#best brioche french toast

[yolandastudies]

French Toast - Best Brioche French Toast The best French toast ever, finished in the oven after being pan-fried, with browned butter and maple syrup on top. A simple yet opulent brunch recipe.

[srath-farath]

Recipe for Best Brioche French Toast The best French toast ever, finished in the oven after being pan-fried, with browned butter and maple syrup on top. A simple yet opulent brunch recipe.

[warnerdale]

French Toast - Best Brioche French Toast The best brioche French toast, pan-fried and then finished in the oven, topped with browned butter and maple syrup. An easy yet decadent brunch dish.

[murdrdocs]

always has been, always will be

description. it was only a matter of time before you realized how hard you've fallen for your roommate.

includes. roommate!tyler owens, so much fluff, pining, appearance of reader's ex, protective tyler, sexual tension, copious amounts of pet names, minor display of anxiety, drinking,

wc. 3.5k+

a/n: before you ask, i am not opposed to a part two. no promises.

You’re jolted out of a deep, and much-needed, sleep by the sound of bowls crashing onto the floor. You lay there for a second, trying to listen for any other sound while calming your racing heart. When nothing else comes, you grab your phone from the nightstand and through squinty eyes start to check locations. 

Your parents are home, your best friend is at work, and there—Tyler Owens, 0 miles away. His contact, the cartoonish drawing of him usually seen on a tee shirt, hovers right above the blue dot that represents you. 

The giddiness that instantly floods your body is embarrassing. It pulls you out of bed, somehow being the only thing to convince you to wake up on your day off, and drags your feet into the kitchen. You don’t bother checking your appearance on the way out, Tyler has seen you through your worst since he nursed you back to health during flu season, and he’s seen you first thing in the morning many times before. 

But when he lifts his head from behind a cabinet at the sound of your slippers dragging against the floor, the shock on his face momentarily scares you. Do you look like absolute shit?

It’s not until Tyler grins, luckily a split second later, that you relax. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking back into the cabinet and closing it with three ingredients in his hand. “Butter fingers.”

You yawn, walking into the kitchen and sitting at the island. “‘s okay. When did you get back? I thought y’all were gonna be in Missouri for a few more days.”

Tyler brings the ingredients to the island, settling them down in front of you on the other side. It’s then that you realize what he’s making. Brioche bread that’s about to expire, sugar, eggs, milk, cinnamon, a tub of fruit that definitely wasn’t in your fridge. 

The memory of the taste of Tyler’s French toast makes itself familiar at the tip of your tongue without your permission. 

“We were, but then Boone got a tip that there would be some action happening right back here,” he cracks the egg into one of your mixing bowls, “so here we are.”

Home. Tyler’s back home for the first time in weeks. He won’t be here for long, but that’s okay. It’s the deal you initially wanted whenever you talked to Tyler with interest in him being your roommate. 

It was nearly a year ago now, right at the end of peak tornado season of last year. Tyler had been in Arkansas doing what he usually did, wrangling tornadoes with the others with him. You knew who he was, it was impossible not to, especially living right outside of his hometown. But you had never crossed paths, not until your sweet, but meddling, grandmother—bless her heart—told you that the grandson of her Bingo partner was looking for a place to stay. Permanently. Or, as permanent as a home for a storm chaser could be. 

You were desperate, struggling financially and emotionally with a still-fresh breakup weighing on your mind. So when Tyler Owens swooped in with a brunch recommendation, promises to pay his half of the rent on time, and explanations that he would rarely be home during summer months, you jumped on the deal. 

You should’ve known that you would’ve developed a small crush on him, but that’s all it is. A small crush on a guy who was sweet enough to make you breakfast since he dropped in. It would surely go away soon enough. 

“How long are you staying for?” You’re already preparing yourself for heartbreak when you ask the question. Initially, you liked the idea of having your house all to yourself. All of the freedom, half of the financial responsibility. 

But when you and Tyler grew closer, you started to hate the summer. 

“Um…” he hesitates, adding copious amounts of cinnamon into the mixture while he drags the word out. Is he stalling? “A couple days. Maybe three?”

You try to hide your disappointment but Tyler is already trying to make you feel better. 

He looks up, mouth broken into a wide smile that shows his white teeth. “But I’m here to make it worth your while. Breakfast, I’ll take you wrangling with us if you’d like, and then Betsy’s on me. Yeah?”

The promise of quality time and fattening barbecue was enough to brighten your mood. 

“Yeah.”

You knew you weren’t particularly fond of storm chasing, but you found yourself with the others anyway. And after an EF-0 where you prayed and clutched the harness strapped across your chest and Tyler’s hand across the console, you swore to yourself—and mostly Tyler—that you would never do it again. Even though the joy from the others was infectious and you found yourself giggling with Tyler when it was all over. 

Tyler quickly made it up to you, though. He called it a day earlier than you thought he would. You knew he did it on your behalf, but he pretended like it was a strategic decision. 

“Most of the action will be tomorrow anyway.” 

And he was probably telling the truth, but you saw the shock in Boone’s eyes as Tyler told the others that the two of you were going to split off for Betsy’s just when the day was getting started. He ditched the others for you, and it made your heart flutter. 

The two of you end up in a familiar place, seated in the back corner booth of Betsy’s. You’re nestled up against the window, wearing the sweatshirt you left in Tyler’s car months ago. You’re shocked he still had it, but he assured you that he would never give it away. And if he did, he would’ve given you a Tornado Wrangler one for free to make up for it. 

“Tell me what you’ve been up to while I was gone.”

You tear your eyes away from the window to look at Tyler. You shouldn’t be shocked that he was already looking at you, he was speaking to you, but something about the way he looks at you will always make your heartbeat a little extra hard for a moment. 

You hum, lifting your eyes and thinking. There’s nothing you’ve been doing other than trying to keep sane.

“There were a few weeks there where I almost bought a dog.”

Tyler’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. “Really?” he asks. 

You nod, reaching out to take a sip from your drink. “Yeah. Someone in town had rescued a puppy and he was just calling my name.”

“What would you have named him?”

You hesitate, trying to keep the embarrassment from finding your face as you fix your lips to tell Tyler the truth. “...Wrangler.”

He grins and you’re already trying to do damage control. Tyler beats you to it. 

“You missed me that much? C’mon, sugar.”

The pet name almost slips by you in your haste. Almost. 

“That wouldn’t even have been why! You’re so full of yourself, Ty.”

“You make it so easy. Don’t blame me.”

Your laughter refuses to subside even when the waiter comes to check on you both. Tyler manages to tell her that everything’s fine, while also smoothly ordering your favorite slice of pie. You didn’t even have to ask for it. He just knew. 

By the time the order’s placed, you’ve calmed down a bit, taking small sips of water in an attempt to calm down the heat in your body. 

“A German shepherd…” He nods to himself. “Loyal. Intelligent. Good search and rescue dogs. I bet Wrangler would’ve been a good addition to the house. Someone to keep you company while I’m gone.”

You try to pretend that’s not the exact reason why you wanted a dog in the first place. “And I would’ve taught him to chew on the bottom of all your jeans.”

“Well, luckily I like the rugged look.” A second goes by. “What else were you doing?”

You shake your head, your way of telling him that’s it. 

“He didn’t come by again, did he?”

A painful kick meets your insides at the mention of your ex. You knew Tyler would’ve asked you about Beau since the breakup is what allowed Tyler to move in in the first place. He hadn’t ever mentioned him before, not until Beau showed up drunk one night and demanded you let him back in. It was a terrifying and embarrassing moment for you, but it also started the bond between you and Tyler. 

Unfortunately, if it weren’t for that night, you and Tyler would’ve never been as close as you are today. He wouldn’t have even known your pie order and you probably would’ve had a year-old dog for companionship by now. 

“No. I haven’t seen him since that night.”

Tyler nods, grinning up at the waiter as she brings your pie and Tyler’s banana pudding over. 

“That’s good. And the security system works well on the house, right?”

You nod in a response, sticking your fork into your pie. 

“I’ve been checking in periodically when I’m on the road. Testing the cameras. You’re giving the tomatoes too much water, by the way.”

You’re instantly on the defensive, abandoning the next perfect piece of pie that you’d just separated for yourself. Your eyes lift, settling on Tyler, but quickly you glance behind him, and shit. 

He’s here. 

Your face must drop or something because Tyler instantly sees that something is different. He quietly asks you what’s wrong, the same tone he uses whenever you’re sick smoothing over his words, but when you don’t answer, he turns around and looks for himself. 

He swears, already turning back around. “Do you wanna leave? If you go ahead out to the truck I can cover the check. Here, pull your hood up, and you can wear my hat—”

You shake your head, staring right back at Tyler and ignoring the pull that tries to get you to look at Beau. “No. Let’s finish our dessert.”

Tyler blinks, his lips parted. You can tell he wants to ask if you’re sure, but he doesn’t. He takes a second, staring at you, and then he sits back, clears his throat, and dips his spoon into his banana pudding. 

Your heart speeds up until it’s painful in your chest. You worry for a second, image after image of everything that could go wrong flooding your mind. Tears sting your eyes but you try to sniff them away, busying yourself with dividing your pie up into pieces that you don’t even attempt to eat. 

“Honey,” Tyler says, “eat your pie.”

You feed yourself a bite and are instantly reminded of you why like it so much. 

Tyler continues to talk to you about the garden, telling you that the conditions this summer weren’t really living up to last summer so the lackluster harvest from your tomatoes wasn’t necessarily you’re fault, but the entire time you’re simply praying that Beau will leave before he notices you. 

You glance his way multiple times, staring at the side of him as he stands at the bar, likely waiting on a to-go order. Briefly, you can’t help but miss him and the way he would always pick up dinner here on Sundays. 

It’s a Friday. 

You wonder what else about his routine has changed.

Tyler continues. “There might be better conditions leading into the Fall but truly, I doubt it. It might just be time to say goodbye to the garden for now…”

You nod, mindlessly eating pie while Beau grabs his bag and turns around. You should’ve looked down or at Tyler because as soon as he turns, he looks at you. 

He lingers for a second, staring, and you do the same. Beau smiles, tight and friendly, and lifts a hand in a wave. 

You do the exact same, not giving more energy even though something in you wants him to come over and speak to you. 

Quicker than you can realize, Tyler turns around and throws up two fingers in a wave to Beau. Beau leaves not long afterward, and you can’t help but wonder if he thinks you and Tyler are dating now. 

The idea is appealing. 

“Why does it always take you so long to get out of the car?”

“You don’t have to wait, just go inside.”

“Now that wouldn’t be very chivalrous, would it?”

“Thought chivalry was dead.”

Tyler scoffs as if you’ve offended him. “As long as I’m alive it sure ain’t.”

You purse your lips to fight off a smile. “You sound like Boone.”

“He’s my brother from another mother for a reason.”

Their twin-like synchronization will always be equal parts weird and admirable. 

Tyler watches you struggle to put your boot on, holding the door open for you the entire time. You really do feel bad that you’re taking so long, but midway through the drive your purse opened and spilled its contents out onto the floor. That, paired with your tendency to get really comfortable in Tyler’s truck, has you taking longer than usual to get out of the car. 

Tyler stood silently for the first minute, but after that, he’d—rightfully—grown frustrated. 

“Okay, almost done. Just looking for my lip gloss.”

You hear the tension in Tyler’s voice when he responds. “Just leave it. I’ll find it in the morning.”

You squint, searching under the seat through your spread legs. “You’ll forget.”

When you jump out of the car, he seems excited, until you bend over and peer under the seat with a better look. Tyler sighs but you ignore him. 

You swear you’ve almost found it but then it comes out of nowhere—a crack of thunder that resounds throughout the sky, immediately followed by rain pouring down. There are no warning drops, it comes out altogether, but Tyler acts quickly. 

He pushes you into the house, treating you like you’re in the military, yelling “Go! Go! Go!” against the sound of rain. 

By the time you get inside, you can feel the damage done to your hair. You’re already wincing, looking into the mirror in front of the door, turning your face this way and that. 

“If you weren’t taking so long—” Tyler doesn’t get to respond before you’re glaring at him through the mirror. He throws his hands up in surrender, but they soon drop to your waist instead. 

Just this casual touch warms your chest. 

“You look fine,” He reassures, even though your hair textures are different in multiple spots. But he says it like he means it, and not like he’s just trying to make you feel better. He stares at you through the mirror, his body right behind yours. 

You give up trying to fix it, besides there’s not much you can do without products and tools. Instead, you turn around, watching Tyler easily slip off his boots. You do the same with yours, placing them both together by the door. 

It looks right. It is right. 

Just as right as Tyler’s suggestion of popping open a bottle of wine and throwing on reruns. 

He tells you about the storms they’ve been chasing while you pass the bottle back and forth, occasionally stopping to criticize the actions of the characters on your TV as if this is the first time he’d seen this. 

It’s not until you’re three episodes in and trying to fight off the wine sleepiness (and horniness) that Tyler turns to face you. 

“Hey,” he says, resting his hand on your ankle that sits right beside his thigh. “You doing okay?”

At first, you don’t understand the point of the question. “Yep. Trying not to fall asleep.”

He smiles as if he shares the sentiment, but still shakes his head. “‘s not what I mean. After earlier, are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. ‘m fine, Ty. Thanks.”

He doesn’t press it anymore. 

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s what we agreed on.”

“I know but it doesn’t feel right leaving you here all alone.” 

“I’m fine, Tyler. Seriously.”

“I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. But I like taking care of you, too. I like being here for you.” 

You turn to face Tyler, staring at the way the pink lights of a commercial illuminate the side of his face. He looks so honest as he usually does, but there’s something in his eyes that you haven’t seen before. Maybe it’s always been there, but you hadn’t been looking for it. 

Now, it’s plain and simple, sitting right there for you to do something with. 

Just as you’re about to do something, Tyler turns back to face the TV. You push away the dismal feeling that threatens to crawl up your throat. 

It fizzes away a bit whenever Tyler rubs his thumb over your ankle. 

You feel like you’re dreaming. Maybe you are. Maybe you dozed off on the couch to Tyler rubbing soothing circles over your ankle and the arch of your foot while you both mindlessly watched reality TV. You glance down at your hand, seeing only what you’re supposed to be seeing, and then you look back up at Tyler to see what you shouldn’t be seeing. 

You’ve lived in denial for a while. It’s been easy to pretend that you didn’t like Tyler because there’s no way he could like you too. He’s just a gentleman, raised right by his momma, and that had always been the explanation. Tyler’s upbringing explained why he was so eager to risk the flu just to help you out, why he drove an hour just to give you a jump when your battery died, why he taught you line dances until you were a puddle of sweat on your living room floor. Why he ditched his friends to hang out with you, why he briefly abandoned his one true love—tornado wrangling—to give you a day he thought you deserved. Why he punched your ex without any hesitation at the first sign of disrespect.

But Tyler’s upbringing didn’t put this look in his eyes. A look so defined that you cannot deny it anymore.

Both of you stand in front of your bedroom doors, backs turned to the wood in order to face the other. Tyler stares down at you, eyes lidded with bags beneath, but no less infatuated.  

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks. 

You speak first. 

“I missed having you home, Ty.”

This surprises him. He tilts his head, letting the surprise show on his face as his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen. “I knew you did, honey bun. But what happened to loving the place all to yourself?”

You shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though your feelings are anything but. “Turns out that’s boring and too quiet. I miss your chaos.”

“You miss my chaos?” He nods as he says it, astonishment on his face. “And that’s supposed to be a compliment?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, turning around, and reaching for your door. “You knew it was a compliment, asshole.”

He’s laughing through his apology. It’s as lighthearted as your chastising. 

He extends his arms, wrapping them around your body and hugging you from behind. You don’t mean to meld with his shape as quickly and easily as you do, but maybe that’s the thing. It’s natural for you to fit yourself right into Tyler, just like it was natural for him to fit himself right into your life.

He hums, resting his chin against your head. 

“I missed you, too, love bug.” Ugh, the nickname. He makes it sound like you’re in love with him. 

(Are you?)

You spin around in Tyler’s arms, doing so easily with the space he gives you, but then he’s right back on you, arms wrapped around your shoulders and your head resting on his chest. 

You have your arms wrapped around his waist, breathing in the soft scent of laundry detergent, outside, and his cologne all melding on the cotton of his shirt. 

You sigh, content with what life has given you. 

When you say, “I’m glad you made it home”, it comes out naturally. You feel it deep within you, glad that whatever divine intervention or luck was on your side to bring Tyler back safely. 

When he agrees with an earnest, “I’m glad I’m home”, he says it like he means it too, and you’re sure he does. 

A moment goes by and Tyler calls your name. You hum, waiting for him to say something as you lazily blink at him. 

“If I asked to kiss you, what would you say?”

Your answer is quick. “I would say yes.”

Tyler nods. “And if I asked you to come spend the night in my room, what would you say?”

You think about it for a second, trying to ignore the fluttering in your stomach and the way your heart has kickstarted. “I would say no.”

His face falls. You pick it back up. 

“My room’s better.”

Tyler smiles through his annoyance, already stepping towards your bedroom. You lead him in, one hand on the doorknob as you continue to face him. His hands find your waist, holding you steady and close to him as you both enter your bedroom. It’s not until you’re both standing in your room that he pushes his lips to yours. 

[sweetoothgirl]

Best Brioche French Toast

[tropes-and-tales]

Care and Comfort

CW:  Richie being Richie, swearing. Angst and fluff. Mentions of Mikey's death and addiction.

Word Count:  2070

AN:  Requested by an anonymous person!

February 22.

It’s a tough day.  You’ve been with Richie long enough now—two years—to know what the date means.  What it is the anniversary of.  You came into Richie’s life after Mikey exited it, but you knew enough of your boyfriend’s best friend. 

What a charming, larger-than-life man he was.  Mikey Berzatto.  Mikey Bear.  Charismatic.  Filled the room with his presence, his stories, his ability to make a person feel like the most important person in the world.

Also an addict.  Also, probably, a narcissist. 

So it’s a tough day for Richie.  Mikey’s suicide blew a hole in the lives of those who loved him, and Richie loved Mikey like a brother.  Two years out from his death, Richie is no closer to any real closure:  he misses his friend.  He loves his friend.  He hates his friend for what he did, all the shitty behavior before he finally made a choice that couldn’t be taken back.

February 22 is the day that Richie’s feelings break loose like a storm.  He rages, he goes sulky and quiet.  He gets mad at Mikey, and because Mikey isn’t there, he lashes out at those closest to him.

You, namely.

But you can handle it.  What sort of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t help him weather these hard days?  Because you know, deep down, the person Richie is angriest at is himself:  that he didn’t see it coming, that he didn’t do more to help his friend.

-----

Your first year together, Richie was snappish.  He tried to start fights with you all day, and you—not understanding him completely—were too bewildered to rise to any bickering.  Your confusion took the fire out of him, and he spent the rest of the day maudlin, full of apologies, rife with terribly negative self-talk.

This year? 

This year, Richie is just sad.

He stays in bed past noon.  He gets up around one in the afternoon, wanders out into the living room of your shared apartment, then promptly plants himself beside you on the couch.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, soft.  You glance at him, take in the red-rimmed eyes, the deep lines etched between his brows.

He answers with a grunt, a non-committal noise.

“Hungry?”

Another grunt, and this one sounds sort of like a no or a nah.  A beat later, though, you hear the snarl of his stomach, and you laugh softly at it.

“Let me make you something.”

That, at least, earns you a grumble, a string of unintelligible words, but he doesn’t object when you stand up and make your way to the tiny kitchen.

-----

You’re no Carmy, and you’re no Sidney.  You’re no Tina or Marcus or Ebra.

Still, you can hold your own as a home chef.  You had a mother and a father who cooked, who taught you how to fry a chicken breast, how to make a simple fresh pasta, how to roast a piece of beef or pork.

So you can’t do a Hamachi crudo or a lamb ragu, but you can do comfort food.  Food that sticks to the ribs and warms a person from the inside out.  For Richie, on this difficult day?  You make him breakfast for early dinner or late lunch. 

You slice up the brioche you got earlier in the week and find it perfectly stale for French toast.  You put cinnamon and a pinch of cloves in the egg batter, fry up the slices to perfection.  You fry some bacon to the crispness Richie likes; you make a pile of buttery scrambled eggs with goat cheese and chives folded in.

You finish it all off with strong coffee in the French press, which Richie used to scoff at as needlessly fussy but now can’t live without.

You don’t bother to plate it nicely.  This isn’t the Bear, and no one is going to give you a star.  This is food as medicine, and you heap everything on a plate and carry it—along with silverware and the coffee—into the living room.

Richie has gone horizontal as you cooked, stretched out on the couch with his face to the back, but the scent of the food makes him turn a bit and glance up at you.

“Said I wasn’t hungry.”  He sounds peevish.

“Just have a bite or two.”  You set the silverware down with a clink, and Richie heaves a sigh, rolls over, sits up.  He doesn’t quite glare at you, but it’s glare-adjacent.  A slight narrowing of his eyes as he looks at you.

“Didn’t have to fucking do all of this.”  His voice has a rough edge, but you know him well enough to hear the faint thread of gratitude underneath all the gruffness.  Richie never knows how to handle being taken care of.  He’s used to being the one taking care of others:  his daughter, his ex-wife when they were still married.  Mikey’s mother, after Mikey’s suicide. 

He’s the real-life version of setting himself on fire to keep others warm, so he is always surprised when someone else cares for him.  Even if it’s something as ordinary as making him a comforting meal on a day when he’s too paralyzed by grief to feed himself.

-----

As you had guessed not hungry wasn’t true.  Once Richie gets a few bites into him, his appetite awakens and the plate is cleaned of crumbs in an appallingly short amount of time.

“Good?” you ask, and he mumbles a sheepish “thanks,” so you clear away the empty dishes, take them to the kitchen, rinse them off.

When you return to the couch, though, Richie is sitting up straight and gazing right at you.  He waits until you meet his eye, and then he says, slowly and deliberately, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He clears his throat, seems embarrassed by himself.  So much of his bluster and cockiness is an act, a smokescreen.  Richie is often insecure, chagrined by his own behavior, and you can guess that he’s berating himself for being curt with you earlier.  For dozing in bed for so long when the two of you have so few days together.

“Really didn’t have to do all that though, sweetheart,” he starts, and you wave him off.  You sit beside him, and he lifts his arm automatically, the gesture for you to tuck yourself against him, but you shake your head.  You settle against the corner of the couch, then pat your lap invitingly.

“C’mon, Jerimovich,” you tell him.  “Let me scratch your head.”

Your first impression of Richie is the most lasting one, even two years in.  He puts you in mind of a shelter dog—kicked and mistreated in some prior life, yearning for affection, baring his teeth at the thought of being kicked again. 

And like a dog, the man loves to be petted.  It’s not necessarily sexual; it’s the simple fact of human touch, the feel-good chemicals that release in his busy brain when you skate your fingertips over his bare skin, when you press your own body against his, when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

Which is what you do now.  You let Richie settle in your lap.  He tucks one arm underneath him, but he wraps the other over your thighs.  Once he’s situated, you just…pet him.  Scratch his head.  Sometimes you press your fingertips in the small muscles that go tense and bunched at the base of his skull, but mostly you just pet him.  Let the repetitive motion lull him, and you feel him relax against you little by little.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after a long stretch of silence.  The T.V. is on, some true crime cop show, but it’s muted.  The only sounds are those of city living:  faint doors opening in the hallway of your apartment building, traffic in the street, the occasional gust of wind against the window.

“No.”

A beat, and then you ask him to tell you a story about Mikey.  It makes Richie sigh, and he starts with the well-worn story about Bill Murray, but you interrupt him.

“No, tell me a story from when you were kids,” you clarify.  “Tell me about Baby Mikey, and make sure there’s lots of Baby Richie.”

He chuckles against you, and it sounds warm.  Genuine.  He’s never said it, and you’ve never asked, but you can guess that it helps him somehow, when you ask for Richie stories in the guise of Mikey stories.  How you gently try to frame him as the main character in his own life instead of Michael Berzatto’s side-kick and sometimes-stooge. 

Now, Richie tells you a story from his high school days, and it’s his own story, and Mikey is just a supporting character, but an important one—a supporting character before the crush of adulthood, before Papa Berzatto took off and left Mikey as the man of the house.  Before the Beef as it skidded into bankruptcy, before the arson attempts and shell games with Unc’s money, before the pills and the dealing out of the alley, before whatever darkness in Mikey swallowed him up and put him on that bridge with a gun two years ago to the day.

It's a funny story, some prank on some stodgy old teacher, and Richie chuckles as he tells it.  You can hear his own darkness bleed out of his voice, can hear him remembering the good ol’ days instead of wallowing in the bad ones.  You can hear him remembering his friend who was more like a brother—remembering him in all his bright promise and not as he left.

The story ends, and then you hear it:  a weak sniffle.  You lay your palm over the curve of his skull, hold him, and think that a cry might do him good.  Richie holds so much in; tears might be healthy, might help him grieve Mikey in a more healthy way—

“I know it, you know,” he says against your lap, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

“Know what, baby?”  You wonder at what revelation he is going to share with you, what understanding in his own psychology or Mikey’s has come to him.

“I fucking know I don’t deserve you,” he replies, and it surprises you.  You gape wordlessly above him.  It wasn’t what you were expecting him to say.

“All this shit,” he explains.  “My life’s a fucking mess, and every year, I fall into this black hole and you have to pull me out.”

You smile down at where he’s settled in your lap, and you feel a wave of love for him wash through you.  Your boyfriend, Richard Lawrence Jerimovich.  Rough around the edges and then some, but underneath all that trauma and hurt lies the biggest heart you’ve ever seen.  A heart of gold.  A man who wants desperately to belong, to be loved, to be needed.

“You’re putting a lot of weight on have to,” you tell him.  “I don’t have to.  I want to.”

He shakes his head.  “Shouldn’t fucking have to or want to.”

“It’s just life, Richie.  It beats us up.  What’s the point if we don’t take care of each other when we’re feeling a little more beat up than usual?”

“You take care of me more than I take care of you.”

You scoff, and you resume scratching his head.  Dragging your nails through his short hair.  “Bullshit.”

“You do.”

“You keeping score on me, Jerimovich?”

He grumbles at that.  “You’re not keeping score?”

“In love?  Never.”

As usual, the mention of love makes him squirm.  Makes him uncomfortable.  He’s perfectly fine saying it to you, says I love you easily and without a bit of hesitation.  Hearing it said back to him, though?  That’s entirely different.

You say it as much as you can.  You let him squirm and be uncomfortable and you let each mention of your love for him chip away at those rough edges a little more, revealing more of that big heart of gold.

“I love you,” you tell him, and sure enough, he squirms again.

So you say it again and again, over and over, until he finally surrenders to it, sighs and nestles himself in your lap, and he mutters it back to you as he allows you to comfort him, to take care of him.  To love him.

[lieutenantfloyd]

i LOVE the iceman dating headcannons - can we have cyclone dating headcannons pls 🙏🙏🙏 i am in such a cyclone mood atm it’s unbelievable

Dating headcanons — Beau "Cyclone" Simpson

Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x reader

Warnings: Slight mentions of insecurities and trauma.

a/n: Hello and thank you! I really enjoyed writing this!

If you haven't already, please check out the general Cyclone headcanons I posted a while back, as there are more than a few references to them in this post!

The first several months of your relationship will be the toughest.

He's terribly guarded and has all but forgotten how to let anyone in.

You'll honestly just have to wait him out. Meeting him where he is and proving to him that you're in it for the long haul.

When he finally starts to let you in is when your relationship gets very serious.

He's quite traditional in how he views his (and only his!) role in a relationship.

On the flip side, he expects next to nothing from you and is wholly grateful for you even just being with him.

I headcanon that he's had to look after himself since a pretty early age, and is used to just kind of... getting by?

Like he's extremely put together on a professional front, but on a personal one, he's an "eating a shitty frozen microwave meal in front of the TV on a Friday night" kinda man.

Not that he couldn't take better care of himself, he just found putting all that effort in for one person a bit depressing.

Now given the opportunity, he's an absolute dream to date

He's paying all the bills, doing the home repairs/improvements, taking your car to the shop, etc.

If you protest this, he will sit you down and quite literally tell you that "your money is your money, and my money is also your money."

And like I said, he expects nothing in return.

However, if you do want to do something to make his life easier, like pack his lunch or iron his uniform, he'd be a goner.

It's also in these small gestures that he best shows his love.

Doing the tasks you dislike, knowing your preferences, anticipating the things you'll need to complete, and making your life just a bit easier is where he shines.

At each restaurant and cafe you go to he has your order memorized.

He is the best cook and will cook for you whenever he has time

He's totally the breakfast-in-bed type too!

Will probably have stayed up late the night before to bake a loaf of brioche for french toast, and will serve it to you on a fancy wooden breakfast tray (that he handmade) with a fresh flower from the garden because that's just the kind of man he is.

If you offer him any he'll refuse, instead preferring to have you fuss over him and his habit of having nothing but a single cup of black coffee for breakfast.

He will, however, accept bacon. Thick cut, cherry smoked.

His desk both on base and at home is covered in pictures of you.

Like Iceman, he isn't jealous, but very protective.

This is also the only point of contention in your relationship.

He has some insecurities and would be absolutely devastated If you were to vie for others' attention or flirt back with them.

Ironically, he absolutely loves to show you off; and will use any such occasion to spoil you.

Will tell you stories from his various deployments.

And cherishes the way you squeeze his hand when the tougher memories come back.

Very nearly worked himself into a worry the first time you were going to stay at his place.

Now he struggles to sleep without you beside him.

Loves nothing more than to cuddle up with you in bed or on the couch.

More often than not, you'll end your day just like that.

With the added bonus of him reading whatever book he's been reading aloud to you.

Will 100% take you on bookstore dates!

He'll order himself a coffee in the cafe before happily setting you free with his wallet.

Will happily carry and/or guard the stacks of books you pick out.

If you happen to pick out a book or two for him, he'll get almost bashful??

Knowing you not only cared enough but paid enough attention to his interests to know just what he'd like hits him directly in his soft spot.

Each year he takes you back home to Alaska.

It's one of the few times you get to see his personality shine in private and in public.

The trips are only a few weeks long at the most.

Although as the days pass, you both secretly hope to get snowed in for the whole winter.

These trips have spawned not only some of your favorite memories as a couple, but moving back there with you in tow has become his retirement plan.

! taglist !

@marchingicenotes7, @bayisdying, @princessofglitterland, @bella-law, @austin-butlers-gf, @callsignaries, @katesmadness, @dannyramirezwife, @oliviah-25, @luckyladycreator2, @shakira-sasha, @xoxabs88xox, @Criminalmindsandmarvel, @fanboyluvr, @alexxavicry, @madamemelancholysstuff, @paola-carter, @barbiewritesstuff, @dozcan123, @withakindheartx, @nyx2021, @teti-menchon0604

[strawhatkia]

love you more when the day is new.

INCLUDES ! katsuki bakugo, eijirou kirishima, and hitoshi shinsou x black!fem!reader

GENRE ! fluff

SYNOPSIS ! weekend morning antics or, what it's like to wake up to the boys !

WARNINGS ! y'all live in an apartment (not the dorms), characters have been aged up, if i miss anything let me know (it's so fcking late)

WORD COUNT ! i have no clue...

A/N ! imma do a pt.2 because i wanted to add sero and izuku but i can't fucking focus so y'all have this for now !

SONG SUGGESTION ! breakfast in bed by rayana jay, breakfast by fana hues, one love by cleo sol

reblogs and comments are welcomed and loved, so leave some please ! i will respond ! 🤍

MAIN MASTERLIST | BNHA MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

— ☾⋆⁺₊🧨💢✧ KATSUKI BAKUGO !

with how early this boy goes to sleep, waking up before him is quite literally impossible

usually it's you waking up to him on his phone as he rubs your side with his free hand, tucking you in closer to his chest while looking the most relaxed you will ever see him

he always knows when you're about to wake up, and og i am not kidding, the boy picks up on when you're heart rate changes

but there's a reason, i promise ! kats is vv afraid of losing his hearing one day due to his quirk so he kinda asked recovery girl to teach him how to pick up on someone's pulse from their neck

after that, he always positioned himself so you would be laying on his arm and his hand would be on your neck some how cute right?

this is the best time for cuddles because he is so pliant and peaceful and warm

the moment you look like you're getting up, he immediately puts his phone down (he really didn't care for it but he was bored waiting on you to wake up)

he quietly accepts your hug, tangling his legs with yours and tucking his head into your neck with a sigh as you slowly wake up

"morning suki" "g'morning" "did you sleep okay?" "hm...i was bored waiting on you" "my bad, how long did you wait?" "not long...go to bed early" "not everyone is an old man like you kats" "shut up, talking shit this early- don't laugh-"

his arms tighten around you when you shift and he continues to rub circles on your back and rub your sides in hopes of you getting to relax more so you don't get out of the bed

"babes, we gotta get up" "hm." "we can't stay here all day" "like hell we can't" "kat-"

prepare for some soft kisses to shut that nonsense up because he ain't hearing none of it

i feel like if you had a scarf on and the knot was pressing into his face, he would just snatch that shit off in the middle of your sleep and either redo it or put a bonnet on for you

"kats...where's my scarf?" "hm? i took it off" WHAT-" "the damn knot was hurting my face" "...i oughta whoop yo ass" "oh shut up, i know you feel that damn bonnet on your head ! it's not like i left your head unprotected !"

how he gets away with taking it off without you noticing is a mystery (and a profound skill)

when it comes to breakfast, he is definitely making it and no you can't help

"one of these days you'll get tired of making breakfast every morning we have off" "dumbass, if that day comes i'm either sick or you need to come knock some sense into me" "i can cook, kats, you do know that right?" "i didn't ask, you do know that right?" "aight, nigga-"

he'll never say it out loud, but you're his girl and he's supposed to take care of you so breakfast is the least he can do; plus you're still sleepy, he doesn't want you to burn yourself (never mind the years you spent making breakfast for yourself)

big on french toast with brioche bread just because he can and he loves the way you struggle a lil to bite into that thick ass piece a bread ; you stuffing your face with food he cooked always makes him happy

(if you're the type of person that dances or hums or makes a face when eating good food, just know he's looking for that cue and won't be satisfied until sees it)

also food = love pipeline !

— ☾⋆⁺₊🐈‍⬛🌀✧ HITOSHI SHINSOU !

you always wake up first, always

toshi has trouble sleeping most days and with him being a stealth hero, sleep often alludes him

sleeping with you helps as much as it can but he still struggles sometimes so in the morning, you let him sleep as long as he wants

i'd like to think that he runs a little cold most nights so the bed being warm is important to him sleeping peacefully so in the morning when you wake up, you don't get out of the bed too quickly

he's such a cat, even in his sleep, so cuddling with him will get you an immediate response; if you tuck him into you chest and rub his back, he'll snuggle closer to you and sigh, relaxing even further into your hold ; if you kiss his forehead and rub his side, he'll roll into your touch; if you try to spoon him and nuzzle into his back, he'll hold your arms in his hands, stroking his thumb against your forearm

blankets *

it's getting out of bed that is incredibly hard because there's a chance he'll wake up which we don't want= mf needs sleep ; even if he sleeps for a little while long, he'll notice the bed get cold almost immediately

technically, this is the morning but y'all don't roll out the bed until noon because toshi needs sleep and you'll feel bad if you wake him before he actually gets up

great cuddler tho !

— ☾⋆⁺₊ 🦈🪨✧ EIJIROU KIRISHIMA !

one of the few times, his hair isn't trying to impale everything near it

despite how much gel the boy puts into his hair, his hair is very soft and fluff (also do to the fact you make him take better care of his hair bc whew-)

smooth, silky, and soft ! it's hard not to touch as soon as you wake up because it's just right in front of your face and so you run your hands through it (kiri definitely wakes up the moment you start stroking his hair but like hell he's moving away, to relaxed to move)

when he does want to wake up, he stretches very slowly before letting out the loudest groan and popping every bone down his spinal cord

"well damn, kiri, you good" "never better" "okay well don't break your back, old man, we ain't even got out the bed yet" yea haha very funny"

another cuddle bug but definitely more aggressive, pulling you on top of him and wrapping his arms around you while kissing your cheeks multiple times, laughing when you groan or yell at him to put you down

he doesn't

i envision kiri as the type to just go back to sleep as soon as he's comfortable again so getting out of the bed is a very long affair

even so, he does not stop trying to kiss you anywhere he can reach (ofc a lil softer than before) and humming when you kiss him back

he's just so soft and loving in the morning, shit is almost overwhelming

just letting you know, i fully believe that if you let him start or start it yourself, he'll kiss you the entire morning and start tearing up because he just loves you so much

©STRAWHATKIA ━ all rights reserved. all content published on this blog belongs to starsoir. please refrain from copying, stealing, profiting off my works, or using my works for asmr related work. i don’t allow my works to be used or adapted in any way without my permission.

reblogs and comments are welcomed and loved, so leave some please ! i will respond ! 🤍

wanna read more ??

boyfriend. | f. | katsuki bakugo

lip gloss, lil mama. | f. | bakugo, sero, shinsou, hawks, and mirio.

taglist : @mypimpademia @sevvnt @cosmiles @megurulvr @dreampurpledreams

eijirou kirishima taglist: @cosmiles

[sweethoneyrose83]

Rambley's Railroad Menu ( Fanmade) Part 2

Breakfast on the Rails 

Engineer’s Omelette: A hearty omelette packed with ham, cheese, bell peppers, and onions, served with a side of crispy hash browns.

Conductor's French Toast: Thick slices of brioche soaked in a cinnamon-vanilla egg mixture, grilled to perfection, and topped with powdered sugar and fresh berries.

Railway Pancakes: Fluffy pancakes served with a variety of toppings including maple syrup, whipped cream, and fresh fruit. 

 Conductor's French Toast 

Ingredients: - 4 large eggs - 1 cup whole milk - 1/2 cup heavy cream - 1/4 cup granulated sugar - 1 teaspoon vanilla extract - 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon - 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg - 1/8 teaspoon salt - 8 slices of thick-cut bread (such as brioche or challah) - 2 tablespoons unsalted butter - Maple syrup, for serving - Fresh berries, powdered sugar, and whipped cream (optional, for serving)

 Instructions:

1. Prepare the Batter: - In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, whole milk, heavy cream, granulated sugar, vanilla extract, ground cinnamon, ground nutmeg, and salt until well combined.

2. Preheat the Griddle: - Preheat a large griddle or non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add a tablespoon of butter and let it melt, spreading it evenly across the surface.

3. Dip the Bread: - Working with one slice at a time, dip each piece of bread into the egg mixture, allowing it to soak for about 15-20 seconds on each side. Ensure the bread is well-coated but not overly saturated.

4. Cook the French Toast: - Place the soaked bread slices on the preheated griddle. Cook for 3-4 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and cooked through. Add more butter to the griddle as needed to prevent sticking and ensure even browning.

5. Serve: - Transfer the cooked French toast to a serving platter. Serve immediately with maple syrup. Optionally, top with fresh berries, a dusting of powdered sugar, and a dollop of whipped cream for an extra special touch.

Tips: - For a richer flavor, you can use half-and-half instead of whole milk and heavy cream. - Day-old bread works best as it absorbs the batter without becoming too soggy. - Keep cooked French toast warm in a 200°F (93°C) oven while you finish cooking the remaining slices.

Enjoy your delicious Conductor's French Toast!

[justallihere]

Okay rereading SITQ right now and I need to know how you make a breakfast sandwich- it contains bacon, fried eggs and cheese and that already sounds good but I’m curious if this is something you personally cook as well and if so, in what way?

Yes! Breakfast for dinner was A Thing in my family growing up (more gravy and biscuits kind of vibe but still). I do bacon and egg sandwiches a lot for lunch. I’m like 50-50 if I actually put cheese on it but if I do it’s usually cheddar. When I fry my eggs I bust the yolk bc I hate runny eggs personally but you can do scrambled or whatever, and then just melt the cheese on top of the eggs in the pan and add to the sandwich with all the bacon, or sausage or ham if you like that better. You can do whatever kind of bread you want, I like sourdough best and I always toast it, but you could do like a brioche or just a biscuit or anything else that speaks to you. Waffles as the bread? French toast? A bagel? Go wild my friend

[justforbooks]

Long before Dave Myers, one half of the TV duo the Hairy Bikers, was hairy, or a biker, he was a cook. While still a child, he prepared family meals when his mother, a former shipyard crane driver, became so debilitated by multiple sclerosis she was scarcely able to leave her bed. “Dad and I became Mam’s carers, muddling through each day,” said Myers, who has died aged 66. “Sometimes I got out a cookbook and made a pie or a stew out of whatever ingredients we had in.”

His mother had been “a fabulous cook and was often preparing food while I played at her feet”. His father, the foreman of a local paper mill, would put little Dave on the saddle of his motorbike so he could pretend to ride. “I loved the smell of oil and machinery and rubber; just one whiff would set my pulse racing.”

But it was only half a lifetime later that Myers, after many years of working as a television makeup artist, managed to make an onscreen career by combining these two childhood passions. In 2004, when he was 45, Myers and his friend Simon King, a locations manager on the Harry Potter films, pitched their idea for a TV show focusing on motorbikes and food to the BBC. “It was midlife crisis time and you can’t have more of a midlife crisis than going off on a motorbike,” said Myers.

The show’s premise was that two burly, hirsute motorcyclists would visit foreign locales, often getting off their bikes to cook by the roadside. In the first episode of The Hairy Bikers’ Cookbook (2006), the pair motored through Namibia, stopping off to cook crocodile satay and oryx rolls.

This culinary travelogue ran across three series, taking them to Portugal, Vietnam, Turkey and Mexico, and became such a hit with the viewers that a memo circulated the BBC praising the two men for winning over “a difficult-to-reach audience”. “Basically a ‘difficult-to-reach audience’ translates as ‘normal people’,” said King.

The two self-taught cooks had a disarmingly unpretentious love of food and easy on-screen banter redolent of Keith Floyd, if less bibulous, or Clarissa Dickson Wright and Jennifer Paterson, if less posh. In a sense, Myers and King were the male northern riposte to the Two Fat Ladies. What’s more, their two fat lads were refreshing fare in the age of telegenic cooks such as Nigella Lawson or angry chefs like Gordon Ramsay.

Spin-off shows followed, including The Hairy Bikers’ Food Tour of Britain (2009), The Hairy Bikers: Mums Know Best (2010), The Hairy Bikers’ Mississippi Adventure (2012) and The Hairy Bikers’ Asian Adventure (2014), along with allied cookbooks and a 2015 memoir, The Hairy Bikers Blood, Sweat and Tyres.

What was the secret of their success? “We are mates, it’s not something that’s been manufactured,” said Myers. “We’re not snobby about food. We’re very happy with egg and chips, as long as it’s very good-quality eggs and good-quality potatoes. About 95% of good cooking is good shopping.”

They met by chance in a Newcastle pub in the 1990s when Myers was working there as makeup artist and prosthetics technician on an adaptation of Catherine Cookson’s The Gambling Man starring Robson Green. King, an assistant director on the project, was at the bar ordering a curry. The barman told King that if he ordered two curries he would qualify for a special offer: four poppadoms instead of one. “I just stepped up and said, ‘I’ll have the other curry’,” Myers said.

The pair cemented their friendship with road trips up the west coast of Scotland, travelling with a pan, a single-burner stove, some butter, a lemon and some brown bread. “We’d go up round Loch Assynt, up by Lochinver, and catch wild brown trout.” The idea for the television series was born from these trips.

But, while the Hairy Bikers became celebrated and their cookbooks successful, some worried that their recipes were unhealthy. Their banana French toast recipe, consisting of brioche, bananas, peanut butter and cream, was ominously dedicated to Elvis Presley. One critic suggested that their full-English shakshuka, featuring sausages, lardons and black pudding, “looks as if it should come with a diagram on how to administer CPR”.

Indeed, as their fame expanded, so did their waistbands. By 2012, Myers recalled, he was taking tablets for high blood pressure and to lower his cholesterol, and both he and King were diagnosed as being morbidly obese during a medical. He weighed 17st 12lb, with a 49in waist, while King weighed in at 19st 6lb, with a 50in waistline. “I was prediabetic; human foie gras, basically,” Myers said.

The diagnoses pushed them to make the series The Hairy Dieters: How to Love Food and Lose Weight. Both men lost 3st 7lb during filming and published their most successful series of books afterwards under the general title Hairy Dieters. “Doing it publicly was the thing that encouraged us to make it work. People admired the honesty. We sold about 1.3m copies of our first book. We learned an awful lot from it.”

The following year, 2013, Myers appeared on Strictly Come Dancing, performing a “Tartan tango” to the tune of The Proclaimers’ I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) with his dance partner, Karen Hauer, and becoming, in the words of the show’s judge Len Goodman, “the people’s champion”, winning the weekly popular vote despite sometimes low marks from judges and armchair critics deriding his “ungainly boogying”. He didn’t win, but the Hairy Biker received the longest standing ovation for, fittingly enough, a Meat Loaf-themed paso doble.

Myers, the only child of Jim and Margaret, was born in Barrow-in-Furness ( then in Lancashire but now in Cumbria) and attended the town’s grammar school for boys, where an inspirational teacher, Mr Eaton, encouraged him to develop his artistic skills. He took a fine art degree at Goldsmiths, University of London and a master’s degree in art history.

His first job was as a trainee makeup artist at the BBC. He worked there for 23 years, including a stint on Top of the Pops, before the Hairy Bikers got together. While filming the show in Romania, Myers met Liliana Orzac. “In our hotel there was a striking woman on reception. Nudging Si, I whispered: ‘I fancy her!’” They married in 2011.

In 2022, Myers announced on the podcast Hairy Bikers – Agony Uncles that he had been diagnosed with cancer. He and King made a moving return to the screen in The Hairy Bikers: Coming Home for Christmas in December 2023, in which they discussed his illness and treatment; and had filmed a new series, The Hairy Bikers Go West, which is currently screening on BBC Two, and which King described as “a celebration of a joyous and creative friendship”.

Myers is survived by Liliana and her children, Iza and Sergiu.

🔔 David James Myers, chef and television presenter, born 8 September 1957; died 28 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[ask-good-cop-bad-cop]

What is the cops opinion on French toast?

▫️ Oh I LOVE French toast! The best way to make it is using thick-sliced brioche bread, and mixing a little bit of vanilla and ground cinnamon into the batter. My favorite recipe involves making "sandwiches" out of it with brie, and pouring melted raspberry preserves over it once it's cooked. Absolutely amazing, I can't recommend it enough!

▪️ Not something we indulge in too often though, if only because brie is such a pain to cut. It's a soft cheese with a VERY low melting point, even just being room temperature makes it gooey. There's also the rind to contend with... But if you've got the patience, it's definitely worth the effort.

[sadchefsociety]

Brioche French Toast with a Berry Compote and Madagascar Vanilla Crème

I know the plating and appearance might not look the best -I’m trying to work with what I got- but this dish sure is a sweet breakfast treat to make. Great for special occasions (or any day since you deserve it!).

Brioche French Toast (egg, splash of heavy cream, vanilla, cinnamon, pinch of cardamom)

Berry Compote (blackberries, strawberries, coconut sugar, and juice from a lemon)

Creme (creme fraiche, madagascar vanilla, powdered sugar)

[bisexual-horror-fan]

"Theoretically Stupid." Freddy Krueger X Amber Cottrell.

Hey, if you are like me, you have seen everyone as of late posting about the orange peel theory. The idea is you ask your partner to peel an orange for you, a task you are more than capable of doing yourself, just to see if they will do it for you, simply because you asked, to show you that they love and care for you. My brain was like, oh, okay, Freddy and Amber time. It's been a while since I have written them, and even longer since I have done fluff of them. So here we go. Done in one sitting, lets' go!

---

Rating. SFW. Length. 1.5K. Freddy Kruger X Amber Cottrell. Warnings: Banter. Emotions. Brunch.

---

It’s totally fucking stupid, and that is exactly why she eventually decides she wants to do it. Or that is what she tells herself, at least. She loves stupid things, loves partaking in them, why not, right? What does she have to lose?

She keeps seeing people talking about it, posting about it online, she doesn’t pay it much mind, the orange peel theory, like who cares? Amber Cottrell is capable of peeling her own damn oranges at the end of the day, but after a conversation with Mark about it over brunch, it makes her reconsider it. 

It’s a warm sunny day, winter is giving way to spring, they are seated on the upper balcony deck of the Pop-Over Pantry. Amber’s table setting has her heart shaped sunglasses folded neatly on one side, her phone face down on the other, she has her second mimosa in her manicured grip. She is waiting on her ridiculously decedent blueberry cheesecake stuffed brioche’ French toast and Mark on is waiting on his breakfast skillet, and they are talking. 

“So that’s why Amanda couldn’t join us today-” He finishes, and she sighs, “So now I am stuck with just you? Terrible, truly.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Yeah, you are so hard done by.” 

“I am, I totally am.” Amber nods with a small smile, she watches Mark take a sip of his coffee and once he does, he asks her the question that sets this all in motion, “So have you seen this orange peel theory thing everyone has been talking about?” 

“Not you too.” She groans and Mark laughs, asking, “What?”

“Just everyone and their mom is talking about it, my sister sent me a video of it the other day.” Comes the response from the redhead.

“What, Jules sent a video of her husband doing that for her?” Mark asked and Amber said, “No, she sent me a video of the priest at our old church working it into his Sunday sermon.” 

A look of recognition crosses Mark's face, a nod that shows that makes much more sense than his suggestion. Amber sets her glass down and sits up a little straighter, her voice drops into a deeper pitch, a serious expression as she does her best to impersonate him, “Have you ever considered all the ways that God peels an orange for you?”

Mark winces, “Fuck, that’s bad.” 

“Right?” Amber and him share a laugh. Plates of food are brought, and after the first bites are taken, she asks, “Why are you bringing it up?”

Mark looks across the table and says with a tilt of his head, “Just wondering if you’d ever do that to Freddy.”

“Give him a fucking relationship test?” Her question has no shortage of confused bewilderment in her tone, it’s met with a serious nod and a half smile, “Yeah, would you ever ask him that?”

“Why would I?” Amber’s eyes drop, she focuses on cutting another bite sized piece off her toast. 

“So you know where you stand and how much he cares about you?” Mark says it like it is obvious and Amber laughs, “I know where I stand, I know he cares about me.”

“I mean, knowing he cares about you as more than a fun set of holes to fuck.” He deadpans, and that makes Amber’s eyes glance up at him. 

She sets down her silverware and rests her elbows on the table, she leans forward on her hands under her chin, “Mark, darling, dearest, why do you think I want him to care about me more than a fun set of holes to fuck?” 

“Because you are so painfully, clearly in love with him.” Mark says with a grin that is too wide, and there is a beat. Tension. 

She breaks first, laughing, she picks up her knife and fork, her tone is fond as she says, “You are such a fucking asshole.” 

“C’mon I thought that was your type.” Mark teases and Amber’s stiletto meets his shin, a kick that is playful but a hair harder than it needs to be to drive the point home, he plays it up more than needed to add to the comedy and makes her bark out a laugh so loud it causes the people at the next table to look over at her.

Brunch was nice.

The conversation lingers on her mind. 

Hours and hours later, even when she is going to bed, it is still on her mind. She is slipping between crisp white sheets, head hitting the pillow, muttering over how stupid Mark is. 

She can’t believe she is really going to do this. 

He isn’t in the playroom when she pulls herself there. He will probably be along shortly. She walks over to the kitchen's island bar, she looks at the space she wants it to show up, with a sigh she concentrates, snaps her fingers and the bowl of fruit appears. She reaches into the bowl and plucks up the single orange. Amber sits herself on one of the barstools, passing the orange between her hands before setting it down. Her fingers rest on it, rolling it in slow circles, she leans on her other hand, she is contemplating zapping the fruit out of existence, but she hears him. 

“Heya shortstack.” 

Her head snaps up, she abandons the fruit and turns on the stool, looking over at him, a smile crosses her lips and she returns his greeting. “Hey Freddy.”

“Why didn’t you call and let me know you were here, gorgeous?” He asks as he makes his approach, he has his non-gloved hand in his pocket as he comes over, he is in no rush, his walk unhurried. She shrugs, “I knew you’d feel me soon enough and make your own way over.” 

“Awful trusting.” He muses, and she smiles, “Yeah, I do trust you way too much.” 

He is next to her now, gloved hand rests on her lower back, he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head, she returns it when he starts to pull away, laying one on the underside of his jaw. Freddy hums pleased, and some part of her purrs in satisfaction in kind. His glove leaves her, she momentarily mourns the loss with a small pout.

“So.” He leans on the bar, focused on her, asking, “How are you?”

Her eyes glance down at the orange quickly, she feels silly, she doesn’t know if she should bring it up, she doesn’t have to do it. What does Mark know anyway? She is secure in what they have, she shouldn’t let him effect what she shares with Freddy in any way, she can just forget about it. 

“Good, had a good Sunday. Met up with Mark for brunch.” She tells him and Freddy snorts, “And how’s our favourite dork doing anyway?” 

“Mark is Mark.” She sighs, resolutely deciding to not tell Freddy about their conversation earlier, thoroughly giving up on the idea her old friend put forth, instead choosing to focus on just spending time with him.

“How about you?” She asks and Freddy stands more up right, he shrugs, a sigh, he looks frustrated, “Teenagers these days, their fears are getting more esoteric and existential all the time, Amber” 

She comforts him and teases him all at once, “Oh I am sure you are doing great, but don’t you love a challenge?”

“I mean, sure, but you try to shape-shift into the physical representation meant to be the mortifying idea of being known to scare some traumatized 17-year-old with daddy issues. What happened to snakes? Why can’t I run into some kid who is scared of spiders or some shit?” He rants and her smile broadens, turns dreamier. God, she really does love him, the passion he has.

He sighs, and his shoulders drop, seemingly feeling a bit better having gotten that out, “Anyway, I’m going on too much about work, how’s stuff at the office?”

She starts to tell him about that week, it had been a good one honestly, was filling him in on some silly story that had to do with her assistant and while she is animatedly telling him, he does something unexpected and unasked.

He picks up the orange.

She doesn’t falter, but her brows raise, he uses the blades of his gloves to peel the fruit, he is still listening, looking between the task and her, smile playing on his face, small chuckles where appropriate. 

The pieces of peel fall away and onto the countertop and when the fruit is fully exposed he removes a section of it, leans closer, holds out a piece and that makes her stop telling the story to ask, “What are you doing?”

His look is quizzical, “Giving you some orange? I didn’t bring this here so I know you did, it was sitting in front of you, I figured you wanted some.” 

Something inside her melts. 

She was right. The test was fucking stupid and Mark is wrong, it wasn’t necessary, because between Amber and Freddy? He knows her so well, she never has to ask. 

“Yeah I do.” She admits softly, and she takes the section of orange, he smiles, and she matches it, saying, “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it, now c’mon what did he say next?” Freddy asks, his investment in the story makes her laugh again and she tells him.

They share the orange over more stories of their respective weeks, by the end her face hurts from smiling, she is out of breath from laughing, her fingers are sticky, and she's decided it’s the best tasting orange she has ever had. 

[catscratching]

How does your character take breakfast? I'm talking specifics here: how toasted do they prefer their bread? Do they like their eggs scrambled, boiled, sunny side up? Do they like them hard or runny? Do they pour their milk in before the cereal? Do they like their bacon burnt to a crisp?

This is such a good question!   I generally do not want heavy things on my stomach upon first waking – especially with the little one making everything… complicated.

[Her expression is rueful as she looks down and pats her abdomen.]

So to actually break my fast, I usually do fresh fruit, perhaps some aged cheese and tea.  I rather like chai, but find it too heavy most days; the little one cannot make up his mind whether he likes dairy or not.  So generally I go for a nice black tea with sugar.   How much sugar… depends on the day.  Sometimes I need it syrupy, some days no more than a teaspoon.

I do adore traditional breakfast foods though, and like to eat them for my last meal of the day – with my current schedule, I’m retiring just after the city is starting their day, so it lines up well.

I love breads – there are very few bread products I do not enjoy, but I find toast to be one of those foods that can be very good… or very mediocre.  Good toast is cooked on one side to golden perfection, so the other side is still soft, served with butter and berry jam.  Delicious, and I am particular to sourdoughs and egg breads like brioche.   Although if we’re talking about the pain perdu – the kind dipped in an egg/milk mixture and grilled on both sides?  Ahhh that is wonderful with clotted cream and fresh fruit – stonefruits or berries seem to work best.

Bacon is likewise dependent on who is cooking it and how it was prepared.  Thick cut bacon should be chewy and meaty and just cooked through.  I generally only find this in someone’s home or at more quality eateries.  Taverns and the like generally serve thin-cut, fatty bacon; cook that until all the fat renders – which usually means it’s shatteringly crisp and just on the right side of burned.

I do not often eat cereal, but people that pour the milk in first perplex me.  The cereal is going to float.  You get less in the bowl.  What is the point of this?  Cereal first, milk second.

Eggs are again dependent on where they are prepared.  If at a tavern, fried.  You don’t generally get to choose how done the yolks are, but fried eggs are generally more edible when overcooked than say, scrambled.   I’m not fond of poached eggs (they look too much like eyeballs for my taste), nor do I enjoy soft boiled – although an acquaintance has told me I must dip toast in the runny bits for the full experience.  Scrambled eggs are a delight for the tastebuds when prepared by someone that can cook – Sometimes we scramble them at home with a splash of milk and some vegetables.  Great on those days when it’s too hot to prepare anything more intensive and none of the street vendors are agreeing with me.

… Speaking of street vendors, I am now starving – would you like to join me for a bite?  There’s a place just around the corner that has wonderful, savoury msemen – or if sweet is more to your taste, the sfinge near the Meyhane are absolutely wonderful.

•───────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅───────────────────•

This was so much fun - I think Seda generally prefers savoury to sweet (aside from fruit) for her meals; she doesn't have a huge sweet tooth in that regard. (French toast being an exception!)

She loves the foods of Radz-at-Han, and has probably made it a goal to try every street vendor and eatery in the city at least once. :D

[Also of note, she doesn't know what gender the child is; we agreed that if being able to determine that is possible, it's highly unlikely that the healers available to Seda and Fakhri would have that ability. She wants a boy, so she uses male pronouns. :) ]

@gatheredfates

[orchidsangel]

i have a confession

i’ve never had french toast

ever

being a chef and never having french toast is CRAZYYYYYYY!!! it is literally the best breakfast food of all time i truly stand by it!! people who don’t like it just haven’t had it the right way.

i’m p sure the traditional way is to just make it with eggs in milk but nuh uh that’s why it’s so nasty sometimes. u gotta throw sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a dash of salt in there. top it off with whipped scream, sliced strawberries, and some syrup??? ughhhhhhhhhhh so fire so firreeeeeeeeee.

brioche bread is ideal btw. absolutely sublime.