands into the pants of your legs, so happy to be included.

"NO! Not pikachu! His brain is FRIED!" Bakugou snarls and Denki let's out a sad 'hey' while a crocodile tear rolls down his cheek.

"Yes, that's what would make him the best wild card! You'll never know what he's gonna think!" You absentmindedly let your hand pet over the curve of his skull.

Part of you wonders if suggesting him is a bad idea. Your eyes flicker to the TV just to see someone asking the sweating chefs what they are planning.

"Kirishima can be the host!" You say with excitement, "Now we just need one more judge. Someone who likes to eat."

Silence settles over the room aside from the now low roar of the TV

"I've got it!" Your new ruby eyed host pipes in, "I'll ask Sun Eater senpai!"

"He's so meek. How are you going to get him to agree?" You ask as a some what devilish smile crosses his face.

"Oi, I forgot you came in after. Poor guy got pestered by shitty hair until he said yes to taking him to his agency." Bakugou crosses his arms.

"We'll compete tomorrow! I've got to prepare!" You stare after Kirishima who runs to get his phone, you cant see him bullying someone into helping him.

×××××××××

You had never been proven more wrong as you stand in the dorms over sized kitchen in front of the panel of judges.

Shinso who looks bored, Denki who reminds you of a kid hopped up on sugar and a petrified Tamaki.

"Welcome chefs!" Kirishima announces, it's funny how quickly he made the kitchen look much like the studio. Even forcing you and Bakugou into real chef jackets while Kirishima wears one of his suits.

"Oi, you really went all out." He growls, somehow making the compliment sound like an insult. You roll your eyes before you let them linger over Bakugou. Much like you he wears the black jacket with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, he has a towel resting over a broad shoulder.

Somehow this outfit makes your cheeks burn. You swallow, looking out over the "live" audience, aka class 1A with every chair they could find in the dorm piled into the smallest part of the kitchen.

Sitting on the edges of their seats.

"Today the two of you will be placed head to head agaisnt one another to become UA's top chef!" Kirishima announces with gusto even earning a small cheer from the audience.

"Tonights prize does not only include bragging rights BUT this!" He gestures widely to the obviously paper mache trophy, Bakugou snorts.

"Really? You could have asked Momo over there?" He points in the dark and Kirishima blushes a bit. Although he is saved as Momo walks towards the front, not breaking the attire with her long sleep dress that looks more like a ball room gown. Kirishima thanks her silently before punching the old trophy off with the new one.

"Who will when this amazing trophy and the title of UA's top chef?" Kirishima looks to the audience before adding, "Let's find out!"

"Contestants, today's challenge is broken down into three parts. Appetizer, entree and dessert! The three dishes must meld flawlessly with one another! You have ten minutes to look over the ingredients and come up with a meal plan. Starting.....now!"

The two of you jump, pulling open at the two large fridges behind you to be met with an array of vegetables and meats.

"Are they like timed?" Shinso asks, as he twirls his fork.

"Good question, Shinso. Yes each portion of the competition will be timed!"

As you begin to put together your game plan you rush towards the pantry. Fear making you hesitate, the pantry was mostly empty just yesterday.

"Oi! Open the fucking door!" A yell behind you before you rip open the cabinet with blatant rage.

Surprisingly the pantry is popping at the seams, ingredients pop out at you that you hastily grab.

"Chefs your time is up! You have fifteen minutes to begin prepare your first dish! GO!"

Excitement pushes your body into motion as you slice bacon strips down the middle. Your thoughts compete with the vigorous chopping from the station next to you as you delicately wrap sliced puff pastry around the now bacon wrapped asparagus.

"Chef Bakugou what are you preparing?"

"Use your fucking eyes." He growls, adding something to a bowl.

"Hey..." Kirishima sounds crestfallen, almost hurt and its hurt enough for Katuski to sigh.

"Alright alright. I'll tell you. Stop pouting!" He chops into a radish harshly to emphasize his point before going on.

"I believe its important to go a little on the lighter side for a starter. Almost refreshing cleanses the palette." Your ears perk at his deep voice as you pull your starter from the oven, "So I'm making a radish and cucumber salad with rice vinager and chili flakes for a small kick."

"It looks wonderful chef!" Kirshima comments before adding, "Five minutes to plate!"

"Shit..." You hiss to yourself as you delicately arrange your asparagus twists, while popping hands roast sesame seeds in an instant before tossing them into the salad.

The two if you plate, arrange and present until kirishima finally shouts

"TIMES UP! STEP AWAY FROM THE PLATES!" Both of you back away with raised hands.

"First up. Y/N-chan." Kirishima says happily as the judges look over their food.

Shinso takes a bite first.

"Flavorful. Savory. Its delicious." Is all he offers as he eats his second.

"Kaminari?" Kirishima prompts. Denki is smiling ear to ear before a rare seriousness washes over his features as he chews.

"I dont like asparagus." He states with a harsh tone.

"IM FUCKED!" You scream internally.

"But you've made me like it."

"IM UNFUCKED!"

Kaminari takes another bite, thinking it over

"The puff pastry is airy and buttery and surprisingly the bacon is crispy without your vegetable drying out. Very well done."

You glance at Bakugou who mouths

"Is he fucking Gorden Ramsey now?" To which you giggle.

"Tamaki senpai, please do not judge on usefulness for your quirk but by taste." Kirishima encourages as Tamaki almost shrinks away. He takes a bite before smiling.

"I..its delicious. Togata would enjoy this."

"Next up Bakugou!"

"Nice kick, cool cuc flavor. I like it." Shinso nods to Bakugou as he makes a mark in on the pad provided.

"Honestly, Chef Katsuki. I was really worried about the heat level when I saw your heavy handed toss of pepper flakes into the salad. But the flakes really bring out the tang of the rice vinager, the smoky flavor of the sesame seed while the radish and cucumber take the edge away *just* enough." Kaminari says before taking another bite, scribbling as he chews.

This time Bakugou looks to you and you laugh aloud at his bewildered scarlet eyes.

"Just got with it!" You call from your station. Struggling to keep your giggle.

Who knew confusion could look so cute?

"Its just the right amount of spice. Togata would enjoy this."

"Take your station, Katsuki as we will now begin the main course. You have thirty five minutes to prepare!"

Time ticks by faster than you'd like as your watched pot of water finally boils. You add in chopped golden potatoes setting a timer before butter flying your chicken breasts for a more even cook and better grilled sear.

Bakugou works furiously with his steak, pounding at it to quickly tenderize it, adding an aromatic garlic herb butter to a heated pan. He swirls the melting blob until it coats the bottom of the pan.

Both of you are about to start your meats before Kirishima breaks your concentration.

"Chefs! I've found an ingredient you HAVE to incorporate into your main dish." He presents a rectangular package that has you seething.

"KIRISHIMA WHAT THE FUCK?!" You both yell in unison, slamming your meats on your cutting boards.

"Dry packs of ramen noodles!" He announces in case either of you couldn't read the damn packaging!

"What the fuck?" Is all the two of you can say as you're tossed the package of ramen noodles. You stare at your dish, you couldn't easily shift your meal plan into Asian like Bakugou could thanks to his universal salad. The dishes had to be cohesive and you had fucking POTATOES BOILING TO BE MASHED

You stare almost stunned as the red rectangle stares back at you.

You hated ramen.

Meanwhile Bakugou grumbles to himself as he slices his steak into thin strips, adding ginger, a bit of sesame seed oil, green onion and some beef broth to boil.

He tosses in the package of ramen.

"This is cheap shit." He grumbles to himself before adding the steak in a few moments later slamming a lid onto the pan. He was lucky he picked a deep pan as opposed to his original idea of a shallow one.

"Half of the time is remaining chefs!"

"Perfect!" You slam your fist into your palm as you make haste. Quickly grabbing eggs, milk, flour and the food processor.

You begun to crush the noodles until they become a fine grain.

"Eji do we have to use the stupid flavor packet?"

"Fucking why would you ask?!" Bakugou snarls your way, ruby red eyes slide to the panel.

"Judges?"

"No." They answer in unison and you both sigh in relief. For you it would have been hard to incorporate to your sudden idea of fried chicken while the flavoring would be too salty and undercut the flavor building he had done for his dish.

You mash your potatoes, adding in garlic cloves, cubes of butter, a bit of season salt all before emulsifying it to a whipped state.

"Five minutes chefs!"

You begin to really sweat now, you didnt want to rush your chicken for fear of the batter not becoming crispy enough or worse yet an undercooked breast.

"Three minutes chefs!"

"Fuck! Cook chicky cook!" You mumble to the fryer, scarlet eyes shift to your bouncing frame, plating his own food, swiping juices that splatter.

"Come on plate damn it! It's done!" He shouts to you.

"You *do* care!" You tease, although your heart is in your throat as you place the chicken onto the plate, drizzling a honied mustard over the breasts.

"Like hell. It's just winning by default is boring. I want to watch them spit your food out." His voice comes out soaking in malice but his eyes say otherwise. Mischief and excitement dance along his scarlet iris.

"AND TIME!" You both step away from your plates. Breathing heavily as the two of you look down at your master pieces.

Bakugou places his hand on the small of your back to guide you in front of the panel as Kirishima grabs your dishes.

"Bakugou you're up first."

"This is not thirty cent ramen." Is all Shinso says as he slurps up the noodles before biting into the beef. No one misses his eyes flutter.

"Wow." Is all Kaminari can say chewing with delight, "Just wow. I would have thought the noodles were homemade. The beef is tender, all cooked evenly. The sauce flavorful, a hit of ginger and I'm surprised you hadn't added any heat. I would have loved to have seen a five alarm ramen from you."

Bakugou grinds his teeth to keep from shouting at his last remark.

"Togata would enjoy this."

"I'll be sure to make him a to go plate." Kirishima winks before presenting your dish.

"I never would have thought to use ramen as breeding." Purple eyes glitter as he devours the chicken.

"Me either. Its excellently light, you matured everyone's favorite honey mustard by making it with a sharper brown mustard and the potatoes are soft, beautifully whipped and garlicy!"

"This is 'southern food?'" Tamaki asks, "Togata would like it."

You smile warmly.

"Last round chefs! You'll have forty five minutes to prepare a dessert with *this* ingredient." He holds up a green can and your stomach sinks.

"Is that fucking wasabi?" Bakugou snarls, even the heat king is stunned.

"Yes chef it is. Please incorporate this ingredient into your dish. Starting...NOW!"

You stare at the green can. What in the actual fuck? Maybe you should have made a menu more geared towards Asian cuisine.

I mean you were in FUCKING JAPAN AFTER ALL.

You snatch onto the can, now was not the time to damn yourself. You could do this. You could beat Bakugou!

Even if it killed you.

You decided to taste it, youd never actually had it, just knew that it was potent.

"That's too much idiot!" Bakugou yells from his station just as your about to put a heaping teaspoon into your mouth.

"Like scoop with a chop stick." He says, showing you himself. His chopstick dips into the wasabi to return with the smallest of green.

You mimic him, popping it into your mouth as instant regret washes over you as you try to break down the components of the flavor.

It was hot with underlying notes of freshness, almost herbal as the heat began to fade.

But with that regret comes an idea.

You work vigorously grabbing all the chocolate you can find before making a batch of brownies, wasabi mixed into the batter.

Nothing was more southern than cake or a brownie.

"I'll fucking tell you what..." You finish the thought aloud as you worked.

All the while Bakugou glances to you with concerned eyes before he measures out the perfect amount of coconut milk to reduce with almond milk, a split vanilla pod, some sugar, honey and wasabi powder.

Soon his odd mixture becomes fragrant, the freshness of it competing with the richness of baking brownies.

Time ticks by too quickly as you snatch the wasabi powder from Bakugou adding the smallest amount to powdered sugar, cocoa and milk as you make the frosting to your brownies.

You feel like you're ahead of time as your plate, eyes looking over to Bakugou who is garnishing ramekins with edible flowers and flakes of coconut.

"Fuck." You murmur before pipping on some icing. Smoothing it out with a knife. Plating it as Kirishima obnoxiously counts down.

"Time!" He yells. You're shaking before glancing at Bakugou who seems nervous himself. Again he guides you to the panel, you lean into him for a bit of support.

Your heart was racing, sweat still dripping down the nape of your neck and beading on your brow.

You couldn't tell who's dishes they favored and there was a chance you could very well lose.

You'd hate to admit but Bakugou's station smelt fucking amazing all night.

"Y/N!" Kirishima smiles a wide tooth smile, "Wasabi brownies. Interesting."

"You mean fucking fire." Shinso says.

"Its astounding how the chocolate adds to the heat with out one overpowering the other. A delicate scale was balanced today."

You find Bakugou's hand by his side. giving it a squeeze to keep yourself form laughing. He leans towards you and whispers into your ear.

"Bet you're regretting adding Flavor Town onto the board."

A giggle escapes your lips that drives Katuski mad.

"Togata would love this! Please save a square for him!"

The judges cleanse their palates before moving into Bakugou's dessert.

"So delicate." Shino adds, looking down at the purple flowers.

"Watch it." He bites but you again squeeze his hand, this time whispering to him

"That means he likes it. You did an amazing job plating."

He watches you smile as you drink in their comments about *his * dish.

"I like that you start and finish things with a refreshing yet memorable dish. The edible flowers add immense color to this dish, the wasabi heightens the sweetness of the honey and the coconut flakes add a little bit of both crunch and depth. Excellent."

"So pretty..." Tamkai stares at his dessert before adding a small bite into his mouth. His eyes flutter and you know then that you've lost.

That's two different judges with different meals that he has impressed. He squeezes your hands, you look up to him expecting a smug smile only to see nervousness.

"The judges will now debate. Please sit in the waiting room while they discuss who will be UA's top chef!"

"Where the fuck is that?" The blonde snarls.

"The living room!" He whispers as you drag an agitated Bakugou with you.

The two of you sit in silence, sinking into the couches with tired bodies.

Adrenaline can do that to you. Minutes tick by before you sigh out.

"I'm pretty sure you won. You..." You gush, "Amazing. That salad looked so damn good!"

Katuski cannot help the smile that spreads across his face as he watches you sing his praises.

"Honestly your southern dishes were something new to them. That's far better and seriously ramen as a breeding? Innovative as fuck." He sags in the couch closer to you. The two of you half fighting over who really one by pointing out the best moves the other did.

Gradually gravitating closer to one another with heatedexcitement fueled by friendly competition. The two of you are butting foreheads as you argue.

"But the flowers were stunning...." The vigor in your tone dies down as you stare into something else that else stunning.

Scarlet eyes sparkle like gems in the low light of the side table lamps. Suddenly you are hyper aware of your proximity to him. You try to scoot back only for your hip to hit the arm of the couch, barely moving a centimeter. You were safely nestled between the couch and his amazingly muscular arms.

Bakugou swallows his desire as he drinks you in this close, having never realizing how pretty you actually were.

Add that to your ability to kick ass on the battle field and in the kitchen had Bakugou looking at you in a whole new light. He seems to choke on his desire as one strong hand finds the nape of your neck.

"I bet nothing tastes as delicious as your lips." He says before pressing his own to yours.

The saying alone has your body flushed and a small whimper erupts in the back of your throat as you closed your eyes.

Shit.

You liked arrogant, smart mouthed, excellent chef handsome ass Bakugou.

And now that you've tasted him, you'll never want to eat anything else again.

You kiss him back with matched passion and the two of you forget about the competition for a moment. Foot steps had the two of you breaking apart, cheeks burning brighter than the boy's hair whose entered the living room just missing everything.

"They are ready to announce the winner." He turns on his heel, expecting the two of you to follow. Both of you share a look before standing. Bakugou wraps his arm around your waist pulling you close to him so he can whisper in the cockiest tone he can muster.

"After they announce me as winner. Let me make you dessert."

@we-starlight-in-the-making @kiribakuho @babybakuu @zbops @crimsondream-1 @alwaysmy crazy ass did it. I made the fic I wanted

[welcome-to-green-hills]

I feel very comfortable asking you some questions about American stuff because if I ask anyone of my American friends they’d laugh at me. Here are my questions: what is a pretzel? What’s the difference between a college and a university? What is a sophomore?! Why do you have a different measuring system than other regions of the world? How come Americans appear snooty on social media? And what is an ounce? Thank you, I love ya, and thank you for not being like any other American.

Hello, friend! 😇🖐

I’m honored that you feel comfortable asking me these questions. I will not judge you. Not at all! These are very good questions! If your American friends laugh at you for asking things like this, then maybe they’re not worth your time. There is nothing wrong with asking questions like this, these are cultural differences.

I’m more than happy answering these questions for you!😇

First question: “What is a pretzel?”

I know in the Sonic Movie it was mentioned that he refers to Maddie as a pretzel due to the way that she bends. In yoga, there is a pose that one dues that references the twists and curves of a pretzel:

Then there’s food! Yay!

🥨

There are a couple of versions of pretzels in America, some are tiny and hard like a tree nut. Others are larger, soft and a bit crispy like a churro or some lightly salted crisps/potato chips. Normally they’re about the size of one’s hand and come with a small cup of melted cheese or some mustard to dip them in. I know that some who read this wince a tad at the word “mustard,” but it’s not mild tasting as it would be in some regions in Europe. American mustard is like sucking on lemon with sugar. That’s the best that I can describe it, it’s been ages since I’ve had taste buds.

Pretzels do originate from Germany and brought over to the Americas... specifically in the Philadelphia, USA region. The twists have a Christian resemblance to them to honor prayer. You can read more about it HERE if you’d like!🥰

——————————(🥨🥨🥨)——————————

Next question: “What is the difference between a University/Uni and a college?”

I’m trying to think of the best examples I can to explain the difference here... There is a difference between the two. You’re not going crazy, I promise.❤️ School is also very expensive here, at least 48% of the whole American population has some sort of education degree.

We have a Community College, it’s like attending an FE (Further education) and it’s reserved for people between the ages of 16-18 years of age. This is where some go if they want to start attending school, but don’t know what college is like. Think of it as a “university-in-training.”

A college is a step up from a Community College. It is a place where you can get a degree, but it’s much more... relaxed(?) than a university. It does offer sports, like Futbol and American Football, lacrosse, and track—just to name a few. The classes are smaller in size. Think of the biggest room in your house, apartment/flat, or rowhouse; that’s about the size of the room and it normally fits between 25-30 students in it. They only offer some degrees.

A university is much larger. My university has as many as 10,000 students. They’re also much more welcoming to accepting students from around the world. I’m in a class where I’m the only American in it, I have lots from Brazil, Argentina, Ontario, and some in London. There’s one class that I’m in that has about 450 students in it! In a university—sometimes called a Uni—you can receive an undergraduate degree and a graduate degree.

——————————(🏫⚽️📚)——————————

Next Question: “What is a sophomore?!”

Sophomore... a funny word, isn’t it?

It does have a peculiar meaning. Much like how some regions around the world do years 1-11 in their schooling, Americans use terms “freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior” for school and at a university.

Freshman year would be the equivalent to year 9

Sophomore would be the equivalent to year 10

Junior would be the equivalent to year 11

And senior would be like attending a year 12 for ages between 17-18.

Americans only extend school for 7.5 hours and do not go to school on Saturday. It’s a short amount of time due to a few concepts:

The American’s industrial revolution had children working in the fields and factories and had to help families at work or attend to crops.

The American schooling system has it scheduled in a way where a public school’s buses can pick up children at certain times to bring them to school.

Some kids between the ages of 16-18 who still attend public schools go to school in the morning and take retail jobs in the afternoons.

There is an option to take Saturdays as a school day, but that’s if you’re failing a course.

I have my schooling set up for every day of the week so I don’t lose pace in my school work and I’m always in the “know” of the evolving world.

——————————(🏫🖌📚)——————————

Next question: “Why do you have a different measuring system than other regions of the world?”

“What is an ounce” will also follow this statement. This one is a complicated answer, I’m not going to lie. We are taught how to convert our measurements into the universal language so everyone can understand it, but we barely touch up on the subject.

One is based off of money... the other reason has to do with ego.

The Americans have a different system that’s been apart of the culture since the industrial revolution. It was to help keep track of everything that was manufactured in factories and shared across the country. Bigger companies have thought about changing it in the past, but they really don’t want to spend the money.

Boo.

The other reason has to do with ego. The belief here is that if the Americans keep this system of measurement up, then the rest of the world will eventually follow them. It’s got to do with this belief that they’re being leaders of the whole world...

I have always made sure that when I give measurements here I give the American measurements and the correct measurements that everyone understands.

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Next question: “How come Americans seem snooty in social media?”

Oh boy... this goes into ettiquites and to ego here.

In the past I’ve always said that once when people reach a certain number of followers and popularity, their personality does change. Sure, having a certain amount of followers is great, but that doesn’t mean that you should show off and become something that you’re not.

That’s not the You that you used to be.

We are a country that has access to everything quickly, made cheaply or sturdy, and we are a rich country. We are in this belief that we are living the “American Dream” of being comfortable and living happy, but a great majority of us here are not. We’re a country that has access to everything in one way or another. Many are spoiled and sheltered in a bubble. Many Americans are not “disciplined,” nor educated, in knowing that one cannot get everything that they desire. If you want something, work for it. Desires shouldn’t be handed over to someone, the true value and worth of it would never be understood...

I think that the reason that many appear and act snooty online is because of attention and the fame behind it. In some way, one form or another, there is a sense of fame to a fandom, a social media, or anything else that quickly draws the attention of others. I think, this is my opinion, that those who act like they’re all that online are looking for evaluation of their self-worth. People venture off in search of popularity and an amologous substance to hold and morph it into their own worth. It’s an approval seeker for them because they’re used to getting everything.

Please set a good example for others...

——————————(🎉🎉🎉)——————————

Listen, I am sorry if there have been encounters before with some Americans that have been unpleasant. I really, truly am.

I will agree that many are difficult to engage with, yes, but it doesn’t give us the right to act like we’re the centers of the universe. I am sorry. I am happy that you do find me approachable with these questions, thank you for asking me! Anytime you have a cultural question as such, you’re more than welcome to ask me. I won’t judge. And I love ya, too!

❤️❤️❤️❤️

[willow-salix]

Thought I'd share one of my isolation updates. I haven't had much time to join in with the #irrelief of @gumnut-logic because of these so I decided to go down the list and try to fit some of the requested prompts into this series of shorts. This is the one that I think Nutty requested, fish and chips on the beach. If anyone wants to give me some prompts or things they want the boys to do during lockdown, please feel free to send them in. The rest can be read on Ao3.

Day 47 of isolation on Tracy Island and I walked into the kitchen to find a bowl of fish staring at me.

"New pets?" I asked Gordon.

"If they are I really should have looked after them better," he answered, poking at the ice that they sat on. "We went fishing this morning."

"I never would have guessed."

"We thought we could have a fish dinner on the beach tonight, you know, barbie and beer, it'll be the best fish you've ever tasted."

I made a face. "I'm not really a big fish fan, I prefer them battered and wrapped in paper, not judging me for wanting another cup of coffee."

"You don't like fish?" You'd swear I'd just told him I hate puppies.

I shrugged.

"You have to like fish."

"What, is that a law now? The law of the island?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Yeah, I'm gonna be breaking some laws then, bub." I pushed the bowl aside with a shudder of disgust and reached for the coffee pot.

"Come on, live a little, just try them."

"So when you ask me to try something I'm supposed to agree but I ask you to eat a Yorkshire pudding and you pitch a fit."

"Thats different."

"Why?"

"Because you've heard of a fish."

I tried to argue his logic but it was really hard, so as I always do in cases like this, I went on the defensive.

"Nope, batter and chips or nothing."

"Chips? Why would you eat chips with fish?"

"Because you do. With salt and vinegar on them."

"Won't they get soggy? And what flavour?"

"Flavour?" my brain whirled for a second before I caught his meaning. "Not crisps, chips, like fries, but fat ones."

He still looked baffled but pulled himself together. "OK, how about we do both? You make your battered stuff and your weird fries and I'll do my grilled fish and we'll see what's the best."

I thought about it for a moment or two, then held out my hand. "You're on."

“You have to help prepare them though,"he threw in just as he grabbed mine and shook.

“What? No!”

“The deal is struck,” the little sod grinned. Dammit.

Half an hour of convincing later and he had me standing beside him with a fish of my own and a sharp knife, neither of which I particularly wanted.

“So first we’re gonna scrape all the scales off, using the tip and flat edge of our knife,” he got to work, rubbing at the fish as if he were shaving it. Just like doing my legs, I could do that.

“I don’t want skin on my fish, I reminded him, not if it's gonna be battered.”

“We’ll get to that later, just get the scales off first.”

“Bossy,” I muttered, but did as I was told. We had some kitchen towel wrapped around the fish’s tail which made it a lot easier to hold but it was still icky and I knew the worst was still to come.

Gordon rinsed his under the tap and took a pair of kitchen scissors, I followed.

“Right, see this hole here?” he pointed with the tip of the scissors and I nodded. “That’s its butt. Stick your scissors in there-”

“I’m out!” I declared, dropping the fish in the sink. “Nope, I’d rather lose, but you know full well that no one else would blame me so you wouldn't get any glory from it anyway.”

I left the kitchen and went to hide with someone that would be nicer to me. I found Virgil first and decided he’d do. I flumped down next to him at the piano.

“You smell,” he greeted me.

“Thanks, love you too.”

“No, not you personally, you smell like fish.”

“Gordon tried to get me to poke its bum hole so I left.”

Virgil blinked, although he managed not to mess up, his fingers still dancing effortlessly over the keys, “I don’t know what to do with that information.”

“Neither did I, so I noped out of the situation and ran.”

“Good choice. He’ll end up doing yours for you anyway, he always does. He can’t stand to see fish prepared wrong so if you don't want to do it, just do it badly and then he’ll take over.”

“Pro tip!” I nodded. “Thanks for that.”

“Welcome.”

I reached out a finger to plonk a key, because it was just too tempting.

“Go wash your hands, you aren’t stinking up my piano.”

I lifted my hands up innocently. “Think he’ll be done yet?”

“Probably, he’s pretty quick at it, but I’d give it anoth-”

“Stop hiding, I’ve finished the fish,” Gordon called up the stairs to the lounge.

“See?”

“Woop!” I jumped back up, using his shoulder as leverage , much to his disgust. “We’re having a competition.”

“Of course you are, but if it involves food I’ll happily judge.”

I did that pointy finger, winky eye, clicky tongue thing in answer as I trotted back down the stairs.

True to his word he had the fish all prepared, he’d even fileted and skinned mine. He might be a pain in the butt most days but he was a good boy where it counted.

“I need beer,” I announced.

“Is the thought of touching fish really that bad? It’s only 2pm.”

“For the batter,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Why does everyone think I want to drink all day every day? I’m only drinking on a saturday night for the quiz.”

“Because it's fun to watch you get annoyed when we say it,” he shrugged. See? He’s a sod.

I stole one of his beers for that comment, and after checking the recipe, assembled my ingredients and began to mix flour, beer, sparkling water, spices and baking powder.

“So you're basically making a cake for your fish?” Virgil asked, wandering through to get a drink.

“No, I’m battering it, you cretin. Fish and chips, the english food of summer and beach trips. Squidward wanted fish on the beach, that's what you're getting.”

“She means fries,” Gordon added just in case Virgil didnt understand me either. “I’m doing grilled fish and vegetable kebabs.”

“Wanna help me peel potatoes?” I asked Virgil, who was the quickest peeler I knew.

“Sure.” Bless his chonky heart, he’s always ready to help, especially if food is involved.

Virgil peeled and I chopped, making a mound of fat chips which I threw into a pot of water to par-boil ready for frying later.

Gordon had barely done anything to his fish, just rubbed some seasoning and oil into the skins and laid some lemon slices on top. Apparently simple was key, I told him that was a good thing if he was in charge. He threw a slice of lemon at me.

We stored all the prepared food in the second fridge and wandered off to wait for evening.

At around seven that night we had everyone assembled outside, some around the barbecue and some just lounging around waiting to be fed.

They had one of those fancy pants grills that have two gas rings on one side, which was needed for me to heat up two massive pans of oil. I had a flashback to the donut incident and was very grateful that Grandma wasn't involved this time and that she hadn’t fed me cooking sherry.

I had a few near misses with splattering oil and it took me a while to get the dip and slip action just right ( that was what I was calling the dipping in batter to coat the fish and then letting it slip and slide into the oil) but we got there in the end.

The chips were frying nicely and we’d managed to get vinegar from a jar of pickled onions, which was perfect for me as I prefer onion vinegar on my chips anyway.

Gordon had these weird fish cages, where he trapped the fish inside and just turned the whole thing to cook the other side instead of flipping.

It was supposed to be a competition but since it was just the two of us I obviously hadn’t triggered his competitive Tracy gene which is only activated in the presence of his siblings. It was actually quite nice to chill with him for a bit, we got into a nice rhythm and managed not to get in each others way too much.

When he was busy with his fish and his veggie kababs were getting a little too charred I turned them all for him, he in turn rescued a batch of chips as I had my hands covered in batter. See, we could be civilised.

We dished out food like it was a canteen, everyone lining up with plates. We didn't want people to have to choose whose food they wanted to try so we gave them some of everything and then all trooped down to the beach where Scott and Virgil had already lit the firepit.

Gordon's fish was ok, but I didn't like the fact that it still looked like a fish, its eyes were staring at me and I was plucking around its bones, which just wasn't for me, but the veggie kebabs were nice so I gave Scott the fish to finish.

I looked over to see Alan holding the entire piece of battered fillet in his hand and biting into it like it was a slice of pizza...I honestly don't know how his brain works sometimes.

“Back home we have tiny wooden forks for the fish and chips,” I told him, which blew his mind. I had to get my phone out and show him pictures of them.

“So, who’s fish was the best?” Gordon asked once everyone was done eating, although Alan was still doing his impression of the seagulls from Nemo and snaffling left overs with little yelps of “Mine” every time someone abandoned a plate. I was currently feeding him chips as he sat patiently with his mouth open.

“I like them both,” Jeff hedged. “But the beer batter was interesting.”

“Batter is a little too crispy for my tastes,” John mused, nibbling on a piece of batter he’d picked off my plate.

“I like the fat fries,” Alan mumbled around a mouthful of said chips.

“I liked the lemony taste of the fish,” Virgil added.

“So who won?” I asked.

Everyone shrugged.

We decided in the end that we didn't care who won, it had just been fun to cook and hang out on the beach and chill. Sometimes that's all you need in life, sorry we weren't more exciting but this is just a normal family that is coping with things the way that everyone else is.

They want to be out there helping people and doing things like normal, but they can't and it’s definitely starting to impact on them a lot, so if chilled days and enforced rest is all we can do, then were going to make the most of it.