#chicken frying machine

[mobilefoodcartmanufacturer]

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[wolverinedoctorwho]

Some food I've made lately

[cnyazhongmachinery]

Churros continuous frying machine | puff food continuous frying machine

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[leiascully]

A fic I’ve wondered about…Mulder and Scully actually going to a movie together. Mostly because one of them lost a bet and has to go with the other to a movie of their choice. This happens early on in the partnership…Mulder makes Scully go to Jurassic Park. She nit picks the hell out of the science. So he, in a show of attempting to even the balance - he makes out he’s doing her a favour when really he just likes going out anywhere with Scully - he lets her pick the next one. She picks Sleepless in Seattle. The conversation after that one could lead….anywhere 🥰

Hmm, yes, excellent. I hope you wanted 2000 words of silliness because that's what's under the cut.

There’s a tap on her motel door. Scully twitches the curtains aside. It’s Mulder, slouching in jeans and a white t-shirt, looking like someone posed him against the background of lush summer green. She unhitches the chain and lets him in. Sticky-hot air rolls in after him, a humid swirl of honeysuckle and cut grass.

“How’s the report?”

She sighs and takes off her glasses. “The report is finished.” There wasn’t much to report, in the end: small town secrets, black light ghosts. All the evidence was there from the start, but the sheriff’s nephew was never going to be charged unless someone else stepped in. The only surprise was the support he got from the valedictorian, concocting hallucinogens in the high school chemistry lab. Then again, as a former nerdy teen girl, Scully understands the allure of the quarterback. Social cohesion is a powerful force. Maybe even more than broad shoulders, the girl was attracted to the idea of revenge.

Mulder, naturally, was blithely wry about it all. He’ll probably publish some esoteric paper on it in one of those poorly credentialed paranormal journals: the monstrous manifestation of adolescence, or something about the American tendency to manufacture visible hauntings as a way to deal with the invisible buried history of colonized land.

There are worse ways he could spend a Saturday night. At least he’s less likely to end up in the hospital.

“Dinner and a show?” he asks. “Since our flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.”

“In this town?” She crosses her arms, skeptical.

He produces two movie tickets. “Jurassic Park. Have you seen it yet?”

“I was going to go with my friend Ellen this weekend, but….” She shrugs. They’re here instead, chasing ghosts. “I think she went with her new boyfriend.”

“Got a purse?”

She pats around for it and finds it in a chair. “Yes, why?”

His eyes twinkle. “I said dinner and a show, Scully. Do you know how many McDonald’s hamburgers I can fit in a purse?”

“Mulder, no. I like this purse.” She clutches it to her. “Surely chicken nuggets would be easier.”

“You don’t want to be reminded of this night by a waft of eau de pickle every time you reach for your wallet?” Mulder’s grinning at her. She can’t resist him when he’s like this. Maybe it’s the lonely teen girl in her, the echo of jockishness in the set of his shoulders. He chooses her, patting the seat next to him at the metaphorical lunch table. Besides, he’s already bought the tickets.

“You’re carrying the ketchup,” she says, tilting her head back to look up at him. His grin broadens.

The bored teen at the box office lets them in, despite the waft of fry oil from her purse, which bulges with its contraband cargo. Mulder buys two sodas and a box of Junior Mints while she waits. The college girls at the concession stand eye him with a familiar mix of anxiety and intrigue. Scully’s seen it in every small town, and some of the bigger ones. There’s something rarefied around Mulder, an air of old money, maybe, or a New England vowel. He interests people; they resent that. He’s too obviously overeducated, charming in a way people don’t trust. Still, they’re drawn to him.

She leans on the half-wall that separates the concessions area from a couple of arcade machines and the hall that leads to the three theaters. The college girls’ eyes flick to her and then back to Mulder. There’s hair twirling involved as they hand him his change. Scully smiles to herself. Mulder drops the coins into his overstuffed pocket and saunters over to her, oblivious to the glares of the college girls. Scully shows the tickets to the usher, who rips them and points out the door to the middle theater, as if they could get lost.

The theater is mostly full. They pick seats in the middle - harder for the usher to pick them out in the crowd - and wait until the lights go down. Scully wedges her purse between her hip and the armrest. The food is still warm. They take turns dipping in and retrieving a nugget or a few fries. Mulder carefully applies ketchup from the torn corner of a packet before stuffing the fries in his mouth. In the flickering light from the screen, his lips are glossy with grease. It’s odd, feeling the pressure of his hand against her thigh when he roots around inside her purse, but it isn’t unpleasant.

“You know all of this is nonsense,” Scully murmurs as the animated DNA explains how the park’s team re-created the dinosaurs. “Absolute junk science. Even if you could extract genetic material from a sample like that, there’s no reason to believe it would be viable, no matter how many amphibians you spliced into it.”

“I always find a reason to believe,” Mulder whispers to her. “Come on, Scully, give in to the movie magic. It’s called science fiction, not science plausible.”

“Shhh!” says someone behind them.

Scully subsides until she can no longer contain herself. Mulder, recognizing her mood without looking, tilts his ear closer so that she can whisper to him. They get shushed again, and then again, derailing her sotto voce tirades about parthenogenesis and the feasibility of a theme park based around dinosaur habitats.

“Your wife has a lot to say!” Mulder’s neighbor tells him. It’s clearly intended to be a reprimand. Mulder pretends it’s a compliment. Scully subsides, chastised and defensive. If she doesn’t think too hard about it, the movie is entertaining. And if her knee presses into Mulder’s as the T. rex stomps toward the Jeep, neither of them acknowledges it.

They wait through the credits after the movie, letting the locals trickle out. The glares Scully is fielding now are different from the ones she got at the concession stand. She lifts her chin, defiant. Mulder stuffs their McDonald’s trash into their empty soda cups, concealing the evidence.

“I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy that,” Mulder says as they walk back toward the motel. The evening air is dotted with fireflies. A breeze rustles the leaves and pushes her hair over her forehead.

“I didn’t not enjoy it,” Scully tells him. “It just didn’t seem feasible.”

“Doctor Sattler reminded me of you,” Mulder says. He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Woman inherits the earth.”

“If only we could reproduce so easily on our own.” Scully cuts her eyes at Mulder. “You know, you remind me of Doctor Malcolm.”

“Why, Doctor Scully, I didn’t know you had a thing for bad boys.” She shoves at his arm with her shoulder and he chuckles. “What about me reminds you of him? Because I’m tall, dark, and handsome?”

She rolls her eyes. “Mostly it’s your love of chaos.”

“Mostly?”

“Mostly.” She smiles at him.

“So there’s a chance you think I’m irresistibly suave.” His voice is as velvety as the humid air.

“There’s a chance of a lot of things, Mulder.” She looks up at the night sky and savors the bitter freshness of the last Junior Mint. “Even dinosaurs.”

A few weeks later, they’re on the Texas coast, drafted into an anti-smuggling operation. There’s nothing supernatural about it - more than anything, they’re warm bodies in Kevlar vests. Scully doesn’t mind. Sometimes it’s satisfying to work on these task forces. There’s a clear resolution to cases like these: so many guns seized, so many tons of cocaine destroyed, so much cash pulled out of hidden stashes. It’s clear-cut who the bad guys are, and she doesn’t have to write the reports.

“Dinner and a show?” she says to Mulder as the other agents eddy around them. They’re rarely invited along to drinks when they’re assigned to these things, but she doesn’t necessarily enjoy being the only woman in the group anyway.

“Anything with air conditioning,” he says.

They eat at a seafood restaurant that’s nearly a shack. The seafood boil comes in plastic bags they have to rip open. It’s some of the best shrimp Scully has ever had, and the corn on the cob is as sweet and blisteringly hot as the last days of summer. She licks butter off her fingers and watches Mulder crack crab claws.

The theater here is bigger: eight screens instead of three. Scully buys two tickets for Sleepless in Seattle and presents them to Mulder. He raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t know if I took you for the rom-com type, Scully.”

“I don’t want to get shushed again.” She gives him a sideways glance. “At least we all agree this is going to be unrealistic.”

Mulder sighs and shakes his head. “So beautiful. So cynical.” Before she can figure out how to respond to that, he’s off to the concession stand again, this time returning with Dots wedged into one back pocket and Sno-Caps in the other. He hands her a soda as they go in the theater. The sides of the cup are already faintly damp with condensation. The theater itself is like an icebox, air conditioning whistling.

They sit in the back row this time, near a bunch of teenagers who already have their arms slung against each other. Mulder rolls his eyes, but there’s a nostalgic smile on his face. Scully wonders how many girls he sat in dark theaters with, focused on something other than the movie. He cups her hand and shakes Sno-Caps into her palm. She eats them one by one. They aren’t shushed this time. She almost misses the excuse to lean against him. By the time the movie is over, her feet are tingling with cold. Pushing out the doors into the muggy air is almost a relief.

“Hit me with your best shot, Scully.” Mulder takes her cup to toss it into the trash. “I assume I don’t remind you of lovable widower Tom Hanks.”

“I don’t know why she left Walter,” Scully says. “It seemed cruel. All because her life wasn’t like a movie?”

Mulder scoffs. “You wouldn’t stay with a guy like that.”

“A guy with allergies?”

“A guy who didn’t excite you,” Mulder says. “You wouldn’t settle for safe.”

Scully tips her face to look up at him. “Wouldn’t I?”

Mulder spreads his hands. “Picket fence, 9 to 5, 2.5 kids and Sunday dinner with the family - you like the sound of it, but you’d get bored. Face it, Scully, you’re a creature of the night now. You’ve got that wild urge in your soul. You’d be baying at the moon if you were stuck in that kind of life.”

“And lovable widower Tom Hanks would provide that?”

“No,” he says. “Ian Malcolm might, though.”

She rolls her eyes. “And how much do you charge for this astute psychoanalysis, Doctor Mulder?”

He taps his lower lip with one finger and scans around them. “Two scoops of mint chocolate chip.” He points to the glowing sign down the street depicting an anthropomorphic ice cream creature. Locals are clustered in groups around a walk-up window like moths around a lamp, sipping at floats and licking drippy cones.

Scully feels a rush of nostalgia for the summers of her youth. The salt air, the long twilight: she can’t help remembering. It’s a sweet little ache under her sternum, and it gets sharper when she looks at Mulder. He’s clearly pleased with himself. “I think I can swing that, as long as you’re not angling for a banana split.”

“What about one malt with two straws?” He winks at her.

“Don’t push your luck,” she grumbles.

But she thinks about it as the moon hangs heavy overhead, and she’s glad she can blame her flushed cheeks on the heat.

[popodoki]

Hey, teacher! aka my motorcycle Catwin AU, part 5

still sfw! Fancy that x

Edwin’s grateful for the small pile of laundry Thomas left on the bed for him to busy himself with. Ignoring the warmth of his cheeks, he peers at the washing label of the faded band t-shirt on the top of the pile, as he passes back through the guest room, and notices Thomas's leather jacket hanging off the bedpost. 

He shouldn't. But he does. 

Leather has always enticed Edwin. Whether it be a fine pair of Italian gloves, an expensive belt that compliments his suit so nicely, or a finely crafted genuine leather book cover. Oh, he’s long filled up the most beautiful notebook collection from England. Pure poetry, the combined scent of paper and leather. The soft creak of the spine, the shift of paper, the scrape of his pen.  

The smell of leather has always enticed Edwin. 

The jacket in his hands is black and worn, obviously not cared for in the traditional sense. There are some cracks, mild damage to the cuffs, all to be expected if worn every day. There is a large piece of artwork on the back, stitched there by someone who knew what they were doing, even if they weren't classically trained in tailoring. It's a large depiction of an orange cat, with fierce golden slitted eyes, predatory gaze locked on the viewer, as if following along with every angle. Charming, in a sense.   

Along the bottom, in a very ornate yet blocky script, framed beneath the orange cat’s unsheathed glinting claws, are the words "Cat-o-nine Carnivores." The name doesn't ring a bell, but he supposes it shouldn't. In any case, Edwin appreciates the wordplay. 

On the front of the jacket is a name patch, that reads "Cat King." Well at least Thomas wasn't lying about that. Edwin idly wonders if it's a name he gave himself, or one given to him by his peers. Or subjects? Is Thomas the leader, self-dictated King? Does he have a clowder of other leather-clad, motorcycle-riding, vagrants, with kind eyes, strong hands, broad chests…Next to it is a patch that looks like a cat’s paw print, claws out, tinted red as if bloodied. Above it, a smaller patch, a neon red crown framed in a pair of equally bright turquoise rings. Under the guise of wanting a closer look at the decorative patches, Edwin brings the jacket close to his face. His ruse falls away immediately the moment the scent of the worn leather fills his nose. Leather softly creaks in his white-knuckled clenching grip, as Edwin buries his nose near the collar and breathes in the mixed scent of the jacket itself, and the hints of Thomas’s cologne, sunk and buried into the inner layer of soft leather, from repetitive usage. He stands there, fills his nose and lungs with the enticing combination of smells, until even the air leaving his mouth tastes the same as the air flowing in with every deep pulling breath. 

Edwin hears the shower stop, and he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get out of the guest room. He barely remembers to re-grab the small pile of laundry on his way out. The washing machine and clothes dryer are out on the back porch, and he takes in a breath of fresh air to calm his nerves as he deposits the clothes into the washing machine, with a more than modest helping of soap.   

The next stop is the kitchen. Settling on a light dinner, something filling, yet easy enough on the stomach, he thinks. Pulling ingredients out of the fridge, Edwin sets to chopping his small selection of vegetables for the stir fry. He’s almost ready to add them to the chicken, setting the bowl next to the wok, while he peers into the fridge again in search for a lemon, mentally going through the contents his spice rack.  

He hears a strange noise from the doorway, realizes with a start that Thomas is standing there, impersonating the sounds of a trumpet. "Presenting," he affects a posh accent, "the most well-dressed man in the room." Thomas ends the statement with a flourish, taking up an appropriately dramatic pose, and Edwin immediately bursts out laughing. Full bodied, head thrown back, so open and loud he fears he might come across as rude, but he can’t help it, and he doesn’t think Thomas minds, judging from his expression. It’s not something Edwin can currently decipher, struggling to blink away tears, but its near enough encouraging, as is the way Thomas keeps up his exaggerated stretches, arms swinging to and fro, to highlight, to, to entertain him. 

To Edwin’s credit, the pyjamas almost fit. At first glance. The pants are… They would be fine; if Thomas had seen fit to actually roll up the ankles. As is, the bunched-up fabric seems to pool around and over his feet, in a damning contract to the way the fabric seems to struggle at the seams near Thomas’ hips. Lengthwise, Edwin reasons their size discrepancy is easy to ignore. But there’s no denying their difference in build. The shirt ends a good four to five centimeters above the waistband of the pants, leaving an exposed stripe of abs, offering a hint of Thomas’s bellybutton. To say the rest of the shirt properly covers the remaining chest, would be straining the truth about as much as the material seems to strain with every push of Thomas’s chest, even just as he takes a breath. Edwin’s honestly surprised a button hasn’t popped off. It seems painted on him around his shoulders, and the sleeves stop well above his wrists. It's almost as if he's wearing a child's shirt. It cannot be comfortable. 

Edwin clearly underestimated their differences, but he can't stop laughing long enough to apologize.  As he gasps for breath, he actually snorts, which sets Thomas off on his own fit of laughter, except his is louder, unrestrained. He clutches the wall with one hand, his ribs with the other, beaming smiles sent Edwin’s way at the end of every bout, before he inhales, loses the air again to laughter, and Edwin reflects on what it must look like; two grown men, giggling so hard they can't speak, in the middle of his kitchen.   

Finally, Edwin is able to get himself under control, straightening, hand moving without much thought to lower the settings of the furnace, add the vegetables, while he wipes an errant tear off his cheek.  "I'm so sorry," he chuckles apologetically, "That cannot be comfortable, let me get you a T-shirt or something.” He busies himself for a bit with stirring the food, checking for any signs of burning. Nodding to himself in relief when he catches no sign of the meal lessening in quality, he turns his head to Thomas. “Do you want a different set of trousers, as well?" He adds. 

"All good, Edwin. I’m actually used to walking around without a shirt." Thomas grins, fiddling with the too-small shirt. “Do you mind?” Thomas asks, and Edwin shakes his head in a negative before he’s consciously thought of it, but truly, why would his opinion matter on something another likes to do in the comfort of his own home? He’ll just go look for the biggest shirt he owns, offer it as an option.  

Edwin turns back to the food for a final stir, before he heads back upstairs, hears the rustling of fabric, the scrape of a chair, imagines the shirt is getting neatly folded over the back. Oh.  

Edwin is partly relieved his guest feels comfortable enough in his home. He keeps his eyes on the food. Maybe just a bit more stirring. He has to make sure it doesn’t burn.  

[daisynik7]

A Bento for Kento

Chapter 6: A Meet Cute

Pairing: Nanami x f!reader

Word Count: ~3.5k

cw: pure fluff all around :)

Summary: The one where chicken karaage brings everyone together.

Notes: It's finally happening! Enjoy! Reblogs, likes, and/or comments are super appreciated, as always! Thank you to everyone who's read this so far!

Previous Chapter | ao3 | Epilogue

A Bento for Kento Masterlist

If you want to join the taglist, let me know in the comments below, or interact with the post A Bento for Kento Taglist!

--------------------

You don’t know why you are going along with Ren’s plan. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Whatever the reason, here you are on a Wednesday, thirty minutes before lunchtime, frying chicken karaage.

Once you’re done, you pack it neatly into the bento boxes, along with the already prepared rice balls and tamagoyaki. Ten minutes later, you’re standing in front of an office building that Ren gave you the address for. There’s a sign out front with a familiar name on it. It takes you a moment to realize that this is the name of the company that Nanami used to work for when he was a stockbroker. Interesting. He must have left on good terms if they still let him use their offices.

Stop thinking about him! Your plan is to drop off the food to Ren and then leave. That’s it. Focused on your primary task, you text Ren, informing him that you’re waiting outside. A few minutes later, he walks out the front door, waving cheerfully at you. “Hi sis!”

“Hey! Here you go. Your freshly fried chicken karaage. Enjoy!” 

You’re on your heel, ready to head in the opposite direction when he gives you a pout and asks, “You’re leaving already?” 

“Yes, I’m leaving. I’m on the clock.” You’re not actually concerned about work, but you need a valid excuse.

“Don’t you want to meet Nanami? Our room is on the fourth floor, it’ll take a minute.” He grabs you and tries to drag you to the entrance.

“Ren, no. I’m going home.” You stand your ground as he keeps tugging at your arm.

“Aren’t you just a little bit curious? Don’t you want to meet the guy who’s been eating your food? You may never get this chance again!”

Ren’s reasoning makes sense. This will be the only time you meet him. You’ll pop in, say hi, then leave. What could go wrong? If for some reason you embarrass yourself, it’ll be fine since you’ll never see him again.

After half a minute of contemplation, you mumble, “Fine.”

You follow Ren, who happily skips through the building. The two of you step into the elevator ascending to the fourth floor, which appears to be unoccupied, for the most part.

“No one works up here?” you ask, strolling down the hallway beside your brother.

“Most of the people on this floor work from home. Nanami used to be an employee here and they still let him use some of the office space.”

“That’s nice. You basically have this whole place to yourselves.”

“Yup! But we only use one conference room and the break room.”

He guides you further into the hall, your heart beating a bit faster from anticipation. Ren leads you into a room on the right. Inside, there’s a couple of desks, a whiteboard, and a projector screen. You spot Ren’s backpack on the desk closest to the door and a briefcase on another near the other side. But no Nanami.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

~~~

Nanami buys a Pocari Sweat from the vending machine as he waits for his tea to brew.

After lunch, him and his student will be going on one more mission before the end of their summer lessons. Ren did well on Monday under Nanami’s guidance, so he expects today will go just as smoothly.

As he retrieves his tea, he hears voices down the hall. He recognizes Ren’s, but not the other. It’s a woman’s voice. They are chatting about the office building. He pokes his head out the door ever-so-slightly to sneak a peek. He nearly drops his tea when he catches a brief glimpse of a woman entering the conference room.

He freezes. Why is she here? Ren didn’t mention his sister visiting. 

Just go in there. It’s not a big deal, he tells himself. His feet are frozen to the ground, a bead of sweat forming on this forehead. Is he…nervous?

Finding the will to move, Nanami takes a deep breath and makes his way to the room.

~~~

“He’ll be here any minute, he’s just getting his tea,” Ren explains.

Reaching into your tote bag, you pass him the blue bento. When he opens it, steam billows out from the freshly fried chicken. “Wow, this is amazing! Thank you!” You lean against his desk, back facing the door, as he begins eating. 

“I told you it tastes better fresh. You’ve outdone yourself this time,” Ren praises between bites, mouth stuffed with food.

“Hey, don’t talk with your mouth so full, you might choke,” you warn him, ruffling his hair affectionately.

You continue to watch him until you hear someone clear their throat behind you. You turn around; a tall man with blond hair and thick glasses stands in the doorway. He’s holding a hot tea in one hand and a Pocari Sweat in the other.

Meeting his neutral expression with a smile, you greet, “Hi, you must be Nanami. I’ve heard so much about you.” You hold out your hand, introducing yourself.

He sets the drink on Ren’s desk to return your greeting. “Yes, hello, I am Kento Nanami, Ren’s mentor.” The shake is firm, hand larger than yours. Hopefully he doesn’t notice how sweaty your palm is.

Ren gets up abruptly and announces, “Actually, I’m not feeling a Pocari Sweat right now. I’m going to the break room to get something else!” He practically runs out, leaving you and Nanami alone.

There’s a palpable tension surrounding the room now. Nanami clears his throat again. 

After what seems like an eternity of awkward silence, you dig through your tote bag. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy today’s bento.” You hand him Hello Kitty as casually as possible. He takes it, his expression unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s happy, upset, or constipated. Maybe all the above.

“Thank you,” he mutters. He walks to his desk on the other side of the room to set his tea and bento down.

You glance at the doorway, hoping Ren comes back soon. Knowing your brother, he’s probably taking his sweet time in the break room, laughing evilly to himself. This punk left you here on purpose.

Something in your brain snaps. This is the first and last time you’ll ever meet this man. You should say whatever it is you want, get it off your chest. Leave here with a clear conscience. Just do it. No regrets.

You take a few steps towards him. He turns to you.

“I’m sorry for all the silly notes,” you start, pausing for a reaction. He continues to stare at you through his thick, stylish glasses. “I was just joking around. Sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” You grin and let out a small laugh. “I have a weird sense of humor.” At this point, you’re rambling to fill the strange silence. 

“Anyways, I should get going. I hope you enjoy the food. I’ll go find Ren now.” You give him one more warm smile, prepared to make your escape.

Suddenly, you feel a hand around your wrist. 

“Don’t.”

You turn to see Nanami holding onto you with a firm grip. When you face him, he’s looking directly into your eyes. His gaze is intense.

“Don’t apologize,” he says in a low voice. He doesn’t relent, still holding onto you. Blood rushes into your cheeks, hot and flustered by the abrupt contact.

Eventually, he loosens into a gentler grasp. His thumb grazes softly against your pulse. It’s too intimate, having him feel your heart pounding through your skin. He finally releases you to open his briefcase, sifting through his belongings until he finds what he’s searching for, facing you again.

“I like them,” he states, showing you the notes. Your notes. 

He kept them. He kept all of them.

He says your name faintly. You slowly tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. There’s softness in his eyes now, evident even behind the tinted lenses. Is he leaning in closer to you, or is this your imagination?

“I’m back!” Ren announces loudly, inside the room.

You almost jump, taking two giant steps back, distancing yourself from Nanami. “Okay! I was just about to leave!” You give him a quick glance, noticing that he’s hiding the notes in a closed fist, glancing to the side, a noticeable blush on his cheeks.

With a quick goodbye, you rush out the door, speed-walking through the hall, then sprinting down the stairs to exit the building.

~~~

Nanami doesn’t expect the apology. She doesn’t need to apologize. She didn’t do anything wrong. His heart sinks knowing his lack of response on Friday made her feel some type of way. It made her regretful.

All he can do now is show her. Show her what those notes mean to him. What her kindness means to him. Grabbing her wrist is definitely not part of his plan. But he can’t watch her leave, not like this. Her skin is soft against his rough, calloused fingers. He can feel her quickening pulse on his thumb, matching his.

He doesn’t want to let her go yet, but he does, rummaging through his bag to gather all the precious messages. They’re laid on in his palm like the treasure they are. He wants to thank her for the bentos, for the sweet notes. For making him feel special. But the words are stuck in his throat. 

On instinct, he drifts closer to her, an unexplained force drawing him nearer. Is it the desire to hug her? To kiss her? 

Ren interrupts before he can do anything else. Then, she’s gone in a flash. 

Nanami almost runs after her, but he doesn’t. He sits at his desk, hands trembling slightly, and starts eating his bento. It’s delicious as always, but he’s distracted. He groans internally thinking about how he acted, standing there, gawking at her. Yet, she still graced him with that warm smile. One that lights up a room, turns the most bitter day into the sweetest. However, his efforts to keep a poker face backfired. With the way he behaved, she’ll never want to meet him again.

He recalls Gojo’s words:

If you like someone, just go for it!

There’s nothing wrong with meeting new people and making new friends.

We deserve to be happy.

What has depriving himself from human connection done for him? All it’s done was make his life lonely. He follows the same routines day in, day out. Fulfilling his duties as a Jujutsu Sorcerer. Doing his job as a mentor. Maintaining his composure and serious nature. He does all of this, and for what?

He wants to show someone who he is outside of this persona he’s built for himself. He wants to show her who he really is. Not Nanami the Jujutsu Sorcerer. Not Nanami the professional. Not Nanami the serious adult.

Just Kento Nanami.

Kento Nanami, who loves eating food, especially bread. Kento Nanami, who loves receiving a new book as a gift because of the way it feels when he flips through the pages. Kento Nanami, who loves singing karaoke, but only when he’s drunk. Kento Nanami, who loves cuddling, words of affirmation, and being appreciated. That’s who he wants her to see.

She’s a breath of fresh air. The radiance of sunshine in this cold, dark world. A chance at something wonderful in this mundane life of his. He wants her to be the exception to his ridiculous rules.

He finishes his meal and takes out a piece of paper. He thinks carefully before writing. This is his last chance. No regrets.

~~~

Once you are outside, you pause to catch your breath. Breathing subsided, you walk home with the recent interaction replaying in your mind.

That was intense.

He is intense.

You twist your hand around your wrist, the one he touched. His fingers felt rough against your soft skin. You shudder thinking about the visceral way his thumb grazed over your pulse point.

He kept all the notes and made it a point to show you. I like them, he said. Then why didn’t he respond to the last one?

And what about the way he stared at you? What emotion was he conveying to you?

The whole incident leaves you uneasy. The only consolation is that you’ll never have to see each other again. You were supposed to introduce yourself and you did. Mission accomplished. Letting out whatever guilty conscience you had wasn’t necessarily part of the plan, but oh well.

As you enter the front door of your home, you let out a deep sigh. There’s still that tiny part of you that wished it was different. You were secretly hoping for fireworks or confetti. Something out of a cliché rom com that everybody wishes would happen to them. 

Another part of you wanted to meet him in hopes of making a new friend. You don’t know him well, except that he loves bread, enjoys your food, and that he’s handsome. It would be nice to have an acquaintance like him, even if nothing romantic comes out of it. With all that happened today, this seems to be another lost cause.

You sink into the couch, buried in the cushions for several minutes, sulking. In the end, life will go on as usual and everything will be fine. With or without Nanami.

~~~

Ren completes his mission, this time completely unscathed. Nanami notices how much more confident he is wielding his weapon than he was on Monday. They discuss Ren’s techniques in more detail as they head back to the office to retrieve their bags.

In the room, they gather their belongings in silence. Ren hasn’t said anything about his sister ever since she left abruptly.

Nanami is tempted to say something, in hopes of redeeming himself for his abhorrent behavior earlier. Ren, however, beats him to it.

“So, you finally met my sister. Did you thank her for the bentos?”

Nanami clutches the handle of his briefcase tightly, nervous to answer. “I tried, but it didn’t come out right.”

Ren raises a brow at him, smirking. “I guess you’ll have to try again on Friday.”

He waves goodbye, disappearing into the hallway. Nanami stands there, bewildered.

~~~

Ren falls asleep on the couch right after dinner, exhausted from the mission earlier today. You take the empty containers out of his bag to wash them. When you open the Hello Kitty bento box, you are surprised to find a message addressed to you:

I’m sorry for how I behaved earlier. I wanted to say thank you for everything, but I was too nervous. I hope we see each other again soon so I can properly say it to you.

P.S. You have a beautiful smile.

You gasp audibly, inspecting the couch to make sure Ren is still asleep, which he is.

Reading it again and again, your eyes linger on the last line. You hold the note against your chest. All of your worries from earlier evaporate. It isn't all ruined. He wants to see you again. 

~~~

Friday is Nanami’s last lesson with Ren. In honor of it being his unofficial graduation, he plans to take it easy and do a simple review. Gojo and Nanami will submit their notes to the rest of the Jujutsu High faculty to evaluate. They’re both certain that he will be admitted as a student.

Ren arrives on time, as usual. “Good morning, Nanami!”

“Good morning, Nakamura. It’s your last lesson today. Congratulations.”

“Thanks! I can’t believe it’s already over. Are you going to miss me?”

Nanami smirks. “Believe it or not, I think I will. I’ve enjoyed mentoring you these past few weeks.”

Ren beams at him, delighted. “Aww, Nanami! So you do love me!”

“Don’t push it.”

“Okay, okay. But let’s be real here. I think what you’ll actually miss is all the free food you’ve been getting.”

Nanami stiffens, quietly admitting, “Yes, I will miss that too.”

“Speaking of food, my sister will be dropping by again today to deliver our bentos. Hope that’s cool with you.”

There’s that fluttering in his stomach again. “Yes. That’s fine,” he answers, feigning his calm demeanor as his insides rattle with excitement. He can’t believe it; she’s coming back. Even after his abysmal attitude on Wednesday, she wants to come back. He can’t afford to screw it up this time around.

They review for a few hours until it’s lunch time. Ren checks his phone and mentions, “Oh, she’s almost here! I’ll wait for her outside.”

When he leaves, Nanami walks to one of the windows to inspect his reflection. He realigns his spotted tie and checks his blazer for any lint. He uses his fingers to carefully twist away any loose strands in his hair. Standing straight with his shoulders tall, he takes a deep breath. Then, he removes his glasses and places them delicately into his breast pocket.

He leans against his desk facing the doorway with his foot tapping anxiously. While he waits, he digs through his briefcase, placing something in his pocket. A minute later, the elevator dings in the distance. She’s here.

Their voices grow louder as they walk through the hall. Ren cracks a joke that makes his sister laugh. Nanami’s heart skips a beat.

When they enter the room, there’s that bright smile on her face. When she sees Nanami, it doesn’t falter; in fact, it gets bigger.

“Hello, Nanami.”

~~~

You’re genuinely happy to see him, flaunting the most charming smile you can offer. And after that note from Wednesday, you’re not shy to do it, considering how “beautiful” he considers it.

“Whelp, I’m going to the breakroom to get a drink. Uh, yeah.” Ren hastily makes his exit, leaving you alone with Nanami. 

He’s different today. First, he isn’t wearing his glasses, so you can see his eyes properly. His expression is soft, almost inviting. And he’s smiling at you, evoking the fluttering in your belly. Butterflies.

He steps towards you. “I’m happy to see you again.”

Heat surrounds your face. Is the heater on in this room? It’s sweltering hot. Hoping to hide your flustered expression, you rummage through your tote bag. “I hope you enjoy today’s meal,” you say, passing it to him. You focus on his patterned tie straight ahead, too nervous to face him.

“Thank you, I will.” His fingers graze yours as he accepts the box from you. You let your arm fall back to your side, arm tingling as if electricity is coursing through your veins.

He leans in closer to you. He smells nice, like citrus and sandalwood. You keep your gaze forward, not daring to meet his eyes.

“I told you I wanted to thank you properly. So, thank you. For feeding me and for the sweet notes.” His voice is a gentle whisper, as if it’s a secret, only for you to hear. 

You finally look up, smiling. “My pleasure.” You are very aware that he’s watching you. His eyes linger on your lips for a second.

After a moment of comfortable silence, he speaks again. “So, does your offer still stand?” He places his free hand in his pants pocket.

“What offer?”

“To make me a ham and cheese sandwich every day?” He smirks at you with a raised brow. He pulls a wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket, presenting it to you. 

Taking a closer look, you realize it’s a familiar message in your handwriting. That can be arranged ;) Happy Friday, Nanami.

You laugh, covering your face behind your hands. “I thought I was being cute when I wrote that! I’m so embarrassed.”

He tilts his head to the side, grinning. “I told you. I like your notes.”

You lower your hands slowly so you can face him again.

“And you are cute.”

You freeze. Did he say…?

“I’m back!” Ren states loudly, perfect timing as usual.

You both break eye contact and glance in different directions as if you’ve been caught doing something naughty. Nanami swallows loudly and observes the bento still in his hand. “I guess we should eat this delicious treat now, before it gets cold.”

At his station, Ren has already uncovered the box. “Can confirm, still very hot.” He takes sharp breaths, inhaling the freshly fried karaage pieces whole.

Nanami looks at you, bento resting on both palms. “I know how hard you worked on this, so will you do the honors?”

Your mind is still reeling from what he said just moments ago. “Huh?”

“Let’s open it together.”

It clicks in your brain, and you nod at him with a grin. You lean closer to the box, Nanami doing the same. Your faces are close to each other, with only Hello Kitty separating you. As you remove the cover, steam escapes from the box like a cloud. The smell is incredible.

You gaze at him through the steam, smiling. His eyes are already on you as he smiles back. 

It’s not fireworks or confetti.

But it’s something.

And it’s perfect.

--------------------

Taglist: @liliorsstuff-blog @st-444-rgirl @pepper-elaine @ryumiii @hughugh20 @lucyrocks86 @bloompompom @vampyra-needs-food @extrasugafree @deepcloudspyhairdo @invisible-mori @justnamuaf @syynnaaah @unknownspecies @goldencattto @maqqiekwon @batafuraikisu @pxppetmxster @jesstuff @27th01 @bleachisfood @bloombb @kasumi-ii @azrarsveron @spicy-mapotofu @inciteterr0r

[ultra-raging-ghost]

The invis admin sat by bad, set up a coffee machine and a glass jar and hit a chicken with a frying pan and ran away

[copperbadge]

I own a sous-vide machine and have a reasonable level of experience with deep-frying, so lately I've been trying to reproduce Shake Shack's fried chicken nuggets. Shake Shack cooks the chicken sous-vide first and then breads and fries it after, so the chicken is exceptionally moist while the breading is still crispy (the downside being the breading doesn't stick as well, but I've never been able to make breading stick very well anyway).

Attempt #2 this morning came out pretty well, as you can see, although I believe I have managed to accidentally clone Chik-homophobi-A instead of Shake Shack.

I sous-vide cooked chicken thighs, cut into nuggets, at 140F for two hours (breast at 155 comes out too dry) then cooled them, dredged them in beaten egg white, and tossed them in bread crumbs seasoned with Trader Joe's pickle seasoning and salt before frying for 2-3 minutes. I like TJ's pickle seasoning and putting it in the breading was great but between using breadcrumbs instead of batter and the faint pickle-juice flavor, it did give very Chik vibes.

Next time I'll try brining the thighs first and doing a batter instead, although it's pretty cool to know that the egg-and-breadcrumbs works well for it.

[ID: A rather bad photograph of one of my plates, with several chicken nuggets sitting on it; they are irregularly shaped, golden brown, and flecked here and there with seasoning.]

[mobilefoodcartmanufacturer]

ERANYA street food 怡然缘压力炸鸡炉高压炸鸡锅自动升降炸炉燃气炸炉 ERANYA chicken pressure fryer...

[serafilms]

song 56! you’re on your own, kid (taylor swift) + choi soobin requested by @explorewithd (spotify wrapped event)

i didn’t choose this town, i dream of getting out, there’s just one who could make me stay all my days

There’s a town on the west side of the coast, where the air is fresh with salt and pine. It’s small, quaint if you will, consisting of one market, one convenience store, a singular movie theatre, one McDonald’s and a whole bunch of family owned restaurants.

The town is yours, but you hate it.

You’re sick of walking through near empty streets, of seeing the same faces you grew up with at school, of trying to think of activities to do with your friends, and doing those activities knowing you’ve done them a thousand times before.

You can’t wait to leave it all behind.

You’re sitting in a booth in the McDonald’s, pondering this, when a tray slides in front of your face.

“Here you go, ma’am.”

You scowl up at the looming figure of the tall boy in front of you. He slides into the seat across from you and takes off cap embroidered with the restaurant logo, immediately reaching for one of your fries. He runs a hand through his dark hair, ruffling the flattened mess as he chews.

“Isn’t it against company policy to impose on your customer’s meals and eat their fries?”

Soobin shrugs at you, tearing open your straw and stabbing it into your cola to take a sip.

“Policy, schmolicy. There’s like two other people on shift and no customers. I’ll be fine,” he says, grabbing another fry. “And please, you love me being here.”

You tug the tray towards you protectively. “Not when you eat my food,” you mumble.

He rolls his eyes but a smile creeps onto his face as he looks at you, and you have to look down at your food to stop yourself from blushing and smiling back like a schoolgirl.

You open the box of chicken nuggets and frown. “Hey, you gave me one less!”

“Oh,” he says, blinking down at it, “yeah, I ate one of them when I was packing it.”

He sees your unimpressed stare and rises. “I’ll bring you two extra,” he says, then grabs the box and retreats into the kitchen.

Soobin’s absence gives you some time alone with your thoughts once more. Choi Soobin is, you believe, the only good thing about your town. He’s your best friend, your soulmate, twin flame, whatever you want to call it. He’s the one thing in this place that you could never be sick of.

You love your other friends and everyone else in the town too, of course, but it’s not the same. You know they’d all be there for you when you need them, but you aren’t quite sure when their concern stops being out of genuine care and starts being out of obligation. For their friend, neighbour, community. Nothing in this town acts by itself, and you feel sometimes as though you’re nothing more than a cog in its old, steam billowing machine.

You think back to your years at high school. You’d wait ages at some party for your friends to notice you, to find you and come up to you, only for them to not be there. Because you hadn’t asked them to. Because they were only there when you needed them to be.

You wanted something more. A city so wide that only those you wanted to find you could, that every friendship, every relationship is by choice. Freedom. More than that, you wanted somewhere that could contain your dreams, fulfil them. You were always overflowing in this town. You just wanted to know that you’re not on your own.

Your eyes flit upwards as Soobin returns and hands you the box. You’re pleased to find that he did put in two extra, and reach over to pat his head in gratitude. “Good job, Soobie.”

He squirms away from your hand and pouts at you, but forgets it as he grabs another of your fries.

“Stop that!” you protest.

“I’m only eating the super crunchy ones that you don’t like!”

You roll your eyes and take a few fries yourself, surveying the boy in front of you. His hair is tousled as it usually is at work, his face is a little shiny from the heat of the kitchen, and his eyes are wide as his mouth chews and he focuses on it. Something tugs at your gut, and you have a horrible reminder that to leave this town behind, you might have to leave Soobin behind too.

“Hey, do you ever think about getting out of this place?”

Soobin looks at you in confusion. “You mean McDonald’s? Well, yeah eventually, but it’s an easy way to make money right now—“

“No,” you interrupt, “I mean, like, out of this town. Move to the city or something.”

You feel the heat on your neck rising in embarrassment as his face morphs into one of surprise.

“I— do you?”

You begin to grow hesitant, but your desperation to confide in him wins, so you say, “Yeah, I do.”

He’s silent for a while, looking down at the fry in his hand, and you feel your anxiety start to take over, so you continue.

“I mean, obviously not forever, because I’d still come back and stuff, but I want to know what it’s like out there. I want to know if they can help me do the things I want to do.” He’s looking at you now. “I want to know that there’s more than just this version of myself.”

“So you’re thinking about moving to the city,” he speaks finally.

It’s less a question than a statement, and you aren’t quite sure how he’s feeling about this, so you ask, “If I was, would you come with me?”

There’s a long silence in which Soobin looks at you, and you meet his eyes, and you see uncertainty swimming in them until he says. “I don’t think I would.”

You feel your stomach sinking like a heavy stone. “Why not?”

“Well, because,” Soobin fumbles and his tall figure seems to shrink in on himself as he frowns, “because I’ve got friends here and family. I can’t just leave them like that.”

But what about me? You want to scream. How can he be so okay with letting you go? You want to yell at him, cry at him, rip your hair out, because if Choi Soobin wants to stay in this town you know that there isn’t enough resolve in you to leave him behind.

You want him to come with you, to fight to be with you, even to fight to make you stay. Anything, anything that will show you that he cares. Your hopes are disappointed.

“But if you do go, you know we’ll always be friends, right? You can call me whenever you need me.”

You feel as though you’ve been ripped in two, half of you left behind with the version of Soobin that sat there before this conversation happened.

You can call me whenever you need me, he said, whenever you need me.

You suppose that as much as Soobin is the best thing to come out of this place, he is still a product of it.

“Yeah, I know,” you say back, and manage a weak smile as he gives you one back. The two of you manage to divert the topic and spend some time devouring your meal until you’re finished and you finally have reason to leave.

“You should get back to work,” you tell him as you rise.

Soobin looks conflicted, and you see sadness in his eyes and the downturned twist of his lips, but he nods and makes his way around the table to give you a hug. You almost tear up at the feeling of his arms around you, chest pressed to yours, and you pull back before the tears fall.

“See you later,” he says.

“Bye, Soobin,” you say.

When you arrive home, you collapse into your bed and allow the tears to fall. You guess you really are on your own.

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

Have to admit that I enjoyed the Chicken Run sequel, it was better than I expected. I’m not going to make a full on post as I have to be up in a few hours, but a few things:

Obviously I’m still mad about Aardman/Netflix replacing Julia Sawalha, and given that I grew up with the original film the change is just so jarring - especially since they used archive footage/recordings of her voice in the first film for flashbacks, which makes it even weirder for me personally.

I’m not going to complain about Mel Gibson being replaced as Rocky given the circumstances tbh

I LOVE the Paloma Faith song used, it’s a great song, but when I first heard it in the opening scenes of the film I was like “…???”, like it just sounded so… modern and pop-y compared to the first film? It’s a fantastic song, don’t get me wrong, but compared to the first film, where you had a rather old fashioned sounding song played during the film (Flip Flop Fly), it made this film seem more American than British, if that makes sense (which kind of irks me because one of the most charming parts of the original for me is how British it is)

Following on from my point above, whole film in general seemed like it was more modern and more set in present day, which in some ways is to be expected because there’s a 23 year gap between movies, but on the other, the original film felt almost timeless, like it could have been set in any decade. As far as I remember, the original didn’t have any televisions, it had a sort of old fashioned radio and while, yes, there was electricity (the pie machine, Christmas lights etc), it felt like it could have been set in an older year than 2000. Maybe that’s just me, I don’t know, but this film really went twenty times more modern and gadget-y

You know how in the first film, Mrs Tweedy picks out a chicken who hasn’t been laying any eggs, then we see the shadow of her beheading the chicken followed by what is clearly a roast chicken skeleton on the Tweedys’ dinner table? I thought it couldn’t get more fucked from that, but Aardman wanted to prove me wrong because what the fUCK

Have to say that the first film strangely never actually made me want to stop eating chicken, meanwhile this film made me feel sick at the thought of a chicken nugget 😭 it might take a while before I can eat chicken again 😔

Hopefully the chickens I eat are NOT mind controlled on a high tech farm to walk to their deaths

Miranda Richardson back as Melisha Tweedy, SLAAAAAAY 💅🏻

I can’t decide what’s funnier, her introducing herself as “Melisha Tweedy” despite getting remarried or her calling Dr Fry “my current husband”

ALSO DOCTOR FRY IS VOICED BY NATE THE GREAT FROM TED LASSO?!? 😭

I don’t believe Mrs Tweedy is dead to be honest, if being inside the pie machine when it exploded (after falling into it from a great height), flattened by a barn wall/door, and going headfirst into the chicken nugget machine and smothered in breadcrumbs couldn’t kill her than I doubt that the killer robot ducks that shoot lasers will do the job, especially given that they didn’t kill Rocky, a rooster 💀

Calling it now there’ll be a third film and she’ll be back, I’m calling it right now!!!

I SAW FEATHER MCGRAW FROM THE WRONG TROUSERS AT THE END LMAO FEATHERS YOU LIL SKANK THIS AINT YOUR MOVIE 🐧

Anyway, I thought it was better than expected - the first one will always be the best of course, but as far as sequels go, this one was definitely on the better end of the scale!

[sonosvegliato]

To an Athlete Dying Young: Deleted Scenes Pt 1

The original draft of Tim and Kon in the Hall of Justice in my fic And hold to the low lintel up/The still-defended challenge-cup. Featuring a McCrispy. 

Completely unedited.

“This is going to turn out so bad,” Superboy says.

“No, it’s not,” Tim says. “Either this works, and I’m a genius, or it doesn’t, and I find another way out. There are one hundred and forty seven listed in the blueprints I got from Batman’s computer, and thirty six more he’s detailed that are unmarked. But I’m not really supposed to know about those.”

“This is going to turn out so bad,” Superboy repeats. 

“Shut up, no it’s not,” Tim repeats back. 

“They’re going to know we’ve left,” Superboy hisses. “This is a horrible plan!”

“I want them to know we’ve left.” Tim’s sitting on Superboy’s shoulders and kicks him in the chest. “Now get in the tube.”

Superboy steps onto the Zeta platform. “I just want you know, if we end up on Mars, I’m not taking you back.”

Under New York Avenue is the closest Zeta tube, and Tim makes sure to shout it very clearly. Sewers, but. He can’t exactly pop out on the White House lawn. 

“B-20,” the tube accepts. Tim’s arms tighten on Superboy’s shoulders. “Robin.”

“This is so bad,” Superboy repeats as they’re reduced to photons through space. “This is so bad this is so bad this is—”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Incredibly demeaning,” Superboy says.

“Sorry, my car is talking,” Tim says to the McDonalds employee taking their drive-through order. “He wants the Number 1 with…”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why were all the machines broken?” Superboy grumbles.

“It’s part of the experience,” Tim explains patiently. They’d had to scout out four McDonalds before finding one with a working soft serve machine. “Crushing disappointment, or eight hundred calories of delight? It’s fast food roulette.”

“And I just don’t get the spoons,” Superboy continues. They’ve been sharing a large fry, and he glares into the empty carton like it’s a multidimensional portal that ate his fries instead of Tim. He throws the carton aside.“Why are they square?”

“I used to think they were straws?” Tim supplies, licking an Oreo off his spoon. “If I had my phone, I’d look it up, but Batman has a fear of location-sharing. He made me duct-tape my front camera.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.” 

They eat in companionable silence. Tim feels Bruce in the doorway before he hears him, a dark blot in the corner of his vision. Tim scrapes Oreo crumbs from the inside of his cup before meeting Bruce’s eyes, domino to cowl.

“Oh, hey, Batman.”

“You went out?” Bruce replies, voice rough. “Into the city?”

“Maybe,” Tim says. He frowns, searching for one last bit of Oreo in his McFlurry’s vanilla bottom. “We wanted McDonalds.”

He kicks Superboy’s ankle.

“I’m only three weeks old,” Superboy blurts. “I’ve never had McDonalds.”

“And he can’t be a proper all-American boy without McDonalds,” Tim says. “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have heat vision. Maybe pink slime alters Kryptonian genes and that’s what gave Superman his ocular powers.”

“McDonalds did not give me X-ray vision,” Superman says, though he squints at his hamburger for a second before taking another bite. 

Bruce tears a hand through the air at him. “You let this happen?”

Superman stiffens. 

“They got me a Big Mac,” he was smally. “I thought you’d sent them.”

“Relax, Batman, I got you the Spicy McCrispy,” Tim says. He reaches in the last brown bag and tosses the sandwich to Bruce. Bruce catches it in one hand and then points outside. 

“Out.”

Superboy leans into Tim. “Still think this was a good idea?” he whispers.

“Sit down, Superman, not you,” Bruce growls. “Robin.”

“Going perfectly to plan,” Tim whispers back, rising. Louder, he orders, “Don’t eat my chicken nuggets.”

“I’ll eat whoever’s nuggets I want,” Superboy mutters as Tim follows Bruce out into the hall. They walk a long time before Bruce stops and turns, a looming shadow that towers over Tim. 

“Do you not like the Spicy McCrispy?” Tim asks, speaking first.

“Do you think this is a joke?” Bruce bites back. He doesn’t shout, but the timbre of his voice reverberates in Tim’s chest, cracks his courage like an egg. He’s very aware of the pressure in his jaw, and fights to keep his expression open and passive. He’s glad for his domino and what little emotional protection it provides. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says measuredly.

Bruce’s shoulders stiffen, and he seems to grow inches taller. Tim doesn’t know how. Is it a Batman thing? Will Tim learn how to do that? 

Bruce’s voice is Gotham winter cold as he counts off his fingers. 

“You left the Hall without my permission,” Bruce begins. “You take a dangerous, unknown entity with you. You go into the city by yourself. Then you expose yourself to the American public riding Superman’s clone through a McDonald’s drive-though.” He pushes the wrapped chicken sandwich in Tim’s face, voice dropping further. “Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says.

“Do you know how many people saw you today?” Bruce barrels on.

“I don’t know. We had to go through more than one drive-through—”

“How many pictures were taken of you?” Bruce asks over him. “How many are currently being shared over every social media and news site? Robin’s been gone for over a year, and you’ve just announced his return to every rogue in Gotham.”

“Have I,” Tim says. 

Bruce’s mouth tightens. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats quickly, giving ground. “But. If it’s 11 o’clock at night in Gotham or 11 o’clock in the morning at a McDonalds, the media was eventually going to see me. Robin’s been gone too long. Isn’t it good he comes back?”

“No!” Bruce snaps, arms flaring out. At Tim’s expression, his instantly cools. “Not right now. You just got the suit. You’re not ready for the streets.”

“But I will be, soon,” Tim says earnestly. “Right?”

“Tim—”

“I’m getting good. You have to let me out of the nest sometime. At least let me start shadowing you. I won’t let anyone see me; I’m really good at hiding in the dark—”

“No,” Bruce says fiercely. He shakes his head. “We’re not discussing this. You—” his expression closes. Tim can see him struggling with his emotions before shoving them down like leftovers in Alfred’s good tupperware. He takes Tim’s hand and puts the sandwich in it. The paper crinkles in Tim’s palm. “You’ve disappointed me.”

Tim stands there, a McCrispy in his hand, and watches Bruce walk away. His heart is beating so hard he feels sick. His grin is shaky, but by the time he returns to Superboy, he’s convinced himself that the stone in his stomach is victory. 

[christian-oc-tournament]

Casey was perched in the backseat of Farolds car. Lennon sat in the passenger side with his feet on the window. He traced his fingers along his right arm which was still bleeding immensely. His eyes drooped and his head ached. 

“Idiots” he whispered to himself. “We are idiots, aren't we Farold?” Lennon jokingly looked at Farold. And he responded, “We’re such idiots and I can’t even remember why we did it.” he glanced at Casey, raising an eyebrow judgingly. “Do you?” Casey just rolled his eyes. “And try not to get any blood on the seat. It stains things you know.” he smiled and looked back at the road.

“Oh, no. don’t worry,” he waved his hand, “it’s just a cut, my arm definitely isn’t pouring out blood.” he said sarcastically, “no it’s fine, I’ll just cease my bleeding entirely.” he shuffled uncomfortably. “Thank you,” Farold replied.

They drove left, onto Cottage Grove Ave. “you know what I find funny?” Casey looked at him. “It’s always the surgeon who gets injured.” 

Eventually Casey’s tiredness caught up with him. “I need coffee.” He announced. “Coffee, eh?” Farold veered right and took a U turn. “What was that for?” Lennon shouted. “Casey wants coffee,” he answered. “Coffee? We’re currently on the run.” Lennon explained. “I wouldn’t say ‘on the run,’” Farold said, “more like we did something the police didn’t like and now they’re in their dumb police cars headed to the airport.” Lennon could see what he meant. 

“So what should it be?” Lennon took out his phone. Farold leaned over to look. “There’s a Mcdonalds.” Casey looked disgusted, “who the devil would have Mcdonalds sickening coffee.” Farold shook his head in agreement. “True that.” he leaned over further. “Keep your eyes on the road!” Lennon shouted. Farold swerved and knocked his head against the door, he grasped the wheel and got back on track.  Casey winced, “My arm! Farold watch out!” he rubbed his arm. “Sorry,” Farold straightened up. Lennon glared at him. “Honestly,” he rolled his eyes. 

He took his phone out again. “Oh, well I’m afraid it’s all that’s open at this time of night.” Casey rubbed his brow, “Anything if it’ll get me coffee” Farold turned “Mcdonalds it is.” 

“So what are you getting?” Lennon asked the driver. “Excuse me, but we are supposed to be getting coffee. ” Casey was growing irritated. “Since we’re going we might as well get something else. Am I right?” Lennon looked at Farold. “So right.” 

They drove about eleven minutes until they arrived. “So, what will it be?” Farold asked. “Coffee, black.” he stated. “I think I’ll take a spicy deluxe crispy, extra cheese. A small fry, and water. And… ” he looked back at Lennon, “what do you want?” He didn’t think twice, “I’ll take a 6 piece mcnugget happy meal.” Farold stuck his head out the window, “A 6 piece mcnugget happy meal.” he told the machine, “what about my coffee?” and with that he drove off.

“You forgot the coffee!” They came up to the window. The worker handed them their food. “Thank you. Have a nice night.” he drove off. Casey flung his hands wide open. “Where’s my coffee!?” he shouted. But Farold ignored him. “These fries are better than any I’ve ever had,” he said with his mouth full. “And this spicy chicken is amazing. I don’t know how they do it.”

Casey was very cross. “Just go back and get me coffee! I’m not playing any of your games.” he demanded. But still no one answered. “Hold on,” Farold set down his drink. “Did you hear something?” Lennon looked around, “nope, did you?” he asked, “I thought I did,” he picked up his sandwich. “It was probably the wind.” Casey had had enough. He took a hold of his knife and flung it in between right where Lennon and Farold were sitting.

They both recoiled in shock. They looked back at Casey with wide eyes. Although he himself looked flabbergasted. 

Lennon was astonished. “Well what was that for?” 

Notes:

okay sso I know this is really bad. but I had to write something an I was rushed. (also I was going to draw a picture but didn't have the time. so, sorry)

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[werepuppy-steve]

gay pirate brianrot (our flag means death)

just straight up vibes, mate

the chain - fleetwood mac

sweet creature - harry styles

could have been me - the struts

here i go again - whitesnake

love is gone (acoustic) - SLANDER, dylan matthew

let me follow - son lux

achilles come down - gang of youths

till forever falls apart - ashe, FINNEAS

i found - amber run

achilles heel - j. maya

pierre - ryn weaver

partners in crime - set it off, ashe costello

motion sickness - phoebe bridgers

arms unfolding - dodie

sea of love - cat power

hello hello - elton john

ready now - dodie

love like you - caleb hayes

this will be (an everlasting love) - natalie cole

abcdefu (angrier) - GAYLE

would you go with me - josh turner

if i ain't got you - alicia keys

ship in a bottle - fin

underground - cody fry

one (mono single version) - harry nilsson

simply the best - billianne

miss missing you - fall out boy

burn butcher burn - joey batey

in case you don't live forever - ben platt

never love an anchor - the crane wives

inkpot gods - the amazing devil

ruin - the amazing devil

i guess i'm in love - clinton kane

chicken tendies - clinton kane

like real people do - hozier

seven - taylor swift

our prayer - the beach boys

hallucinogenics - matt maeson

crazy on you - heart

locomotive breath - jethro tull

high on a rocky ledge - moondog

messa da requiem: 2. dies irae - guiseppe verdi, berliner philharmoniker, carlo maria guilini, ernst senff chor

sonata in e major, k. 380 - domenico scarlatti, khatia buniatishvili

gnossienne no. 5: modéré - erik satie, olga scheps

concerto for recorder and viola dagamba in a minor, twv 52:a1: I.grave - georg philipp telemann, hille perl

II triello - ennio morricone

perfect day - lou reed

träumerei (kinderderszenen, op. 15) - robert schumann, ronny matthes

2 arabesques, l. 66: no. 1 in e major - claude debusy, peter frankl

rêverie, l. 68: rêverie - claude debussy, jean-yves thibaudet

avalanche - leonard cohen

miles from nowhere - yusuf / cat stevens

go to hell - clinton kane

back to december - taylor swift

mine - taylor swift

break my stride - matthew wilder

viva la vida - coldplay

blackbeard's ghost - jesse rice

back to black - amy winehouse

change (in the house of flies) - deftones

we'll never have sex - leith ross

make up your mind - florence + the machine

everybody loves me - onerepublic

the captain's daughter - alison krauss & union station

easy on me - adele

hoist up the thing - the longest johns

gimme! gimme! gimme! (a man after midnight) - abba

right where you left me - taylor swift

super trouper - abba

soldier, poet, king - the oh hellos

raise hell - brandi carlile

ocean blue - moniker

no choir - florence + the machine

leggie blonde - flight of the conchords

little lion man - mumford & sons

rolling in the deep - adele

pirate song - ben barnes

i love you like an alcoholic - the taxpayers

hello my old heart - the oh hellos

a pirate's life - joel fry

to death we go - joel fry

hurts like hell - fleurie, tommee profitt

lay all your love on me - abba

judas - lady gaga

the moon will sing - the crane wives

this side of paradise - coyote theory

shrike - hozier

enchanted - taylor swift

the night we met - lord huron

dear wormwood - the oh hellos

iris - the goo goo dolls

favorite crime - olivia rodrigo

the foundations of decay - my chemical romance

curses - the crane wives

matilda - harry styles

if i could fly - one direction

welcome home, son - radical face

the mary ellen carter - the longest johns

sweet disposition - the temper trap

like ships need the sea - emily hearn

[melishatweedy]

MISTAH TWEEDEH!: A life he wished for but didn’t get:

Willard Tweedy, a simple man, a farm, a wife, a brew and a shotgun.

Little is really said in the books about his life. However his family have been chicken farmers for generations - as we see in the film and the books - and he wants to continue egg farming, it’s all he’s ever known. We see in Mrs Tweedy’s Chicken Pies for the Soul that his uncle was killed by a chicken, which is his first glimpse of knowing the chickens are more than just “stupid creatures”. I feel like this is his only real “smart” moment. He built a fucking pie machine and didn’t know what it was. Like mate.. name’s on the boxes surely..

He’s clearly in love with Melisha, we see it in their wedding photo, the way he speaks to her, the way he questions his own sanity for her. Man’s devoted and I don’t blame him lol. There’s the slight emotional abuse with the name calling, but I absolutely hate it when they say she’s physically abusive etc.. She’s not. Yes she kicked his arse but she’s not physically abusive. Also, there’s hints that there’s still that spark between them, and I stand by my point that they were in love at one point, and they married for love (and a business prospect). (I also love the theory of the him being her beard.)

He’s clearly the comic relief of the first film, similar to Dr Fry in the second. However he’s not just the poor little abused husband people make him out to be. He’s in fact worse than Melisha to the chickens. You see him kicking and throwing ginger into “solitary confinement”, which in the real world a chicken would last mear hours -if that- before dying. He also picks them up by the neck, whereas we see Melisha (apart from handling Edwina, but she was about to be killed) picking them up by their bodies (CR:DOTN). No wonder they’re not laying eggs, they’re being handled in such ways! ALSO HE PUT A LIVE CHICKEN IN THE PIE MACHINE BOY I SWEAR TO GOD-

Anyway, my conclusion: he comes from a poor background, a farmers background and that’s all he knows, it’s all he’s ever known. He’s just as bad as Melisha when it comes to the chickens. He’s most likely seen how his father and grandfather treated the chickens and carried it on. Learnt behaviour. They’re both as bad as each other but he’s maaainly the reason the chickens aren’t laying any eggs. My theory is that after their divorce he remained in Yorkshire but moved away, has a little flat and is a farmhand on another farm, as it’s probably all he has experience wise. Hope your little flat is cosy, king!

[lokilysolbitch]

is the problem with processed food fr just more sugar, fat, sodium, etc. like is this what people (mainly my parents bc they're semi crunchy) are fearmongering aboug. is this what they're treating as the devil. higher sodium content

i have arfid i literally need more of every food group. and i have pots so i need more sodium anyways.

like this is nowhere near straight poison like they act like it is. it just has different nutrient ratios than other foods. that's literally fine. i'll just slap a multivitamin and some frozen dragon fruit on top.

not to mention some processed foods like cereals have added nutrients. (maybe even some types of flour too but don't remember)

idk like my mom made it sound like spam was some mystery meat with floor cleaner and "dyes and chemicals" in it but i read food labels for fun and i collect spam containers. and knew there was no dye in it off the top of my head and then i literally pulled an empty can out from a few feet away and read the whole ingredient list. it's really short. it's mainly pork and chicken. protein. it's got a bit of potassium actually too. oh also there are literally no dyes in spam

then she heard the chicken was mechanically separated and made it a whole thing bc "who knows what that means" idk but i imagine it's just. separated by machine. lets google

okay so yeah ground up meat they pushed off the bone with a machine. so just meat

and she also went on about how it's like from weird parts of the chicken/pork or stuff like that but like. we as a society. eat chicken muscles regularly. so like as long as it doesn't kill me it's just chicken and pork.

and then she went on about how "have i ever seen how spam is made" like babs. have you seen ground beef. sometimes food making looks icky and i don't care because i'm older than five.

i genuinely feel like i must be missing something major because there's no way people are making a big deal out of something just being a little less nutritious and icky-looking. like. there's no way. there must be something else im missing.

like what, are there carcinogens??? there's carcinogens in over-burnt toast too but no one throws a fit about that.

anyway my only other proteins i like are either being recalled for listeria or make my stomach hurt so much it's debilitating so i've been eating spam and people keep making me feel like i'm eating slices of cement but it's just protein and salt. and a little potassium. and it doesn't make my stomach hurt. and it tastes good after just pan frying it for a little bit and adding some pepper. it's a godsend and i'm tired of that not being recognized✋