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noxemma · 14 days ago

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First comes love a kid(napping), then comes a marriage ... Yeah, they're definitely doing things in the wrong order, but maybe, if they're lucky, they can figure out how to reverse their way into something real.

Parts 1&2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

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Okay, not sure how much I actually like this part or not but I’m kind of over fighting it (bc I have ideas for the next part) so hopefully it’s good for y’all

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Even with Dean insisting they stick as close to the messy truth as possible, it's almost too easy to fabricate their fictional relationship. They decide that Dean had been waiting at the corner for Sam when he'd seen Jack looking very confused and offered to give him directions. Cas had stumbled upon them as Jack was leaning into the open door to see the map Dean has pulled up, but mistook Dean for a would-be kidnapper. After yanking Jack away, Cas had given Dean a scathing tongue-lashing only to be corrected by Jack and Sam, who'd been asking Cas a question after class. At the defense of both his son and trusted student, Cas had realized his mistake and apologized to Dean. Then, feeling bad for assuming the worst of Dean, Cas had offered to buy him dinner and Dean has accepted. Given the chance to start over, Dean and Cas hit things off. They'd been dating for over a year before Dean had proposed to both Jack and Cas over his famous homemade burgers and pie just a few days before coming to the wedding.

It's a good story. So good that Dean half wants to believe it himself. And the craziest part is that it just might work. Cas doesn't have social media at all, and Dean only uses his to post pictures of the cars he's restored or currently working on. No one would question why Jack hadn't mentioned Dean because no one, aside from Cas' brother Gabriel, had ever met or interacted with Jack. And they'd agreed to tell Gabriel that they'd been keeping the relationship on the down low because Sam was Cas' student. Gabriel apparently lived for juicy gossip so that tidbit plus the knowledge that their engagement was a ruse to make Cas’ parents lay off the custody concerns would probably keep him off their backs, at least according to Cas.

"Okay, I think we've got the backstory down pat," Dean says, pasting on a mask of a smile as he faces the last elephant in the room. "Now, the only thing we have to go over is, um, believable details." "What do you mean?" Cas asks, head tilting adorably again.

"Well, uh. Like ..." Dean tries to think of something that won't be nearly as embarrassing or suggestive as what he's thinking, "Oh, okay. Well, I saw you have some tattoos. I do too. I have an anti-possession sigil here on my chest, I have Baby's grill on the back of my shoulder, a whole mess of less meaningful stuff on my arm, except for the baseball cap. That one is for Bobby. Oh, and the Superman and Batman one's in there are for me and Sam. Long story that involves pretending we were superheroes, broken arms, and taking Sam to the ER on the handlebars of my bike. And I want to get more." Cas' eyes trail across his clothed chest like he can see the ink underneath and heat suffuses Dean's cheeks.

Fuck! I really need my body to stop doing this every time he looks at me for more than five consecutive seconds. Although maybe people will actually believe we're in love if he keeps making me blush so easily, Dean thinks.

"Hmmm, I think I understand what you mean," Cas hums, not helping Dean's blush go away at all, "There are certain things that people who have been intimate with each other would know, such as the placement and meaning of tattoos."

"Yeah," Dean manages to choke out, because, Jesus, Cas was really staring at him, and he was about one minute from squirming in his seat like a horny teenager under the attention. "Something like that."

"I have some lines of Enochian across my ribs. It's an ancient, dead language that some scholars have hypothesized was the language of angels," Dean shoots Cas a grateful look for explaining right away so he doesn't feel stupid for having to ask. "The only other tattoos I have are a pair of wings that start at between my shoulder blades and spread down the back of each arm. I admit that I have been considering getting another one or two, but finding the time is challenging. I'd love to see yours at some point, if you don't mind of course."

"Fuck no, I don't mind!" Dean blurts a little too eagerly and he forces himself to take a breath before continuing, "And, if you're willing, I'd love to see yours too. Those wings sound amazing." "Of course. I'm very proud of them," Cas replies with a little nod, fingers fiddling with holes in the cuffs of his hoodie.

Silence settles between them for a few seconds as the sounds of Ramblin' Man fade, replaced briefly by a hum marking the end of the cassette. Dean hits the eject button but doesn't replace it. "I probably should have asked this sooner, and I know you agreed to this, but I would never want to assume-" "Just spit it out, Cas. Contrary to what my brother might think, I'm actually pretty damn hard to offend," Dean teases, trying to ease the obvious anxious cloud beginning to coalesce in the passenger seat. "You are interested in men, right? And single? I mean I was just thinking that, well, we'll have to act like we're in love, like we're engaged, which will probably require at the very least hand holding and- What exactly about that is so funny?" Dean can't help it. It's nearing one in the morning and he's too tired from driving almost six hours straight with only piss breaks to keep from cracking up at the hilarity that is Cas asking his relationship status and sexual orientation this far in. "You are, man," Dean wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes as he manages to regain control of himself. "We've already thought up a whole backstory and driven several hundred miles and now you're asking me if I even like dick? You have to admit it pretty damn funny." Cas’ face is serious and unmoving when Dean sneaks a peek at him, but then he hears the softest snort and he cracks up all over again, laughing so hard his stomach aches when Cas finally does join in. "So? Are you? 'Into dick'?" Cas asks after they're both mostly recovered, though his use of air quotes almost sets Dean off again.

"Yeah. Though I’m not strictly into sick. I'm bi. Although, I've never been in a serious relationship with a guy before so this will all still be kind of new to me."

"If it makes you feel better, neither have I," Cas admits. Instinct has Dean opening his mouth to make some joke about how someone as gorgeous as Cas had to have people lining up around the block to date him but the streetlights whizzing by illuminate a faraway look in Cas' eyes, a type of longing Dean could never put a name to but knows intimately. "We'll figure it out together," he offers instead, daring to reach his hand out to give Cas' a squeeze. "I'm sure we will," Cas murmurs and Dean can hear the slight smile as he flips his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing back. "Hmm. I suppose we should talk about PDA. I'm just along for the ride here, so whatever you want to do, I'm down for," Dean offers, probably a touch to enthusiastically but he bats the worry away, focusing instead on the heat of Cas' palm against his. Cas seems to ponder his statement, absently starting to rub his thumb across Dean's wrist and up the side of his thumb as he thinks. Dean damn near melts at the touch. It's so gentle and sweet and weirdly intimate and those are things he hasn't had in a long while.

He hadn't had much time to date on the road, plus John would probably have killed him if he'd found him fooling around with another guy, and then he'd been busy trying to raise Sam. He'd been content with one-night stands and a little fun every now and again, but now he wanted more. He just didn't know how to find it or worse, how to ask for it.

Maybe that's why I want to do this so bad, why I suggested being fiancés in the first place. Maybe this is as close as I'll get to the real thing.

"Hmm. I didn't really think about public displays of affection. My family has never been big on them; Gabriel of course is the exception as he is for many things. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, they are extremely religious and, no matter how much I disagree with them, I don't really want to antagonize them by throwing my queerness in their faces." "Noted. Do not make out sloppily in front of the parents no matter how funny it would be."

"Dean!" Cas lets out an exasperated sigh and Dean just knows he's rolling his eyes. "Sorry. Jokes aside, you want minimal PDA. Is like, hugging and holding hands, okay?" Dean asks because he has to know. He prays that Cas says yes, that he will have an excuse to touch and be touched like this again. "Yes, that's fine. And I'm sure that we'll have to kiss at some point to really sell the fake relationship to Gabriel ..." Cas trails off. His free hand comes up to his face and his fingertips ghost over his lips.

Is he thinking about kissing me? Dean wonders, his heart picking up pace as he definitely thinks about Cas and how his full lips might feel. "I'm sure I would survive having to kiss you," Dean whispers. He means for it to come out as a joke, something to jolt them both out of the weird tension that has begun building and winding between them, skittering back and forth across their connected hands.

But it doesn't come out sounding like a joke at all. At least not to Dean's ears. No, to Dean it sounds exactly like what it is: a lie.

Dean is saved from however Cas was going to respond to that by the thwak thwak thwak of Baby's wheels hitting the rumble strip and he jerks his gaze and the wheel away from Cas' profil back towards the center of the road. "Are you okay, Dean?" Cas blurts, concern clear and genuine. "Yeah, yeah. Uh, sorry about that. I gotta put in another tape so I don't fall asleep or start hallucinating sheep on the road or something,” Dean spews.

The rest of the drive is relatively silent, though, to Dean’s utter shock, it's not uncomfortable. Probably because Cas keeps his hand in Dean's but he's not going to question it, not when he's fighting to keep his eyes open.

It's near three in the morning when Cas finally gives the last direction and they pull up to the fanciest hotel Dean has ever seen.

He drops Cas off to get checked in while he hunts down a parking spot in the hotel garage.

It isn’t until opens the back to get their luggage that he realizes his mistake.

He’s so used to traveling light with Sam that he forgot just how much luggage there could be.

He pulls out Cas' rolling bag, determined that it should come in. He also grabs Cas' wedding gift, just because the large wrapped box would probably draw the wrong kind of attention and he didn't want to risk it no matter how much security the swanky hotel had.

Tucking the box under one arm and gripping Cas' bag with his hand left him with one free hand to choose between Cas' briefcase, his duffle, the suits, or the boxes of their fancy shoes that Cas had also purchased at Kendricks. Dean sighs, knowing there is really only one choice, and fumbles with his free hand to wrestle out the small bag that has his toiletries. He shoves it in his pants pocket before gently sliding out the suits, folding them gently over his arm so they wrinkle as little as possible and then reaching in to clutch Cas' briefcase in his fingers. He's pretty sure he looks like some kind of urban scarecrow as he makes his way out of the parking garage and into the hotel, but he tries not to let it bother him.

The hotel is so big and confusing that he gets lost a few times before being pointed in the right direction by a tattoo shop that's just closing down for the night.

"Gotta love Vegas. This is the real city that never sleeps," he mutters blearily before perking up when he finally spots Cas standing by a counter. Cas is fuming when Dean comes to a stop next to him, whisper-shouting into his phone before slamming it on the counter and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wha's wrong, Cas?" "My idiot brother, is what's wrong," Cas groans. Dean must look super pathetic as he blinks stupidly at Cas because he takes pity on him and elaborates. "He didn't think I was actually bringing a plus one, so he only booked me for a single room."

"O-" Dean yawns so wide that he thinks he hears his jaw pop, "Kay. So, what's the problem?"

"There's only one bed, Dean," Cas splutters

“Cas, babe. That's not a bad thing." "It's not?" Cas asks and Dean doesn't see the pink that begins to emerge the other man’s face as he fails to stifle another yawn. "No, if anything it'll, it'll just solidify our story." "Oh, right. Our story."

Dean frowns at the way Cas' shoulders droop but he doesn't have enough brain cells to process the conundrum of Cas being upset at having to share a bed, then upset that they're only sharing the bed to further the plot of their fake relationship. Dean blinks again and when he opens his eyes Cas is standing in front of a door, wedding present now under one of his arms as the other swipes the plastic card to admit them into the suite.

The room is huge compared to the dinky motels he and Sam grew up in. Dean hangs the suits up in the closet before really taking the time to admire the space.

"Damn. This place is nice," Dean says to no one in particular.

"It should be for what Gabriel is paying for it," Cas mutters, hefting his bag onto a chair and digging through it for something.

Dean leaves him to it, turning to snag the remote off a desk and turn on the giant TV positioned perfectly in front of the bed. He flips through channels until he hits on Forensic Files. It was stupid that the grainy show gave him comfort in an area he felt so out of place in. Every dingy hotel or moral that has a TV got Forensic Files and too many sleepless nights with it being the only thing to keep him company as he watched over Sam and waited for their Dad to wander back from the bar had made it feel like home. Dean allows himself to flop stomach first onto the mattress, not even trying to hold back the moan that escapes at its plushness. Cas says something too him and he grunts in affirmation, but he has no clue what Cas said, too busy enjoying the deep cushion of the mattress and being lulled to sleep by the rerun on the screen.

He almost thinks it's a dream when a new noise causes him to turn his head and he sees Cas exit the bathroom, dark hair spilling droplets of water down his bare chest, flannel pants slung low on his hips giving Dean a perfect view. His eyes glide greedily over the lines of inked writing placed just across the lower left side of his ribs, which naturally draws Dean's attention to sharp hip bones and the hint of a happy trail.

All his blood rushes south and Dean drops his face into the mattress, thankful that it can hide his hard on

"Dean?" Cas whispers. "'m awake, just restin' m'eyes," Dean mumbles through the comforter. "Oh, well, I'm done in the bathroom if you need to use it." Dean makes an ambiguous noise, strategically waiting until he hears Cas move toward the head of the bed before he rolls off and makes as fast a beeline for the bathroom as he can without being suspicious.

Once he's safe inside with the door locked, Dean contemplates his options. Which is to say, he can walk back out with a boner, or he can take a cold shower because he sure as hell isn't jacking off with Cas on the bed just beyond the door.

He sighs and turns the shower on to cold. He shucks his clothes quickly and forces himself under the frigid spray before he can chicken out, cussing and shivering the whole time.

He turns the spray to warm once he's flaccid again and he is finally able to appreciate the luxury of the rain shower head.

Dean's so relaxed by the time he finally turns off the water that it isn't until he's stepping onto the tiled bathroom floor and wrapping a towel around his waist that he realizes his predicament.

"Son of a bitch!" "Dean? Is everything okay?" Cas calls with sleepy concern, the sound getting loud enough that Dean knows he must be waiting just on the other side of the door for Deans reply. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm- Well ... no. I uh. Well, we had so many bags and things and I figured your stuff and the suits were more important and-" Dean cuts his babbling off and forces himself to get to the point. "I left my bag in the car, and I don't have anything to change into."

There is silence for a moment and Dean's stomach clenches. Then Dean hears Cas going deeper into the room before returning again. The door opens and his hand appears holding a bundle of fabric.

"Cas, what-?"

"I'm a bit of an anxious packer so I always have a spare set of everything. These should do for tonight and we can get your bag in the morning. And before you argue, we're already sharing a bed so what's sharing clothes. Just think of it as getting into character for being fake fiancés."

Dean can't really argue against that so he accepts the clothing and gently shuts the door.

It turns out that Cas had handed him some grey sweats and a pair of neon orange boxer briefs. He tries not to think about Cas wearing them as he pulls them on but fails miserably and he's half hard by the time he yanks on the sweats. They're a little short and a little snug but way better than having to pull on his dirty clothes or sleep in the towel, no matter how plush it is. He fishes the toiletry bag out of his discarded jeans and brushes his teeth longer and more forcefully than normal as he tries to will his dick to stand down metaphorically and literally. Finally, he's as ready as he can be and he slips out of the bathroom into dimly lit room. Turns out Dean didn't need to worry at all because Cas is passed out on the left side of the bed. He must have nodded off waiting for Dean because he's sitting against the headboard with his head flopped onto his shoulder, a small trickle of drool crusting as it dried on his chin. He looks so adorable and it reminds Dean of when Sam would fall asleep studying. Only Dean's heart didn't do an entire acrobatics routine at the sight of a drooling Sam.

"Cas, sweetheart," Dean breathes, "Can we get you under the blankets?" Cas groans and mutters something unintelligible without opening his eyes or moving an inch. Dean chuckles and starts pulling the blanket out, managing to get him tucked under the sheets and comforter in a few minutes. Once he's under the blanket Cas shimmies himself down to snuggle into the pillows. Dean takes one more moment to admire him before he turns out the side light and slides in on his own side.

His eyes feel like they’re holding the world but he manages a brief, mostly coherent text to Sam.

Dean: Made it to hotel ok. How as Jack?

Sam likes his message and it's all Dean can do to keep his eyes open until the blinking dots turn into text.

Sam: Jack and I are great. He really is a good kid, super smart and kind. Dean: Course he is. Well call and chek in in the AM

Dean doesn't wait for Sam's reply, just slips the phone back onto the nightstand and waits for his usual struggle to fall asleep, bracing himself for it to be worse because he's in a new place on top of sleeping in the same bed as someone.

He wouldn't necessarily label himself as an insomniac, he just happens to usually only get between four and six hours of sleep. Probably shoulda warned Cas about that. Should ask him if he's a morning or night person. And if he's a heavy sleeper or if the TV will wake him up. Should ask him if he likes coffee or... Dean falls asleep making a list of all the things he wants to know about Cas.

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Something wakes Dean, but he can't pinpoint exactly what it is and then he forgets to look for it because the pillow in his arms is warm, and soft and smells like heaven.

Dean keeps his eyes closed as he wiggles closer to the pillow, breathing in deeply in hopes of drowning in the clean yet somehow spicy smell.

Then the pillow moves, pressing back closer into his chest and Dean realizes that somehow in the night he'd ended up spooning Cas.

And now he was stuck. Frozen with one of his arms bent beneath his head while the other was draped across Cas' torso, fingers brushing just above his belly button, his nose ghosting the inked ridge of Cas' shoulder, and his hips and cock flush against the curve of Cas' ass. Dean slams his eyes shut again as if not seeing will somehow magically take his erection away or keep Cas from waking up to find that Dean had turned into a handsy creep during the night.

Fuck. Okay, don't panic, let’s start by just slowly scooch-

"Holy shit balls, he’s real!"

Dean cracks his eyes a sliver and searches for the source of the voice. He sees a man shorter than Cas with shoulder length dirty blonde hair, holding a phone above him and, presumably, snapping pictures of him doing his best impression of an octopus.

"Honest to god, I was eighty seven percent sure that Cas had made you up,” the voice appears to mutter to itself. “Okay, one for evidence, one for the baby book, and one for blackmail.” Dean is about to open his mouth and tell this weirdo to get lost or get wrecked when he feels Cas move, rearranging the tiniest bit so he can maneuver his head up to pin the man with what Dean assumes is a death glare by how the guy freezes in place. "Gabriel, I swear, if you wake him,” Cas growls. The sound is so deep and vicious and protective that Dean can feel the reverberations of it in his own chest.

“Castiel, is that any way to talk to your favorite brother?” Gabriel replies, though his voice is softer. “I was coming to pre game brunch but it looks like you actually slept for once. Should I be worried you’re dying?”

“No,” Cas hisses, irritated voice barely above a whisper. “I just sleep better with Dean. Now, get out before I make you!”

“And how do you plan on doing that my dear, baby brother? You going to sic your beefcake here on me?”

“Worse. I will revoke all fun uncle privileges and I will move into a shitty apartment where Jack will be miserable and you’ll have to sleep on the couch when you visit.”

Gabriel gasps like he’s really been scandalized, and Dean can hear his footsteps retreating.

“The photos Gabriel, I want them-”

Dean is sure that Cas meant to say he wanted them deleted or gone but Gabriel interrupts before Cas can finish the command.

“No problemo, boss. Done! Cute pics of a tatted hunk wrapped around you signed, sealed, and delivered to your phone. Don’t be late for brunch! If you leave me alone too long unsupervised I may just lose my senses and murder a few of our relatives and then you’ll have to bail me out of jail.”

“Get. Out,” Cas snarls and Dean hears something soft hit the wall in Gabriel’s general direction before the door clicks open then shut.

“Dude, your brother is weird,” Dean whispers before he does something selfish like pretend he’s still asleep and continue to subject Cas to his morning wood. He pulls away from Cas but stops when Cas’ hand clamps around the one Dean had slung around his waist.

“Wait, please don’t- You don’t have to-,” Cas starts before giving up and releasing Dean’s hand. “I’m sorry Gabriel woke you. I get the feeling that, like me, you don’t sleep much.”

“Borderline-insomniacs of a feather?” Dean quips to cover the way he immediately halts the retreat he never wanted to initiate.

Dean can’t breathe when he feels Cas laugh, still close enough that the sound echoes across his body as well, warm and tingly and so alive.

“Is- Are you- Do you mind this?” Cas asks, voice quiet and unsure and nothing like the confident growl it had been earlier.

“Do I mind? Cas, I should probably be asking you that since it wasn’t your dick jabbing into my backside this morning. I’m sorry for that by the way, but that should have been a pretty clear indication that I didn’t mind at all and maybe even enjoyed cuddling a little too much.”

“There’s really nothing to apologize for, Dean; it’s a natural response. But responding naturally to stimuli is not the same thing as wanting or enjoying it, so I just wanted to make sure.”

Dean didn’t know how to respond to that and the implication he could clearly read in between Cas’ words. Rage boiled in his veins at the idea that someone might have touched Cas, or worse, without his consent and he nearly drew blood with how tightly he was biting down on his lip.

“I didn’t mind, by the way, so please don’t think that you, that you somehow took advantage of me or something. I wasn’t lying when I told Gabriel I slept better with you here. This is probably the first time in over a month I’ve gotten over five consecutive hours of sleep,” Cas confesses.

“Five? What time is it?”

“It’s around …” Cas checks his phone on the nightstand, “Nine-thirty.”

“Damn. That’s almost unheard of for me. Sam would probably ask if I’m dying too,” Dean admits.

They go silent, content to let each other steal a few more selfish moments in bed. Finally though, Cas let’s out a groan and rolls away from Dean, huffing something about stupid brunches under his breath.

Dean doesn’t have time to be devastated by the loss because Cas immediately sits up and stretched his arms, unintentionally giving Dean a glorious and unobstructed view of the magnificent wings decorating his shoulders and arms.

He can’t help himself, reaching out and lightly stroking one of the photorealistic feathers, awe and wonder possessing him to caress and admire.

Cas back muscle ripples beneath the touch and he turns his head slowly to look over his shoulder. His eyes latch onto Dean’s fingers, still just brushing his skin as if Cas is some holy figure he shouldn’t be daring to touch, tracing the trail of his arm all the way up to his face.

Blue eyes ensnare Dean and he wouldn’t be able to look away even if he wanted to. Something taut and coiled begins to warm between them, getting so hot it scorches the air from Dean’s lungs and strips him of all rational thought.

He’s just about to lean forward and do something reckless like place a kiss on one of those magnificent feathers while maintaining direct eye contact when Cas’ phone starts ringing, startling them both away to their respective edges of the bed.

———

@colorlessjay @destielfangirl24

#poll time!#what do you think Gabe and Jack’s ringtones would be in Cas’ phone?#also dean is going to fumble his way through rich white people brunch #should he fumble by: A) actually ordering real food (like pancakes and bacon and eggs) B) being nice to the waitstaff #C) speaking up as a non-family member (probably on Cas’ behalf ) D) saying something to make Gabe spray mimosa out of his nose E) other #this is assuming I can’t figure out a way to do all of those lol #sorry this one took so long #I’m pretty sure I have a couple of five-stars from the way life has been smacking me around 😂#Rare daytime posting (I gave my insomnia to Cas and Dean to share for this part lol)#destiel #spn #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #deancas #tumblr fic #destiel wip

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harrysfolklore · 1 year ago

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valentine

a valentine’s day blurb inspired by this song ! i hope you guys like it 💓

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Four months ago you agreed to be Harry's girlfriend, and it was safe to say that those months have been filled with happiness that you've never felt before.

You met Harry through your longtime friend, Anthony, who happened to be Harry's tour photographer. Anthony had insisted for months that you needed to come to one of Harry's shows so he could introduce you two, because he felt that you would get along perfectly, but you remained skeptical. You weren't one to easily warm up to new people, especially not someone as famous and charismatic as Harry.

But fate had its own plans.

You finally attended the famous Love On Tour when it was brought to Wembley Stadium, and you were convinced that it was the best concert you had ever been to.

You got to meet Harry and just as Anthony predicted, you hit it off right away. You texted daily, face-timed and every time he had small breaks from tour he traveled to visit you.

One of those times he ditched everything to spend time with you in the comfort of your small but cozy apartment, he asked you to be his girlfriend now you were about to celebrate your first Valentine's day together.

"You and me, movies and dinner at my place for Valentine's day, how does that sound?" Harry said over FaceTime, you had adopted the tradition of calling each other while you did your night routines, it was clingy but you secretly loved it.

"Valentines day? Is that a thing for you?" you replied, spreading your moisturizer on your face.

"Baby, I did a world tour called Love On Tour, of course Valentines day is a thing for me!" you laughed at his expression, "Besides, this year I get to celebrate with my pretty girlfriend."

You instantly blushed, and by the smug smile on his face you knew he had achieved his goal.

"You know, I never know to respond when you call me pretty," you admitted, trying to play it cool, "Do I tell you that you're pretty too? Can I say that? Don't have a clue."

"Yes, love. You can tell me that I'm pretty too."

As Valentines day approached, you weren't what kid of gift you should get for Harry, it was pretty much the first time you had someone as "your valentine", so you struggled a lot to figure out what would be the perfect gift to give your boyfriend of four months.

You settled for a personalized leather-bound journal, you wrote a nice and heartfelt message on the first page expressing your feelings for Harry and recounting some of your favorite memories together over the past four months. You knew Harry appreciated thoughtful gestures, and you hoped this gift would show him just how much he meant to you, since sometimes it was hard for you to express it with words.

With the gift box and a homemade apple pie you decided to bake last minute you headed to Harry's house, when you got there the door swung open and you were met with a cozy Harry, clad in a brown jumper and some sweatpants.

"Hey, love," he greeted, pulling you into a tight hug. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day," you replied, returning the embrace, "I brought you something," you handed him a small wrapped box, shyness and excitement in your voice.

"Is this a gift?" Harry's eyes lit up with curiosity as he took the box from you, "Baby, you didn't have to get me anything."

"Just open it."

Harry carefully unwrapped the box and took the journal from it, turning to you and smiling widely.

"This is so nice love, thank you," he kissed your lips quickly, "Your gift is upstairs, I'll give it to you later."

He sent you a wink and you rolled your eyes, you decided to begin with your movie night, pouring two glasses of wine and pressing play to "Crazy Stupid Love", one of your favorite romcoms.

Two bottles of wine and another movie later, both of you were pretty tipsy and clinging to each other, and you could feel a burst of confidence flowing through your body.

"Wanna know something?" you drunkenly asked, making him look at you, "I'm scared of flies, like absolutely terrified."

Harry couldn't help but laugh at your confession, "Are you now, love?"

"Yeah, I also think I'm scared of guys, well, at least I was because I dated soooo many douches in the past," you kissed his cheek playfully before continuing, "But now I'm with you and you're nice."

"Am I?" Harry teased, enjoying this new side of you he had not seen before.

"You are," you pecked his neck, "You're like, the first one to ever like me back and honestly, I can't believe I get to call you mine.

Harry smiled in total awe, his heart growing twice its size at your words.

"I feel the same way, love," he pulled you closer, "You make me really, really happy."

You snuggled into him, nuzzling your face into his neck and feeling tiredness take over you, you closed your eyes and enjoyed his warmth and smell.

"How the hell did I fall in love this time?"

You mumbled before you drifted off to sleep, but Harry heard it loud and clear and he felt like he could cry out of love.

"I love you too, silly girl."

He kissed your forehead and carried you to bed, he wasn't sure if you were going to remember your conversation, but he was ready to remind you that he loved you as soon as you woke up.

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jav-animations · 3 months ago

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✨Trix in different AU's!✨

Pizza Cruise (by @lunar-dal)

Trix Valenzuela is our classic Trix but she comes from the South Zone of Chile. In the cruise, unfortunately nobody can understand her accent, But people have heard her sometimes yodelling something like "UYUI!" when she's happy or jolly. She likes to prepare traditional chilean food for the other sailors to eat and try. They say its very tasty!! 💜

Wintry Tower (by @lunar-dal)

Trix in this AU works in a cafeteria in a cozy little cabin called "Trix's Cozyhouse" She makes sure everybody can take a break after the skiing, skateboarding, ski jumping, etc! She serves cookies, Tea, Coffee, Pie, Cake, Sandwiches, Homemade Bread and her famous Hot Cocoa!

She also has a degree in Nursing and First aid. So if someone is injured, you know who to call! ✨

Noir Tower (by @lunar-dal)

Trix in this AU also works in a Café. She works 10 hours a day as a pastry chef and she seems to not get any break. You can assure her 10 work shift will worth it. She has a goddess hand with pastries!

Just don't be rough with her. She has suffered enough.

Summer Camp AU (by @cutechan555)

Trix, or also known on the Camp as "Tía Trixie" is Peppino's sweet and cheerful assistant. She has a pinch of "Pinkie Pie" vibes to her personality. She's enthusiastic, optimistic and kind. She always looks at the good side of everything even if it seems it has no solution! She loves to gift neon bracelets, dance, do braids, gift candies and encourage everyone to do all kind of activities!! 💜✨

Torre de Boludos (by @simplefanatic)

Trix. Or in this AU known as "La Trini" is Trix but she's from Argentina. You can see her wandering around with perhaps a different phone everyday. Not quite sure its hers though. Maybe in a disco or in a nearby park smoking or at a nearby bar watching football. She's sweet but I really don't recommend you to provoke her.

For your wallet's sake lmao

(I'm so sorry Argentinian People-)

Well. These were all the AU's that were commented on this post ⬇️!

You can still send me your AU's so I can add Trix on them, if you'd like!! (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

#oc art tag #oc art #pizza tower #peppino spaghetti #pizza tower au #peppino #peppino pizza tower #trix pizza tower #trix empanada pizza tower #trix x peppino #trix empanada #pizza cruise peppino #pizza cruise au #wintry tower au #noir tower #summer camp au #summer camp tower #torre de boludos #others au

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mk-wizard · 3 months ago

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Cybertronian Foods Take 1

And here is my take on Cybertronian foods. The baking edition. Note that the following is fanmade. I love cooking so I had a lot of fun. I know it all looks geometric, but that is because I imagine their food is so because they're robotic aliens.

1- Nitro-cream - It is basically ice cream. The basic flavor is vanilla beam (yes I spelled it "beam" on purpose).

2- Cake - Yes, they have cake though it tends to have have the same consistency as gems. This is ruby velvet (Optimus' favourite flavor which Elita is famous for making).

3- Atomic Pie - A southern staple. Often served a la mode with nitro cream. It's their version of apple pie.

4- Energon Goodie - They are basically cookies. This one is a silver chip goodie which is the equivalent of a chocolate chip cookie as silver is chocolate to Transformers.

5- Bismuth Pudding - Looks like a gem, but it has a soft gelatinous and creamy texture. It's popular among children.

6- Doughnuts - Their take is more like an actual nut. This one is salted gold. On Cybertron, gold is the equivalent of caramel.

7- Muffin - Hey, muffins are a basic thing and come in a variety of flavor. Copper bran is the most popular flavor.

8- Bread - They look like bars of copper, but when you cut them or break them, they are fluffy inside.

9- Charcoal & Waffles - Another southern staple. Charcoal strips that are deep fried to a golden brown and then placed on top of a lovely fresh fluffy waffle and then topped off with homemade jaem.

10 - Tincakes - Cybertronian pancakes which are typically served with botter and tar syrup.

#transformers #transformers fansom #elita one #optimus prime #oplita #we love elita one #femininity #stop femininity shaming #maccadam #chromia #slipstream #food

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fiapartridge · 2 years ago

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summer lovin' | luke hughes

luke hughes x bsf!reader

summary: it's another summer at the lake house and everything is different, yet nothing has changed...

word count: 1.7k

warning(s): cursing, little heated makeout sesh but nothin too spicy

i love lake house imagines, they're always such good vibes

It was the first night of the summer and you couldn’t be more excited. You and the boys had a tradition every first night of the summer before everyone else came (“everyone else” being Duker, Z, Turcs, Coley, and Alex). You would jump into the freezing cold lake, your mom would scold the four of you for tracking water into the house, Ellen would start on dinner, and you and Luke would go rifling through the cabinets, trying to find all the ingredients to make s’mores. Your mom always had the kitchen stocked with food by the time you guys were done jumping into the lake.

Once everyone’s bathing suits were on, it was a race down to the dock. And every single year, after everyone’s bedroom doors swung open, and your eyes met in a showdown that would rival that of a cowboy duel in old western films, you would say the starting line. “LAST ONE TO THE DOCK IS A ROTTEN EGG!”

And all hell broke loose.

Jack hip-checked you the second you flooded into the hallway, you grabbed Luke’s ankle, yanking him to the ground as Quinn gave Jack whiplash by pulling on the back of his cap. The journey to the dock was always ruthless. Ellen liked to call it “The Hunger Games” and she swore she could always feel a slight rumble once everyone’s doors to their rooms flew open and they fearlessly bounded into the hallway.

Jack slid down the stair railings, you climbed on top of Quinn’s back as he rushed down the steps, and Luke took the stairs three steps at a time with his long legs, beating everyone to the bottom floor of the house.

From the living room and out the back door, it was a simple sprint to the dock with the occasional pushing and shoving, mainly from Jack. Quinn liked to maintain a linear path with a quick pace and Luke always held your hand (it made it easier to drag you into the lake once you got to the dock).

Once everyone’s feet hit the wood of the dock, it was only seconds later until they were in the water, kicking back up to the surface.

“You bitch!” you laughed as Luke took hold of your ankle, pulling you back down. As soon as you popped up from the water, you grabbed his curls, dunking him back in.

Jack and Quinn were already back on the dock, sitting side by side as they held makeshift mics and commentated on your guys’ fight.

“Y/N has him by the neck! OH, and he’s back under the water!” Jack announced, putting on his professional announcer voice. “She has this one in the bag! I would tap out now if I were you, Lukey.”

Quinn shook his head. “No way! Moosey can slam dunk her five foot ass in his sleep!”

You resurfaced, latching onto Luke’s shoulder. “I’m not five feet!”

“Right,” Quinn nodded. “Four foot eleven, I mean.”

You rolled your eyes, splashing him as the two boys laughed upon reentering the lake, dowsing you and Luke with water. Luke grabbed hold onto the bottom of your thigh, swinging your leg over his back, and hiking you up his shoulders. The air felt cold against your exposed skin, but you couldn’t care in the slightest. This was your favorite moment of the summer.

No parents, no rules, and as much as you love the other boys, it was nice just being with the “core four” as your mom and Ellen liked to call your group.

Once the sun started to set, and your energies began to die down, you made it back into the house, getting greeted with the smell of homemade dinner and, based on so many summers before, Ellen’s famous apple pie.

“Water!” your mom pointed out as you all groaned in response, quickly wiping yourselves down on the back porch and reentering the house.

“Get showered and meet us outside– the weather is so nice tonight,” Ellen smiled, kissing everyone’s cheeks as your footsteps up the stairs rattled the walls of the house. You always felt so tired and heavy after swimming in the lake for hours, but you somehow always had energy. Quinn claimed you were on crack (“There’s no way she isn’t! She’s slept for four hours in the past two days and somehow still wants to play tennis!”), but Luke always knew that you were just excited. You talked about the summer all the time, and with Luke and Jack being in New Jersey, Quinn being in Vancouver, and you being in California, it was hard to find any time to be with them.

“Welcome to the 20th Annual Hughes L/N Summer Vacation Fun Time!” Ellen beamed, clapping as she watched everyone’s contorted faces. “What?”

Quinn was the first to burst out laughing, followed by Jack, you, Luke, and then - surprisingly - your mom. “You really have to think of a shorter title, El,” your mom snickered, passing the mashed potatoes around the table.

You were having dinner in the backyard, fairy lights strung around poles, fireflies dancing in the warm summer air, music humming out of Jack’s old mini speaker (you bought it for him for Christmas a couple years ago and he never leaves home without it), and the sound of water gently rushing against each other, which pulled you back to the present.

“No! You called Dad and told him that I had herpes!” Quinn pointed at Jack from across the table, the rest of you laughing like there was no tomorrow.

Jack rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell him you had herpes, I told him you had mono,” he scoffed, shoving a piece of steak into his mouth.

“Yeah, I was the one who told him you had herpes,” you chuckled as you jumped out of your seat, sprinting away from Quinn as he chased you around the backyard before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“I will drop you into the lake, Y/N/N.”

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, you couldn’t stop laughing. You hit his back. “Let me down, Huggy, or I’ll tell him you have Gonorrhea and Syphilis, too!”

Quinn dropped you back into your seat, shaking his head. “No more med students at the lake house.”

Everyone laughed before Ellen broke out into a story about the time Jack fell into the toilet when he was three.

“I was small and the toilet bowl was massive, okay! It was destined to happen!”

Luke smiled at you, watching you giggle and joke with his family. No one else knew this, but Luke visited you in California every couple months. He liked to blame it on the gigantic ocean waves and also getting to see Z and Turcs, but you both knew it was more than that. But you also both knew that you would hate yourselves if this perfect dynamic was ruined because you guys tried to be something.

Luke leaned in, whispering. “Roof after dinner?”

You simply nodded, knowing you were going to go whether he asked or not. It was another tradition, but just for you and Luke.

By the time dinner was over, your back was resting against the exterior of the house, sitting 20 feet above ground level. You waited for Luke to join you on the roof as he said he was going to help Quinn text this new girl he was talking to. You were sure that Quinn would do much better without the unique stylings of Luke Hughes’ so-called “rizz,” but you let him be, excited to see them crash and burn later on.

As Luke slipped through the window and sat down beside you, you watched the stars blanket the night sky, illuminating the atmosphere around you. It was easier to see the stars here at the lake house rather than in California where you were constantly surrounded by bright lights emitted by tall buildings and trillions of cars.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” you sighed, resting your head against Luke’s shoulder.

“What, you don’t love California?” he joked, knowing that you absolutely hated it. You hated being away from home, you hated being away from your friends, you hated being away from your family, and you especially hated being away from Luke. He was your best friend, and for the past couple of years, it felt like he was more than that.

“I thought I loved it. But there’s no you there,” you frowned, nudging the side of his arm. “There’s no Quinn, there’s no Jack, there’s no Ellen. My mom is on the other side of the country, the people are rude and stuck-up, and… I just hate being away from you.”

Luke sighed before sitting up, slipping your head off his shoulder. “Why don’t you just come back?”

You narrowed your eyebrows, not quite understanding what he was talking about. “What?”

“Why don’t you transfer to UMich? I mean, our moms live in Michigan, it’s only an hour away from Jersey by plane. You already know all my teammates from college, your friends go there, it has one of the best nursing programs in the US. I mean, it makes sense, right?”

“It’s not that easy.”

His arms rose. “Why not?”

“I still have to apply and–”

“You’ll get in,” he stated, his hands holding onto your shoulders. “You’re the smartest person I know, Y/N/N. Michigan would be stupid not to accept you.”

And it would be stupid to kiss him right now, right?

Right?

Before you could even question it, your lips were already on his, moving back and forth like the lake when you guys would go wakesurfing: messy, hungry, sweet, exhilarating. Luke grabbed the back of your thigh, hiking you over him as he held onto your waist. Your hands were tangled in his mess of curls, your tongues fighting for dominance.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Luke muttered against your lips.

You smirked, biting on his bottom lip as he elicited a low groan. He kissed down your jaw, settling on your neck as you leaned back, giving him more access to the skin there. Your breaths were ragged as he sucked on a spot that felt so good.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

“NO WAY!” Luke’s lips were off you in a second as you both made eye contact with Jack who stood by the window, his jaw slacked in shock and two cans of White Claws rolling out of his hands. “QUINNER, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE! THEY’RE TRYING TO HAVE SEX!”

#luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes imagines #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic #the summer i turned pretty #tsitp

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koifishstick · 4 months ago

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GRANNYs DINER

ABOUT GRANNYs DINER. granny’s diner is the heart of storybrooke, a classic small-town eatery with wide vinyl booths, a long counter lined with chrome stools, and the warm glow of neon signs reflecting off checkered tile floors. the scent of sizzling bacon, fresh coffee, and homemade pies fills the air, making it the perfect place to grab a meal or overhear the latest town gossip. the walls are decorated with old photographs, a mounted crossbow (a reminder that granny isn’t to be messed with), and a well-worn chalkboard menu featuring comfort food staples like burgers, waffles, and her famous lasagna. ruby works the floor with effortless charm, taking orders and keeping the coffee cups full, while granny rules the kitchen with a sharp eye and even sharper wit. open early and serving late, the diner is more than just a restaurant—it’s a safe haven, a meeting place, and sometimes, the backdrop for magic and mayhem.

BREAKFAST (served daily from 6am - 11am)

classic plates:

granny’s big breakfast – two eggs any style, bacon or sausage, toast, and hash browns – $9.50 (town favorite!)

ruby’s waffle stack – golden waffles topped with whipped cream, fresh berries, and maple syrup – $8.75

granny’s famous biscuits & gravy – homemade buttermilk biscuits smothered in sausage gravy – $7.50 (only available on sundays!)

lumberjack omelet – three eggs, ham, mushrooms, peppers, and cheddar cheese, served with toast – $9.25

apple cinnamon pancakes – three fluffy pancakes infused with cinnamon and apple chunks, topped with warm syrup – $8.25

lighter options:

yogurt & granola parfait – layers of vanilla yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit – $6.50

avocado toast – thick-cut sourdough topped with smashed avocado, cherry tomatoes, and a drizzle of balsamic glaze – $7.00

LUNCH (served from 11am - 3pm)

soups & salads:

granny’s homemade tomato soup – served with grilled cheese on sourdough – $7.50

hearty beef stew – slow-cooked with tender beef, carrots, and potatoes – $8.50 (only available on tuesdays!)

ruby’s southwest chicken salad – grilled chicken, black beans, corn, avocado, and chipotle ranch dressing – $9.00

classic caesar salad – romaine, parmesan, croutons, and house-made dressing – $7.50 (add grilled chicken for +$2.00)

sandwiches & burgers:

the storybrooke burger – juicy beef patty, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato, and special sauce on a brioche bun, served with fries – $10.50 (town favorite!)

granny’s meatloaf sandwich – thick-sliced meatloaf on toasted sourdough with tangy house sauce – $9.00 (only available on fridays!)

ruby’s blt – crispy bacon, lettuce, and tomato on toasted bread with mayo – $8.50

grilled chicken club – grilled chicken breast, bacon, swiss cheese, and honey mustard on a ciabatta roll – $9.50

DINNER (served from 5pm - 9pm)

hearty entrées:

granny’s famous lasagna – layers of pasta, ricotta, mozzarella, and homemade meat sauce, served with garlic bread – $12.00 (town favorite! only available on wednesdays!)

slow-roasted pot roast – fork-tender beef with mashed potatoes, gravy, and roasted veggies – $13.50

chicken fried steak – crispy breaded steak smothered in country gravy, served with mashed potatoes – $11.50

pan-seared salmon – fresh salmon with lemon butter sauce, served with wild rice and steamed vegetables – $14.00

granny’s sunday special – changes weekly! ask ruby what’s cooking – market price

BEVERAGES

freshly brewed coffee – $2.50 (bottomless cup!)

hot tea – $2.00

hot chocolate – $3.00 (with whipped cream)

fresh-squeezed orange juice – $3.50

classic milkshakes (chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry) – $5.00

sweet tea or iced tea – $2.75

soda (coke, sprite, root beer, dr. pepper, pepsi) – $2.50

DESSERTs

granny’s homemade apple pie – served warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream – $5.50 (town favorite!)

ruby’s red velvet cake – rich and moist with cream cheese frosting – $6.00

chocolate lava cake – warm molten chocolate center, topped with whipped cream – $6.50

blueberry cobbler – sweet, tart, and topped with a buttery crumble – $5.75 (only available on mondays!)

banana pudding – layers of vanilla pudding, fresh bananas, and vanilla wafers – $5.00

whether you’re here for a quick bite or settling in for a full meal, granny’s diner has something for everyone—just remember to stay on granny’s good side, or you might find your portion a little smaller than usual.

divider - paint swatch dividers - dash gif divider - purple fade

#🐇་༘ koifish ouat #koifishog #scripting #shifting motivation #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting community #shifting script #shifter #shifting blog #reality shifter #reality shifting community #shifting antis dni #shifting to ouat #once upon a time #storybrooke

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lazyjellyfish300 · 5 months ago

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nanamelly༘♡ source: pinterest

And how we spent Christmas under the cut (with some help and inspiration from @mysteria157 for the beautiful fic she wrote me 🥹🥹):

Christmas Eve morning is slow as we savor every moment we can alone together before we expect company for the holiday. 💕

We feed our animals, stealing moments again behind the barn doors and brew some fresh coffee and enjoy leftover poppyseed muffins before we make the drive to the seaside village to pick up Kento's mother.

While we're in town, we drop off Christmas jam to the neighbors and give our holiday wishes before we head back to the farmhouse.

After his mom settles in, I start the holiday potpourri that I prepared ahead of time on the stove. His mom crochets, sitting at the bar because I told her to relax despite offering to help several times. She'll tell me all about Christmas memories past from Kento's childhood while Kento smokes the turkey outside. Sometimes she can't remember exact details, so when Kento comes inside between preparing the turkey for a cup of coffee, he'll fill in the gaps, turning a healthy shade of blush at times while I just giggle from the stove. 💕

After a turkey dinner with cranberry sauce, our famous candied yams, and mashed potatoes, we always watch It's a Wonderful Life and read The Night Before Christmas poem before bed while we stuff each other's stockings and do one early round of presents between him, his mom, and me.

Then, in the morning we'll give our animals their Christmas breakfasts which is usually some scraps from the previous night and juicy apples and carrots.

We'll have a Christmas quiche and French toast and open presents. Then it's calm before the storm with movies, peppermint hot chocolate, and an afternoon nap with Kento's mom passed out on the recliner, and Kento and I on the couch while the Christmas tunes are still going.

Eventually, all of our friends and family including Yuji, Megumi, Nobara, and Yaga arrive and it's a mad house but the farmhouse is cozy and festive while we all laugh together and catch up.

We enjoy shepherds pie for Christmas dinner along with homemade rolls, winter berry salad, and cheesy potatoes and all of our Christmas goodies for dessert including bread pudding and gingerbread cookies.

We all gather around and watch Yuji and Kento duke it out on the Super Nintendo while Megumi reads, Nobara and my best friend get a midnight round of cookies in the oven, and Yaga chats off the neighbors ears about garden tips. Kento's mother crochets, while her dog Franz goes to town on a new chew toy, and I watch the whole thing circled up in a blanket with a fresh cup and Kento's hand on my thigh. 💕

And then, when all of our guests are tucked in the beds, and it's just Kento and I by the fireplace, exchanging the final gifts, our gifts each other, which concludes with our own expression of gratitude to one another that burns long into the early morning hours until we fall asleep tangled up in one another. 💕

#nanamelly༘♡#nanami kento x jelly #self shipping #self ship #self ship moodboard #self ship lore

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19spicykitty93 · 6 months ago

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What dishes are the Robinsons bringing to the Thanksgiving feast? 👀🦃

Cornelius: Mac n cheese. Obviously.

Franny: Devilled eggs.

Wilbur: He's probably sneaking all the devilled eggs when no one is looking. 👀😅

Bud: Stuffing.

Lucille: Sweet potato casserole.

Fritz and Petunia: Green bean casserole.

Gaston: Mashed potatoes.

Art: The turkey.

Laszlo: A fruit tray. (He can't cook lol)

Tallulah: Cranberry sauce.

Billie: Her famous homemade gravy.

Joe: Pumpkin pie.

Spike and Dimitri: They're too busy watching the parade.

#meet the robinsons #meet the robinsons headcanons #thanksgiving headcanons #cornelius robinson #franny robinson #wilbur robinson

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thedaintyartress · 11 months ago

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Daisy Rue Hinsworth (Darling) is a house wife on a fruit and vegetable farm owned by her husband Vernon. She is Maternal, Sweet, Tomboyish, Overbearing, and Fierce. Daisy is a great cook famous for her homemade Buttermilk biscuits, Shrimp gumbo, Apple pie, and Her mama’s secret apple pie recipe. Her two children Archie and Mary are the apple of her eye which is the cause of her over protective nature. Daisy has an older sister Thelma Jean Darling that she doesn’t see or talk to anymore because of a grudge. Daisy likes Gardening, Baking, and Long walks through the trails. She dislikes being Rushed, Judgmental people, and Card games.

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shelyold · 4 months ago

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Seeds contain stories. Without generations of farmers and seed collectors, the vegetables and fruits we enjoy today wouldn’t exist. We owe the existence and popularity of crops like okra, eggplants, and sweet potatoes to thousands of Black Americans who cultivated them. Famous Black agriculturalists like Dr. George Washington Carver, Dr. Marie Clark Taylor, and Dr. Booker T. Whatley are responsible for dozens of farming and gardening initiatives. Compost, crop rotation, and how plants respond to light are some concepts these three Doctors studied and popularized. Not only did they study and learn about plants, but they also taught their local communities how to reap the benefits of their research. This February, we celebrate the Black gardeners, farmers, and growers of America’s past, present, and future. Now more than ever, it’s important to recognize the importance of community gardening. No person is an island, and the same is true for gardeners. Share seeds, garden with your neighbors, and volunteer in your local community garden to get involved! Collards Georgia Southern Collards Seeds Cowpea Bean California Blackeye Bush Cowpea Seeds Okra Clemson Spineless 80 Okra Seeds Soybean This is one of the crops that create the backbone of the agricultural industry. Soybeans are a crucial crop in America. Alongside corn and wheat, they form the backbone of our agricultural industry. Though many growers now love soybeans, Dr. George Washington Carver loved and promoted them widely in the late 1800s and early 1900s. His work at Tuskegee University is essential to our understanding of plants and their effect on the soil. At the time, many agricultural fields were wrecked by decades of cotton growing. The soil was exhausted and needed rejuvenation. Soybeans are nitrogen fixers—they partner with nitrogen-fixing bacteria near their roots to turn atmospheric nitrogen into a form that plants can access. Dr. Carver taught that soybeans help the farmer and the soil. They provide an easy cash crop while boosting nitrogen rates in depleted soils. Honor Dr. Carver and his legacy with a few soybean plants in your garden. They grow like bean plants, with trifoliate leaves and thin, spindly stems. Fresh and dried soybeans are edible, adding protein and fiber to the meal. Peanut This soil-enriching crop was promoted by Dr. Carver, a famous Black agriculturalist. Peanuts are another soil-enriching cash crop that Dr. Carver promoted during his lifetime. The plants’ roots partner with nitrogen-fixing bacteria, creating fertile soil wherever they grow. Though they originated from South America, they came to North America via the African Diaspora. Peanuts grow nut-like seeds, though they’re leguminous like beans and peas. They form yellow pea-like flowers above the ground. After pollination, the flowers form pods and dive underground to form nutritious peanuts. Sweet Potato This crop has been popularized by black chefs using it in recipes like sweet potato pie. The sweet potato is a popular food staple of the southern U.S., growing well in the warm summer weather that’s common in the region. Black chefs helped popularize the root crop, using it in recipes like sweet potato pie. In 1881, Abby Fisher published a recipe for homemade sweet potato pie in her book What Mrs. Fisher Knows About Old Southern Cooking. She’s the second African-American woman to publish a cookbook in America, carving the way for later generations. The first is Mrs. Malinda Russell; she self-published A Domestic Cookbook: Containing a Careful Selection of Useful Receipts for the Kitchen in 1866! Dr. Carver loved sweet potatoes too. He experimented with using them in over 100 new ways, creating demand for the roots with new products and machinery. Though sweet potatoes form seeds, you’re better off planting “slips.” Slips are cut pieces of the tubers with sprouts. Plant them after frost dissipates from your area. Okra This crop with mucilaginous pods originated from Africa and has made its way to North America. Okra hails from Africa and Asia where it grows in warm, tropical regions. Like peanuts, the crop came to North America from Africa. It’s incredibly popular in the South where it often grows perennially. Cooks fry the chopped pods and serve them with dipping sauce. They’re delicious! Though delicious, the pods are mucilaginous, meaning they have a slimy coating inside. Some people don’t mind the sliminess, though others vehemently dislike it! Try a few first to see if you like them before planting. If you don’t like their taste, consider growing them as ornamental plants! Space a few around your flowering shrubs and perennials. They sprout mallow-like yellow flowers with maroon throats that are gorgeous under the summer sunshine. Black-Eyed Pea They are legumes that originated from Africa and are essential to traditional African-American dishes. Black-eyed peas, or cowpeas, are legumes. They’re beans, not peas, growing well during the summer. Popular in the South, they are an essential ingredient in traditional African-American dishes like Hoppin’ John. It’s a delicious recipe with slow-cooked black-eyed peas, collards, and ham, and it’s perfect for warming the belly on cold winter days. Dr. Carver knew the importance of these beans. He wrote about them in one of his bulletins, saying, “…they are absolutely indispensable in a wise crop rotation and in the rational feeding of both man and beast.” In this, he meant that black-eyed peas feed livestock with forage and farmers with edible beans. They also fix nitrogen. Plant pea seeds during Black History Month or later in the spring to maximize soil fertility. These beans originated from Africa, where they grow perennially under continuous warmth. Though they grow best in the South, you can plant them in summer from USDA hardiness zones 5 through 10. Gilo Eggplant The ‘Gilo’ is a highly decorative eggplant that originated in West Africa. Gilo eggplants are similar to traditional ones, with tasty flesh and thin skin. They form a white globe that looks like a teardrop. They’re highly decorative! Though they originated in West Africa, they’re now popular throughout the East Coast and southern U.S. Some other names include garden egg and scarlet eggplant. They’re close relatives of pumpkin-on-a-stick, a lovely decorative eggplant that first grew in West Africa. Highly versatile, gilo eggplants add savory flavor to boiled, sauteed, and roasted dishes. You’ll often find these eggplants in cans or jars at grocery stores, labeled “garden eggs.” Though this is an easy way to try them, they taste much better when you grow them in your garden. Collards This is one of the main staples of African, African-American, and Southern recipes. Collards, or collard greens, are cabbage relatives with sweet, nutrient-rich leaves. The leaves are the main vegetable of the crop, as they’re wide, thick, and hardy. Both heat and frost-tolerant, collards are perfect for growing in warm temperate zones throughout the U.S. These greens are an essential part of American history, as they’re one of the main staples of African, African-American, and Southern recipes. They originated in Greece, where they traveled South through Africa. From Africa, they made their way to the U.S. during the African Diaspora. If you’re looking to honor Southern cooking, you’ll need a collard or two in your garden. The leaves cook down well like Swiss chard. Sauté butter with onions and garlic, add broth, then place chopped, washed collards in the boiling broth. Let them simmer until soft and tender for a nutrient-rich and delicious side dish! Cantaloupe In Africa, gardeners and farmers enjoy cantaloupe as it is a main staple of cuisines. Like collards and black-eyed peas, cantaloupe is a main staple of cuisines spanning continents—gardeners and farmers enjoy it in Africa, the southern U.S., India, and Australia, among other places. It grows like watermelon, sprouting edible melons from long-travelling vines. Lush, green leaves shade the maturing melons while they capture sunlight. Unlike most other crops on this list, this fruit is best fresh. Plant cantaloupe seeds after the last frost (around Black History Month for warmer zones), and you’ll enjoy fresh melons in 80 days. They’re ready to eat when they emit a sweet-smelling odor and have brown netting on their skin. Sesame The sesame originated from various parts of the world and has spread throughout parts of Africa. Sesame may not be the first plant you think of planting in February, though it’s a perfect plant to honor Black History Month! It originated from areas like India, Assam, Bangladesh, and the West Himalayas, and it naturalized itself throughout parts of Africa. For thousands of years, chefs and cooks used it in China, Egypt, and Babylon. Sesame is incredibly popular in the South, where it grows well in long, warm summers and plenty of direct sunlight. Look for sweet recipes, such as benne wafers, which consist of ground sesame and whole seeds. Benne wafers are a staple cookie in South Carolina and are common in stores around the state. Make them yourself with homegrown sesame for tasty treats unlike any you’ve had before! African Rice This is a well-known crop in Africa that is easy to grow and does not require flooding. This drought-tolerant rice is rapidly disappearing from the world! Rice strains of Oryza sativa are replacing this African native rice, displacing it from its original habitats. Preserve this rice’s history by growing a plant this year. Rice is easier to grow than you’d think, and it often doesn’t require flooding like in commercial farming. After growing the rice, collect and harvest the seeds. You’ll enjoy whole grain edible rice, and you’ll have seeds to plant the next year. Though this rice is well-known in Africa, it’s been a popular grain in the American South since the early 1800s. You’ll sometimes find it by the name “red-bearded upland rice.” Flowering Cherry The flowering cherry tree is a legacy of Roland Maurice Jefferson, the first Black botanist for the United States National Arboretum. Not a crop, the flowering cherry tree is an iconic ornamental species native to Japan, China, and Korea. Plant one today and you’ll honor the legacy of the first Black botanist for the United States National Arboretum, Roland Maurice Jefferson. He started at the arboretum replacing plant labels before becoming head botanist. His professional work is essential in our understanding of crabapple and cherry genetics, as well as the history of these two tree species. He studied the flowering cherry specimens in the arboretum and Washington D.C., taking cuttings to propagate further. After letting the cuttings grow, he presented the trees to Japan alongside First Lady Nancy Reagan. These are some of the dozens of iconic achievements Roland Jefferson made during his lifetime! Sadly, he passed away in 2020. Before his passing, he donated the Roland Maurice Jefferson Collection. It includes his records on cherry and crabapple cultivation. Honor his incredible legacy with a flowering cherry; they grow well in containers! Source link

#GARDEN_TOOLS #BLACK #HISTORY #HONOR #MONTH #PLANT #SEEDS

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yuuniee · 8 months ago

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“I know it’s hard to get here, fighting tooth and nail... But don’t ever think of giving up, ‘kay?”

Name: Hayes Emmett Serafino

Japanese: ヘイズ・エメット・セラフィノ (heizu emetto serafino)

Dorm: Monsville (@fumikomiyasaki)

Birthday: August 17th (Leo)

Age: 19

Height: 203 cm (418 cm in monster form!)

Dominant Hand: Right

Homeland: Interstate Hill

Family: Unnamed mother, unnamed father

Voiced by: Jun Fukuyama

Nicknames/Aliases: Monsieur Armstrong (Rook), Sacambampis/Sakanbanpis-kun (Floyd)

Grade: Third

Class: 3-C (no. 02)

Club: Track and Field Club

Best Subject: Physical Education

Hobby: Making candles

Favorite Food: Caramel corn, homemade vegetable stew

Least Favorite Food: Burnt food

Pet Peeves: Being seen as the scary guy, ignorant people, terrible jokes, harming others, bull jokes regarding his horns

Talent: Good intuition, staying calm even in the most stressful situations

Appearance: Hayes is a young gentleman with cyan hair with purple streaks in front, ocean blue eyes, and a muscular body. He also has a pair of brown curved horns on top of his head.

In his school uniform, he wears a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark blue vest, and he doesn’t wear the gray jacket that everyone wears. Under these, he wears the black pants with gold stripes on each side and a pair of grey slipons with his white socks showing a little.

In his dorm uniform, he wears a white shirt with his name tag on it, a pair of blue pants with its legs tucked in the boots he’s wearing, along with a strap holding the pants up.

Personality: Although he seems like he’ll glare down at people’s soul, he is actually hardworking, confident and overall a good person. Very caring, affectionate, but can get really cocky sometimes.

Unique Magic: “Surface Pressure”

It allows him to deal ‘invisible’ blows.

What I mean is that his Unique Magic allows him to create enough pressure to deal hard blows on the target(s). Since it’s used with very little magic, he can use it every time he wants. He prefers not to use it though.

Fun Facts:

He is the son of a famous inventor and he’s been wanting to be like him ever since he was a young child.

When he was little, he was taller than other children his age and was a little chubby at the time, so they would bully him relentlessly. However, when he met Micah, things changed for him. They bonded over time and became the inseparable duo we know today.

Aside from chicken soup, one of the best foods he makes is blueberry pie.

He’s roommates with his Bromosome™

When it comes to the terms of internet, he’s like a computer whiz. He can solve it if anyone has a problem with their devices.

He prefers casual clothing to any type of clothing, but will wear the appropriate stuff if the situation calls for it.

When stressed out, he tends to ruffle, pull, or rip some chunks out of his hair.

Yes, he does have several scars on his face and body. That’s because he was accused of murder in the past and it caused his good reputation to crumble and other people to see him as a dangerous person. From that reason alone, they tend to fear him and leave him alone.

From the canon cast, he seems to be on good terms with Malleus, Trey, Deuce and Ortho.

In his Birthday Boy card’s story, he mentions knowing how to play electric guitar. He also has a black one in his room.

He also has several music bands’ posters around his room. Mostly from rock bands though.

He is secretly a livestreamer who makes tutorials on how to assemble a machine, how to do the chores and how to use some electronics in the simplest narrative possible, going by the name “How To...” But there are times where he joins his close friends’ streams to unwind a bit. (He often plays with them too!)

In his Lab Coat story, he mentions knitting gloves for himself before. But since the pairs he made didn’t fit in his hand, he started to look around and saw a litter of shivering kittens, and he ended up putting the gloves on them instead.

He sometimes can be seen chewing mint gum.

In his Dorm Uniform card’s story, he mentions that there was a period of time where he had an emo phase. Although Micah teases him for it later, he says that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

He has a tuna sandwich and some iced coffee for lunch once every week.

He seems to enjoy playing with his cat and kittens in his spare time.

Like Vivienne, his hair is actually curly, but he uses a hair straightener to keep it straight.

Before he went to jail, he had a girlfriend who only wanted to be with him for his fame and money, thinking Hayes is one of those rich and dumb people. But unfortunately he caught on and didn’t spend a dime on her and only got her cheap gifts. After he was released back, he saw that she was dating another man and they broke up on the spot. He seemed completely unfazed, but in reality he was beyond heartbroken.

[More facts are yet to come, please be patient!! 💗]

#twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #monsville oc #hayes emmett serafino

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ssolessurvivor · 2 years ago

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Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate!

(for those of you curious my husband is doing well in recovery from surgery, he can't wait to have the bestest comfort food <3)

I won't be here much today as we're going over to the parent's place to celebrate, but!

If you have a ship with Logan, this is what a Finnegan Thanksgiving would look like between our muses!

-It's always held at Logan's cabin, as his grandparents were always the ones who had holiday gatherings there before they passed.

-His mom comes over early with the turkey and they get it prepped together as a sort of mother/son quiet time before the day starts.

-Tegan brings a lot of baked goods over once she closes the cafe at noon from working in the morning.

-Logan makes his 'famous' mashed potatoes. (While Logan is cooking, sneaky Melanie and Tegan hang mistletoe all around the cabin).

-Melanie brings over various side dishes, like veggies, cranberry jelly, homemade rolls, and also her homemade stuffing.

-While Logan is cooking, Melanie usually has a project she's working on in the living room while her and their mom and dad chat, Tegan will come in and help get all the sides heated up with Logan and they have their own time together in that way preparing food.

-They usually end up watching A Christmas Story after they eat, it's sort of a tradition they have to wind down. They always have a fire going in the hearth all day, it never goes out until evening when Logan is alone.

-Leftovers are packed away and separated equally to each family member.

-It's just a merry gathering of a small family full of love and so much to be thankful for. Sometimes his niece and nephew come over once their own celebrations are over to get some pumpkin pie for dessert and watch the movie with their favorite uncle and co.

Have a happy day everyone and be safe <3

@walkitoffrogers @redhead-reporter @goldenboybarracuda @princedickhead @shieldagentnatasharomanoff @amarvelousmencgerie @adversitybloomed @vvolfstare @smertzimy @incissam @vuulpecula @wallcrawlparker @respondedinkind @sxrgeantbarnes

#ooc also #but hey happy thanksgiving everyone <3 #have a merry and happy day and eat some amazing food with those you love #{ ☾ – what makes you unbreakable } headcanon

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xmollyweasleyx · 9 months ago

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where: the burrow. who: @edgarebones; edgar bones.

Edgar was an old friend. Seeing him at the party reminded Molly she had not spent enough time with him as of late. She knew he was a busy man but even the busiest of people needed time to relax and enjoy the world rather than fighting it — no matter how much fighting needed to be done.

Molly sent him an owl inviting him to the burrow for lunch, hoping to break up his day a bit. She hadn’t heard back from him but it was only sent that morning. She believed he would show so she cooked. Molly made her world famous, homemade fish and chips. And an apple pie, sitting in the window to cool. And some pumpkin pasties. There’s never enough dessert.

Rather than having the boys running around she sent them to spend time with their uncle Fabian who actually had the day off — perhaps she should have invited him too but then who would have watched the children? Another day.

Molly was finishing up the chips she was working on when she heard a knock at the door. “Ah!” she hopped to the door and opened it. “Edgar!” she exclaimed. “Come in, come in.”

#ft. edgar #edgarebones;;#edgar | 002

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cdyssey · 2 years ago

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Wreck

Summary: When Melissa's nana dies, Barbara is there for her.

CW: Death Discussion; Heavy Grief

AO3 Link

Melissa smooths her to-do list across her kitchen island with trembling fingers. Having been folded and unfolded several times over, marked upon profusely, tossed into her purse, crammed into her back pocket, unceremoniously stuffed into her bra at least twice, and probably stained with some cheap Chardonnay that her kid cousin picked up from Dollar General, the tear-out from a yellow legal pad has certainly seen better days.

But, hey, that’s nothin’ special.

She guesses she looks like a shit piece of paper too, all crinkled and creased, smudged and barely fit for perusal anymore.

Someone load her ass in a garbage truck and cart her off to the dump because she’s a wreck: fucked up, overwhelmed, annihilated, undone.

She doesn’t even feel like a human anymore.

Her nana died just around two days ago now, passing from the world about as peacefully as one could dare to imagine for a woman who’d been sick for the last ten months of her life. It was quiet in the end, as simple and as easy as falling asleep after a long, hard day. And the doctor-on-call promised that the sedative he was giving her would ensure that it was painless, which was a relief perhaps only because everything else leading up to that day had been so goddamn painful: the sickness, the waiting, the wrenching, bone-heavy grief.

(It was entirely possible to grieve someone who was still alive—to look at their utterly wasted body and understand that what was left was just a tangible echo, a breathing ghost.)

Melissa held her bony hand during that last hour and told her that it was okay to go—she’d be fine—and it was the first and only lie she’d ever told that saint of a woman in the entirety of her life.

She didn’t exactly ask forgiveness for doing so either.

She thought that if God knew anything about mercy, He’d understand and grant her this one sin: comforting that comfortless woman.

Nana had been ready to go, of course—sure, yeah, absolutely—she had known that it was her time for far longer than any of her headstrong relatives had been willing to admit. But she was so scared too: scared of leaving all her loved ones without their resilient matriarch, scared of their eventual (and perhaps inevitable) in-fighting, scared of a fractious future that she wouldn’t be around to mend with a homemade ziti dish and warm, jam-filled pie. She made Melissa promise—over and over again, ad infinitum—that she’d keep the Schemmenti clan together long after she was gone.

“Family’s all that we’ve got, Melly,” she once said. In the same way that Joe was the only person to call her Lissa, Nana was the only one to ever know her as Melly. It was a bit childish, maybe, but Melissa didn't mind. She always felt like she was twelve again when she was in her grandmother's presence: gap-toothed, impertinent, a hellion in patched overalls. “You gotta swear to me, on your Papa’s grave, that you’ll always remember that—no matter how balorde some of your aunts and uncles can be.”

“Nana!”She’d belly laughed at the time, bracing her hands on the edge of Nana’s steel-basin sink. They’d been in the kitchen together, as they so often were, peeling russet potatoes for her famous gnocchi recipe. This was at the very beginning of those long ten months when they both thought she just was just having bad arthritis flare-ups, perhaps. Her doctor was supposed to call sometime in the next few days with the results from her most recent labs...

“Those are your kids. You can’t just call ‘em stupid.”

(Even if it was expressly true.)

“Yeah, I can! I pushed them outta me, every one of ‘em eight or nine pounds a pop! Apple doesn’t fall far from the bush is what I say!”

It was the kind of statement that only her grandmother could pull off, something that made her want to snort and cry at the exact same time. She was outrageously funny, that stout, little woman, but she never seemed to think much of herself, especially when it came to education. She had to drop out of high school to work and help her parents raise their endless passel of kids, and then, before she knew it, she was poppin’ out little redheaded Sicilian Catholics of her own—Melissa’s own ma included.

Nana was so proud of her for making it through college and becoming a teacher, telling her as much every opportunity that she got, and constantly bragging about her accomplishments to her canasta group. She’d known how hard it was for Melissa at times.

Reading had always been a little challenging for her.

Taking exams could be a goddamn nightmare.

“Would you quit flippin’ saying that?” Melissa had rebutted, both exasperated and fond all at once, attempting to discipline her smirk into a reproving frown. “You’re not dumb either, Nana. Alright? Capito?"

She was the smartest person Melissa knew, high school diploma or not, for education was far from the same as intelligence in her book. There were plenty of eggheads out there with degrees coming out of their asses who didn't know how to haggle for the best cuts of beef or stay clear of certain Philly streets at night or change a flat with a crying kid on one hip and three more bouncin' around in the car. Before she had ever decided to become an elementary school teacher, those sorts of things were her only measures of how clever a person really was, and her grandmother had been the golden standard of them all—competent in a world that could be so arbitrary, needlessly complicated, and cruel.

At this, her sweet nana suddenly smiled, her dark eyes warmed by the golden light leaning in from the window above the sink. It was a sad smile and a profound one—the kind that little, old ladies always gave in the movies before they up and died, kickstarting the next act. It was accompanied by a slow shake of the head. She had her green rollers in; they shivered in time with the movement.

“Good God, I love you, Melissa,” she had murmured softly, each syllable laden with a certain gravity, as though she already suspected something about her health that Melissa didn’t, as though she had an inkling of what awaited her in the coming days, weeks, and months upon godawful, medicine and machine-filled months. Maybe Melissa should have known then herself—by that rare usage of her Christian name, by the way her stubborn-as-hell grandmother didn’t argue back—that something was horribly wrong.

But she hadn't.

Just ten months and some spare change ago, it was impossible for her to fathom a world where her nana wasn't in it.

She just accepted that love, basked in it, took it for granted even, and now, a little less than a year later, as she pores over a checklist of all the shit she’s gotta do to bury that precious lady—(so much, too flipping much)—she racks her exhausted brain and wonders if she’d said it back that time.

I love you too, Nana.

Of course, she’s said it about a gazillion times since then. Never left a conversation with the woman without doing so in case it was their last. But all the times she didn’t reciprocate those three words and every other missed or botched opportunity besides tangibly aches her chest, pounds upon it, like fists against an awful drum. Missed calls. Canceled lunch dates. Squandered chances to ask her about her storied life. The endless thank you she didn’t give that woman for practically raising her.

It’s irrational, of course, so goddamn stupid; she loved that woman endlessly and proved it in a thousand different ways.

But even still, what she wouldn’t give for one last tomorrow with her to tell her again and again.

Unbidden, unwanted, totally out-of-line and out-of-the-blue, tears threaten to spill over Melissa’s lashes and onto that yellow paper that’s already been to hell and back. She furiously swipes them away with the heel of her hand, doesn’t have the time to cry.

She’s still gotta call the Social Security Office and get Nana’s checks to stop comin’ through the mail. And after that, she has to take Joe’s suit to the dry cleaner ‘cuz her useless lump of a husband keeps forgetting. And when she gets back home—at who knows what time because she’s really gotta stop at the store and grab a few necessities—she desperately needs to go through Nana’s files again to see if she’s got that damn burial policy in there somewhere. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to pay for the service and the cremation out of pocket, even if she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the funeral director, who can only get them an okay deal, which is fine.

It'll help, or at the very least, it won't hurt, but the crux of the sordid matter—the bottom line at the end of the shitty day—is that dying is so freakin' expensive.

“Fuck,” she groans, sliding her hand down until she’s palming her mouth. “Shit.”

No one ever talks about how the aftermath of death is just one cold bureaucracy after another: files, papers, tasks, and duties.

It’s unbearable.

Melissa alone has to bear it.

Her ma’s gone. Her remaining aunts and uncles are fragile. Her cousins aren’t any good with this kind of organizational crap. Her own goddamn sister’s been AWOL ever since the diagnosis, and the rest of her younger siblings haven’t done jack squat either.

It’s up to Melissa.

It always is.

That doesn't change just because someone she loved died.

The responsibilities simply take up the same air as the grief.

Just as she’s about to get started, though, reaching for her phone to start looking up numbers, her one saving grace walks in through the arched entranceway of the kitchen. Elegant as ever in a floral print blouse and black slacks, a plastic bag hanging off one arm, her comically huge purse on the other, is none other than—

“Barb,” she croaks, overwhelmed and overcome, weak-kneed with a relief that she just as immediately tries to hide. Vulnerability utterly terrifies her; it is one of the few house guests that she doesn’t know how to capably entertain.

“You don’t… y’know, you don’t have to come every day.”

But her best friend unfailingly has, bringing over various dishes and groceries, helping Melissa keep track of all the shit she needs to do, and oftentimes, just sitting next to her on her plastic-covered couch and holding her hand, palm-to-palm, their ten fingers intertwined. If Melissa has known any modicum of peace in this hellish last week, it’s only because Barbara Howard has deigned to carve out some for her, offering it to her like an alm.

God bless her—she even showed up before her nana passed away, when family and friends were just congregating in Melissa’s house, filtering in and out of the guest bedroom where Nana’s hospital bed was to say their goodbyes. And when death finally lifted Nana away—arriving as gently as a mother carrying her child to bed—Barbara’s warm arms were the first around Melissa, holding her so tightly, her lone defenses against collapsing into a million goddamn pieces on the floor.

Barbara would never let that happen, though.

She had her.

She would cradle all her shrapnel; she would salvage her from abyssal ruins.

“And you,sweetheart, know better than to think that’ll stop me,” Barbara laughs kindly, setting her purse and plastic bag on the kitchen island. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, a lovely playfulness curving her plum-colored lips. “I do as I please.”

“Stubborn fool,” Melissa chuckles hoarsely, a sudden thickness in the column of her throat. She’s always on the verge of crying over nothing nowadays: spilled wine on the counter, a sad headline on the news, smelling something in the kitchen that reminds her of her grandmother, being joked with, having companionship, being loved.

She knows that she’s been caught, too, by the way her friend gingerly skims her fingertips against her forearm.

It’s the lightest touch imaginable.

It nearly shatters her where she stands.

“Yes,” Barbara hums in gentle agreement, “that’s why we get along like two peas in an unshelled pod.”

“Hah,” she tries to smile. Her entire mouth feels like concrete. “Some pod.”

“Extraordinary peas, though, if I do say so myself,” the older woman declares with an air of finality as she starts to busy herself, pulling out a white takeout container and some utensils from the plastic bag. Even before she sees the familiar logo of a happy chef wedged in-between some blocky lettering, Melissa knows the rich, homely smell of fried chicken.

And not just any fried chicken, but—

“Danny's Wok?” Her eyebrows lift at least three inches from their exhausted lids. “Jesus, Barb, that’s all the way across town. You didn’t have to—“

But Barbara cuts her off with a raised hand, a familiar teacher pose. “But I wanted to and so I did. Now park your fine derrière on a stool and tell me what you would like to drink, girlfriend.”

“I’ve got things to do,” she protests weakly, gesturing at the to-do list still laying pathetically on the counter. She doesn't know why she's being so obstinate. Maybe it's just instinct; her immediate reaction to people offering help has always been a deep, gut-felt shame: shame that she can't do something by herself; shame that she's so weak, and someone else is stronger; shame that she isn't enough. (One of her deepest fears is that she's never been enough) Or maybe it's because she just doesn't want to think about the way that Barbara saying she had a nice ass made the contents of her stomach do a loop de loop.

“I can eat later.”

It’s not a sentence she’s said very often in her lifetime, and Barbara peers at her skeptically, damn well knowing this.

“But when’s the last time you did have a bite, Melissa? You look pale.”

“I had a piece of toast this morning,” she grunts uncomfortably, more than aware that it’s not sufficient by either of their standards. That was hours ago. According to the digital clock on her oven, it’s nearly five o’clock now.

But all truth being told, she hasn’t been particularly hungry in a while, not since the hospice worker sat her down a few days before Nana died and said that it’d be soon.Food has lost a lot of its flavor. Nausea is constantly doing laps around her digestive tract. She doesn’t know how to care about eating when this grief is taking up so much real estate in her body and never paying any of the rent.

“Hardly enough,” Barbara scolds predictably, first pushing the styrofoam tray in her direction, now shuffling towards the stainless steel fridge, no nonsense and all productivity. It's how she shows her love. “You need to put something substantial in your stomach, sweetheart. You'll be of no use to your list if you keel over on top of it."

“Okay, Ma,” she huffs, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it because she obediently unlatches the box anyway. She knows that Barbara is right, as she usually—(sometimes annoyingly)—is.

“Ma is correct,” the older woman hums, undeterred. “Someone needs to be responsible for you.”

It's hard not to feel chastised by such a statement, as though she's being patronized—a little kid in her own damn home; she attempts a weak smile anyway. It wobbles like a tricycle across the chapped line of her mouth.

“‘Cause I’m doing a shit job at it, yeah?”

Of course she is; she's a disaster with good hair.

“Absolutely not,” comes an exceedingly gentle reply, thrown over the other teacher's shoulder, landing as gently as a kiss. “It’s just that you seem to think it’s your God-given duty to be responsible for everyone else in this world except for yourself. Let me—no, wait, I insist upon—doing the same for you, Melissa."

A new lump surfaces to Melissa’s throat as she digests this unadulterated tenderness; it’s unfamiliar to her, even after so many years of receiving it from the angelic woman standing in her kitchen. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She holds it in her like a rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour.

“It’s scary that you have my number like this,” she finally says, and it’s the type of thing that she’s not supposed to mention aloud—she knows. She’s well aware. She’s spent an entire lifetime avoiding emotional honesty like it’s a summons for jury duty. But sometimes—if only sometimes, and usually only when a hell of a lot of booze is involved—she and Barbara can transcend their mutual understanding to never talk about the way they secretly look at each other when they think no one is watching and arrive at the undoctored truth of their shared experiences.

They know each other.

They love each other.

Far more intimately than should be allowed.

Barbara freezes where she stands, shoulders squared, hand gripping one of the fridge handles; she doesn’t turn around, possibly can't.

“Well... that’s what friends are for,” she returns in a stilted voice, picking her way around each individual phoneme like it's a landmine. It’s a warning tone even, begging Melissa not to press, and so Melissa doesn’t, swallowing painfully—just as submissive as a dog and far more devoted.

The sticky moment passes—it always does. Barbara retrieves a half-empty jug of sweet tea from the fridge, and Melissa slowly legs herself onto a stool next to the island. Her feet ache—her head, her chest, her entire goddamn body—but when Barbara joins her a few moments later, having poured them glasses of tea and grabbed napkins and condiments, both of them proceed as though nothing happened at all. Melissa picks at the chicken in an exercise of politeness, tearing off a little piece here or there and trying to chew it in slow, methodical bites.

It tastes like burnt rubber.

She attempts to wash it down with her drink, but the sickly sweetness of the tea just as quickly nauseates her.

Barbara can’t keep up the ruse of not paying attention to this sad ritual for very long.

“I can make you soup,” she offers pleadingly, already halfway off her own stool. "Potato? Broccoli-and-cheese? Vegetable?" Melissa places a hand on her leg to force her to sit down again.

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” she says firmly. “I... just don’t have it in me right now, Barb.”

And without flinching or glancing away, though every nerve in her body itches to bundle her present fragility away from view, she allows the other woman to search her face and confirm this unsavory truth. She bares every line and gaunt shadow; they surely adorn the curvature of her face like bruises.

“You can only do what you can do,” the older woman replies reluctantly, as though it’s the thing she knows she’s supposedto say and not necessarily what she actually believes. Melissa almost smiles at that assessment, smug in her assurance that it's the correct one. Barbara’s never been exceptionally good at hiding her feelings. People think that she is. Hell, even Barbara herself thinks she has others fooled.

But Melissa can see right through her, all those hundreds of things that she doesn’t say, that she entraps behind those tightly pursed lips for fear of being construed as ungodly. She thumbs through the Book of Barbara almost daily—with all the reverence that such a project deserves—and her diligence has rewarded her with all the beautiful fine print.

“Advice you gotta listen to yourself, hon,” she muses fondly, patting Barbara’s leg again before finally withdrawing her hand. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me these past few days. It’s not your fault I’ve got a sick stomach right now.”

“I know,” she admits in that same grudging tone, “but still, I’d do anything to make things better for you, Melissa, to relieve the burden on your shoulders even the tiniest bit.”

She gestures emphatically at the to-do list between them with one of her manicured friends.

“It’s far from fair that you’re in charge of all this when I know for a fact that you have other family members who are perfectly capable of helping to lighten the load. For instance”—she picks the paper up, scanning it briefly—”Joseph’s dry-cleaning! Why in God’s precious name isn’t your husband doing his own dry-cleaning?”

“He’s busy,” Melissa says in a clipped voice, less offended that Barbara is criticizing her husband than she is annoyed that her friend arrived at the same question that she did so easily. “At work. Fightin’ fires.”

Spending his paychecks on booze and scratchers and God only knows what else. Sometimes, he comes home smelling like strange perfume.

The kindergarten teacher emphatically shakes her head. “That doesn’t abscond him of his duty of being a responsible adult in a time of crisis.”

“Yeah, well—” She starts to defend him and then just as abruptly stops, suddenly cornered and violently choked.

Melissa doesn’t know what to fucking say to that, if there's anything to be said at all. If she argues, she’d just be lying to herself, to Barbara, and to almighty God—an unholy trinity of delusion and willing deceit. There’s just no excusing the inexcusable, no dressing it up in rouge and calling it pretty.

She’s alone.

Oh, God—her nana died and left her.

She's got a husband and he sleeps in the same bed as her, but somehow and nevertheless, she’s all alone.

Her eyes begin to water, her breathing quickly turning shallow, as everything inside of her falls apart and implodes.

Barbara quickly places the list down again and exchanges it for a tissue that she plucks from a nearby box, reaching up to wipe the tears away. Her cool palm skims the side of Melissa’s feverish face, and the contact is so tender that it’s almost too painful to bear. Melissa reaches up and curls her fingers around her friend’s wrist like it’s a lifeline, unable to form any words, her throat throttled with vile, her stomach sick with it. And the tears continue to well, no matter how many Barbara capably catches.

She heaves out one ugly sob and then another, covering her mouth with her free hand as though that would help with the inconvenience and the noise.

(She's spent most of her adulthood trying not to be inconvenient to make up for all her loudness and her noise.)

“Oh, Melissa—” Barbara exhales, her own dark eyes filling. She continues to stroke the side of her face, holding her cheek, cradling it, cradling her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay that you’re hurting. It’s okay to feel this pain.”

“I-it’s freakin’ not, though,” she moans, the sound muffled behind her hand, the unspeakable anguish leaking through anyway. Her nails curl into her lower lip. “I… I gotta keep it together, Barb! I can’t just—Jesus—I can’t just fall apart. I don’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t—”

She can’t breathe. Surely, there’s a vice in her chest, squeezing her ribcage into mere molecules and skeletal dust. Surely, her lungs have burst, her veins, her bleeding heart, one massive supernova of flesh and gory tissue, and this moment's all she’s got left. Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds. She’s going to die right here and right now, while Nana is unburied, and her to-do list is still unfinished, and—

“You can, Melissa Schemmenti,” comes an authoritative voice from above, shaking but somehow utterly unshaken, ringing like a decree from the Lord God on High. And then Barbara’s warm arms are around her, filling the encroaching darkness with all the flowers on her shirt: sunflowers, poppies, lillies, and roses. Petals everywhere. A garden of beauty and impossible delight. “You cando this because I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go under. You hear me, sweetheart? That’s my promise to you, my solemn, unbreakable oath.”

It’s the loveliest combination of words Melissa has probably ever been told in her life; she cries all the harder, weeping her horror, half-vomiting it. Her mouth tastes like tea and salt.

“Breathe,”Barbara instructs her, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of her head. One of her hands finds its way to the hollow of Melissa’s constricted throat; she splays her fingers against it, palm resting on her chest where the divot of her shirt exposes some of her skin. “You have to breathe, Melissa.”

But it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Every hitched breath still becomes a sob, and every sob reverberates through her beaten body like a shock wave. But Barbara is patient where she isn't, a sturdy monolith when all of her vertices have become undone. She begins to rub slow, methodical circles into Melissa's sternum, perhaps modeling a rhythm that she can pattern her breathing against. As the seconds limp past, every bit as injured as she is, she learns to inhale on one revolution and exhale on another, doing this until her heart rate begins to slow again, until the tightness in her chest recedes long enough for her to rationally confirm that she’s not, in fact, dying.

She's living.

(And after someone dies, that's one of the bravest damn things that anyone can ever do.)

Even after her pulse somewhat returns to normal, she and Barbara remain tangled together for what feels like hours, even though it’s surely only a handful of minutes.

Melissa finally lowers her hand from her mouth and twists it somewhere in the paradise of Barbara’s blouse.

Barbara kisses her head again, a little lower this time, near the peak of her red hairline.

Neither of them makes any move to extricate themselves from each other. Melissa doesn’t have the strength, every ligament in her body wrung with incalculable exhaustion. (She’s not exactly sure what Barbara’s excuse is. As secure as she is in her companion's embrace, she currently can't bring herself to care.)

“... I shouldn’t be this weak,” she eventually rasps, and it’s a confession. She’s glad she can’t see her priest’s scandalized face. “I had plenty of time to prepare for this. I’ve known forever she was gonna go.”

“As though that means a hill of beans when you loved her so much,” Barbara murmurs, now running slender fingers through her hair, the motion soothing and rhythmic, reminding Melissa of all the times that Nana had done the same when she was a small child. She briefly closes her eyes, simultaneously endeared by the memories and made sick by them. “You can’t prepare your way through grief. Believe me, girl—I’ve been there, tried that, and it went about as well as can be expected, which is to say not even remotely well at all.”

Melissa chuckles at the convoluted explanation; they both do; they laugh so hard that it almost sounds like they’re crying. She finally pulls back, wanting to look her friend in the eye, but Barbara still grips her by the arms, refusing to let her go.

And they simply drink each other in, mesmerized, tears standing in their eyes, an interwoven statue unto their own: locked limbs, glassy eyes, and a hushed silence that descends upon them like snow.

Maybe they would have stayed like that forever had one of their phones not chimed: her own, laying face-up on the counter. She sees that it's a reminder letting her know that she can take another Prozac in an hour if she needs one. If Barbara sees it—(and with the angle of the phone being the way that it is, she absolutely does)—she's kind; she doesn't say anything; there isn't really anything that needs to be said.

“Shit." She tries to wipe her face on the sleeve of her shirt. It's not a successful endeavor. “I’m a wreck.”

“Maybe so," Barbara agrees, grabbing more tissues for them both. She mops Melissa's face up before delicately attending to her own. "But you won't be forever, you know. it's a transition, not a permanent way of being."

"Doesn't feel that way," she hears herself grouse. It's petulant, a little childish even in her low voice, but it's what she feels; it's her personal nightmare of a lived-in reality.

"I know." The older woman reaches up to thumb away a new tear that has formed at the corner of Melissa's left eye. "But grief rarely ever does."

It's not an especially comforting thought, but Barbara clearly knows her well enough to understand that comforting isn't exactly what she needs right now.

She needs the truth, however ugly it happens to be, however unkind, and the ugly truth is that grief is far from fucking pretty too; it is certainly not kind.

"I love you, Melissa Schemmenti," Barbara adds quietly—in the same hushed cadence that all of their unutterable truths seem to be encased in.

It's dirty, this confession, this boundless and eternal love.

It can't ever be spoken in a normal way and tone.

"You know that, don't you?"

The pad of her thumb is still pressed against Melissa's skin, and there is such little space between them, mere inches and other inconsequential measurements besides; temptation has never been a shorter bridge to indecorously cross and just as deliciously burn. This isn't simply a tender moment between bosom friends, she innately knows, and yet, by the virtue of who they are and their relationships with other people, it can't be anything more than that either, she implicitly understands. She's married. Barbara's married. God is watching. Society is judging. Neither of them will make a move that that they can't just as quickly take back.

"I love ya too, Barb," she replies anyway, leaning very slightly into the intimate touch, as though she could pretend for a moment that they don't have to play that awful game.

Just this one evening.

Just this singular time.

They inevitably will, of course—no doubt about that.

One of them will certainly pull away, and the other will instinctively follow, and together, they will tango themselves out of this senseless mess that they have made; they will offer each other plausible deniability as their highest and most sacred form of love. But for now and until that unwelcome moment, in this fractional sliver of a shared existence and eternity, Melissa dares to rest her tired cheek against Barbara's hand as though she's allowed, and Barbara doesn't flinch like she's been burned.

Silently, they construct a mutual fantasy where they can hold each other without hurting.

Or maybe more accurately still, where they can hurt together and not have been each other's sole and ruinous cause.

"Don't ever leave me," Melissa demands a little unfairly.

It's an unkeepable stipulation.

People leave all the time—by necessity, by choice, by coffin, or in Nana's case, urn.

But nonetheless and all the same—

"Wouldn't dream of it," Barbara promises softly, and Melissa chooses to believe her.

#work wives #reginianwrites #I wrote this for myself because it's been a long damn week #and I'm so sorry for your loss if it ends up being for you too #s: abbott elementary

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