#at least it's not fucking olive oil again

[my-mind-is-afk-rn]

People sleep on olfactory hallucinations cause they're not as "big" or "scary" as visual or auditory hallucinations. Like, everyone knows those two, but imagine you're about to get to sleep finally after a long day and you're really tired and then you suddenly start smelling burning? Or maybe gas? So you jump out of bed and frantically search the house, making sure the oven is off, making sure your pets are okay, checking the walls and floors and every corner looking for any hint of anything, smelling for gas leaks, smelling for fire, looking for smoke or light where there shouldn't be, wondering if maybe that nail you put in the wall the other day actually punctured something important and you didn't notice, and the whole time, you know you suffer from olfactory hallucinations. You know you smell things that aren't there all the time. And you know that there's no way that you can tell if it's real or not. You never know if the smell is really there. And everyone else is asleep. And it's better just to check. Just in case it's really real this time.

[luveline]

hihihi! request for zombie steve au! maybe someone at the college bullies reader into thinking she’s not good enough for steve?

just gotta say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE all your works & esp this au 😩 it just does something to me

hi thank you so much for your request! I didn't make it so severe as bullying I don't think, but tw for bullying just to be safe, and suggestive! tw mentioned weight loss <3 zombie!au steve 9k words

The dinner line is long and winding. You and Steve stand elbow to elbow, the smell of refried beans and homemade tortillas near hypnotising.

"I know the tortillas are gonna taste a little weird, I just don't care," you say, the hand you’ve curled around your boyfriend's forearm squeezing enthusiastically. 

"Imagine if they had cheese," he taunts. 

"Don't be evil, Steve." 

His laugh dissappears into the swelling sounds of a hundred conversations. It feels like high school, bodies packed into the same room like a bingo wheel, people bouncing off of one another frenetically as the night turns forward. There's a lot of happy energy in here tonight. You're contributing at least half. Not even Steve's unfortunate truths can get you down. Yeah, you miss cheese a lot, but after a full day in the pantry shift and close quarters to such gorgeous smells, you're ravenous. 

Your stomach gives a rumbling groan, and Steve's pressed so close to you that he can feel it. He wraps his arm around your shoulder to kiss the top of your head. 

His easy affection sates you for a while. You turn to watch the people already sitting with their meals, jealous but not too much, and find your happiness isn't grudging. You're happy to be here. You won't take this stroke of luck for granted, not again. 

You and Steve get your plates, refried beans, roasted greens seasoned with a vibrant red that smells spicy and decadent. There's definitely olive oil mixed in. You thrum with pleasure but wait patiently for steve to collect his own helpings, your cutlery, and finally, your drinks.

Robin sees you coming and waves you down unnecessarily. She's sitting with a dark-haired girl called Vanessa, and another girl you're unsure of. Vanessa had been part of your rescue squad, the team of people who'd fought to bring you back to The College. You'd show her some gratitude if she deigned to look at you. 

No matter how snooty you find her, Robin likes her. You try to like her too. 

"Hey," you say, putting your place setting down in front of Robin to encourage Steve to her side. 

He might downplay it but you know how much he loves her, and how much he'd missed her when they were separated. She's an extremely important part of his life. You wish he'd spend more time with her outside of scavenging and supply runs, but Steve is stuck to you like glue. It's awful and amazing. 

"Hi, killer," Robin says. 

You scrunch up your nose. "We're still using that?" 

"You were impressive!" she emphasises. 

Steve puts his drink down before his plate. She's quick to grab it, taking a generous swig as he grumbles and grouches. 

"Do you mind?" he asks. 

"I don't. Tell your girlfriend you think she was impressive!" 

"She knows exactly how I feel about her."

You smile at him. You know more than enough. He's a sweetheart through and through, and though the incident Robin's referencing hadn't been one he loved, he agrees; you'd managed to cut down six zombies all by yourself when they'd split off from a herd that managed to infiltrate community defences, and Steve had thought you were a rockstar. He'd grabbed you, covered in blood and sweat, and asked you why you couldn't just stay inside, and then he'd hugged you for too long, and said later, "My girl's a fucking weapon." Like a nerd. 

It's not complicated. Steve had been in danger. You'd wanted to save him, and you'd tried. Turns out he'd be the one to save you… for the hundredth time. But your efforts impressed him. 

Impressed everyone, according to Robin. 

"Hey, Vanessa," you say warmly. 

Vanessa gives you a strange smile in return. Despite mutual friends, Vanessa hasn't warmed to you. She'd been one of the only people who'd volunteered for your rescue squad but you're starting to think that hadn't been because she liked you, exactly. She just couldn't really say no. 

"Hey," she says. "How are you?" 

Civil you can do easily. You and Steve had been civil for weeks. 

"I'm good! Yeah, we heard there were gonna be real tortillas tonight and thought we'd get here early, but everybody had the same idea, I guess." 

She laughs politely. "We did." 

You wouldn't villainise Vanessa for disliking you. You barely like yourself. And, in your opinion, you'd gotten pretty damn lucky that Steve likes you as much as he does, though a small voice whispers that it'd been a grudging sort of love, like a flower squeezing its way through two panels of sidewalk. A weed that isn't supposed to be there. You worry often and in droves that Steve will come to his senses. He's gonna wake up one day, look at your sleeping face, and realise it isn't enough. 

When you'd first joined The College community, you'd thought for sure that was it. Steve was gonna trample your heart once and for all. He never did, of course. The opposite — he'd doubled down. Told you he loved you for the first time, and a second time, too. 

And now, miles trekked to get you back, his calf a blistering star of heat where it kisses your own beneath the table, your doubts fade away. 

Vanessa doesn't have to like you. That's not the way the world works. With Steve at your side, the rejection barely stings. 

You rub your shoe gently against his ankle. He looks up at you, a crazy amount of tortilla in his mouth, and he looks so silly you laugh hard and suddenly. 

He covers his mouth. 

"I thought you were looking somewhere else," he defends. 

"Pig," Robin says, still sipping at his cup of water. 

You rub his ankle again. A joke waits at the tip of your tongue, You're lucky I love you. It would feel good to say, but it's not your thing. You've never been outwardly romantic. 

His cheeks pink a little under the fluorescents. 

For Steve, you can be romantic. 

"You're lucky I love you," you say. 

There's too much emphasis on 'love', not enough on 'lucky', and the joke refuses to land. Your voice is softer than silk. It's all too sweet. 

"More than lucky," Steve says, grinning at you.

You try to put your glass of water on his tray. He puts its straight back on your own. 

"Robin's gonna go get me another one," he says. 

"I need one for myself," she says, unhappy. 

"You have two hands." 

"Will you get me a refill?" Vanessa asks. 

Christopher, another of Steve's fast friends, slams his tray down next to yours happily. Jonathan is right after him, and then the table's filling up with people: Jonathan's younger brother sits beside him, and the younger brother's friends follow. They're all glued together, you swear. You recognise Dustin in the throng, his chestnut brown curls crushed under a blue hat bragging the Claypole Farmer's Market, wherever that is. 

"Steve's getting drinks?" Chris asks.

"For me too, please," Jonathan adds. "And Will, if you don't mind." 

"I actually do," Steve says. 

"And us!" Dustin says, smirking. "Thank you, oh gracious one."

Steve looks at you for a second, slack-jawed. Can you believe this shit? He stands up, grumbling, and forces his hand between Robin's upper arm and chest to drag her with him. 

"Come on, Rob, I can't carry them by myself." 

"Steve, please, I'm tired," she moans, her words all lifted and croaky. 

"How'm I supposed to carry them by myself? Am I a fucking squid?" 

"I'll help," you say, happy to do it, anything for him and at any time. 

He puts his hand out to you, a universal gesture for Sit the fuck down. "Buckley will be more than capable." His smile softens. "Thank you." 

You pout at him very gently in a kissy face to watch him light up. It's cheesy and rom-com, and it works like a charm. By the time he gets Robin on her feet the tips of his ears are completely blushed, a stark red against the mousy browns and blondes of his hair. 

"Hey, Y/N," Chris says, mouth full of tortilla. Boys are all the same. 

"Hey," Jonathan echoes, and at least his hand is in front of his mouth, "how are you feeling? They let you back in the kitchen yet?" 

"They did. Hopper really didn't like that I broke the lock down rules, but at the same time, I think he understands that I'm a grown up." 

Lock down rules being, once a door is shut, it stays shut. Do not give a herd the opportunity to worm its way inside. 

But you'd made sure the coast was completely clear, and after Maybelle and Pauline, your fellow kitchen staff, had vouched for that, he'd let you off the hook, and back to work. You hadn't realised how punishing not working could be, especially when Steve had stayed on shift, his time split between scrounging outside of the community and fence duty. There's nothing to stop you from spending the day thinking about what-ifs, which is veritable torture. 

"You missed the kitchen? Did you make these?" Chris asks. 

You turn to your food and tear off some of the warm tortilla, sighing with pleasure. "No, I'm just kitchen pantry, you know? I'm sorta like an accountant. Like Dora in the armoury, or–" You nod at Vanessa with a smile. "Vanessa. You're in charge of the toiletries and stuff, right, with Cooper and Dean, and those guys?" 

She clears her throat. "It's more than 'toiletries and stuff,'" she corrects with a stilted laugh. "It's everything that isn't food. Medicine for the medic, the nursery supplies, the batteries. It's important." 

"No, of course! I didn't mean to imply anything else. I can't imagine." 

You're sure her smile this time is genuine. You and Vanessa can't seem to mesh because she's a little more serious than you are and your easygoing tone rubs her the wrong way, but you think your explanation makes it up. 

She opens her mouth to speak when Dustin leans over the table, projecting his voice down the line. "Y/N! Are you coming to cards club tonight?" 

"I don't know, babe," you say, startled at his question. "I thought so. If Steve isn't too tired then yeah, absolutely." 

"You can come without Steve," Jonathan says. 

"I know," you say, softly so you know he's grateful for the reassurance. 

"You're the only one who can beat Will at Yahtzee. You have wicked luck," says Mike, their pale, dark-haired friend, who usually rivals Dustin for hostility. You're glad he seems to like you. 

"Yahtzee isn't luck based," says Will. 

The entire group groans at the ignition of a familiar argument. 

"Robin, if you fucking nudge me again I'm gonna make sure this goes all over you," comes Steve's voice. 

You turn in your seat to watch their procession of glasses, at least six between them with not a tray in sight. Robin looks confident, Steve terrified. You jump to your seat to rescue him, taking his third glass from the nestling group so he can pick up his pace. 

"Thank you," he says, dipping his head down for a kiss. 

You're surprised but never not wanting to be kissed by him, your chin lifting on automatic to reciprocate. You chase him when he pulls away, turning one kiss into two, his lips the tiniest bit chapped against yours. It's a comforting pressure. 

You ease away. "Are we going to card club tonight?" 

"If you want to, of course we are." 

"You aren't tired?" 

"You're saying I look ugly." 

He glares at you, faux-offended.Your laugh is peeling, infectious to your own ears. 

"No!" you deny. 

"Right." He tries to be deadpan, sighing in defeat when he can't keep up the illusion. "Shit, I almost had it. S'too bad I'm a sucker for you when you smile like that." 

— 

Later that night, you and Steve are sitting around the very same tables that have been wiped down with a watery lysol, and you have an amazing three game Yahtzee streak going where nobody can beat you.

Steve's ears are ringing with the clattering sound of dice in the shaker, and he's freezing. It's a great night. He shrugged out of his jacket to lay it over your shoulders, and has to periodically readjust it to stop it from falling to the floor, your arms moving enthusiastically with each new shake. 

Steve winces as Dustin makes a fatal mistake. He’s used his two sixes to mark a 12 in the sixes column, holding out for a yacht.

"Dude, the chances of getting Yahtzee are like, one in a thousand," Steve says.

"One in thirteen hundred," you correct, already scooping up Dustin's die to take your turn. 

"One in seven thousand and seven hundred for each number," Mike says. 

"Ew," Steve says, face slumped into his palm, elbow aching where it's pushed into the table. "You fucking nerds infected my girl." 

"It's in the rule book," you say, shaking the circular dice container with your hand on top. You throw them out on the table and assess your given numbers with a frown. 

You have three threes and two ones. You keep the threes and shake the other two dice again. Yahtzee had felt complicated when Steve first learned how to play, and now it feels maddening. It's definitely luck based, in his humble opinion, and that has nothing to do with his never winning a game, he swears. 

"Does the chance of rolling a Yacht get higher if you keep the dice?" he asks, gesturing to your three threes.

"Yeah," you mumble, throwing your second shuffle out onto the table. "Yeah, but it's pretty negligible, handsome. Goes from point one to point two."

"It isn't negligible," Will denies. "It's probability, not luck, and it isn't point one, it's zero point zero eight, and it can be as high as zero point five. That's one in two hundred."

"That math isn't right," Dustin says. 

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't." 

You throw out your last shuffle and everyone leans in to see what you rolled. Your three threes are kept to one side, and your new rolls clatter to a halt in front of Steve. 

"Holy shit," he says. 

You rolled two threes. 

"Yahtzee!" you cheer, pumping your little fist adorably. Little in that it's smaller than his, and not very little in reality. "Alright, who's next?" 

"The game isn't over," Dustin says, peeved. 

You peer down his scorecard. He could win, theoretically, if he were to score multiple yachts, or if he'd been careful with his aces, ones, etc. 

"Nah, it is," Steve says. "Take it like a champ, Henderson." 

Dustin refuses to give up, playing until the end. You score a solid 319 to his less impressive 178. 

Steve robs your hand before you can agree to a rematch, forcing you to unfurl your tensed fist. He loves doing this — he presses the tips of his thumbs into the sides of one of your fingers and pushes down. It must hurt a teeny tiny bit but you never say a word, only giggle at his touch and lean toward him like you might tell him a secret. He would lament how much time he wasted being an asshole to you if he had the wherewithal. As it is, he's enchanted with you, and he isn't casual about it, pushing all of your anxiety down to your fingertips. He brings them to his mouth and kisses them each in turn. 

You pull your hand away. He thinks you're standing up to leave the table, but you're moving closer to him and straightening your back. He can picture the ache between your shoulder blades as it is between his own, the weird raw feeling, a tightness. 

"Want a neck massage?" he asks as you place your hand against his cheek. 

You brush your thumb over his stubble. "Do you want a neck massage?" you ask, unperturbed by his sudden question. His jacket threatens to slide onto the floor. 

"Are you offering?" 

"Not in cards club." You look over his shoulder. "We could play poker."

"The buy-in's too expensive." 

"What?" You frame his face with your hand. He's not sure you know you're doing it. "We can spare it, isn't that why we brought it?" 

Buy-in tonight is a bar of soap. Half the time everybody goes home with what they brought anyways, so you're obviously not worried. 

You squeeze his cheek and laugh. "You'd be cute if you were chubby." 

He grabs your hand, face warped by an irreplaceable joy, a delight to have you and be with you, a sparkling kind of lightness to know you're safe and happy here. He kisses your cheek, and says, smushed up against your skin, "You're cute." 

"Thank you." 

He hums. "So. Poker?" 

—

You have a small sink in your room with a hot and cold faucet, though no matter which one you choose, the water comes out cold. It chills your face as you scrub. When your face is reasonably wet, you lather the bar of honey soap Steve insists on keeping at the side of the sink between your fingers before dropping it imprecisely into your boyfriend's waiting palm. He laughs under his breath at the clumsy manoeuvre. 

You listen to him do the same as you had as you soap your face. You give special attention to your nose, your eyebrows, and your ears. Steve laughs again as you work a small towel behind them. 

"What's funny?" 

"Nothing." He holds his hand out for the towel, patting down his face with less ardency. He isn't less clean for it. "You have suds under your nose. Tiny moustache." 

He reaches for it with the towel, lifting your face with the back of his hand under your chin. His eyes are their forever warm brown, fixed on your top lip with a dedication that makes your baseline fondness for him surge. 

"I was pretty bad at poker, huh?" you ask. 

"No?" He dries a lingering stretch of dampness painting your cheek before dropping the towel behind the faucets. "You didn't win. Doesn't mean you were bad." 

"Vanessa said I should stick to Yahtzee," you tell him. You pause, wanting his input, and worried you're feeling offended by something that isn't inherently offensive. 

"Vanessa should stick to lawn darts," he says, chucking you under the chin. 

He starts to pull his pants down like it's no big deal. It isn't, not after so many months together, you've seen him do worse in worse states than this, but it feels forbidden anyhow to watch him climb into bed. 

"Could you pass me my sweatpants?" he asks, face turned into the pillow, his shoulders deflating.

"You're decompressing without me." 

"Am not." He pushes his hand under the pillow, shoulder blade shifting under his shirt noticeably. "Hurry and decompress with me."

You throw his sweatpants at his calves and he does a sort of vertical dance to put them on, one leg then the other, lifting his hips and dropping heavily back into the sheets when he's done. He looks at home. His relaxation catches you off guard, a pleasure to see even if it isn't strictly new. He feels safe here with you. 

"She's good at those darts," you say. 

"And shit at poker," Steve says agreeably. He lifts his head off of the pillow. "Are you coming in or are you gonna sleep standing up tonight?"  

You shimmy out of your stiff jeans and try not to feel the huge weight of his eyes on your skin. It's an impossible task, and you fail immediately. 

"Stop looking at me." 

"M'not." 

You glare at him, find him absolutely looking at you. Your glare fades when you realise how loving his gaze is, how it doesn't waver for a second. He pushes the sheets down on your side of the bed and waves his arm for you to get in. 

You pull on your pyjama pants and take off your bra, climbing into bed beside him. He wraps his arm around you quickly, or rather under you, his bicep crushed by your shoulders. Chills prickle against your skin as he cups the flesh just shy of your breast. If Steve wanted to touch you like that, he could. You want him just as much as you don't, content to cuddle with him, content to kiss like teenagers with nowhere to go tomorrow, content to do worse. He spreads his fingers over your torso, pinky nudging the underside. You'd let Steve touch wherever he liked, and he'd enjoy doing it, you think. That's a gift in itself such casual intimacy. 

"Vanessa, is she…" Steve's minty fresh breath pushes over your face like a small gale. "She's not picking on you, is she?" 

You like to be honest with Steve, and you want to be honest now — I don't know. But you hate thinking he'd have to look after you more than he does already. 

"No," you say, "we just aren't a good fit."

"Like a puzzle?" Steve asks sceptically.

"Guess my pieces are a little warped after spending so much time with you." 

He laughs like you're the funniest girl he's ever met, a big breathy sound with the punch of his voice behind it. "Guess they are," he says, hand climbing higher over your chest. "Is that a bad thing?" 

"Never," you say lightly. 

He smiles at you. You forget Vanessa's out of place comments, her weak smiles, her for-show friendliness in front of Steve. She doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things, and letting her dictate your thoughts in gorgeous, glowing moments like this would be a waste. 

"Love you," you whisper. 

Steve nestles into the space under your jaw. He doesn't fit but he does, of course he does, he's your everything. If that's where he wants to sleep tonight, so be it. You turn into his grasp to take the pressure off of his arm and return his gentle hugging, forcing his face closer so you can breathe in the smell of his hair. 

"Love you," Steve says. He kisses your neck chastely. "Turn the light off?" 

You reach back blindly and switch off the lamp. Everything will be okay as long as you have your boy. Right? 

—

Vanessa gets worse. She makes neutral comments with enough friendliness to make you wonder if she's truly being cruel? Am I just looking for a fight? What do I want? 

Maybe it's Vanessa's clear preference for Steve. You could be jealous. You aren't sure what jealousy feels like in relationships until she's touching him when she doesn't need to be and smiling at him like he hung the moon. She doesn't go overboard, though. She keeps her hands mostly to herself. She goes as far as to tell Steve that she thinks you're beautiful. 

You don't know how to explain your reservations to him if he can't already see it. If she'd really thought you were beautiful, surely that's something she could say face to face, rather than the unhappy little nod she gives you whenever you cross paths? Despite evidence suggesting it, you don't think Vanessa's trying to make a move on Steve. 

She's a bit of a bitch, but that's not a crime. Unfortunate? Yes. Illegal? No. Immoral? You aren't sure. 

It's her most obvious dig yet that manages to grab Steve's attention a second time since the poker incident.

"I couldn't let my eyebrows grow out like yours," she says, voice bubbly with a faked awe, "I think it's super cool of you."

"Vanessa," Robin says, eyes on her plate, an inquisitive twist to her voice that you've come to know as her sarcasm, "we're in the apocalypse." 

Steve, who'd seemed torn between speaking up and genuinely confused about the comment Vanessa'd made, chokes on his food beside you, soup dribbling down both corners of his mouth as he laughs. You wipe the corners of his mouth with your long sleeves.

"Jeez, you're like my baby," you say. Your voice is occluded by Jonathan's silvery giggles. 

Steve swallows roughly, "I resent that."

He still lifts his chin so you'll rub the bead that's escaped down his throat. 

Vanessa ends up laughing too, says, "I think I'm just crazy tired," punctuated with a high-pitched laugh. 

"Honestly, me too," you say, because maybe she is, and maybe she needs just a little smidge more benefit of the doubt. 

"I've been keeping her up," Steve says smugly. 

"He still making you read that King book? The Gunslinger?" Jonathan asks. "Will wants it whenever you're done." 

"Every night," you say. 

You're pretending it's a chore because that's what you and Steve always used to do. These days room for sincerity is much larger, but it's fun to give him a hard time when, at the end of the day, you'll crawl into bed together and tuck his face into your neck, flipping to the dog-eared page of your worn paperback to read in dulcet tones until he's a dozing weight warming your skin.

Steve looks for your hand under the table and lets your small group of friends laugh at him. Chris makes a whipping sound through the corner of his mouth. It's surprisingly accurate, and it makes you laugh worse, leaning your weight into Steve's arm for support in an action so familiar it's entirely thoughtless. 

"It's not that funny," he murmurs, breath tickling your forehead. 

"M'not laughing," you say. 

You are most definitely laughing. It's a good moment, even if Vanessa's comment sticks around underneath to nibble at your heart. 

He doesn't let your hand go for a really long time. Not when you're taking the plates up to the dirty dishes trolley, or on the walk back to Little Hawkins' with everybody in high spirits. He struggles to unlock your door one handed and he's still insisting when you try to tug away from him. 

"Let me make the bed." 

"We're getting back in 'n like, ten minutes." 

"You're tired?" you ask. 

"No. I just wanna lay down with you." 

He says it simply. Concise, with neither affection nor anything less. It's damn near factual. Steve just wants to lay down with you, out of everything in the world he could do. He could be haunting Robin's room, stealing snacks from under her bed and claiming them as bribes for not tattling on her to Hopper. He could be with Dustin in the new rec room —aptly labelled Nerd Club, when put to a vote— arguing on how to spend the valuable alloted half hour of TV time. 

He could stay with you and insist on other things. Reading. Self-defence. A walk around the community. Sex. An early night. A cold shower. 

But he's content to lay with you, to share one another's space without asking for anything else. 

Though you won't rule everything out. His kisses lately are a lot more than you're used to. 

"Let my hand go, you fiend!" you declare, overcome with a rush of affection for him. "I'm gonna make the bed and we're gonna lay down and then after that we're gonna go bother Robin." 

"You know, I'm not sure I like this you and Robin thing." 

You tug your fingers from his. It's like trying to escape a sticky fly trap. 

"You mean us being friends?" you ask.

You throw all of your throws and pillows onto the ground and grab your thick quilt, shaking it out over your mattress as Steve groans. 

"Exactly!" 

"I thought you wanted me to have friends?" 

"Of course I do, you word-twisting douche." 

"Nice, nice. Dustin or Mike?" 

"I stole that one from Will, thank you very much." 

"See! You have upwards of four friends, Steve, and I'm not allowed to have any?" 

He grabs you from behind. You drop the quilt with a sigh, going limp as a fish in his arms. He staggers backward under your dead weight but manages to keep you up, breath tickling the inside of your ear as he says, "No, you're not. Just me." He kisses your ear.

"I tried that and everyone got mad at me." 

"No, they didn't." 

They really didn't. You cover his arm with your fingers, rub your fingertips over the hill of his arm. His arm hair is soft. 

"Steve." 

"What?" he asks, his hands crawling down to cover your stomach.

"Don't squeeze me." 

"You're very squeezable." 

"I was way more squeezable before, remember." 

You'd lost some weight from the start of the apocalypse to now. Steve hates it. You're perfect, he'd said once, no matter what. But still, he laments your lost weight for what it represents — times where you and he had struggled to survive. 

"I'm working on that," he promises. 

You turn your face, shifting in the circle of his arms to meet his eyes. He has gorgeous eyes. You'd admitted that to yourself a long time ago but each time you really stare into them it takes a moment for it to settle. He is a pretty, pretty boy.

He's looking at you with a soft smile. Then, for a split second, you swear his eyes rove up to your brows. It's more than likely your imagination.  

"Let me finish making this bed," you say, turning back to the discarded pile of pillows and blankets. 

"You want your jammies?" 

You snort happily. "Yeah, sweetheart. Lay 'em out for me, please." 

—

For the last week or two, Steve has noticed a change in you. You've changed a lot since you met him (for the second time). You've gone from prickly and distant and somewhat distracted to determined, vigilant. You may not come on scrounging missions outside but you're brave, and you've survived more than he ever wanted you to have to go through. 

This change is distinctive. It's like you've reverted to how you acted when you were more friend than girlfriend; you're self conscious. 

He really hates it. 

He can't work out what he did, or what happened, but it sucks. He sucks. 

"There has be be something you want," he says. 

You're standing with him by the south fence. He and his team are about to head out for the shopping mall for as many blankets as they can carry. 

"I just want you to be careful," you say. 

You look tired. It's early in the morning, and you'd woken up earlier still. Your hair is freshly washed from a cold shower. 

You're still not comfortable showering without him, but of course the other girls aren't comfortable with him sitting in there when they're naked. You've had to schedule your showers for the dawn hour. 

"I'm gonna be careful for free," he says, pulling at a wet strand of your hair. He scratches lightly around your ear before hooking his fingers underneath it, his thumb drawing from your cheek to your lips. "Pick something you want and I'll find it. You know, Robs said we might be able to pass by a real small cherry garden on the way home. Do you–" He should know this. Why doesn't he know this? "Do you like cherries?" 

Thankfully, you laugh at his question and let your face fall into his hand. He thumbs your ear lobe gently. 

"I don't want anything at all. 'Cept for you to be extremely careful," you say. 

He pulls you in for a hug, smashes a messy kiss to your head, and tries to pull away because he's cool and the guys are watching. 

You're less quick. You rub your cheek against his chest. 

"Please, Steve," you whisper. 

He frowns. There's something you're not telling him. He wishes you would, but clearly you don't think you can. He's gonna try to do whatever it is he needs to do to get you there.

Steve takes your face into both hands. 

"I will be super careful, dummy. That's my middle name, I'm Steve Careful Harrington," he says. 

"I thought your middle name was Danger?" 

He kisses you. "No? Who told you that?" 

Your laugh is pretty enough to keep him smiling for most of the hike to the mall, until Robin says, mid sentence, "–Jeez, you're pathetic." 

Pathetic for you is something he doesn't necessarily mind being, but pathetic in general he cannot abide. He spends the rest of the hike stepping on the sides of Robin's shoes as she retells the plot of Murder on the Orient Express. Steve had seen the movie once but he's never read the original novel. Lucky him, Robin had an Agatha Christie phase when she was twelve, and she knows all the best parts. 

Hike is a strange word considering all of their walking is through steep roads. They move past rundown cars, streets and streets of abandoned houses scraped clean. There's an elementary school with a rusted playground in front. Vegetation has already started to spread through the packed wood chip flooring, and one of the swings has a broken chain. Steve hadn't realised how quickly human things fell into disrepair when attacked by the elements and left maintenance. 

The mall is a better example. Smashed glass lays around the entrance in tiny pieces like a huge back of upturned sugar, and bluegrass eats its way between paving stones. The team consists of eight people, including Steve, Robin, Christopher, and one of the College's co-leaders, a mister Jeremy Livingstone. They make their way carefully through the glass and grass in a wave of crunching footsteps to the front of the mall, where Steve wedges the flat blade of his knife between the automatic doors and works them open. When there's enough room for a second hand, Chris slides in beside him, and they work the doors open. Steve's biceps are burning by the time they're inside the mall. 

"Alright, guys," Jeremy says. "There's a bedding store toward the back of the mall. We'll go there first, and then we'll try to work through the list of requests. Blankets and sheets are our second priority. Staying safe and alive is first. Only grab what you know you can carry, you can bring back whatever you want, just… don't be greedy. Alright?"

They head out for the bedding store at the back.

"How much stuff can we carry?" Robin asks him. "I have weak arms. I'm a weakling." 

"Isn't there uh, a fancy storage place? We could drag a suitcase back." 

"For two hours?" 

"Is it two hours? Livingstone! You want me and Robin to grab some suitcases?" 

Everybody fills a suitcase with sheets and blankets in plastic wrap. The brand new stuff feels like a luxury, and Steve dibs a double mattress bedspread made of Egyptian cotton, knowing that'll make you smile. Now he's got your mattress up on those crates from behind the cafeteria, your room has really come together. Blankets and trinkets and sweet glassware. You have a small shelf of books, your clothes, your pens and pencils. 

Steve'll bring you anything you want, only you don't seem to want anything at all. 

He'll just… have to bring you some of everything. 

—

Your tears taste salty. You feel gross for licking a tear off of your top lip but nobody's around to see you do it; Steve might not be home until dark. You have time to get this upset out of your system. 

You'd been asked by Maybelle to swing by Armoury and Amenities, an unofficial name for the building where the community keeps the bulk of its collective resources, for a new propane tank. You'd gone inside, said hi to Cooper, said hi to Vanessa, explained why you needed the propane, and left. 

Or, you'd tried to leave. The propane tank was heavy, and the front door had been difficult to open one handed. You'd swung it open, quickly put your hand back on the tank to stop yourself from dropping it, and watched in frustration as the door slammed closed before you could worm your way out.

"She's the one who got, like, taken?" came Cooper's voice, pretty much as soon as the door stopped bouncing. His voice echoed from the next room.

"Sure, taken." 

You'd stilled instantly. 

"What, you think she wanted to go?" 

Vanessa sighed. "No, I don't think so. She didn't try very hard to come back, s'all I'm saying." 

"Chris says Harrington's infatuated with her. Like he's under a spell," Cooper said, chuckling.

"It's gotta be some kind of magic, she's… Well, God knows he'd have his pick if he came back to reality. You have the catalogue? I wanna note the propane before I forget." 

And that had been that. 

You don't understand why Steve loves you, sometimes. You know he does. It isn't up for questioning. Love with Steve is a lot of things — long talks in the mornings about anything and everything, his fingers tucking your shirt into your jeans. It's him pulling your hood over your eyes whenever he's behind you and laughing when you grumble. It's hiding in places you shouldn't be, hand in hand. It's miles of Indiana highway. It's heart-racing anxiety that one of you might not make it to the end. Love with Steve is a devotion: he takes care of you. He's taken care of you ever since you met. 

You haven't stopped to wonder if you deserve it in a long time. 

I don't, you think, half tears and all heartbreak. You don't deserve it. You don't deserve Steve. He's too good, the kind of good that starts life in the marrow of bones. He's sweet and soft-handed with a softer heart. He looks like a dream, and it shouldn't matter but it does. His voice is the only one you like waking up to, his lips hovering by the shell of your ear. 

Time to get up, dummy. Rise and shine, angel. Baby, come on. We slept in, loser, and you need to get dressed. Hey, are you listening to me? I miss you, wake up. 

"Y/N?" Steve asks, trying the handle. 

You flinch hard, and your heart jumps with you. A flip flop somersault feeling in your chest that plummets to your stomach. You scratch madly at your cheeks with two woollen sleeves and stand up as he opens the door. 

"Hey," Steve says, and he's safe, he's alive and well and home again. 

He stands in the doorway with a bulging rucksack on his back, windbreaker zipped tight to his neck, hair a windblown mess. His nose is red from the cold and his cheeks are ice-bitten, though the colour is coming back to his skin slowly. 

You don't feel as though you deserve him but you can't help yourself from springing into his chest, arms around his waist before he can blink. Before he can see the wet mess of your face, and your tear swollen eyes. 

"Hey," he says again, leaning a great deal of his weight over your shoulders. He sniffs your hair. "Hey  dummy. Told you I'd get home fine, huh?" 

You try not to breathe too loudly against his chest. The fabric of his coat is stiff and cold, a contrast to your heated skin. 

"Hey," he says, for a third time. This time it's all powdered sugar soft. Concern and exhaustion wrapped together. "I know, I'm sorry it took longer than usual. It's my fault, I wanted to get you something 'n' I made us all late coming home, I know you worry."

You don't answer again. You don't know how to explain it to him. You can barely understand it yourself. You cling to him and his solid mass until he gives in, his mouth pressed to your temple, his arms tightening behind your head. He shields you from the world for a handful of long, stolen minutes. There's nothing but his hugs, no sound to battle the plastic sounds of his windbreaker or the blood rushing between your ears. 

"I didn't mean to worry you," he murmurs.

You don't trust your voice to come out whole. 

He freezes under your touch. A slow hardening. His hands pause where they'd been rubbing short, featherlight lines. 

"I'm sorry," you say, enthusing your tone with some self-deprecating cheer.  "You're tired, I'm sorry. You wanna sit down." 

"I really do." He laughs. 

You peel away from him, the two of you sheepish and awkward and it's so unlike you, unlike him. You think you've made a fool of yourself as he takes off his rucksack, laying it carefully on the floor by the bed as you turn to your shared dresser and rummage through the top drawer for some clean clothes for him to take when he showers. 

You've freaked him out, and he thinks you're a weirdo, and he's gonna realise you don't deserve him and you never could. You're bad at nearly everything, and you're a total slob, and you should've tried harder to get back to him, and it's all your fault. Misery grips you and drags you down hard. It spirals, surface level comments from a shallow, jealous girl, they twist and twist until you feel wrung out and useless. And now Steve's home, and you're–

"Are you mad at me?" Steve asks. 

You wince and face him, his sweatpants pressed to your chest. "What?" 

"You're not talking to me, and you only ever used to do that when you were mad." 

You pass him his sweatpants, clear your throat. "Stevie, I'm not mad at you." 

"Then what's up?" He unzips his windbreaker, keeping his eyes on you. "I know it's something." 

You force yourself to keep a mild smile. You can't think of a lie — you don't want to lie. 

Steve frowns as your face crumples, a large palm leaping to the curve of your neck. 

"What's wrong?" he asks. 

You can't align this Steve with the one you knew in Hawkins. He's so different. Or maybe he isn't different at all, and you're lucky to see the depth of his feelings, the expanse of his goodness and his heart and his secret smile, corners pulled up and eyebrows pushed down just so. It says, You're okay, because we're gonna do this together. The world will keep spinning for us as long as we want it to.

"I had a bad day," you say. 

"Are you sure? I've seen you on some bad days, baby. This doesn't feel like that, you know? And I get that I don't always know what to say, but I promise I wanna know. Whatever it is that's been making you all grumpy." 

His smile glows, his eyebrows rising. His teasing tone toward the end of his reassurance is a lightness you cling to. 

Lately, everything has felt so heavy. 

"I'm worried I don't…" Even attempting to say it has your throat aching. You cover his hand with yours. "Steve, I– I feel bad lately. I feel like I'm bad." 

He shakes his head, strands of his brown hair unsticking to dance in front of his eyes. "You're not bad." 

"I don't deserve you." 

He stares. 

"Being with you now, having you look after me, I didn't deserve you when I met you." A tear gathers in the line of your lashes. "I don't deserve you now. I'm just me, I'm useless, and you don't have to be with me and I've," —you take in a shuddering breath, and step away from Steve's hand— "been trying to work out why you're still with me and it doesn't make sense. Why do you stay with me?" 

"That's a stupid question," he says. 

You try to swallow a lump. It stays right there in your throat. 

"I got a policy against stupid questions, remember?" 

"Steve…" 

He cuts you off, tangling his fingers with yours, and easing you close until his breath is warming your lips and you can see the honey-browns that circle his pupils. They feel bigger the longer you look at them. 

"How can you ask me that?" he says gently. "You know how much I love you… Right?" 

You nod and knuckle a tear off of your cheek. "I know," you say, and you're crying now, little bubbling sobs that wobble your shoulders. 

"Listen, if I haven't been showing it I'm sorry, and I'll prove it to you. I don't want you to question it."

"It's not you," you say, pressing your forehead to his collar, craving his comfort so much that you don't care if you don't deserve it. 

"Everybody knows that line is a lie," he says.

"I'm not lying. Everybody knows I'm the part that doesn't fit." 

"Who's everybody?" 

You try to backtrack and pull away, but Steve won't let you this time. "I'm just having a bad day," you say, "and you've had a long one–" 

"Stop it." Steve looks at you seriously. He takes your face into both hands, like he always does when he's worried. "I don't care if I crawled home with two broken arms, loser. I gotta know what's wrong. All of it. And you need to tell me." 

He thumbs at your damp cheeks. 

"Okay," you mumble, embarrassed and relieved at once. "I'll tell you."

You insist that he take his shoes off and stretch out in bed even though he's got dirty jeans on, and he doesn't wanna get your nest of throw blankets dirty, so he peels out of them and sits in his boxers at the top of the bed. You slide in next to him, and he works his arm over your shoulder, and you cry like a baby when he calls you honey under his breath. 

—

"And these are for you, too," Steve says, pulling a slightly smushed box of cherries from the bottom of his rucksack. 

You look beautiful. Afternoon sunlight drips in from a crack in the curtains, kissing up and down your smiling cheeks. Your eyes are still puffy, but your smile hasn't moved all morning. 

"You didn't get anything for yourself?" you ask, though any outrage for him you harbour is hidden by your awe. "I don't remember the last time we got fresh fruit, and you didn't even put them at the top of the bag." 

"You're such a whiner. Just try one." 

Your fingers play delicately over the punnet of cherries. The cherry garden had had a lot of supplies left to 'borrow', and after a sickly half an hour of him and Robin staining their teeth, he'd managed to grab a perfect box's worth for you. Perfect before they got squished, that is. 

"You should have the first one," you say.

"No," he says, and shoves the box at your calf. "They're for you. If you like them, I want you to eat all of them and throw up like a godzilla." 

"Not sure you're remembering that movie right," you murmur, plucking one of the cherries out of the box. 

You bite into the cherry and your eyes screw up. "Oh wow, that's sour. I don't…" You finish chewing, and Steve is rocketed to cloud nine when you go in for a second cherry, and then a third. 

Last night had been tough. Steve spent a long time talking you down from what'd been sewn into your head, and he'd pulled the truth from you in strings. Vanessa had been cruel to you on more than one occasion now, which Steve had known but not to the full extent, and her last comment had been too much. Steve, unapologetically, hates her. 

But Vanessa isn't the sole problem. 

You're having a really hard time. All of this has been so much for you. It is, in Robin's words, the fucking apocalypse, and between nearly starving to death and all the shitty things that have happened to you, he isn't surprised to find you're fragile. And he doesn't say fragile, meaning weak. He doesn't know a lot about the world but he knows the human brain and body isn't built for this. You're his girl, and you're hurting, and while he knows objectively this isn't his fault, he vows to do a better job at protecting you. 

He won't fail you again. He can't. 

He watches cherry juice escape out of the corner of your mouth. 

"You're cute," he says. "Where's the disposable? Pass it over." 

"You are not taking a photo of me right now, baby." 

"You look beautiful." 

"When will we ever get the photos developed, anyway?" you say, laughing, kissing juice off of your fingertips. 

He leaps for the camera and tussles you when you fight back. You laugh and lose, weak with giggles as he holds you away, his fingers pressing into the soft plush of your waist. 

"Jonathan does all of that stuff," Steve says knowingly. 

He gives you a little shove. You cover your face with your hands, words muffled, "Thought the camera was for me?" 

"We're sharers. We share things. Look, if you don't smile for me I'm gonna take a picture of you in your underwear." 

You throw your hands over your lap and he snaps a photo of your shy face. 

"Shithead fucking pervert," you say. 

Steve knows he's off the hook when you laugh. 

He's gonna give Vanessa the coldest shoulder anyone has ever given, and if she were a guy Steve would defend your honour in a more physical manner. He'd suggested a verbal defence last night but you'd begged him to never, ever bring any of it up to Vanessa or your friends. It startled him —you have nothing to be ashamed of— but he'd agreed. Whatever's gonna make you happy is, perhaps cornily, what he wants to do.

Right now, making you happy is gifts on the floor of your tiny shared bedroom, pantsless but, fascinatingly, with socks. He points the camera at your ankles.

You grab the new blanket he'd given you and drape it over your legs. "Pervert," you reiterate. 

He puts down the camera. 

"Not my fault they made you perfect." 

"Who's they?" 

Steve shrugs, and can't keep the smirk off of his face as he says, "They made every damn inch of you perfect, especially but not limited to your pretty eyebrows." 

Your smile settles into something more timid. You push your hill of gifts aside, careful not to spill your cherries, and walk the short distance on knees to wrap your arms around his neck. Your face fits into the curve of his neck exactly the way it always will. His hand cups your lower back. 

"Love you, Harrington," you say. 

"How much? 'Nough to let me have some of the cherries?" 

You shake your head gently, the tip of your nose bumping his Adam's apple. "No…" you say apprehensively. 

"No? You don't wanna share with me?" 

"No." Your mumbling is adorable. Steve wants to eat you alive, or at the very least kiss you until you turn to jelly in his arms. 

If he starts now, he can be done by dinner. 

"Five seconds to change your mind. After that I'm taking all of them by force. Five, four, three…" 

You shriek, and even your shrieking  is a sound he wants to hear. You drop away from him and grab the cherries, cornering yourself too fast as you stagger to your feet and hide by the desk. Shoulders against the cabinet, you grab up one of your rare books like a shield, and you glare at him over the cover. 

"You said they were for me!" you say, real panic in your voice. You know from experience Steve will tickle you until you can't breathe.

"They are for you! I love you," he says, words dripping with a false sincerity (though he loves you, undeniably). "I'm just trying to help you, sweetheart. You don't want my help?" 

"You keep your help away from me, beast." 

It doesn't take him nearly as long as he'd thought to melt you. He tickles you, and he steals a handful of your precious cherries, and when he kisses you dizzy it leaves red-pink splotches over the column of your neck, his smile temporarily printed into your skin. 

—

ty for reading <3 I hope you enjoyed, and if you did pls consider reblogging <3<3

[tracycloud]

COOKING FOR ROBERTA

(Part 3)

Roberta's birthday, I really don't remember which one and it doesn't matter, made me a different person over the next few months, a new, lively, horny, lustful, self-determined young woman. I think Roberta changed too. Of course, I can't really say for sure because I didn't know her before.

When Roberta left the kitchen - I was still standing with my legs spread, wet and horny, panting and sweaty, leaning against the kitchen table. My hands were covered in tomatoes crushed with lust, their juice slowly dripping onto the kitchen floor, perhaps mixing with mine. What kind of sauce would that make? I thought, slowly coming back to myself.

Something magical had just happened to me. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I felt incredibly at ease. Without thinking further, I cut up my panties with the kitchen scissors, threw them in the bin, took off my bra, which still had my boobs hanging out of it, and threw it in too.

Then I started cooking. It was cooking like in a wonderful, hot dream. My naked pussy rubbed against the denim. You couldn't miss the wet spots, nor the nipples of my little boobs poking out of the sweat-stained T-shirt.

Of course, I started with the ragu Bolognese first. This wonderful sauce made from minced beef and pork, pancetta, fat milk, onions, celery, carrots and tomato paste had to simmer for at least 2 hours.

Now for the antipasti.

My cooking had become an exhilarating flow. Everything I did made me happy and horny.

As I was working on the eggplants stuffed with tomatoes, capers, olives and garlic, Roberta quietly crept into the kitchen.

She pressed herself firmly against my back. I felt her soft, full breasts, then her strong, caressing hands on my boobs.

“Mhhh so nice and small and firm. Good thing you took your bra off. You don't need that with me anyway, my horny little chef,” she whispered in my right ear.

I could feel her breathing, goose bumps ran all over my body and I moaned softly with pleasure. As her hand slowly slid down, undid the top buttons of my jeans and felt its way to my wet center, I spread my legs as if automatically.

She breathed tenderly: “How submissive you are. Ohhhh, you got rid of your panties straight away. You are such a wonderful cooking whore.”  Her fingers slid between my vulva lips, pentrating me slightly. “You're so wet. I'd love to fuck you right here.

“Jaaaaa, fuck me.... pleaaaseeee..... whenever you want. I'm all yours”. I had never said or even thought such sentences before.

But every word felt right, it was an incredible moment of happiness and never before had I been so completely close to myself.

Roberta sensed my devotion, kissed me tenderly on the back of my neck and said nothing. Her fingers, wet from my vulva, reached for a black olive that she pushed into my mouth, glistening with my own juice.

I licked her fingers, which she immediately slid back between my pussy lips until they were wet again, wetting another olive, which she then slipped into her own mouth.

I tried to keep working, chopping the fresh oregano into small pieces. Her fingers explored me, my wetness. I felt them deep inside me, measuring me, taking possession of me.

“Keep going, cute cooking whore,” she whispered in my ear. A little tap on my clit that made me cry out in pleasure and devotion. She left.

I stood back at the kitchen table with my legs wide open.  I was happy. My juice was oozing out of me. My jeans were wet like after a rain shower. I was soooo happy.

The ragu smelled delicious. It sizzled gently on the old-fashioned stove. I put the stuffed eggplants in the huge oven and started preparing the potato cakes with saffron, the bruschetta with diced tomatoes and olive paste last, as well as the radiccio, which I would fry in olive oil, the green beans with anchovies, parsley and garlic and also the porcini mushrooms.

Everything should be on the table at the same time, including the Ragu Bolognese.

[specialized-rexan]

SCREENSHOTS I GOT FROM THE JEREMY JORDAN LIVESTREAM YESTERDAY. especially love the comments on his duck drawings. he was very proud of some of them since he needed to practice before the stream. he admits he does not draw much lol

and here's Lucifer's signature that Jeremy came up with: a cursive capital L attached to a pentagram!

the stream was SO FUN and literally only felt like 20 minutes even tho it was almost an hour

at one point he mentioned he's making pancakes with olive oil now since he has high cholesterol, and that he LOVES how the pancakes turned out. someone responded:

(later someone joked he should make pancakes with bacon grease and he almost shouted (not angrily) "DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE? I JUST SAID I HAVE HIGH CHOLESTEROL. I just said. I had high cholesterol. Are you TRYING. To kill me."

anyway back to screenshots lol)

"Take that, depression!" was a popular quote to write on prints, and he said he hoped we're not depressed and it was very sweet

some more quotes written during the stream and other notes:

"I'm gonna be signing these prints of my boy Lucifer, the short king of Hell"

he drank both a cold smoothie and hot tea during the stream. "Doesn't make any goddamn sense, but here we go."

"It's never too late to fuck up--too late to fuck shit up" (a legitimate accidental stammer. but still perfect in its own way)

"Every time I hear the name 'Shay' I think of my daughter's friend at school. My daughter's obsessed with a friend named Shay. 'S all she talks about. 'Shay Shay Shay Shay Shay Shay.' Shay and Madeline. It's like 'You can be your own person. Clara. You are your own HUMAN.' …HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KATHERINE."

hopes to go to some conventions for Hazbin Hotel. more likely to go to cons in New York, New Jersey (where he lives), or Philly area

"He's just a li'l cutie. :3 Is he really da bosh? :3" (wondering if Lucifer really is the Big Boss of Hell Himself or if it's just more of a title)

"Hope you're not depressed"

" 'Write something Lucifer would say to cheer someone up.' And I think Lucifer would think that… 'SINGING MAKES EVERYTHING BETTER!' At least when it comes to rebuilding your relationship with your daughter."

"Guess what's in my smoothie. There are six ingredients. Go."

"…said draw a little duck, so I drew the smallest duck I could. (holds print up to camera then says in small high-pitched voice:) It's a little duck!"

MORE QUOTES UNDER THE CUT. THIS POST IS GETTING LONG ASFQJSKSKSKKS

_____

about his smoothie again: "Obviously, I just went to the gym. So I gotta have some kinda supplement in there. ... WHAT'S THE BASE, Y'ALL? YOU GOTTA HAVE A BASE." (someone could use that audio and give a character a bass guitar lol)

(still about people guessing smoothie ingredients:) "WATER? Why would I put water in my smoothie. (mutters:) Water is for losers. ... Kale! -grins and points at camera- That's it! You win. That's my smoothie."

his smoothie was blueberries, bananas, strawberries, protein powder, almond milk, kale

"…with a hUUGE shmiley faysh! :3" (about a little " =) " smile he wrote with an autograph)

"THAT DUCK IS CUTE!"

"We love, we stan Lilith"

AGGRESSIVELY, ABOUT A JOKE HE MADE: "GET IT?"

Some fatherly advice from Lucifer: "Don't fuck up your lives like I did 😎"

HE SANG THE START OF HELL'S GREATEST DAD AND WANTS A MIMZY-LESS VERSION THAT ACTUALLY HAS AN ENDING QSJFKSKKSKS

he's only seen Hazbin Hotel once, and he had "~champagne fountains, caviar mountains, that's just to staaart~" going through his head for the two+ years between recording his lines and the show airing. he wasn't able to tell anyone it because of non-disclosure stuff, and eventually he even forgot what that song line was from. but it still went through his head

"[Person he was signing an autograph for] is a bi girl [bisexual], and that's pretty baller"

"AN INCREDIBLE DUCK YOU SHALL HAVE"

"Take that depression!! Quack"

"Hold please!" (i just liked imagining Lucifer saying almost any small thing)

Jeremy Jordan says Lucifer is short, and not just that all the other characters are tall (i cannot confirm that that is canon even tho that's what i want LOL) "What gives!? There are short people in this world, and they need some love"

someone asked what he thinks about OC x canon ships. he was confused about what OC means and then when the chat explained, he was confused about how "OC x canon" works. but he figured it out after thinking for a moment. "So basically everybody wants to fuck Lucifer. GOT IT."

"Am I going to Hell for this" (about all the pentagrams he's drawing)

"…so i just did a bunch of stars and hearts around Emery's name 💜"

someone asked about his favorite Hazbin Hotel song, and he answered that season 2 has a rock song he really likes 👀 👀

"(a requested phrase for an autograph:) 'Duck lord loves you no matter what.' ...Don't know what that particularly means but…"

[fanficfish]

hetalia thought: the older they get, the more "fuck it we ball" the nations get

let me give examples.

-italy bros are at the least gonna hit 2000 soon. Both are bumbling idiots who are more here to have a good time then anything. I'm convinced they're stronger then they make themselves to be (they caught England with a hole. Yes he dropepd in there but how did they get him into the cell? Venezianobbeat up Turkey once, too, and i think that was when turkey was stronger....and if you think about it, veneziano pretending to be an idiot means he can get away with everything. Literally. Even if he sneaks into a meeting room, him yelling about pasta is enogh to make the others go "ah hes at it again"

-China lmand the maid dress cosplay. Enough said.

-the Nordics, who are all over a thousnad and most are prob older. Denmark doesn't give a shit anymore, Norway goes along with everything becauae why not it's entertainment, Sweden is a memelord. Finland is probably a bit younger so he's a little more grounded, and so is Iceland- they follow the rest but i think they haave a bit more sense of not letting time just go by completely. -America and Canada are young and you can see it- they try to fit in with the rest but over or underdo it and are surprised at things like weekends passing by in a blink of an eye. Germany too, the three of them are babies and just don't quite get the joke sometimes, not for lack of trying.

-England is also up there and i mean. England and his brothers made up English TCG pokemon whatever

-france has long since accepted the idea of being a free spirit. He exists and contemplates and does his thing, knowing time will pass and he might as well try to do the little he can.

-we all know russia was hit one too many times by General Winter. Ukraine surprisingly seems to have her head, but Belarus definitely let the age get to her....just a little. I have a bet she's spent so long chasing Russia she doesn't really know how to stop.

-Poland also doesn't give a shit he just wants his ponies. Man's embraced modern life and decided to just take things as it goes. Lithuania would be dead from stressing at him if he wasn't immortal.

-japan is also pretty old but he is an outlier as far as im concerned becauae this man is a boomer whose besties are a bunch of gen Zs and he might as well be one of them. i think he's done better at the aging thing at least.

-not gonna touch on spain and olive oil. -or Austria's entertainment source being infuriating to his hosts and then marrying everyone.

-or Prussia who's kinda just gone awesome

-or Switzerland who saw the world as said fuck all lf you (cue the red cross) yall need therapy (adopts a sister) why am i the sane one here (puts up security cameras)

-and then ofc there's Greece, who long ago philosophiciEd tok hard and now knows the only things that matter in life are sleep, cats, and occassionally hanging iut with your best frenemy.

[utilitycaster]

Sort of related to the post about people coming in for shipping but something that’s struck me, as actual play fandom has spread, is that there is a certain lack of genre awareness currently - not just surrounding Critical Role, to be honest; it’s a frustration for me for the conversation surrounding Dimension 20 and Worlds Beyond Number for a while as well.

Take fate, for example. The idea of fate, whether it’s as specific as an ancient prophecy, or as broad as the general concept of destiny, is absolutely at the core of so many classic fantasy series that to be vehemently opposed to it within Critical Role is to display profound ignorance of the genre of fantasy. It’s akin to showing up to a sporting event and getting mad that people are running around in athletic gear; it’s like going to an Italian restaurant in the US and screaming in the face of the waiter when they give you bread and olive oil. There is not, per se, a required reading list. You do not need to read nor watch all of Lord of the Rings let alone consider it a formative work; Sam Riegel and Aabria Iyengar sure haven’t. But if you are not familiar with the genre at all, at the very least you do need to come with a certain awareness that you are not familiar with the genre and be open to its conventions. And to be clear: it’s valid to hate the theme of things being fated. But again, that’s like hating they serve bread and olive oil at the Italian restaurant; you should probably simply not go to Italian restaurants.

Another example that is my personal source of irritation is the obsession with radiation as a factor in Burrow’s End. Setting aside my original irritation at just good old-fashioned lack of reading comprehension with the conflation of the poison and the Blue/the Light, the idea that the intelligence was induced by radiation is really…not genre aware. Like, I recognize I’m coming at this with rather more knowledge than average (from a scientific rather than genre-aware perspective no less) but to get back to genre, I take no issue with, say, radiation in comic books. I know the premise of Spider-Man or of Doctor Manhattan’s origins is absolutely ridiculous; but that’s the genre. Radiation in comic books exists to be an easy origin story so we can get to the point of “here’s a guy with powers”. However, in a show that derives its narrative language from Watership Down and Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh, the idea that the magic and the lightning and the source of intelligence are radiation makes little sense. Another example is the weird response to Skip in Starstruck; the idea of an alien brain parasite like that is so genre-typical to space opera it feels like, again, someone going to an Italian restaurant, pointing at the bread, and saying “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? HOW DARE YOU!”

I think my particular frustration with both of the above (and when I talk about Worlds Beyond Number) is that those people ignorant of genre and not letting it wash over them a la Sam will often fall back to the real world (although, unfortunately, not when it comes to radiation) when trying to make sense of the narrative without the signposts, language, and tropes of the genres to which they belong. To understand the subversions or deconstructions that are likely to occur in, for example, the upcoming exploration of the Citadel in Worlds Beyond Number, you need to be open to the idea that it is a complicated place and not simply The Evil Empire That Suvi Will Definitely Leave; if you’re utterly suspicious of everyone and refuse to try to understand why this is a place people enjoy let alone will die for, you can’t actually experience the story. We are going into the Citadel arc; these wizards will be humanized, and if you have closed off your mind to them already you have set yourself up to be miserable. I do think it’s great that actual play has found an increasingly large audience, but the medium of actual play also carries a certain lexicon and ignorance of it will skew one’s interpretations. My personal bugbear here is of course interpreting bog-standard tanking strategies as either romantic or self-sacrificial in intent, but in general, any resistance to the mere concept of gaining power, the existence of concrete deities, combat, and the placement of plot above romance in D&D are all signs of this ignorance. And again: ignorance is fine! But with all of the above there also often comes this entitlement to a story that is familiar, in blatant disregard for those parameters of genre and medium, and I have to wonder, again, why people mad that a fantasy story is leaning heavily on fantasy story norms, or why D&D has combat, are still showing up to the fantasy D&D story. To return to the Italian restaurant, which is getting a lot of terrible patrons in this metaphor, it feels like a lot of people are showing up to this restaurant because they heard it was good, but then becoming furious it won’t serve them peanut butter and jelly. People who are not familiar should still be welcome, but that lack of familiarity needs to be accompanied by an openness and desire to learn, rather than the entitlement that is so often present.

[eclecticwitchbitchsworld]

Homemade Attraction Oil (for attracting money/success/ect.)

Hi! first thing's first, this is an easy way to make attraction oil that is not to be confused with attraction oil used for attracting love or potential partners. This oil is specifically intended for attracting other things and opportunities. Again, this oil is not intended for attracting love or potential partners, but rather opening up new opportunities for you in life and opening new doors. This oil is made to increase your luck and prosperity, so if you feel like you're in need- please try out this recipe! Any ingredient listed can be substituted out for one of similar correspondence to really make this working your own- just do what feels right. This is a recipe brought to you straight from Lazarus and I, so I do hope you try it and enjoy. -Leviathan

Step 1: Find a jar or container to hold your oil- substitute the amount of each ingredient depending on the size of your container.

For us, we chose one glass bottle with a cork for each of us - and filled them up about a quarter of the way full with a carrier oil. Our oil of choice was extra virgin olive oil, though you can substitute that for coconut oil or almond oil if you prefer. It is ultimately up to you.

Step 2: We began adding our ingredients in this order:

clear quartz and citrine crystal chips

frankincense resin (an odd touch from Lazarus but fuck it, we ball)

gold mica powder for a little umph (it is not necessary for the attraction oil itself, do not fret)

at least 5 pieces of Star Anise

several juniper berries

a healthy pinch of rose buds

some ground ginger root

next, we moved on to the essential oils.

sweet orange, juniper, and the smallest pinch of rose. Remember, this is a different kind of attraction oil.

Step 3: Creating a sigil for the bottom of the container/side of the container to really set our intentions

Using one of several methods available to us, Lazarus and I workshopped an attraction sigil to put at the bottom of each container we made. Once we agreed upon our sigil, the working was done and we had finished our attraction oil. :

Each ingredient amplifies our intention in different ways. The star anise amplifies your luck, the clear quartz chips amplify any and all intention, citrine attracts wealth, abundance, success, ect. Juniper berries for attraction, good luck, and prosperity, ect. As you can probably tell, each ingredient was carefully chosen to promote a different intention, all leading to this very powerful concoction we like to call our own brand of attraction oil. Try it for yourself and see how you fare!

[thechekhov]

Dungeon Meshi - Quick Reacts (CHAPTER 14: Kelpie)

You know, I understand why people are annoyed by her attitude towards Senshi’s food and Laios’ tastes, but you gotta admit she’s trying her best. 

this is another one of these things that don’t really come up in games but... thank fuck they have flowing water. That would be a real deal breaker if you want to survive. And they can shave and brush their teeth? It’s a miracle.

To be fair, I think Senshi’s beard is probably its own ecosystem by now. He probably uses it as a scrub brush. 

At least if she does that, you’ll be picking way less dwarf hair out of your food. Come on guys, we know that stuff gets in there when he cooks. 

someone get this woman to design a whole ass game. 

Water walk! Good wizard. 

is Senshi afraid of water?! Dwarves I swear.....

Aww, their first party fight! I’m shocked at how coordinated Laios and Chilchuck are. 

HE’S STILL SINKING, JUST SLOWLY.

HIS BEARD? It repels magic... 😂

Laios, you don’t look as sure as you sound. 

Oh. OH yEAH. There will be NO repercussions for THAT. 

Marcille’s little “Anne.” isn’t even a question. She’s just disappointed. 

Meanwhile, that Kelpie straight up wants the blood and guts soaked into his beard.

Didn’t that thing... walk.... out from UNDER the water though? 

That seems extreme as well, but I’m on this hill with Laios and his distrust of horses. 

I see someone speaks from experience. 

Yeah, I could have maybe seen that coming. 

Though I AM legitimately disappointed by this turn of events.

Horses are horrifying when they’re given dog mouths - confirmed. 

...actually hold on

Horses are horrifying when they’re given dog mouths - confirmed.

Marcille’s been on the protein I see. 

Laios, you are right but also your little pet monster will eat you one day. For no though, the fact that you almost drowned it is adorable. 

Don’t you though? I imagine if anyone understands how monsters think, it would be you, Laios. 

It’s true that he loved her. It’s also true that letting her rot without using her would be a waste. In a way, she will carry them further this way. 

oooh, is she making soap? 

There’s something about the idea of using things you have at your disposal that makes this really cool. The fact that everything they’re making, aside from very special ingredients like olive oil, are all scavenged and created with their own hand is... I don’t know... heartwarming? 

THEY’RE!!!! BONDING!!!!

Weirdly heartwarming.

Maybe just let it air dry--

whEEZE---- I CAN’T--

There he goes............the magnificent beast............

GROUP HUG! aww

.......................... coding, man. No matter what century, that one typo will get ya.

The real BBEG was the lack of unions all along...............

YOU ASKED FIRST, YOU DINGUS. 😂

All that said, Laios doesn’t strike me as someone interested in romance. 

this is just a magical hermit crab.

NOOO HE JUST WANTED TO VIBE

You guys could probably make a fortune as dungeon delvers if you weren’t after Falin.

Who knows if souls exist? Haven’t you all died multiple times?

............Well, they do have skin and a squishy inside, and they grow..... checks out.

........you know what? I’ll take it. Wine? Necromancy. Cheese? Necromancy. Natto? DEFINITELY necromancy. 

Marcille doesn’t drink?

...........is this doodle-bob all over again? 

Senshi, who nearby died by Kelpie: WHY DON’T THEY WANT MY LIVER? IT’S GOOD FOR THEM!

.....................like respects like. These two are on the same frequency. 

If we’re being nitpicky about it, Anne never actually bit Senshi. She went after the Mimic. Maybe she just got tired because he was fucking heavy........ 

Horses, man. 

[justjasper]

i love your E rated/smut writing. do you have any tips for writing smut?

most of these are about reality/modern-based sex writing rather than fantasy stuff where all the bets can be off!

there is literally no god word to use for balls/testicles, it's fine

USE CHARACTER NAMES. no "younger/older" woman, "darker/paler" man, just use their names especially during a sex scene

do learn some basic anatomy, please look up where the prostate is, where the g-spot is

but fanfic sex doesn't need to be instructional, you are not teaching people how to have sex. it very much shows when you write like this

fanfic is also not consent 101. it's fine to just let your reader assume they're 100% into what they're doing, and i think "unnegotiated kink" should be reserved for scenarios where the kink is spur of the moment, not just "involves kink but no explicit discussion of it" (unless they're not meant to be, which one assumes would be made clear in tags or descriptions!!)

that said, writing about discussing consent can be really fun, doesn't mean you can never do it. you just have to vibe out whether it's adding to the fic or not

talking really helps break up sex scenes, so write at least one character who's chatty lol

plan out your sex scene so you don't get stuck with what's happening next. remember you can go back to it to flesh it out/work on the pacing. honestly most of my sex scenes start on the page as a list that goes: LICK LICK CIRCLE CHAT SUCK SUCK STROKE LICK SUCK GAG SUCK TALK BIG CUM

speaking of going back to pacing, literally invoking time can help make a sex scene seem longer without saying "they fucked for seven and a half minutes". "a long moment later" "by the time X, the sun had begun to rise/fall", "long into the night"

lube is preferable but optional, even for butt stuff. sex without lube doesn't mean it's painful or dangerous, especially for experienced butt stuff doers.

spit as lube is not a cardinal sin and is miles better than things that are actually dangerous (engine oil? things w sugar like honey? baby dont give your chars a yeast infection)

olive oil is fine but it's messy and it doesn't play w condoms, but fine if you're going historical

speaking of which, from my experience people in established relationships forego condoms way quick. and in general people forget to use them all the time. again, this isn't Safe Sex 101, it's fanfic.

but on the flip side, its sexy/funny when characters have lube and condoms to hand. there is no funnier environmental storytelling than there being a bottle of water based lube in the kitchen cupboard with the peanut butter.

simultanious orgasms are a pain to time and sure they're romantic but there's other fun climax dynamics. maybe one character feels duty/honour bound to always make sure their partner comes first

come/cum? it doesn't matter, just keep it consistant per fic

similar, be consistant with your body part names, even if you use a few. e.g. you use "cunt" in narration, but character A uses "pussy", keep that consistant.

you can still euphamise genitals without it sounding like you're afraid of them - sometimes six instances of "cock" in a row doesn't flow, that's when you should be utilising your "hardness" and "shaft" and "length"

the brain is a sex organ, and all the senses are engaged during sex. you can bulk out yor sex scenes and give great insight into the character experiences by describing what they're experiences with non-touch senses (or the lack of them, e.g. when blindfolds are in the mix)

even in pwp works, you're saying something about the characters who are fucking. you can give context and inferred complexity without plot. are they familiar with each other's bodies? is this new? are they confident, or nervous.

write for you! if you are a person who experiences sexual response to erotic fiction, then a good measure of your own work is if it makes you horny to write/re-read it. there's absolutely no shame about being aroused during the process. there's no harm in taking a wank break.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I would leave (if only I could find a reason)

More Painter Husk au! Featuring Molly! This AU's going to be going some rough places after this so enjoy the soft for now! Huge thanks to @minky-for-short who co created this AU with me <3

cw: mentions of past child abuse, period accurate homophobia

Please consider reblogging and commenting over on Ao3!

---------

Husk could still remember his first day in the city. The day had been close, the sky had been gray, just like today, and as he’d stepped off the train, he could actually remember thinking that it would be a fresh start. 

He’d told himself that, away from home and the flashing lights and beckoning fingers at the tables, the debt he’d built up from answering that call one too many times, he’d have a chance. He’d taken a lungful of air, scented with the river instead of desert sand, and he’d hoped, just for a moment. 

And in that moment he’d been a fucking fool. 

Husk should have known that his demons didn’t need tickets, they didn’t need passports. They’d followed him out of Las Vegas, they’d marched beside him on every tour of duty, to Germany and Italy and Japan, across the whole damn planet in the wake of yet another war to end all wars. Why had he thought the span of the Hudson River would be enough to keep them at bay?

He knew better now. He was still a fucking fool but at least he was an old one, one who’d made a meal of that poisonous hope only to realise he was still empty inside. He wasn’t surprised by the voices clamoring in his head as he strode quickly through the city streets, he knew what they would tell him. 

They whispered about the place down on fourth street where the whiskey was sour as bile but he had enough in his pocket to afford three. They wondered if there was a card game going down in the basement of the Black Olive, pointing out that the bouncers and back room staff would be just drunk enough that he could take them for all of their tips. They told him that the heaviness in his heart would ease with a drink, that the itching in his fingertips would go away and be replaced with a rush of dizzying euphoria if he could just roll a dice. 

Husk knew all that. He’d been hearing that kind of shit his whole life, he’d been born with these voices in his mind. What was new was the fact that they weren’t winning. 

He didn’t even realize it until he was a block away from his favorite art supply place, where he’d told himself he was going when he’d stepped out of the apartment. Shouldn’t really have been a fucking revelation, but he shouldn’t have made it this far. The voices had been plucking at him since he’d left, tugging at his sleeves pushed up against the sudden spring heat, trying to pull him towards his well worn vices. 

And it should have worked. Any other day it would have, Husk would be ankle deep in some kind of debauchery by now, pissing away the rest of the day only to wake up the next morning with a dry mouth and an aching chest and still no fresh brushes. Ready to do the whole song and dance again. 

Husk shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and ducked into the store, his mind easing at the comforting smells of old paint, turpentine and fresh cut canvases. He didn’t need to wonder why he’d managed to stay on track today, he just needed to get his errands done. He needed more draft paper, more pencils, maybe some new oils if any colors took his fancy. He had more commission requests than he’d had in years and if he was going to pretend he was functional, he at least needed the props. 

And you know why you didn’t stop. 

Husk’s hand froze over a set of brand new brushes. He didn’t like this new song the voices were singing, the new refrain they’d picked up in the last couple of months. It was enough to make him try and push them away, even though he knew better. He tried to focus on the candy land in front of him, rows of brushes soft and fine as feathers, pots of every color he could imagine arranged in just the right way so his eyes slid right across the rainbow as he scanned the shelves. And he actually had enough in his pocket to buy whatever he wanted, given that his advances had survived the journey. Getting his life together was paying off, figuratively and literally. 

But no joy kept the voices away completely, as Husk well knew. It didn’t help when running his thumb over the brushes made him think of white blonde hair just as soft carding through his fingers, when his eyes were drawn to a soft, dusky gold perfect for freckles he’d once hunted down and kissed every one of. When every thought was pulled in the same direction, a galaxy spinning inwards on itself, down to the one star in the very center. 

Not a new vice, not a new addiction but it was close. Something so much more dangerous, the same thing he’d tasted on that very first day in New York. A new reason to hope. He had Angel Dust.

And it’s going to end the exact same way.

Husk’s mouth twisted, that thought sliding between his ribs to hit somewhere soft. Because the voices didn’t lie. They were cruel, they played dirty, they did everything they could to ruin him. But they didn’t lie. 

And what did Husk have to prove this new hope wouldn’t whither and die like all the others before it? He had an honest, endearingly gap-toothed smile hidden to everyone else but him, a crude sense of humor that went through Husk’s walls like a wrecking ball, a burning desire he thought had long guttered out of his life. He had a marker painted directly onto the wall of his studio, the total they were aiming for written at the top in Angel’s own hand because Husk had been too short to reach. It seemed like an impossible amount but, day by day, the tally was growing, the painted red line was creeping up towards it. 

Between the commissions flooding in now Miss Morningstar was deliberately gushing about him to her high society friends, between the money hidden under Angel’s mattress at the club that was supposed to be spent on blow and booze, the tips he was skimming from clients, they were climbing towards his freedom. 

But it still felt like the biggest gamble Husk had ever taken. 

Sighing, Husk pressed his thumb into a sample pot of red pigment, drawing a line across the palm of his hand to see if it was bright enough. Red as blood, red as love, red as a heart that had only just remembered how to beat for someone else again. Red enough to save the man he loved.

Because however unsure Husk felt, however much doubt the voices planted in his mind, he knew Angel Dust was sacrificing more. He hadn’t told him everything, some things were too hard to say, putting them into words brought them too close for comfort. But Husk had met Valentino’s kind before, they grew right up out of the sand in Vegas, flourishing where nothing decent would. He knew what would happen if Angel’s pimp found out what they were planning, if Angel proved he was more trouble than the money he made was worth. 

And, maybe even more than that, the faith he was putting in Husk. Valentino had given Angel ample reasons to cut and run but Husk had to stand there and wonder what it was about himself that made Angel brave enough to try. He loved him, he could be sure of that, he’d tried to show it in every way his dusty old heart knew how, but it seemed like a pretty poor stake all the same. If Angel took his freedom at the end of this and fled Manhattan for good, Husk wouldn’t blame him. And he’d still say it had been worth it. 

All he had to do was not screw it up. Just succeed where he’d failed so many times before, with so much more on the line. And with nothing more than the paints and brushes in his hands and the fragile hope fluttering inside him like a bird snapped at from all sides by the snakes lurking there. 

There really was no fool like an old fool. 

By the time Husk was done indulging himself and talking shop with the lady behind the counter, the city crowds had thickened. The heat had dissipated slightly, slipping through the clutching fingers of the skyscrapers so the people jumped at the chance. Children dragged their parents by the hand, going to spend a few hours in the park to burn off their energy before bath and bed. Couples strolled more leisurely, men and women in perfect, matching pairs off to the pictures or a restaurant or the theater, maybe for the first time, maybe for the last time, maybe on the road to having children of their own tugging on their sleeves. Elderly people settled into favored benches to toss crumbs to eagerly waiting pigeons, maybe finding some kinship with the forgotten, ignored birds, or maybe just pleased to find something to still need them. 

Husk shifted the paper wrapped canvas under his arm, trying not to bump into anybody, ducking and weaving through the press. His thoughts zig zagged in a similar way, trying to wander towards other things but every path seemed to lead back to Angel. 

He wondered what he was doing right now, where in the vast expanse of the city the other half of his heart was beating. Maybe he was sleeping, his work schedule left him damn near nocturnal from what Husk had observed. Maybe he was with his friends, drinking wine on the fire escape with Cherri or even Miss Morningstar, whatever it was an escort and the daughter of the richest, most powerful man in the city did together. Or maybe it was already too late, maybe he was trapped in the club, putting powder over bruises so they wouldn’t show under the stage lights, not allowed to even see the sunshine everyone else was enjoying. 

Or maybe he was sitting in the window of the diner just across the street. 

At first Husk wasn’t even sure it was his Angel. He was dressed so plainly, in a simple white shirt and dark jacket that any respectable young man might wear, which should have automatically disqualified it from Angel’s wardrobe. His blonde hair was stuffed into a battered old ivy hat, brim pulled low to shadow his face, free from any kind of cosmetic. Like he was trying to blend in rather than stand out, the complete opposite of his usual flamboyant defiance. A mug of coffee that looked bad even from this distance congealed unnoticed between his cupped hands, his eyes fixed on something else across the street. He looked like any of the hundreds of overgrown, but not overgrown enough, kids haunting New York, looking hollow eyed and downtrodden, the slope of their shoulders telling you how far they were down the slippery slope towards a life they’d never imagined they’d be living. 

But Husk had spent far too long lovingly sketching that face to not recognise it, he’d spent days mixing half a hundred shades of blue to get those eyes right, he could map those freckles the way a sailor who’d spent his life at sea could map the stars. That was Angel, sitting in a shitty diner and trying not to be noticed. 

Of course by the time Husk realized it really was him, he’d been staring too long to get away with it. 

Like a bird feeling the gaze of a cat, those blue eyes shifted to Husk. At first there was only panic, like he’d been caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t. Husk winced until those eyes suddenly softened, relaxing into something fond. One of his hands turned, long fingers beckoned Husk over in an uncharacteristically shy wave. 

Husk didn’t even hesitate, winding through the cars scurrying like ants across the street, ducking into the diner. It looked worse on the inside, though at least it wasn’t so nice he had to worry anyone would stare at a black man taking a seat across from a white man. 

Husk smiled, wishing he could reach across and take his hand, try and shake some of that lost look from his eyes, but no place would let them have that, “There’s no way I can avoid looking like a creepy stalker, huh?”

Angel gave him a small smile, “Well, you can join the club I guess…”

Husk lifted an eyebrow, unable to deny the spike in his curiosity but he knew how things worked with Angel. Gentle steps, kid gloves, hovering on the stoop long enough to prove he really was interested until Angel opened the door.

“Figured there was a reason you were in a dive like this,” he hummed, eyeing the coffee, “A reason other than that shit.”

Angel tipped the mug, laughing grimly, “Oh yeah. Would you believe the cherry pie here is actually incredible? It’s the only thing on the menu that’s edible but, y’know. They got one thing right.”

Husk chuckled, “Well in that case…” 

The place was fairly dead, it didn’t take long to flag down a waitress and order two slices, a la mode for Angel because Husk remembered him saying that eating pie any other way was heresy. The expression on the younger man’s face was worth not being able to reach across and take his hand, a slab of golden crust and berries red and shiny as Christmas tree ornaments was apparently a good enough substitute. 

They were halfway through before Angel eventually shifted and murmured, “I ain’t looking to score if that’s what you were worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” Husk lied smoothly, drowning out the sour taste of guilt with cherry syrup, “This place is a dive but it ain’t rough enough to have drug deals going on under the table. Besides, you said you were clean.”

Angel gave him a soft, grateful smile, like he wasn’t used to his promise being enough. His eyes wandered back across the street, like there was some magnetic pull drawing them there. Husk could tell words were hovering on his lips, crowding nervously like baby birds afraid to take that first step into open air. 

Husk reached across and snagged that mug of muddy looking coffee, dragging it to his side of the dented metal table. He took a drink, right where Angel’s lips had touched it, feeling the warmth of them there. 

It was a poor excuse for a kiss, secretive and indirect, but it was the best he could do in public, a lukewarm substitute for the way he wanted to comfort his lover. But Angel received the message loud and clear, eyes misting slightly and sighing in the unmistakable sound of pressure being released. 

“The candy store across the way,” he murmured, fingers tapping anxiously on the table, “You see it?”

Husk looked, having to squint a little now his eyes weren’t what they used to be. The store looked like a kid’s dream, just looking at it made his teeth ache at the roots. The walls were just shelves crammed with rows and rows of jars, the old fashioned kind, each with a different treasure inside. Bright, crystalline hard candies, pillowy marshmallows, stark black and white humbugs. It was a riot of color, artificial color right out of a bottle, but it was the kind that made your mouth water. After the long gray days of the war, that store was something close to heaven. 

“She always did have a sweet tooth,” Angel murmured, voice soft and sad, “Guess we both have a thing for harmful, addictive substances. Just that her’s ain’t illegal.”

At first Husk was confused but then it hit him. The girl behind the counter, currently smiling kindly down at a pair of wide eyed kids, clearly an older sister and younger brother. By the looks of her delighted expressions, there were a lot more lollipops going into that bag than they actually paid for. If the blonde hair that seemed to have a mind of its own or the freckles or the height or the crooked grin didn’t give it away, that act of kindness would have done it. Maybe Husk’s eyes weren’t what they used to be but he could have been blind in one eye and still seen the family resemblance. 

“I know it sounds crazy because I could just look in the mirror but I can’t believe how grown up she looks,” Angel’s voice was heavy, bowing under the weight of the emotion in it, “In my head, I was always picturing the girl I left behind. But she changed too, I just…I just wasn’t there to see it…”

“Good looks run in the family, huh?” Husk swallowed hard, feeling a physical pain in his chest from how badly he wanted to take Angel’s hand. 

“Oh Molly always looked pretty damn angelic. We were about as identical as a boy and a girl could be. Used to dress up as each other sometimes to see if anyone would notice. Only Nonna ever would.”

Husk watched sadly as the girl- Molly- waved goodbye to her customers with a smile just like Angel’s, “Guess you haven’t spoken to her? Since you left?”

He swallowed hard, like the words were having to get past something in his throat, “God, Husk, she probably doesn’t even know I’m still alive. Last time she saw me, my father was throwing me down the stoop and calling me a faggot for the whole neighborhood to hear.”

They’d been together long enough now that Husk didn’t have to hide his pained expression, hating the gaps in his words where the softer, gentler words for their love should go but couldn’t, just in care they were overheard. Hating that they still had to duck and hide from that kind of poisonous hate.

“But there’s a reason you’re sitting here. A reason you’ve been sitting here enough times to know the only good thing on the menu, I don’t think you’d do that for a sister who wouldn’t care if you were still kicking.” 

Angel’s expression twisted, memories of that day clearly painful to touch, “She got right in his face, he was twice her height, towered over all of us but she met him nose to nose. Told him the only one who oughta be ashamed was him, throwing his own son out like trash. Quoted the damn Bible at him, told him he had too many sins of his own to be casting stones at me.”

Husk’s chest burned fiercely, “Smart kid.”

But Angel only closed his eyes against a rush of remembered pain, “And then he backhanded her right across the face. He’d never hit her, not once, he saved that for me and my brother, but that bastard did it, right in front of everyone. Knocked her to the fucking ground. It was the only time Johnny looked at him like the monster he was.”

The bitter taste on Husk’s tongue had nothing to do with the bad coffee and everything to do with not being able to get his hands around the throat of a man he’d never even met. 

And with knowing exactly what was going through his lover's mind.

“Angel,” he murmured, “You can’t think that was your fault.”

“Husk, she got hurt defending me. Loving me put her in the damn firing line,” a desperate anger bled into his voice, “No fucking wonder she never tried to track me down or write me or anything. She did the right thing and, before you say a word, I ain’t going over there to drag her back into my bullshit. Not when I turned into everything the old man said I would.”

“Angel…” Husk groaned.

“No,” he shook his head tightly, fingers still tapping, keeping time with his racing heart, “Knowing she’s okay is enough. And if I go over there, all I’ll do is make it so she ain’t. Better off she thinks I’m dead, that way she still got a hope of loving me. A dead brother is better than a living whore.”

“Angel.”

He felt it come out harsher than he’d meant to but it did what he wanted, it was a hand thrust out to catch Angel by the collar before he fell any deeper. The younger men fell silent, his hollow eyed stare becoming something desperate as he stared back at Husk, something pleading. Husk didn’t dare ask if he was begging him to pull him up or just let go. 

Not that it mattered. He’d pull him back, every time. 

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have snapped,” Husk shook his head tightly, exhaling deeply, “Listen. You can tell me to mind my own damn business after, if that's what you want, but can you just let me try?”

Angel swallowed hard, “Alright…”

“Look, I know how much you’re running from. No kid should have to go through half the shit you did and if I ever meet your daddy, I won’t waste my time quoting scripture at him, I’ll tell you that for free,” Husk growled before forcing himself to relax, his fingers to unravel from the fists they’d made on the tabletop, “But Molly…I think you got to ask yourself why she’s even still here. By rights, she should have moved halfway across the country, put as much distance as she could between her and your daddy’s rotten business. Hell, you both should. I don’t know why either of you are still here, there’s so many reasons you should have run for the hills.”

Angel fidgeted, his eyes drawn back across the street, as if to make sure Molly was still there. 

“But you’re both still here,” Husk murmured gently, “And my guess is…well, that you’re both still hoping. You want a fresh start but there’s some things you ain’t ready to leave behind and why should you have to?”

Angel’s blue eyes were swimming, his voice sounding like it scraped his throat on the way out, “Hope’s a dangerous thing…but God, what the fuck do I even tell her? About Valentino, about the club, about anything?”

Husk shrugged, wishing he had a better answer but sometimes the truth was all there was, “Tell her you’re in a bad spot but you’re trying. That you’re doing your best. What else is there?”

“And you think that’s going to be enough?” Angel bit his lower lip. 

“I’d put money on it,” Husk smiled crookedly, “Were I a betting man.”

That made Angel laugh, a weak, raspy, sarcastic thing but Husk treasured it more than anything, “Well, I’m sold. After all, when was the last time you made a bad bet?”

“Not since I met you,” Husk promised, with a smile as honest as he’d ever given. 

Angel took a shuddery breath, clearly steeling himself, the same way he did for Valentino’s club. Even without all the makeup and glitter and the knife smile, it was the same bravery. Husk hadn’t known him as a soldier but it was there in his face, a familiarity with shutting off that instinct to turn and run, to just putting one foot in front of the other. 

“Will you stay here? Wait for me?” Angel’s voice shook a little even as he asked for that small reassurance. 

Husk damn near melted, meeting his eyes without hesitation, “I won’t move a muscle. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”

Angel relaxed slightly, nodding and standing up, taking that promise with him out of the diner and across the street. He did glance back a few times, blue eyes wide and uncertain, but he always kept going at a gentle nod from Husk. They probably both breathed a sigh of relief when he actually managed to cross the threshold of the candy store. 

Husk liked to think he’d gotten his tells under control after so many years with a gambling addiction but his leg was bouncing hard enough to rattle the table, accusatory ripples in the surface of the coffee. He ignored it, taking a long sip and finding it wasn’t so bad when the warmth of his lover’s lips still clung to the rim, his eyes clinging to Angel. 

Molly was wiping down some empty jars, her back turned to the door when he walked in, though her mouth moved, probably a promise that she’d be right there. Husk didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, watching as Angel took off his hat and hovered in the doorway. The whole damn world seemed to be holding its breath, even the voices in his head bit their tongues for once. 

Until finally, in a flinching moment made of equal parts relief and horror, Molly turned around. Instantly her face froze, shock crystallizing her features, like a ghost had just walked through her door. They looked so alike, standing across from each other, there may as well have been a mirror between them. Not just in their features, in the exhaustion that hid behind their mouths made for smiling, in their eyes that looked so much older than they should, in the shadows that sleepless nights had carved onto their faces. They were twins in more than just a physical way, they were twins in grief, in trauma, in hurt. 

But despite that, in that frozen moment, Husk didn’t see how they fit together, it seemed like their edges were just too jagged. 

Please, Husk willed fiercely, the same way he’d once willed cards to show a straight flush, the way he’d stepped off a train all those years ago and hoped, please.

But this time someone was listening. The man upstairs or their Nonna or maybe he was begging loud enough for Molly to hear him across the street but someone heard and someone took pity. With a soft sob, she dashed forward, throwing herself into Angel’s arms so hard he nearly fell over. The two of them clung so tightly to each other it was like they were afraid the other might disappear, two pairs of shoulders shaking with tears Husk couldn’t hear. 

Blinking back tears of his own, he pulled his eyes away, getting the sudden sense that this moment was too private for an audience. But he’d promised his Angel so he stayed in the booth, pulled out one of the fresh sketchbooks he’d just bought and set it on the table. He’d bought fresh pencils but old habits die hard and ones from times you were so poor you could manage one meal in three died the hardest. He would use the one he carried in his pocket until it was down to nothing. 

Husk signaled for another coffee- it was actually starting to grow on him now- and let his pencil move across the page. He glanced across to the store a few times as the sunset washed the world in orange, as the candy store became a square of golden light surrounded by shadow that couldn’t touch it. Angel and Molly were sitting on the counter, never talking anything less than a hundred miles an hour, looking like the light was coming from their smiles. They were laughing, they were crying, they were hugging tight, it depended on when Husk looked over but it always made him smile. They could have as long as they damn well wanted.

By the time the sketchbook page showed a study of the two of them and he’d drunk three more coffees in sheer defiance of the hour, Husk felt the prickle of eyes on him. This time when he looked up, Angel and Molly were there to meet his gaze, Angel gesturing to him and saying something that made his twin’s smile grow and soften. She waved excitedly, beckoning him over, Angel giving a reassuring nod behind her so he knew it was okay.

They met him outside the now dark candy store, Molly rushing up in a way that told Husk she was only barely restraining herself from giving him the same bone crushing hug Angel got. 

“Thank you!” the first words out of her mouth were breathless, leaving her in an ecstatic rush, “Thank you so much, Tony’s told me everything about how you’ve helped him get clean and try to get away from that awful man and how you helped him be brave enough to come talk to me, just…thank you. Oh, I’m Molly!”

Husk smiled warmly, taking off his hand and inclining his head, “Husker, ma’am. And there ain’t no thanks needed. It’s my pleasure, I’m just glad your brother lets me.”

Angel smiled at him gratefully, turning to Molly, “You’re sure you have to go?”

Her face creased in disappointment, “Sorry, I’ve got a night shift to get to…but you’re going to come by tomorrow, right?”

Angel nodded, “I got the whole day before work, I’ll be right here.”

She kept smiling but some of the light in her blue eyes dimmed, “Promise?”

The fact that she had to ask clearly stung but there was understanding in his reassuring nod, “I promise, Moll, I’ll be right here as soon as your shift starts. Husk will keep me honest.”

That earned him another thousand kilowatt smile as she reached out and took his large, scarred hands in her own delicate ones, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, Mr Husk.”

“Likewise, ma’am,” he smiled, startled in a good way. 

“Good…oh! I meant to say!” she tilted her head sweetly, “If you ever break my brother’s heart or hurt him, I’ll break your legs. Okay?”

There was a moment’s pause before, simultaneously, Husk burst out laughing and Angel gave a scandalized squawk of disbelief. 

“I appreciate you saying that, ma’am,” Husk grinned, “And believe me, I ain’t gonna give you reason to. Angel’s not going anywhere…and neither am I.” 

“Glad to hear it,” she shouldered her bag, “And call me Molly. See you tomorrow!”

She gave Angel a last kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the nighttime crowds, waving until the corner took her out of sight. It was a long moment before Angel could turn away from the spot where she disappeared but when he did, his eyes were shining. 

“Husk…” he shook his head, unable to find the words, “Husk, I can’t thank you enough..”

“You can start by coming home with me,” he cut across him gently, “Get off this damn street so I can hold you the way I’ve been wanting to all fucking day.”

Angel opened his mouth at first, like he was going to protest that it wasn’t enough, that Husk should ask for more than just himself. But after a moment, he closed it again and just smiled. 

“Yeah. That I can do, baby.”

And that alone was worth more than anything. 

They walked through the streets together, as close as they were allowed, letting their fingers brush and tangle whenever they were out of the puddles of streetlight. And it didn’t feel like a compromise, it didn’t feel like a watered down version of everything exploding inside their chests right now. It just felt like a promise for later, a moment in a future they were both really starting to believe in. 

Husk found himself remembering his first day in the city again, a younger man still old before his time, daring to hope that the paintbrushes and pencils in his pocket would be enough to make people notice him. That he’d leave his demons behind and become something great. 

Husk took a deep lungful of night air, still sharp with the smell of the river and softened by Angel’s perfume. It wasn’t the life he’d imagined, it was tangled and thorny and fucking hard. The voices were still lurking, muzzled for now but he knew they’d come back in the quiet moments, when Angel’s fingers weren’t entwined with his own. 

And maybe they were right, just like they had been every other time before. Maybe this was another bad hand, another roll of life’s fixed dice. 

But Husk supposed he was still a fucking fool.

[pisspope]

just got the order from my boss that i have to fill 600 bottles of olive oil in the next couple of weeks so here are some aot shitty job hcs

- Sasha works at Claire's and does those awful ear piercings with surgical precision. She's the only one working most days and she has one of those concealed carry purses just in case shit goes down

- Connie works at the Jimmy John's next door and he always reeks of garlic and yeast. He and Sasha became friends because she thinks he smells good. Sometimes he comes over after his shift and gives her literal bread crumbs and pieces of lettuce.

- Levi works at the DMV and Hange works at the library and they sit in the back and talk smack during government meetings

- Reiner works at Hooter's Reiner works at a big box store doing inverntory. he's home late most nights and his schedule is absolutely fucked. luckily he starts late enough where he can catch gabis softball games and falcos choir concerts. he's started smoking incense because the heady aroma helps him sleep during the day

- Marco works at a mall build-a-bear but he's so good at his job that his boss overworks him. tbh he's thinking about quitting to work with Jean at the starbucks in the mall cafeteria. but he enjoys the birthday parties and the smiles on the kids faces too much and just resolves to make the most of it

- Jean is the Token Man who works at starbucks and he's got regulars who come just because they have little crushes on him. he writes hearts next to their names on their cups and watches with glee as they slip more money in the tip jar

- Bertholdt works at one of those kids gymnasiums with the trampoline floors and the weird blocks you can drown in. No one knows how he got the job because he's clumsy as hell and visibly cringes when a kid starts crying

- Mikasa is in an MLM selling baby clothes or perfumes or something. She knows it's shitty but it pays the bills. If anyone asks what she does for a living she says she's a mma fighter and will give them a demonstration if they ask again

- Annie works at Spencer's and makes it everybody's problem. basically squidward at the krusty krab. "Buying some weed socks? Daring today, aren't we."

- Porco works at one of those vapor and e-cig stores. he loves to flaunt his knowledge about different cartridges and even experiments with his own mixes. he's ended up in the hospital from accidental nicotine poisoning at least three times

- Armin is the young guy at factories that they pay to crawl into the machines and pull out pieces of rubber and other hardware refuse. he's got a stack of random tools in the back of his car and he doesn't know what any of them do

- Eren works at the gas station and sells drugs by the back door. He likes to sit and watch the security cameras and pretend he's god. he goes home to his apartment with a basket of gas station chicken and he, armin, and mikasa just hang out. when the three of them are together, there's nowhere he'd rather be

- Pieck works at Ulta. she doesn't wear makeup, rarely brushes her hair all the way through, and her perfume is from the dollar store. she is by far the stores most popular employee. she's as baffled as everybody else

[apolloendymion]

listen to me. i am talking directly in your ear now.

save your kitchen scraps. I'm talking carrot tops, peels, and greens. the tops & skins of onion and garlic. celery leaves. squash rinds. citrus peels. apple cores. tomatoes and lettuce that are just a little too wilted/mushy to be palatable. eggshells. cheese rinds. chicken skin. potato skins if you washed the dirt off. the water/oil from canned foods. BONES!! skins, peels, stems, leaves, anything that isn't poisonous but you wouldn't normally eat. we're going to make some fucking Broth.

(note: cruciferous veggies like brussels sprouts are ok in small quantities, but keep in mind that they're bitter and may bitter-ize your broth in larger amounts.)

put those scraps in a bag in the freezer. I'd recommend storing the liquids in a separate bag from the solids. add scraps whenever you've got em, until you've accrued about half a gallon ziplock of solids. now, you're Ready.

put a little oil at the bottom of a soup pot. just enough to sauté your solids. add some minced garlic and herbs/spices, if you have them (dried is fine, but i don't recommend powdered spices unless they're all you've got.) i like warming spices like star anise and cardamom pods; they make it taste like pho, sooo cozy. and of course, bay leaves!! if you have them, put at least 3 in there. minimum. trust me.

(if you don't have/want animal parts, add a little more oil than necessary for sauteing. you're gonna want the extra, believe me. I'd also sauté for longer, and pick an oil with a little flavor if you can, like olive. canola/vegetable is perfectly fine though.)

add the solids and sauté. i usually just thaw them in the oil, but if you're better at planning than me, you can put them in the fridge the night before. ideally you should sauté until the veggies start to brown. I'm not always that patient. it's fine. just make sure everything fully thaws and separates from one another. get a thin coat of oil over everything.

next, add the liquid ingredients and fill the rest of the pot with water (taking care to leave some space in case it boils over.) bring the pot to a boil, then turn it as low as your stove allows and leave it to simmer for as long as possible. this is KEY. let that shit MARINATE. let it STEW, no pun intended. i usually try to start this project in the morning, so i can leave it for the rest of the day. i have left it on overnight before but i can't recommend that in good conscience. do not burn your house down for broth. 2 hours would probably be my absolute minimum. stay close by, and stir it every so often so it doesn't boil over. chill on the couch. watch tv. enjoy the smell that permeates your house and makes it feel like a home. it's cozy time.

add salt, tasting as you go. you don't want to overdo it. some folks say to add the salt at the sauteing stage, but i feel this gives me too little control over the final product. i need control. I've got anxiety. but you do you. live your life. I'm not your boss.

once it tastes how you want it, strain out the solids. if I'm going to make soup right away, then I'll strain the liquid directly into another pot, throw in the soup ingredients, and simmer till everything's soft. otherwise, put it in a container you can freeze for later.

rejoice. broth be upon ye.

sip it when you're sick, make it into soup, use it in a casserole, cook rice with it. give a jar to your neighbors. you are the broth god. you are unstoppable. you will never waste a vegetable piece ever again.

go forth and Experience The Broth.

[its-all-under-control]

getting to know me!!

fear foods with me :)

OIL. okay oil is pretty obvious i think when it comes to fear foods. it doesn’t really matter what kinda oil i’m lowkey scared of all of them :(. olive oil is the worst tho cause u can literally taste it

ice cream. ESPECIALLY cookies and cream/cookie dough flavours. cause i just keep digging for it and i end up overeating something fierce. plus the fact i’m lactose and it makes me just feel more shit afterward

chocolate. much of the same shit as ice cream except it’s higher calorie somehow n i’ve binged on chocolate so much that it doesn’t even satiate me anymore

rice 😭 white rice is 242 calories for one cup cooked. most meals with family involve at least 1 1/2 cups rice. i’m east asian so i have rice ALL THE FUCKING TIME. IM SO SCARED OF IT 😭😭😭

sugar?? this includes full sugar sodas (for some reason alcohol doesn’t count in my brain). sugar in coffee, tea, yoghurt, if i can control the sugar i’m going to. i keep a bag of splenda packets in my bedroom (starbucks has free splenda packets btw y’all i take some from my shopping center starbucks whenever i pass it so i put that in my stuff instead) but now it’s made it so that i freeze up whenever someone else wants me to have some of their shit with sugar in it

cookies ☹️ i fucking love cookies so much 😭😭😭. especially the ones from Coles subway or woolworths they’re so good and chewy and mmmmmm. i have to completely cut out cookies cause when i eat them i genuinely just don’t stop. i had to stop BAKING COOKIES COMPLETELY (i’m a big fan of cooking) cause i’d just binge on them and wouldn’t stop. i hate that i love cookies.

scrambled eggs. boiled eggs are fine? sunny side is kinda gross but minorly fine but scrambled EUUUUHHHHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭😭. you can LITERALLYYYYYY taste the oil in every single godawful bite.

cooked spinach ☠️. again with east asian cooking we cook it with an actually unbelievable amount of oil and shit and it tastes disgusting no less. idec about the calorie count with cooked spinach. i’ll happily eat tons and tons and tons of raw baby spinach but the moment it’s cooked 🤢 i can literally feel the oil turning into fat on my legs

caramel slices. another one of my baking consequences 😭 i try to give these away but genuinely there’s never enough people to give them to and so i end up binging on them at home sigh

rb with your fear foods! i wanna hear y’all thoughts. maybe i’ll do a top 10 safe foods next

[ajgrey9647]

Cooking chaos

“Dear sweet merciful fuck…” Drakkon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose after looking around the kitchen with exasperation. “Tell me again what the hell you were trying to accomplish, duckling.”

A cloud of heavy smoke hung in the air, curling up from the blackened oven door and giving the destroyed kitchen a touch of ethereal unreality. Jason could only cough raggedly, flipping a dish towel about in panic before the screech of the smoke detector nearly split both men’s ears.

“Goddammit!”

The tyrant sprang towards the window situated over the sink and thrust it open, struggling himself to keep from choking on the acrid stench of whatever charred concoction the Red Omega had been attempting to cook.

“Open the fucking deck door while I shut this insufferable gadget down!” he hissed, his keen hearing working against him as the high-pitched squeal pierced the very center of his brain.

Jason ran across the wooden floor to yank open the sliding door to their back deck. His eyes were teary and burned, the tears making it difficult to see in addition to the embarrassingly thick smoke. He truly thought this wouldn’t have been such a complete disaster.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, still flinging the burnt dish towel like a flag before a bull. “I didn’t put it in that long!”

The loud wail abruptly vanished with a last squawk of indignation as Drakkon snatched the cover of the smoke alarm and pulled the batteries free.

“Fuck, that thing’s obnoxious!”

Glaring irritably at the younger man, he swept an arm about the chaotic room. The counters were covered with vegetable odds and ends, clumps of flour, splashes of olive oil, and wads of crumpled paper towels.

“I’m not sure what weapon of mass destruction you’re trying to create in here, but I think we would appreciate you not burning the house down.”

Jason collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and buried his face on the cluttered surface beneath his flour spattered arms.

“I did what the instructions said to do!” he moaned in a muffled voice. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!”

Chucking the pieces of the smoke detector amongst the debris on the counter, Drakkon pulled a garishly patterned oven mitt over his large hand and, reaching blindly within the offended appliance, grabbed the edge of a darkened, heat warped pan.

Staring at it in confusion, he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“What in the hell was this supposed to be, duckling? Because it looks quite dead and flash fried to me.”

This only made Jason’s misery worse. The Ranger appeared to be near tears despite his face being hidden from view. Shoulders shaking slightly, a watery sniff sounded with the nest of his arms. Grumbling under his breath, Drakkon slid the entire baking dish into the sink to cool before tossing it out into the garbage can.

He wasn’t used to pacifying distressed individuals, if anything, he was well versed in punishing fuck-ups. Back in the day, a disaster like this would have found the culprit bundled into the oven himself, complete with an apple in his mouth.

It was way too early for this shit.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Drakkon settled into the chair beside the little Omega.

“There, there,” he cooed awkwardly, patting the young man’s shuddering back. “Shit happens, I guess. Now then, tell me what it was you were trying to achieve.”

Jason risked a peek up from the crook of his elbow. The tyrant forced a large sunny smile that was clearly not genuine but at least he was trying to be good instead of flipping shit.

Gesturing at the smoldering remains in the sink, the distressed man blinked back more tears of frustration and embarrassment.

“I was trying to cook Tommy his favorite meal as a surprise for Valentine’s Day,” he cried. “And that’s what I ended up with! Something that isn’t even recognizable!”

Drakkon raised a brow.

“So this is what all this caterwauling is about? You’re trying to impress the White Ranger?”

Jason nodded, swiping at his eyes and his face flushed with shame. It was no secret he was not gifted in the kitchen. In fact, it was a bit of a running joke. He’d really thought if he practiced that by Valentine’s Day, he would at least be able to replicate Tommy’s favorite dish.

“Well, aren’t you precious, duckling. But you know, you could just have me whip it up and I’ll let you have the credit.”

The Omega looked aghast.

“NO! I want to do it!” he emphasized, smacking the tabletop.

Footsteps sounded on the deck along with a clank of metal gardening tools.

“Holy shit! What hell happened in here?” Red gasped as he stepped into the kitchen and surveyed the damage.

Jason again plopped his head on the table with thunk.

Drakkon chuckled at the younger man’s plight and ruffled his thick hair kindly.

“It’s rather sweet, darling. The little one is trying to serve the White Ranger’s favorite meal for that sickly-sweet commercial festivity, Valentine’s Day,” he explained as Red moved to stare into the sink at the charred, hunk of mystery food stuck tightly to the twisted baking dish.

The former pet glanced over his shoulder and caught this partner’s eye.

‘Fuck…’ he mouthed discreetly, feeling sorry for his younger self.

Red was no chef himself but his dishes were mostly all natural, minimally processed foods. Occasionally he did something a little more involved but nothing to the degree that Drakkon was capable of doing. And certainly not…. Whatever the hell this was.

The man in green nodded and stuck his tongue out in a retching motion as Jason continued to hide his face.

Warm hands settled on his shoulders and he could smell fresh earth as Red leaned over and kissed his temple.

“It’s not so bad, kiddo. You know, you could always have Drakkon…”

Jason’s head shot up, a retort ready but the older man cupped his cheek.

“You could have Drakkon TEACH you how to make it. He’s almost a world renowned chef, better than any internet tutorial or cookbook.”

The former dictator snickered.

“I suppose we try to find your error, little Omega. I’ve got nothing else penciled into today and Tommy has classes until dinnertime. Let’s get this… this hellhole straightened up and I’ll ASSIST you in your endeavor.”

Red was already grabbing a fresh roll of paper towels and cleaner, dish towels and soap, as he swiftly began to tidy up the counters and soiled bakeware. He paused to hand Jason a napkin to wipe his face and smiled.

“You’ll do great this time, kiddo. Tommy will be so surprised.”

Cautiously, the Omega nodded and managed a watery smile in return.

“Aren’t you two going to miss out doing something today?”

Drakkon laughed.

“Valentine’s Day is in a few days and I plan to thoroughly bruise his ass that night.”

Jason pulled a face.

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

Red stooped to plant a kiss on the tyrant’s forehead.

“He’s giving me exactly what I asked for, little one,” he laughed with a wink.

[punkbakerchristine]

october 7th marks 1 year since hamas invaded israel. the terror group massacred 1200 people, rampaged the city of sderot and the nova music festival, kidnapped 250 people from all walks of life, from literal infants to little old ladies, from americans to british to thai to israelis, from jews to bedouins to druze to christians to actual muslims, and started this godforsaken war. it was a terror attack, a crime against humanity, an act of genocide, and if you’re going to point fingers at anyone for starting it, blame donald trump (he sold intel about israel to russia, an ally to iran and the base of hamas, which is how they were able to break through the iron dome). israel are not the genocidal ones, and they never have been, either. hamas is. radical islam is. radical islam doesn’t give a single fuck who you are, not even muslims.

it also marks 1 year since i started baking bread. i literally made my first bloomer when it happened (and i was like that guy back east when the pandemic hit, and he was living off the grid and had no idea why everyone was masking up, so he went into a gas station like “can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?!”).

so, i’ve made a bloomer again as both a means of coming full circle and to remember the attacks.

this recipe is based out of the standard bloomer, as every culture has a loaf of bread, and inspired by a cheesy jalapeño loaf from schat’s bakery up in bishop, california, and also chilean flavor profiles (i’ve been on a chile kick lately). the pungency of the cheese and the garlic is like a direct opposite of the sweetness of the foods served at rosh hashanah to commemorate how painful this whole experience has been, and the chili powder, which is piquant and earthy, is meant to be ironic as this conflict is not about land. flavor-wise, it gives a dimension to the garlic and an earthy feeling to the cheese. it’s an oil bread, so it’s kosher. ***i just read that cheddar is not halal unless it’s made by tillamook. otherwise, i’d recommend using a different pungent cheese that’s made with a vegetable rennet. if you’re not a fan of sharp cheese, you can use a milder one like havarti!

nevertheless:

500 grams of all-purpose flour

10 grams of salt

7 grams of fast-action yeast

40 milliliters of olive oil

320 milliliters of cool water

1 tablespoon of minced roasted garlic

1-1 1/2 cups of shredded sharp cheese

1/8 - 1/4 teaspoon of chili powder

***my loaf was actually made with 375 grams of flour (or roughly 3/4 of the measurements because we’re running low on flour as of writing), but the measurements still stand.

***if you’d like an authentic middle eastern version, swap out the chili powder for sesame seeds and za’atar seasoning!

tip the flour into a metal bowl with the salt on one side and the yeast on the opposite (salt can stunt the behavior of the yeast and slow the proving process so it’s best to keep them separated). add the oil plus 240 milliliters of the water. with one hand, stir the ingredients together and begin incorporating them: add more water if the dough is too dry. once you have the dough going and all the flour is mopped up, place on a lightly oiled work surface and begin kneading. put your hands, arms, and back into it!

the kneading should take 5-10 minutes (or longer if you’re new to bread making): you want the dough to be smooth like the inside of your arm.

place into a lightly oiled glass bowl and cover with either plastic wrap or a tea towel and let proof in a warm place for at least 90 minutes (or longer if your kitchen isn’t very warm). you want the dough to double in size. i like to tuck it into the oven so the air is still and the temperature is constant; on a cold day, turn on the oven as you’re kneading to 200° f, and then switch it off once you put the bowl in.

once doubled, gently tip out the dough and begin “knocking it back”, where you’re folding it back and pushing it with the base of your palm to knock out the extra air bubbles made by the yeast. after a minute of knocking, spread the dough flat before you and sprinkle half the cheese, half the garlic, and half the chili powder over the surface. fold the dough over and finishing knocking—it might require some more muscle as there are new things incorporated now.

flatten the dough as best you can into a rough rectangle. fold the long edge furthest from you towards the middle, and then fold the edge closest to you into the middle so you have a seam and somewhat of a log shape.

carefully turn over so the seam is on the bottom. cup your hands on either side of the log and begin tucking in the ends. turn the dough about so the top is smooth and rounded. gently rock it about until you have an oval shape.

place the loaf on a baking sheet lined with either parchment or silicone matting (i prefer the silicone), then place inside a large plastic bag to proof again for 1 hour or when doubled in size. the dough is ready when it springs back slowly upon tapping the surface.

heat up your oven to 425° f / 220° c and place a roasting tray at the bottom rack. pour 1 liter of water into the tray for some steam, which will give the loaf a nice chewy crust.

with a sharp knife, score the top of the loaf (a basic bloomer has four diagonal slits about 1 centimeter deep) to help it “bloom” and steam out. lightly spritz some water over the top of the loaf, then lightly dust with a small handful of flour, followed by more cheese, garlic, and chili powder. be gentle during this step: you don’t want to knock out more air.

bake for 25 minutes, then bump the oven down to 395° f / 200° c and bake for a further 10-15 minutes. you want the loaf to sound hollow on the bottom and the cheese to be browned and melted. let cool on a wire rack, and enjoy 🙏🏻

[fuckkbrunch]

Another cold one for a heatwave week. I was pointedly less excited for this one.

My new phone seems to be taking these title text photos like shit. Need to look into that...

Now, I'm used to gazpatcho with tomatoes. Or cucumbers. Not bread and almonds.

This should be illegal. Feels bad, man. After this photo, I realized I was supposed to remove the crusts before I soaked it, so I had to pour water over two different bowls of bread. Gross.

I bought fancy garlic from the farmers market for this one, since Tony emphasized that the garlic should be fresh. The cloves were huge, that part in the photo was just half of one.

Squeezing the water out of the bread is incredibly unenjoyable. Toss the squeezed bread in with garlic and ground almonds and blitz with fresh cold water.

Once it's pasty, pour in the oil with the machine running to emulsify. Season with kosher salt and toss it in the fridge for at least an hour.

The only required garnish was the croutons, but Tony offers a bunch of optional ones. Thinly sliced green grapes, lightly toasted almonds and fried capers. I figured since this was a pretty simple recipe on its own, that I'd do all of them.

I did them rapid fire style. First I toasted some sliced almonds in my dry cast iron. Then I added canola oil to fry the capers in. While the oil was still hot I fried the croutons. It gave the croutons a little hint of capers, which was nice. While all of that was happening, I thinly sliced some green grapes. This was the weirdest garnish.

So, fried capers look like dead flies. This must be an old-man-from-the-80's thing again.

I chilled my bowls before serving, topped with everything plus a drizzle of olive oil. And you know what? It wasn't bad. It really wasn't. The garlic and the cold grapes went oddly well together, and all the different textures of the capers, croutons, and almonds was very nice.

This definitely wouldn't be as good with any of the garnishes missing. They should all be required.

| White Gazpatcho |

Taste is a 3.5 out of 5. A bit on the salty side - even though I was conservative with the salt according to the recipe - but surprisingly tasty.

Difficulty is a 3 out of 5. I'm including all the garnishes.

Time was about an hour, plus the hour wait for it to chill.

Tony says this should be made with fancy bottled water, or at least filtered tap water. I took a risk and used straight from the tap British Columbia tap water with some ice from my ice machine, and it came out pretty good, so don't go crazy.

The only way I can accurately describe the flavour is that it tastes as if garlic bread was a cold soup, in a good way. I realize it sounds fucking gross saying it that way, but seriously. Pretty tasty for what I thought was going to be a big cold flop.