#i did have some deli meat earlier but you know what was in the grocery order?

[naomiknight-17]

FUCK YEAH GROCERIES

*Homf homf horf*

The grocery order doesn't arrive for at least another 3.5 hours but I'm hungry NOW

[sailtoafarawayland]

Always a Pirate

Summary:  What started as a bit of mischievous fun for Emma turns into something more when she pushes her husband - always the gentleman - just a little too far, and finds herself settling the score with a very desperate pirate.

Rated: Explicit 

~ Inspired by one of our lovelies on the discord who requested some sweatpants smut - Enjoy! ~

AO3 - FF

Always a Pirate

“Swan, I can't wear these out of the house. Where are all of my pants?” Killian asked, checking for the pair he'd left folded in the laundry room, his black sweater just meeting the low-slung waistband of his joggers.

“Um, I washed them, but I forgot to start the dryer earlier. They're drying now though,” Emma muttered, tugging on her boots and reaching above her for Killian's jacket.

“Can't we wait until they're dry to go to the store?”

“Nope,” she said, tossing the leather jacket across the entryway and shooting him what she hoped was a charming smile as he snatched it out of the air. “It'll take too long, and we really need to find something for dinner and get it started. You know my parents rarely ever get a night without Neal, and David couldn't stop talking about how much they're looking forward to this. I don't want to ruin it by not having food ready. Besides, what's wrong with wearing your sweatpants?”

“These are for the privacy of our home,” he purred, sidling into her space as he slipped his jacket on, popping his hook through the sleeve. “They don't exactly provide the support and coverage a man like me needs, love.”

“Yeah, that's what those boxer briefs I bought you were for,” Emma deadpanned, ignoring how her eyes wanted to flicker to where he was most definitely not wearing her gift.

“Bloody inconvenience those things,” he muttered, dropping down beside her on the bench and lacing up his boots. “No freedom of movement, and it's only one more layer to take off.”

“Come on,” Emma laughed, very familiar with her pirate's loathing for what he called 'small clothes', “we just need to get the job done. It'll be quick, in and out, no big deal.”  

/

It wasn't until they were parked and heading into the store that Emma realized maybe bringing her husband along in pants like that was a big deal and a bad idea, all rolled into one. The soft drape of the joggers left little to the imagination as he strode in front of her, each step he took framing the firm curve of his ass. She hurried to catch up with him, glancing down to see if – yup, just like he'd said, not enough coverage for a man of his size, especially when he was walking so quickly.

A wicked idea began to form in her mind, the pang of desire between her legs making her think that a little grocery store flirtation would be just what she needed to take her mind off the anxiety of cooking dinner for her mom, a woman who's table settings alone always looked like something out of a magazine.

“Alright, Swan, let's find something to impress your mother, shall we?” Killian called back to her, hooking a cart and swinging it in front of him as he pushed through the main doors, heading straight for the fruits and vegetables, Emma's gaze lingering on the play of his firm cheeks the entire way.

“Yeah,” she sighed, her mind very far from what one did with turnips and which spices went well with salmon, instead focusing on just how she could use those sweatpants to make their shopping a little more interesting.  

She couldn't help herself.

At first it was just small comments, and she couldn't be sure if he was even picking up on her innuendos, as subtle as they were – his face serious as he looked over the display of potatoes. She decided she would have to be a little more blatant if she wanted to get a rise out of him.

“These strawberries look delicious,” she hummed, holding up the package of bright red fruits and eyeing them longingly. She stepped closer to his side, her tongue wetting her lips as he finally met her gaze, sensing she was up to something from her change in tone. “I wonder how they'd taste if you were to dip them in something other than sugar, maybe some cream? Maybe while I'm splayed out in our bed?”

“What are you doing, Swan?” he choked out, shifting on his feet as the potato he was holding dropped back onto the stack and rolled to the floor, coming to rest across the aisle.  

“Just imagining how you might feed it to me after a long night, dragging it along my folds and then – ”

“I'm not sure what your intentions are, love, but I would rethink them,” he growled lowly, maneuvering his hook to push the carton of strawberries back toward the shelf. “These pants are not meant for such thoughts.”

“Maybe that's the point,” she quipped, dropping the fruit and staring longingly at his crotch where she could easily see his hardness growing, the thin material of his sweats stretching upward over its thick outline. “I'd forgotten just how amazing you look in those pants when you're a little hot and bothered.”

“And a public place is where you decided to revisit this – and there's nothing little about me, Swan.”

“Oh, I know, and what can I say, I'm feeling a little adventurous,” she teased, her laugh following him as he ducked quickly around the fruit stand when someone stopped to give a quick hello to the town's sheriff.

He snatched a pineapple from in front of him, balancing it on the edge of the counter in front of his still growing erection, digging his palm into the spiked outer shell and doing his best to think of anything other than the way a strawberry would look, red and glistening, as he dragged it through his release as it dripped from her soft folds, coating the fruit as he rolled it across her lips...

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, willing himself to relax as Emma smiled knowingly over the shoulder of the person she was speaking with.

He'd known these sweatpants had been a terrible mistake.

And so it went through the rest of the store – Emma holding up a large, cured sausage in the deli section, running her finger up and down the wrapping as she measured its worth.  

“It's a little small, don't you think? Probably won't be enough for a cheese plate,” she concluded, leaning past him to put it back before her lips grazed his ear, her words a whisper. “I like my meat a little bigger, but you know that, don't you?”

He'd barely had enough time to seek cover behind the shopping cart before they were accosted once again by another overly friendly local – an elderly woman who waved at Emma and crooned how lovely it was to see a husband helping with the shopping, and pushing the cart as well!

He'd smiled weakly and muttered something about always being a gentleman, though the throbbing hardness between his legs and the way his thoughts were drifting to just how much of a mouthful he wanted to give his wife would indicate otherwise.  

“He's always such a big help,” Emma agreed, thanking the woman for saying hello and urging him on toward the next aisle, clearly thrilled with the game she was playing as she allowed him to find some measure of composure behind the safety of the cart.  

“You know,” she mused, studying a can of something or other, “I really do love those pants, Killian. You should wear them out more often.”

“Don't think I'll be giving you an opportunity like this ever again,” he hissed, his cheeks flushed and hand fisted tightly around the handle of the cart as he stared, jaw clenched, at the rows of canned goods in front of him. “Enjoy it while you can, Swan.”

“Oh, I intend to,” she whispered, ducking and brushing in front of him in the crowded aisle under the ruse of reaching for something on the bottom shelf, her shoulder rubbing brazenly against his crotch, all of his blood pumping once more to his aching cock.

He spun away from her physical nearness with a strangled groan that turned into a snarl of frustration as he knocked over a display of kitchen gadgets, dozens of packages clattering against the floor as the cardboard pyramid keeled to one side.  

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, doing his best to catch the thing with his hook and straighten it while still keeping his hips angled away from the other patrons in the aisle.

“You better be careful where you swing that thing,” Emma chimed in, her face a flawless mask of innocence as she motioned toward his hook, blatantly ignoring the prominent tent in his pants as she knelt and began picking up the small avalanche of peelers and can openers, her lip caught between her teeth as she gazed up to meet hard glare of his eyes, dark promise swimming in their depths.

The frozen food aisle provided some small measure of relief, and although Emma had assured him they didn't need anything from there, he took plenty of time standing in front of the open freezer doors making absolutely certain that was the case, much to her amusement. From there he'd kept his distance, pushing the cart and mentally reciting the words on each sign he saw in an attempt to tune out any new attempts at luring him into further embarrassing situations.

It was hard to avoid her brazen smile once they'd entered the check out lane, but one scowl had been enough to make his Swan back down, if only a trifle, her blatant innuendos disappearing as she made polite conversation with the woman checking them out, flashing him only the occasional look that told just how much she'd enjoyed her impromptu game.  

Her smile faltered a bit when he only returned her gaze with a deep, measured look, and perhaps she thought her was angry with her over her moment of fun. It was a misconception he didn't dispel, loading the groceries into the back seat of the bug silently before returning the cart to its place. Her good humor had shifted to something far more uncertain as he studiously avoided looking at her – good, he wanted her off balance – and it wasn't until she felt the hard steel of his hook around her wrist that she realized just exactly what she'd done.

He wasn't angry, not at all, but he was a man driven to the edge, and now she was going to bloody well see to it that some of those naughty things she's intimated came to pass.

“We're not going anywhere just yet, Swan,” he rasped, the tip of his hook grazing along her leather jacket until it slipped through the key ring she held in her hand, pulling them out of her grasp. “You put on quite the brazen display in there. Did you enjoy that, love? Making me swell with my need for you where anyone could have seen? Did you enjoy making me desperate?”

“Well, it was fun,” she admitted, “seeing you so ready for me even though we were surrounded by people, and once my parents head out for the– ”

“What you've forgotten, darling, is that desperate men will go to any lengths to get what they want,” he reminded her,  shoving the keys into his jacket and grabbing her hand, leading her firmly away from the bug.  

“Killian,” she hissed in disbelief, stumbling slightly as he dragged her toward the alley that ran between the grocery store and the next building. “The groceries! What are you doing?”

“The groceries can wait – and I think you know exactly what I'm doing, Swan.”

“We are not having sex in there,” she groaned, the words contradicting the tightening in her core as she thought about him taking her up against the shadowed brick wall, mere feet away from where people were walking to their cars.

“Aye, we are not having sex, but it's about time I put that traitorous little mouth of yours to good use.”

“Oh my god, Killian – ” she shot a nervous glance behind her as they entered the alley, no one in sight as her husband pulled her behind an empty stack of pallets where they would be concealed from anyone walking by. “We can't just – ”

“If you believe for even an instant that I'm heading back home, to sit with your bloody parents for dinner after your little game – no relief in sight as they natter on – then you've forgotten who I was before I met you...”

“A pirate,” she swallowed – she hadn't forgotten, had enjoyed teasing that part of him back to the surface – her breath leaving her as he pressed her firmly against the brick wall, his hand running along the edge of her breast before stopping to cup her cheek, eyes dark and wild.

“Aye, and pirates take what they want.”

“Well,” she teased, the uncertainty in her voice washed away by the tide of desire spreading beneath her skin as his thumb grazed over her lower lip, “it has been a while since the Captain has come to play.”

“Oh, he's never far, Swan,” Killian purred, forcing her mouth open with his finger and sampling her wet heat with the pad of his thumb. “Now, get on your knees for the Captain.”

Emma was pretty sure she'd never been so wet in her life, her leather jacket scraping along the gritty bricks as she sunk to her knees on the cold ground, Killian's stance wide and demanding as she knelt between his legs, her cheek brushing against the soft material of the sweats he hadn't wanted to wear – the ones that did nothing to hide the massive tent he was sporting, her nose grazing along its length as she nuzzled into him, inhaling deeply.

“You're not here to enjoy yourself, love,” he smirked darkly above her, “you're here to get the job done.”

She swallowed heavily, tongue and teeth worrying her lip as she looped her fingers into the waistband of his pants and yanked them down, his heavy shaft bobbing against her as she chased after it with her mouth – his head swollen and dark, glazed with a hint of precum that hit her taste buds like the most delicious reward. If this was what she got from teasing her husband – she would gladly repeat the performance.

He groaned above her, his hand fisted among her locks as he allowed her a brief moment to explore, her tongue flattened against the underside of his cock while she swallowed him down, gagging slightly as he hit the back of her throat. His member was only half inside the wet grasp of her mouth before she pulled back, curling her tongue around his shaft and licking at his weeping slit – but it wasn't what he wanted.

“No, no, no, Swan,” Killian chided, his grip on her tightening as he twisted her hair, forcing her to look up at him. “I know you can do better than that, love – I've watched myself disappear entirely into that tight throat of yours on many an occasion. Let's make certain to put in our best work, shall we?”

Need pulsed between Emma's legs, nearly forcing her to double over in an attempt to relieve it, but somehow she managed to nod her understanding as his fingers tugged against her scalp, wetting her lips and opening her mouth wide as she dived forward once more, abandoning her teasing in favor of getting him fully inside of her as quickly as possible, her throat finally opening as she calmed her breathing and swallowed around him, feeling his swollen head push deeper as she inhaled through her nose, her breath muffled by the thatch of dark curls at his base.

“Just like that, Swan – I'm going to fill up that naughty little mouth of yours. Do you have any idea how much I wanted to bend you over the bloody bread display and fill that needy cunt?” he hissed, thrusting languidly into her throat as her eyes sought him from beneath her lashes, blown with desire, “my hand over your mouth as I took what I needed, your legs shaking around me as I painted your sweet, pink folds with my release?”

His words stoked the fire in her belly, the scrap of lace she was wearing slick and wet with her arousal as she imagined him taking her in just such a way, everyone seeing the dark, demanding man he truly was – the pirate always waiting just beneath the mask of the gentleman. The alley filled with the soft rumble of his grunts as his steel grip controlled her movements, using her mouth just as he'd promised he would, like nothing more than a  wet hole to be filled, a thing for his pleasure, not for hers.

“Do you like this, Emma? Is that why you played your little game in there, because you wanted me to use you like a whore in the back alley? Were you hoping I would fuck you, raise your hips around my own and slide into your dripping cunt?”

She writhed in his grip, his filthy words rolling over her like an actual touch, her core throbbing and clenching around its emptiness as he reamed her mouth, saliva dripping from the corners of her lips as he thrust powerfully into her, her nose butting against his stomach as he panted and moaned.

“Don't think you'll be getting it once we're at home either, love,” he growled, his deep strokes within her throat becoming erratic as his cock swelled, his release coiled and ready as his balls tightened against her chin, warning her. “I want you squirming in your seat all through dinner, your greedy quim swollen and dripping for me – remembering the taste of me right here, pressed against a dirty building, wondering if it's the...if it's the only taste you'll get...”

Emma arched her neck as he pushed deeply one last time, her throat burning as his cock thickened and erupted deeply inside of her, her muscles rippling around him as she swallowed desperately, relieved when he dragged himself half free, the pulsing head of him resting on her tongue as he shot several more ropes of hot come into her mouth, rolling forward and spreading the salty, sweet taste of himself as far as he could, a thin trickle of his release painting the corner of her mouth as she breathed and swallowed around his softening flesh, her tongue curling around his shaft, enjoying the way he softened and twitched inside of her.

His grip finally loosened in her hair, his fingers gently massaging her scalp where the sting of his dominance was just beginning to burn, stroking her gently until she sighed and let his length slip from her mouth, her head falling forward to rest against his thigh.

“There's a good girl,” he purred, hooking the waistband of his sweats and dragging them back up to cover himself as he lifted her back to her feet. “Come on then, we've a lovely dinner to prepare for your parents – and then once they're gone, maybe I'll let you have your dessert.”  

/

“That salmon was delicious, Killian,” Mary Margaret gushed, leaning back in the chair and resting her hand against her chest. “I'm better with non-seafood dishes, so it was lovely to have something different for a change – and after the week we had, it was so nice to have a night off from cooking entirely.”

“I agree – fantastic meal, Hook. Thanks for having us over tonight, it was nice to get an evening for just the four of us,” David added, rising to bring his plate to the sink.  

“I'm pleased you both enjoyed it,” Killian returned politely. “We didn't often get salmon aboard the Jolly, so it's not something I make often – Emma and I had quite the experience at the grocery store trying to find everything we needed, but the outcome was quite worth it, I think.”

“Dad, sit. I got it,” Emma managed to choke out, shooting just the most recent of many dirty looks over her parents' heads at her husband. She gently pushed David back into the chair and took his plate, snatching Killian's as well and dumping them into the sink.

“You're a little hoarse, you sound like you could use some tea, Emma,” Mary Margaret worried, swiveling in her seat to look at her daughter. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just a little bit of a sore throat, that's all,” she smiled, looking anywhere but at her husband's grin as she rinsed her hands and dried them off.

“That came on fast,” David mused. “You sounded fine this morning at the station. I hope you didn't pick it up from us, Neal had a bit of a rough week and we were wondering if he might be a little sick.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, mate – it doesn't seem to be contagious. I've no signs of it myself,” Hook assured them both, smiling warmly and gesturing toward the dessert Emma was carrying over from the counter. “Can we tempt you with some dessert? It's fresh baked from town.”

“Oh, what kind is that?” Snow beamed, admiring the flaky, golden crust as Emma rested the pie on the table and moved to grab plates – anything to avoid looking her parents in the face. “It's always so nice to enjoy something you didn't have to bake yourself.”

“Peach pie,” Killian smiled widely, his eyes flashing to Emma as he ran his tongue across his teeth, “it just so happens to be my favorite, and I think Emma even whipped up some fresh cream to go on top, didn't you, Swan?”

Thankfully, no one other than Killian noticed as she nearly dropped the stack of plates, her body tensing and eyes widening as she silently begged him not to say anything else – her thoughts already far too consumed with how wet and empty she'd felt since their illicit moment in the alley. Taking a deep breath, she reclaimed her composure, tenuous though it was, and returned to the table.

“I did,” she admitted, laying out the plates and frowning when Hook stilled her hand with his own, pushing away the plate she was offering him.

“None for me, love – I find I'm feeling quite full. Perhaps I'll enjoy mine later, you'll just have to make sure you save some of that cream for me.”

END

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[saundraswriting]

Need Some TLC Chapter 5: Groceries

SUMMARY: Steve and Bucky decide to step in for your health and a third conspirator joins the ranks

WARNINGS:None

Masterlist // Previous // Next

You stood looking at your front door for a moment or two before smiling and shaking you head. Glancing around, you noticed that your kitchen was clean, but the living room needed tidying up and the bathroom, your bedroom and laundry needed finished. "No time like the present." You muttered to yourself, deciding the living room would be a good start and quickest, you got to work. You straightened the throw blankets and small pillows and cushions. the knick-knacks were organized and DVD's were put away, in their proper cases. you bagged up all the trash and recycling and moved on to the next room.

Laundry was started once more, the bathroom scrubbed and you changed your sheets in your room. You cleaned up the dirty clothes in your room, both you not scrub hamper and scrub hamper, and gathered the old dishes and long-dismissed wrappers and protein shake bottles. You put away all the laundry in your clean laundry basket and dusted your hands off. "Done! That's it!" You cheered to yourself. You transferred laundry once more and got a few things ready for work and meals for the next few days. The clock read 8:00 PM. You had near 20 hours until you had to go back to work again, and your apartment was clean and safe and welcoming again, not the pigsty it was hours ago.

'Watch a movie? or Settle in early?' You thought to yourself. As you looked between your TV and bedroom door a buzz in your pocket distracted you.

'You still up for a pizza and a documentary? We don't want to impose.'  The text was sent by a known contact with the name "Bucky". You changed it to Sgt. Barnes. You thought about it and after everything that had happened today, the walls that had come down and the fire and finally being off, you realized you wanted company. 'Yeah, I can go to bed once we are done. Won't be too much later than usual.' You thought.

'Yeah. Come on over! Both of you, you have a key.' You texted him back.

"I nor Steve would abuse this privilege. We won't use our keys willy-nilly."Sargent Barnes replied.

'I only meant that you could let yourselves in. I know you won't abuse it. Jeez, didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.' You send your message with a few smiles to not offend.

'I will be no more offended than you when I tell you that we already have pizza and am currently trying to get into your apartment.'  He replied.

 'Confident?'  you texted back.

"Yeah, a little. Can we watch and ocean documentary? With Attenborough? Please?" Sargent Barnes asked pushing his way through the door, keys slipping into his pocket.

"Yeah, I have a Blue Planet on Blu-Ray and with my TV it is almost like being there. Where did you learn to text? Not to bad Sargent." You sassed at him grabbing plates and cups on the counter, Sargent Barnes brought over the pizza while Captain Rogers looked for Blue Planet in your expansive collection.

I love this documentary. I just turned it on this morning when I got home to listen to, but I fell asleep too quick. Also after dinner cause it late-ish and I want to get a good night's rest, I am going to take my sleep aides. Just some melatonin. I want to be ready for my next stretch." You told the men in your living room. Captain Rogers and Sargent Barnes looked at you, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

"More meds? Is that a good idea?" Captain Rogers paused loading the first disc.

"Melatonin is naturally produced, I am only boosting my supply a little bit. The Advil will help with the sore legs and back I am sure to get. I want to relax cause I have some aide shifts coming up. I always hurt more after aide shifts." The three of you settled with your pizza and drinks.

"Aide work? What is that?" Sargent Barnes asked.

"Yeah, I am a registered nurse. But my job includes helping the aides-or rather patient care techs as they are called now-but sometimes there are not enough aides scheduled for a shift, usually the evening shift, and I will fill in. Aides or PCT's help with the activities of daily living, toileting and dressing and rehab and bandage changing and the like. I personally like doing both jobs cause it makes me appreciate what they do more and help connect with my patients on a deeper level." You explained. Not many nurses shared you opinion, thinking aides and PCT's were below them, they didn't realize that many programs and curriculums required clinical hours before and during the programs to be accepted. Most aides and PCT's were nurses-in-training.

"Oh. So with the short-staffing you really have to do everything huh? That is insane." Captain Rogers' awe was heard in his tone.

"Nope, When I go in for a nursing shift, I have 26 Patients and my 2-5 aides can have 13-15 patients. Also it builds up aide/nurse loyalty and report. You all know what each others knows and needs to keep track off and become a better team for it, give better care for it. It makes me better and them better." You were firm in your opinion, eyes lit with a determination and fire the men did not often see. They could tell this is a fight you have fought before.

"Does not everyone agree with you? That all makes prefect sense to me and Steve. Why would people not agree?" Bucky asked, hesitant.

"NO! They don't. I have too many aides and nurses come through my unit with this...this...chip on their shoulder. Like they are owed something for picking this job. We all work shitty hours and weekends and holidays. We all miss birthdays and parties and recitals. No one is missed for that, especially in healthcare. I don't get how you can go through schooling and testing and lectures and labs and still come out of this expecting something that you won't get. How can you start this career without knowing what you are getting into? Or staying in this field knowing what it is? You are to help people, They don't want to be here any more than you do. I'm sorry, we get paid well but not that well that the money can overcome the cancelled dates and missed appointments." You were ranting wildly, hands waving and hair flying. Bucky and Steve were in total agreement. They did share a look of confusion and empathy, they were unware of your temper that was hidden under all the pleasantness. You noticed and calmed down significantly. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. I was ranting. You can start the show. if you need anything, help yourself." You shimmied down deeper into the couch, eyes blinking blearily at the TV.

"No! it is fine. I like seeing you open up to us. You are in the right. We get it too, not like we have great hours either." Captain Rogers said. You blinked at him and smiled. "If you fall asleep we'll close up for you. Okay?" He said it like a question but you knew it was a statement. The men turned their focus to the documentary and knew that for now, you had lost their attention.

You only paid half attention to the program. The warmth of your blanket and apartment, the relief in having it clean and the silent company of people in a shared space lulled you quickly to a fugue state. Partially formed thoughts swept across your mind but disappeared before they fully formed. Thoughts about your schedule and patients; should you make more meals? The fear of a missed alarm pulled you to awareness enough to check you phone.

Minutes passed. The episode ended. Another one started. You still stare unseeingly into the TV, blinks and breaths slowing and lengthening. The calm narration and soft spoken comments from your friends easing your muscles even more.

You fall asleep between one breath and the next, succumbing to you body's demands with one last thought about packing a lunch for tomorrow.

"Bucky looked over to see you curled up on the couch, quiet and still-pardon your rhythmic breathing. "She's asleep. Finally. I am going to put her to bed in a little bit. She needs to sleep. I looked in her fridge, she didn't have much. What little bit she had, she probably meal-prepped it. She neglects herself too much." Bucky said. He was so worried, over the time of knowing them they'd seen your weight drop and skin pale.

"I don't know. We could order some groceries. Have them delivered using Tony's service? I can handle him afterwards. You can cook like a pro, we can freeze it and meal prep for her." Steve suggested. He saw Bucky's hesitance. He shook his head and sighed. "Buck. Please do it. I know for certain she wants someone who will take care of her, and you want someone to take care of. She has been alone too long. You can change that. I will handle Tony. I told you earlier, do something, do anything. This is both." Steve continued.

Bucky smirked knowingly. "You'll handle Tony alright. You tell me to move but you freeze every time he comes near you." Bucky lost his smirk. "I guess this is something I can do for her." Bucky picked up his phone and put a call into the grocery service that stocked the Avengers' Tower and Compound and their private places. They took calls at all times to accommodate their unusual clients. He ordered tons of meats and veggies, pasta, dairy products, deli things, and junk foods too. He ordered and ordered and ordered. He wanted enough to make enough food for three meals and two snacks for two weeks. He also ordered plastic containers for all the meals and freezer. He billed Tony and gave the address for Your apartment.

"They said in an hour, they pulled everyone together that was available to make it happen so quickly. I am going to put her to bed that way she doesn't wake up. Then we are going to make her food. and a lot of it. Hopefully it will last for two weeks if not it should be a good start." Bucky addressed Steve but was looking at you. Eyes lightly brushed over your figure worried his gaze would wake you.

"Very well. Let's finish what we started. Go, take your girl to bed." Steve waved his hand in the direction of your room, seeing Buck blush out off the corner of his eye.

Bucky didn't-couldn't-answer to busy trying gently to pick you up and carry you to bed. He maneuvered the corners careful to not bump your head or feet. You didn't even twitch as he laid you on your bed under the covers, glad you already seemed to be in pajamas.

Upon returning to the living room Bucky saw Steve hunched over his phone shoulders tense and cheeks pink. Bucky rolled his eyes in silence, for all his advice Steve was just as nervous when it came to one Anthony Edward Stark-Iron Man. "Make a move, punk. Any move. Isn't that what you told me?" Bucky commented from the other end of the couch. Steve refused to give Bucky the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

"I always give good advice, but very seldom follow it. I can't make a move on Tony. That is ridiculous. I will admire from afar, that's all I am allowed this time. Besides Tony isn't impressed by me in any sense." Steve was matter-of-fact in his words, a weariness hung around his shoulders.

"Then you are dumber than advertised. Tony is in love with you as you are in love with him. Just do something." With that Bucky left Steve to stew and played the documentary once more. Bucky watched and Steve split his attention between the TV and his phone for the next 45 minutes.

When a light knock sounded on the newly replaced door, Bucky and Steve went on alert. They silently paced to the door, avoided casting a shadow underneath. Bucky pulled a knife from his boot and Steve shook his hands before clenching them into fists. Anyone who wanted to get through to you would have to go through them.

"Delivery for Stark? Grocery delivery." Bucky looked at Steve and shrugged. They could take anyone. Bucky opened the door for the three men that had dollies full of groceries. And Tony Stark.

"Tony? What are you doing here?" Bucky asked while he and Steve moved to help unload the bags. After the dollies were emptied twice each then men bid their goodbyes and left.

"Well you did just bill me almost 500 dollars worth of groceries not 3 days after your last order. Steve told me it was for a friend, and I became intrigued." Tony spoke to Bucky but his eye kept flicking to Steve every other word.

"Her name is Y/N. She is a nurse. Lately she has been putting in too many hours. She is...amazing. She checks in and bakes for us sometimes. She constantly is working on bringing us up to date." Steve said, soft and fond. "We spend a lot of time with her when we are home. She understands what we do and likes us in spite of that. She is family." Tony froze upon hearing Steve talk about you so warmly. The fondness he had for you froze Tony's breath in his chest. He saw the ease in which Bucky and Steve moved through your apartment, Tony almost flinched but withheld. Bucky saw the hopelessness on his face and stepped closer.

"Tony. No. Please." Bucky murmured in his ear. Speaking louder he continued. "Y/N came home today and we hear her talking through the wall about sleep aides and next thing we know the fire alarm is going off and we had to break down her door cause she was sleeping through it. After fixing it and making lunch and her napping, I was griping at Steve who was teasing me, so I ordered this to help her. I wanted to take care of her, cause she doesn't take care of herself." Bucky had seen the thoughts forming in Tony's mind that you were Steve's girl leaving no room for Tony in Steve's heart. Bucky knew those thoughts had to be derailed instantly.

"Yeah, she is our only non-Avenger friend. She is alone and needed someone in her life. Today proved that. I am just glad we were home. I worry about her day and night. She works too much and to the point of illness. I gave her a key today so she had a place to go since she denied having F.R.I.D.A.Y. installed in here. It was the only way she would accept help, she refuses to burden others with her needs." Bucky continued. He could tell as Tony's shoulder relaxed and smiled softened he was successful in his mission.

Steve and Bucky moved about this stranger's apartment like they lived there themselves. Steve was putting groceries away as Bucky began to trim chicken to be frozen. It was strange, seeing these two giant men creep around your things to not disturb you, trying to do what they could to help what little family they had. "Steve can you grab the skillet? and grill pan? I will cook up some burgers and chicken and freeze them to be quicker meals." Bucky asked.

"Here and here. I am working on scalloped potatoes, they should freeze well. I will work on some salad mixes too. We can vacuum seal them to keep longer." Steve said, handing over the pans while looking for the peeler. Tony felt out of the loop but wanted to help this person who had helped his people.

"Does she have a steamer? I can help with steaming some veggies. We can make and freeze whole meals." Tony offered. Bucky looked up and smiled, thankfulness shining in his eyes. Bucky nodded and jerked his chin to a pantry. Tony went and set it up and began cleaning fruit and veggies. "I can make some fruit salad, won't keep well but I can make a small batch. We would look at high protein meals with low carbs and sugar. She is a nurse? She needed long term energy. We can freeze some fruit like pineapple and blueberries and grapes. They taste good frozen. she can snack on them too." Tony suggested. Bucky nodded emphatically. "You are right, Tony, snack are a great idea." Bucky's tension seemed to lessen with Tony's participation.

Tony picked up his phone and made a quick call, putting it down quickly. "I just called in another rush order. If we are going to do this, then we will do this right." Tony started working on cauliflower and broccoli.

"Tony, no. This isn't necessa-" Bucky started. Tony cut him off before he could finish "If she is your family, she is mine. I am more than glad to help." Bucky other took a quick breath and sent a small smile Tony's way. "Quick, we need to keep moving. I want this done before she wakes up." Bucky said.

The three men did just that. Bucky cooked chicken, burger, steak, pork, sausage. He froze it raw and froze it cooked. Bucky dated and labeled everything, even using up what little was in your freezer already. Steve made several casseroles to be frozen and labeled. Tony made his veggies and fruits and snacks and divided them up for easy access. He did freeze some bags with directions for smoothies, for the days when food would be too much effort.  They also kept some food in the fridge for easy grab and go for the next five days, hopefully they made enough food for her.

"Thank you both. I am glad she will wake up to see that this was done for her. She may just come to understand that she is cared for. Let's clean up and then we can hit the hay." He clapped Steve on his back and pulled Tony in for a hug. "Thank you especially Tony. For everything. Oh, and, remember he has loved and lost one already." Bucky pulled away, nothing on his face giving away what he had shared. Bucky looked around and saw your lunchbox and packed a well-balanced lunch and then some before scrawling a quick note and putting it on the fridge. 'We did as you asked and made ourselves at home. Steve, Tony and I took care of lunches for you and groceries. Everything is dated and labeled. If you have questions, call me. See you soon. ~xo Bucky.'

He then helped clean up their mess and shooed Steve and Tony out the door. Bucky made one last lap to ensure everything was off, cleaned and put away. He walked down towards your room and paused, fingers brushing the doorknob. "Go in, chicken." Bucky demanded himself. He crept in and watched you sleep for a small moment. Gathering his courage, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek and again on your forehead. "Good night, my darling. Rest well." He whispered against your skin. He left your room. He left your apartment. He used his key to double check the lock.

Bucky headed to his room and laid down, ignoring Tony and Steve's smug looks. Bucky listened to you faint breathing as he relaxed. Minutes later he was asleep.

Masterlist // Previous // Next

******************************************************************************************* Okay! That is the last update I have ready. Now, I actually have to type everything out. This is going to be fun! I have a Criminal Minds fic that I also have to post on here but should I have it typed out? It is awfully long...I will ruminate on this. Thanks for the support!

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 2 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29 

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul's been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS' finances, Paul's comfort levels, and Gene's libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter:  "What do you mean, what else was I doing? I woke up with tits! Don't you think that's a little fucking traumatizing?" Gene and Paul try to pinpoint the root cause of Paul’s predicament.

          Gene carried the groceries in for Paul. It felt like the lousiest apology, but he didn’t know what else to do. Paul looked as if he were seconds from tears—pretty horrifying, for Gene to try to realign his whole thought process, to try and reconcile the Paul he’d known for the last eight years with the pretty brunette currently slumped over the kitchen island—and Gene didn’t know how to mitigate that, either. Paul wasn’t much of a crier. Under the circumstances, though, Gene couldn’t exactly blame him.

           “I shouldn’t have done that.”

           “Forget it.”

           “Look—I thought it might be you from the tattoo, but I had to make sure—”

           “You made sure, okay? You definitely did that much.” Paul’s elbows were resting on the counter. His mouth was pressed against his clasped hands, muffling his words. “Fuck it, Gene. You were supposed to just write me back.”

           Gene rolled his eyes.

           “Yeah, you cut off contact with everybody a month before we go back on tour, and then you send me a two-sentence postcard and expect me to act like a fucking pen-pal. C’mon, Paul.”

           “Well, obviously, I didn’t want you coming over! You think I wanted anyone to see me like this? I already had to run Peter off!”

           So that had been him earlier. Shit.

           “How did this even happen?” Medically, it was impossible. Paul probably hadn’t had this little hair on him since he was ten years old. To say nothing of the drop in height, or the total reconfiguration of his body shape. He still looked pretty similar in the face, same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips, but the features were a little softer. Really, he looked like a good bit like his older sister, although Gene knew better than to mention it. Paul hadn’t seen Julia in at least three years.

           The guys had always made fun of Gene for his lack of discernment, and he knew there were plenty of women that looked like dogs dotting his photo albums, but Paul was—actually kind of pretty. Or would be, if his eyes, always a little sad-looking, weren’t all watery and his mouth wasn’t glued in that firm line behind his hand. Even Peter, who, oddly enough, probably had better taste in women, looks-wise, than any of the four of them, had said Paul was cute. And the tits—shit, Gene was distracting himself. Paul had taken his time answering anyway.

           “How should I know how this happened? I woke up like this!”

           “When?”

           “Wednesday morning.”

           “That’s five days. You’ve been like this for five days?” Before Paul could answer, Gene added, bewildered, “Have you gone anywhere?”

           It wouldn’t have surprised him much if Paul had holed up in the house the entire time. He did that enough normally. Gene could understand that, to a point. Gene never knew what to do with himself off-tour, either, except get laid, but Paul usually added a healthy dose of self-pity on top of the lays. Given what had happened to him, he’d probably been feeling sorrier for himself than usual.

           Paul surprised him by bringing his hands down from in front of his mouth and nodding.

           “I drove to Peaches yesterday.”

           “You drove?”

          “You think I could’ve convinced my chauffeur I was Paul Stanley?”

           “Might have an easier time with him than you would a cop.”

           “A cop? I’m a great driver—”

           “You don’t have a license right now.”

           Paul’s lips pursed and he went quiet for a while. Like the full magnitude of his situation had only just dawned on him. Not that Gene wasn’t sympathetic. This was going to screw him over, too. The new tour a month away, and their frontman not only entirely unable to prove his identity, but—really, assuming he got the other guys and their management to believe him, what was he supposed to do? Strut onstage in that sequin-studded jumpsuit, singing about the dick he didn’t even have? Even Bill Aucoin couldn’t spin a story about Paul getting a sex change into anything close to palatable for the magazines and papers. If they didn’t get this shit fixed and turn Paul back into a guy, KISS was sunk.

           Gene let the silence hang in the air rather than try to fill it up with small talk or reassurances. He got up and started taking Paul’s groceries out of the paper bags, just to give his hands something to do. A wrapped package of deli meat, several cans of Tab, a bunch of celery, and a loaf of sandwich bread were all that was in the first bag. The groceries of a depressed catalog model, not a rockstar. He put it all up in the pantry and fridge unceremoniously. Paul didn’t have a breadbox, so Gene left the loaf on the counter next to the sink. The second bag of groceries was just as dismal, maybe worse—peanut butter, saltines, apples, and, horrifyingly, a box of Kotex. Shit. Had Paul already given up on going back to normal, or—

           “You’re not on the rag, are you?”

           “Fuck, no. Put that back.” Paul was going crimson. Gene felt sorry enough for him to drop the Kotex back into the bag and return to his seat across from him at the kitchen island.

           “Are you planning to just wait around for it? Haven’t you done anything yet?”

           “Gene, I don’t know what to do. I did get some books sent over.” Paul got up and went to the living room, returning with some paperbacks under his arm, which he dumped on the kitchen table. Usually, Paul’s reading material consisted of teenybopper magazines with his face on the cover, contracts, and his own unflattering comics of his bandmates. Now Gene found himself next to copies of The Lesser Key of Solomon, The Secret Lore of Magic, and LaVey’s The Satanic Rituals. He could’ve sworn the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up just from cracking the spines. Gene tried to swallow his nerves as best he could, tried to look at the whole deal clinically, never mind what years of yeshiva and the start of rabbinical school had taught him, but every sigil-covered page made him feel a bit ill.

           “You haven’t tried any of this, have you?”

           Paul snorted.

           “Fuck, no. I’m already going to hell, there’s no point in expediting the trip.” He blew his bangs out of his face with a breath. They settled back in front of his eyes almost immediately, and he shook his head. “I just wanted to read up. I thought if I could figure out how it happened, I could get someone else to reverse it for me.”

           “Like a witch.”

           Paul flinched slightly.

           “Well, yeah, since that’s probably who did it in the first place.” He was standing behind Gene, reaching over him and pointing at the book he’d opened. “Oh, it’s in this one. Hang on.”

           Gene shifted obediently, trying to ignore the feeling of Paul’s bare chest pressed against his back. He knew Paul wasn’t coming onto him, not consciously, at least, but—fuck, the last several years on the road had spoiled him. Every chick he got near wanted to get laid, if not by him, then by one of his bandmates. But Paul wasn’t actually a chick, a fact made all the more apparent by how utterly oblivious he was to the fact that his bathrobe was halfway open, again.

           He handed Paul the book. Paul was thumbing through it before long, in his usual way, licking his finger with every pageturn. Gene could see the remnants of black nail polish on his fingernails—still aggressively manicured—and a couple of marks beneath his knuckles.

           “What happened to your hands there?”

           “Huh? I bit them.”

           “Why?”

           Paul shrugged and cleared his throat.

           “Anyway, found it.” He pointed to a passage alongside a lithograph of a lion head. “‘Marbas, alias Barbas is a great president, and appeareth in the forme of a mightie lion—'”

           “Paul, the e on the end of ‘forme’ is silent.”

           “Shut up—‘he bringeth diseases and cureth them, promoteth wisdom’…. It’s in here, I swear—there! ‘He changes men into other shapes.’ So that’s probably the demon that whoever it was conjured up.”

           Paul looked more than vaguely pleased with himself. Gene almost felt bad for not being impressed. Almost.

           “That’s all you’ve come up with this whole time.”

           “It’s only been five days, Gene, I—”

           “What else were you doing?”

           “What do you mean, what else was I doing? I woke up with tits! Don’t you think that’s a little fucking traumatizing?”

           “You had—” Gene just shook his head.

           “I don’t have anything, Gene. You said so yourself. I don’t even have access to my own bank account. I’m done once the cash runs out.”

           Gene started to ask how much cash Paul had on hand, then thought better of it. Probably not a whole lot. Paul had the annoying habit of charging everything he could to either the label or the KISS Corporation proper while they were on tour, and not letting anyone know until the following board meeting. Off-tour probably wasn’t much different.

           “Did you make a list?” he asked finally.

           “A list?”

           “A list of anyone you think could’ve done this to you.”

           Paul shook his head.

           “That’s the thing. Nobody I know would’ve wanted to do this to me.”

           “Then maybe it’s someone you don’t know.”

           “Like who? Gene, what good does it do anybody if I’m stuck as a girl?”

           “Revenge. You have any exes into the occult?”

           “Not that I know of.” Paul cocked his head, considering. “Mostly they break up with me, not the other way around.”

           “Groupies, then?”

           “Gene, I don’t—take notes on every girl I fuck, it’s not that important to me.”

           “Did you get with anyone strange lately? Maybe, I don’t know, a cult member or something?”

           “I don’t think so—”

           “Anyone ask you anything weird? Or try and get a lock of your hair?” Gene’s knowledge of the occult was limited, but he did vaguely remember needing—what was it, the person’s clothes or hair before any magic could be done on them. At least, that was how it worked on Dark Shadows.

           “That happens every tour at least three times.”

           “I’m trying to figure this out for you.” God. Paul had had almost a week that he could’ve spent seriously researching his predicament, and all he’d done was buy a couple of books, send Gene a postcard, and sit around moping. “Did—”

           “There was this one girl who yanked out some of my chest hair a couple weeks ago,” Paul said slowly. “I didn’t really think much of it at the time. I thought it was, y’know, a kink thing. It was cool, right, kind of a you’re the boss deal—”

           Gene winced.

           “Did she say anything?”

           “She said she was going to make me feel like she did.”

           “And you didn’t think that was strange.”

           “No! It was while we were doing some S&M shit!” Paul’s face was going slightly pink. “It was fun! You go on tour and you end up with a lot of real desperate virgins and groupies with V.D. and none of them really—they just wanna do what you want, they don’t wanna ever take the lead, and this girl, she had me up against the—”

           “I get the idea,” Gene snapped, although he didn’t at all. He wasn’t picturing the encounter as it’d happened, just Paul as he was right now, up against the wall, breasts heaving, one long leg hooked around his waist. Fuck, was it hard to look at him. Gene had never been ashamed of his own lasciviousness until faced with the one person who noticed it and needed it least. “Okay. We’re going to get this taken care of.”

           “How?”

           “I’m calling Ace.”

           “Ace?” Paul was almost squeaking. “Don’t call Ace!”

           “Relax, I’m not gonna tell him what happened.”

           “Then what are you—”

           “Just trust me, Paul.”

           Gene got up and walked over to the kitchen phone. Paul looked as though he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head, watching carefully as Gene punched in Ace’s number.

           “Hey. Hey, Jeanette, this is Gene. Is Ace around? Let me talk to him for a second.” Gene rubbed the back of his head with his free hand while he waited. He could hear Jeanette calling Ace over, and a little shuffling, just before Ace picked up the phone.

           “Hey.”

           “Hey, Ace.”

           “You find Paulie?”

           “Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine. I’m at his house.”

           “What was he pulling that prima donna crap over, anyway?”

           “He’s…” It was hard to talk to Ace casually with Paul staring at him. “He’s fine. Just paranoid.”

           “Paranoid? Why?” Ace sounded a little disbelieving. Gene couldn’t blame him. “He didn’t start on some shit, did he? Thought all he took was white cross.”

           “He’s not on anything. He’s worried about the tour.” Gene paused. “You still go to that psychic, don’t you?”

           “Sometimes. Why?”

           “Do you have her number?”

           “Gene, you don’t believe in psychics or any of that—”

           “Yeah, but Paul does. I thought I’d make him an appointment, ease his mind some.” Gene watched Paul’s brow furrow, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a wary expression.

           “You’d make it for him?” Ace’s tone was dubious. “I’ve got her number somewhere. Let me find it.”

           Gene heard rustling in the background, and Ace asking Jeanette where the address book was. Jeanette said something in return, and then Gene was almost worried they’d both forgotten about the call until he heard Ace’s high voice back on the line.

           “Okay. Her name’s Suzie, she’s got a little office over in the Bronx if you wanna pop over in person. I dunno the address, though, you’ll have to call.” Ace rattled off the phone number as Gene scrambled for a pen and paper. He had to settle for a napkin. “Hey, could you tell Paul to call up Peter sometime? He’s getting kind of worried.”

           “Yeah, I will. It’s nothing personal.”

           Ace laughed.

           “Pete ain’t gonna believe that secondhand, you know that. See you, Geno.”

           “Bye.” Gene hung up the phone. Paul got up from his chair.

           “You’re getting me an appointment with Ace’s psychic.”

           “Yeah. Do you have to check your dance card first?”

           “Psychics can’t reverse curses,” Paul said flatly.

           “Do you have a better idea?”

           “No.”

           “Then you’re going.” Before Paul could protest, Gene snatched the phone off the hook again and started dialing. “Get dressed. I’m pretty sure she’ll be willing to pencil you in quick.”

[jimlingss]

The Deli Diaries [3]

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 [Finale]

➜ Words: 2.7k

➜ Genres: Fluff & Cuteness, That good ol’ slow burn, Slice of Life

➜ Summary: Working at a grocery store deli is absolutely unbearable (and you’re also perfectly aware of how dramatic you are). But it seems like something, or rather, someone might make the job a bit more manageable.

➜ Warnings: Mundane-ness that might make you bored to death

➜ Notes: The slow burn continues....

You hate your job — thus, it’s only natural that you want to stop…..and by stop, you mean close it down early. (You can’t afford to quit right now. Literally. You still need money).

 When you first arrived and trained with your coworkers, they taught you all the in’s and out’s of the closing process. Typically, at nine fifty, ten minutes before the grocery store kicked out all customers, you’re supposed to open up the glass display case and throw clear plastic over the meats, signaling that you were closed. Well, now that you’re the only one around during closing and every single shift of yours is a closing shift, you always close down at nine.

 An hour before you’re supposed to.

 Because you can.

 But sometimes….sometimes the world fucking hates you and all your plans of standing behind the counter doing nothing goes astray.

 “Um, excuse me!” A man calls out by the salad bar, right as you’re pulling the cart over, in the process of bringing the bowls to the overwrap machine. “Are you still open?”

 A muscle in your cheek twitches and you twist around with a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, what would you like?”

 Today, for some goddamn reason, everyone decided they needed deli meats and chicken cheddar broccoli salad. Today. At nine pm. Because god forbid, why would people actually go to the grocery store during the daytime?! WHY WOULD THEY COME WHEN YOU’RE FREE AND NOT TRYING TO CLOSE DOWN AFTER A EIGHT-HOUR SHIFT?!

 “Do you need help?” Your smile jerks with tension as you stare at the old senior citizen boring their eyes at the hams. They don't hear you, so you raise your voice. “Do you need any help?!”

 “Yes.” The old woman with her walker nods, and she lifts her hand, pressing her dirty-ass finger all over the clean windows, poking the surface over and over again like an elevator button. “I’ll take five hundred of the honey ham…”

 “Okay.”

 “Wait, no.” She shakes her head. “I mean black forest ham.”

 “Alright.”

 “And make that six hundred….wait….yeah…..six hundred,” she croaks out and begins to lurch away, down the other section. Before you can even throw the ham on the slicer, you find her staring at the salamis and sausages.

 A thousand curses ring inside your head.

 By the time you’ve finally caught a break, you immediately rush to open the glass case and throw the plastic over the roast beef and hams. But as you’re bending over the lower displays at awkward angles, you fail to notice a stranger rushing over; docking themselves in their spot beside you, standing completely still, facing the wall motionlessly like a thief in disguise.

 You feel your blood pressure spike and slowly, your neck cranes over. “Do you need help?”

 The lady smiles. “Please.”

 Part of you wants to break down and start sobbing. But you really shouldn’t waste your tears on such a shitty job...and it’s not like you have the time to cry. You still need to get a shitload of tasks done and breaking down won’t get them finished any faster.

 “Customers, the time is now nine fifty. We will be closing in ten minutes at ten p.m. We open at eight tomorrow for your earliest convenience. Thank you for shopping.”

 The intercom blares above you and panic rises inside your chest, making your palms clammy and your already sweaty-self even more sweaty. All you want is for this to be over. You want to eat a proper warm meal, rip off your disgusting apron, scrub yourself from the sanitizer scent clinging to your skin and the little crumbs of deli meat that somehow fell inside your shirt.

 But alas, if you left now, who knows the amount of shit you’ll get into tomorrow.

 Mount Everest exists in the form of cardboard boxes by the cooler door. You pack them onto a cart, some folded neatly while others remain in their full form since you hadn’t had enough time to disassemble them. After throwing them on haphazardly, three full trash bags and a bucket of grease join the party. There would be fewer things to throw out had your mid-person not been such an asshole and actually did their portion of the job to make your closing easier….but things never work out the way you want them to, do they?

 With time ticking — precious seconds slipping from your grasps  — you begin to push the cart through the grocery store, making your way to the back, feet scampering along at a frantic pace.

 And at the produce section, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the skyscraper of cardboard boxes wavers in front of your eyes and by the time you reach your hand out to catch its balance, it’s crumpled.

 “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

 No one hears your endless streams of curses and you quickly drop to the ground, picking up tens of boxes that have fallen over and scattered across the floor, hurling them back onto the cart.

 A few more meters are made and as you approach the two doors, you scan the premise for anyone to help you hold them open. Unfortunately, there’s no one around and you decide that risking it is better than wasting more time. Thus, you push the cart forward, letting it shove the doors open…..and all the cardboard boxes come tumbling down for the second time.

 The old grease sloshes in its bucket, spilling on the cart, one of the garbage bags comes rolling off and the plethora of oversized boxes have slid on the ground, skidding half-across the room.

 Now you really want to cry.

 “Are you okay?”

 A voice out of nowhere has your head shooting upwards. Your eyes blink hard, trapping the tears from spilling all over your cheeks, and an exhausted exhale leaves through the seams of your lips. “Yes, please.”

 The boy offers a kind, timid smile and somehow, your anxiousness and turmoil quiets down.

 He helps you pick up the boxes one by one, marching over to the chute and opening the latch, throwing them in to be crushed later on. “These are a lot of boxes,” he comments and you nod.

 “Yeah….”

 Once the boxes are all thrown away, you move to grab the garbage bags, but the boy beats you to it. “Here, I got this.”

 He clutches onto all three at the same time to hurl them into the trash chute and your eyebrows raise, secretly amazed. It’s hard to admit but you’re impressed. They’re heavy, industrial bags that are filled to the brim, having been used for the past eight hours and earlier, you could barely tie them up. Holding one has both your arms already shaking, and he holds all three like it weighs nothing.

 What you don’t notice is how his teeth are clamped, his forearms are quivering and how red his face has gotten.

 “Th...thanks…”

 You know him. Kind of. Or at least that’s what your brain reminds you as you watch him. He’s the produce guy that you sometimes make eye-contact with behind the deli counter. He’s caught you snacking more than once and you have yet to get in trouble for it. You talked to him in the staff room once.

 He’s Jimin...?

 “Can you hold the door for me while I dump the grease?”

 He flashes another little, polite smile that has you staring for a second too long. “No problem.”

 There’s no time to waste and you quickly move to complete your job.

 “Ugh, I hate this part.” You cringe as you grip the heavy bucket, walking carefully to not let it spill all over the floor. The produce boy follows behind you as you punch in your code at the number pad, successfully letting it beep and pushing the door open to the outside. The suffocating heat of summer hits you all at once, the sun beginning to dip over the horizon, and you trudge over to the dumpster.

 “Yeah.” Jimin holds the door and wrinkles his nose, observing you open the lid of the grease dumpster and stepping back. “It’s not fun.”

 “There’s so many flies.” You wince, moving your face away and absolutely disgusted at the swarm of humongous flies circling around and climbing inside the dumpster. It doesn’t help that the hot sun continues to beat down on it. “Ugh.”

 This is a part of the job you’ll never get used to.

 “Fuck!” You don’t mean to swear in front of the stranger but it stumbles out as you go for it and dump the entire bucket all at once, not wanting to dwell around the reeking bin for long. The orange-brown liquid splashes all over, some spilling on the ground, and hitting your apron, but the majority gets inside and you close the lid before the horde of flies can go nuts.

 The moment you get inside the building, Jimin closes the door and another announcement is made.

 “Shoppers. The time is now nine fifty-five. We will be closing in five minutes. We re-open at eight a.m. tomorrow for your earliest shopping conveniences. Thank you.”

 With the cart vacant of boxes and garbages, you chuck the empty bucket onto the cart, already preparing to get a move on. But the produce boy speaks up before you can wheel it away and disappear. “Do you need any more help?”

 “Is...is it okay?”

 “Yeah, I’m pretty much done what I need to do anyways.”

 “Okay.” You don’t linger or talk much, too constrained by time. You run, pushing the cart frantically out from the back, through the produce section and returning to the deli in the corner. Jimin follows you diligently, never once faltering or abandoning your side. “Stay there.”

 The produce boy is a bit lost, opening his mouth before closing it, surprisingly obedient. He stays where you told him to, right in front of the glass display cases, unoccupied. You grab a spare cloth from the drawer, soaping it up, wringing it out thrice in a frenzied manner before you chuck it at him pass the counter. He catches it in both hands and awaits your instructions.

 “Can you wipe down the windows? I still need to put the slicer back together and pull the chickens.”

 “Alright.” He nods and then gets to work, bending over the lower displays of packaged spinach dip and guacamole to wipe the windows of the meat case and salad bar. Your nice supervisor can be absolutely psychotic about having no smudges or watermarks on the windows. You’re not sure if you can entrust such an important job to this dude but at the rate time is ticking, you’ll take your chances.

 It takes two minutes for you to put the slicer back together, having washed the removable parts earlier. It takes another three for you to mark down the leftover rotisserie chickens on the hot case, load it up on a smaller cart and push it into the back cooler. You turn off the case, the overwrap machine and by that time, Jimin stands awkwardly by the sink. You grab the cloth from him, chucking it in the laundry hamper.

 “Customers, the time is now ten p.m. We are closed and open tomorrow at eight. Thank you for shopping with us.”

 The announcement is made and you turn around to Jimin, lifting your index finger and making a single promise. “One more thing…”

 He helps you put plastic over the olive cart, standing on the other side and tugging on it to cover up the food. You shut off the light, rushing over to rip off your gloves, scrubbing your hands with soap in the sink, and taking your bag.

 “Alright.” A sigh leaves your lungs and for the first time that night, you smile. “God, today was super busy.”

 Finally. It’s over.

 Jimin steals a glimpse of your profile and smiles to himself. “Yeah, it was.”

 The manager on duty by the front doors nods his head in acknowledgment as the two of you pass. You take your name card, swiping it on the machine, clocking out, and Jimin follows suit.

 The pair of you leave the grocery store, lingering outside the main doors for a moment.

 Bracing yourself, you finally turn to face him. “Thank you.”

 Luckily, it’s only about five minutes past ten. You’re sure that if he didn’t offer to help you, you would’ve still stuck inside and left on your own for another ten minutes while your stress levels would’ve hit through the roof.

 “Yeah, no problem.” His smile is warm, eyes crinkling slightly into crescent moons, mouth drawing upwards into his chubby cheeks. Suddenly, you feel a bit self-conscious. You’re certain you look like one hell of a mess — your oily, rat nest hair still tucked back into your black hairnet, a few fallen strands sticking to your sweaty forehead and skin, the scent of deli meats and sanitizer stuck on your flesh, disgusting stains marring your red apron. You feel gross.

 You’re not sure just how gross you look.

 But as your insecurity consumes you from head to toe, causing you to avoid eye-contact with the good-looking fellow, you fail to realize how he doesn’t notice your devastating state. Rather, Jimin is staring at you with a fairly endeared expression that would have your spine melting if only you would look back at him.

 “I really appreciate it.” You clear your throat in a tense manner, trying to convey your gratitude sincerely. “Like…….actually.”

 The produce guy is super kind. To the point where you’re pleasantly stunned and a bit caught off guard. You never expected him to offer such a helping hand to you, especially considering when you don’t know him at all and he’s pretty much a stranger to you.

 “It’s really not that big of a deal.” He scratches the back of his neck, also deflecting and diverting his vision towards the other people leaving the store and marching through the parking lot to their parked cars.

 You swallow hard, cringing at the awkwardness. There’s no point in loitering in front of the grocery store when it’s closed and you’re running out of things to say. So, before you bid goodbye, you decide to actually look at him one last time; locking your eyes with his as the dim yellow light from inside the building casts onto the sidewalk and onto the profile of his visage.

 “You’re….Jimin, right?”

 His name tag is clipped at the top of his own apron. There’s no need for you to sound so unsure of yourself when it’s printed right there. But in a way, your question allows you to acknowledge him directly, letting him know that you won’t forget in the future.

 “Yup.” He smiles again. “And you’re Y/N.”

 “That I am.” You match his smile, allowing the tension in the atmosphere to naturally alleviate. “Are you working tomorrow?”

 “No.” Jimin quirks his head to the side. “Are you?”

 “Yeah.” You exhale in exhaustion, taking a peek at the sky that’s now completely dark with the moon setting up high. “Another closing shift. Hopefully it’ll be better than today.”

 “Hopefully,” he agrees.

 It’s still a bit awkward, your small talk not doing much to drive the conversation forward. You don’t know him that well and contrary to your customer’s beliefs, you aren’t a good conversationalist. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around some time, Jimin.”

 “Okay.” He begins to pull his car keys out of his pocket, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than necessary. “Goodnight.”

 You smile politely before spinning around, treading in the direction of your home. “Night.”

 He stares at your backside becoming smaller and smaller, your legs moving fast down the sidewalks and cutting through the parking lot. A tiny smile is placed on his lips, grinning to himself, and he sighs wistfully before turning around to his car.

 Meanwhile, you don’t look back, too happy to finally leave your ‘glamorous’ job. Though typically, as you would be filled with a sort of resentment for working at such a damn place, instead, another emotion overwhelms that, one that you cannot quite describe.

 Jimin.

 Jimin….Jimin….Jimin…

 You chant his name several times in your head on your way home, making sure you won’t forget.

[awkwarddystopianwarlord]

Fun-guy

I used to only wear makeup for dance shows. I never saw much reason to wear it elsewhere because I never had an occasion. Until I realized that I did. Every Saturday when my friends came over to exist together for fourteen hours. Every Saturday when we could all dress like idiots because we couldn’t during the week. Every Saturday I could wear makeup and enhance my weird moronic appearance. And that’s what I did.

Now I spice up my weekend getups with experimental makeup looks. Sometimes I make them in my brain, sometimes I take from reference photos. Last Saturday, I wanted to look like a mushroom. I had a mushroom patterned shirt and I wanted my face to match. The look was essentially red eyeshadow and blush with white speckles around the eyes and cheeks. Like a classic mushroom top. I just used red eyeshadow for my cheeks since I lack that color of blush but I did a pretty decent job I think. I looked insane until I dabbled little white spots around with a liquid eyeliner, after that the point came across. Er, at least, that’s what I thought.

Fast forward to hours later when the lot of us went to the grocery store for sustenance. I was perusing the deli section whilst the chap behind the counter was talking to another chap on my side of the counter. They seemed to be friends and since I always enjoy chatting with people I know whilst at work, I decided to let them continue as long as I could. I eventually caught their eyes and the conversation ended.  Me being me, I apologized because I feel bad about everything, but the fella was happy to serve me. All I wanted was a cornish pasty so that’s what I asked for.

The first thing this guy says to me as he gets my pastry is, “you look like you OD’d”. Naturally, for me, I awkwardly laughed and then joked around with a reply like, “that’d be funny if I just overdosed and then came in here for some food. I’m totally fine though, don’t worry”. He didn’t really say much after that I don’t think until he handed me my food thing and said something like, “really though, do you have some kind of eye infection?” I was pretty floored at this point because I thought he would just let it go, but evidently not. So, with another nervous chuckle I told him, “oh, I just have a lot of eyeshadow on,” and then I went on my un-merry way.

Seriously though, imagine if I had actually just overdosed and decided that I was hungry, I guess after being let out of the hospital. But not only that, I also had a wacky eye infection too. However, I wasn’t gonna let my near death or irritated eyes get in the way of my meat filled pastry. I instead brave the grocery store and ask for one thing and the only conversation I get is a statement and a question regarding my face looking fucked up. Imagine that. How horrible would you feel if you were majorly suffering and someone just had to point out how stupid you look as if you were unaware of it yourself?

I, for the life of me, cannot fathom why he felt it was necessary to utter the words he did. I mean, first of all, I may have looked stupid, but he was stupid. It was obviously makeup! Eye infections don’t cause symmetrical, white speckled, shimmery red marks neatly upon both eyelids and across the nose and cheeks. I’m just.. flabbergasted. All I wanted to do was look like a fun-guy but he made me feel like an un-fun-guy. A nuf-guy who had e-nuf makeup and should have stopped way earlier.

My saving grace was that my friends were there and I could tell them what happened and get some good validation for feeling baffled. It is days like those where I’m glad I only dress interesting when I have a herd with me. I can’t stand these kinds of remarks all by me onesy. I’m not going to let it get me down though, I’m not going to stop looking colorful and fun on the one day I can. I have a holiday staff party later tomorrow and I intend to look insane because it’s Saturday and my friends will be with me and I won’t have to deal with the judgment alone.

[cynicaldesire]

As soon as we left the house yesterday, we had to figure out which way to go. We ended up going down the hill by the highway, which took us by an overgrown field lined with drains. They were pretty busy, what with all the flooding. Not so much at our place because it’s at the top of the hill/mountain but the lower we got, they were pretty busy.

We meandered down this one path where a family had gathered. The sidewalk was only wide enough for one, so the Dad showed up and made them all go back down to the intersection to distract them from the foreigners so we could pass without incident.

One of the small boys got stuck behind and my boyfriend stopped in front of me, so I had to stop too. When I leaned around to see why we had stopped, the little boy was fucking with some kind of lobster prawn thing. He was trying desperately to get a good grip on it’s butt so the claws weren’t in range, but it was all front heavy and falling over. I smiled and laughed at the Mom to let her know we were intrigued and amused and then I looked back and the lobster thing had gotten upright at some point. Claws at the ready to defend itself, the kid moved around behind it and grabbed the butt. The lobster thing angled its claws toward the menace, got lifted off the ground, and the small boy trotted off down the hill, holding the lobster thing away so it wouldn’t get him.

This wad of family also was impressed by all the life in the water by the road. There was some kind of reservoir? It might’ve been a rice field before the flooding. But now it was home to many tadpoles and fish in the light brown water, complete with water skimmer bugs darting around on top. It felt like Animal Crossing to me.

There was also a small slide of sand blocking the road by the flooded tunnel, which forced us to turn back and walk across the actual on/off ramps to cross the street. We saw ahead some lights flashing and an alarm bell going off, then my boyfriend noticed the cones and poles blocking the tunnel. We didn’t see the flooding until we were on our way home.

We crossed the street, had some sushi, and couldn’t decide what to do at the mall. Drew wanted to get on the bus and have an adventure, but I wasn’t up for spending money and being out all night. And it being Sunday, the buses don’t run forever, which meant we would run out of bus at some point. So we decided to just shop at the grocery store.

But not before stopping at McDonald’s and getting some after-brunch ice cream and fries. As we approached, there was a guy standing outside, letting us know there were no sandwiches. Because of the flooding, no buns had been delivered. So we got ice cream and fries and I tried to play Pokemon Go. I haven’t played in forever so I have like no Pokeballs, but I helped fight a Magikarp raid anyway.

The grocery store was full of empty shelves. There was no fish, no bread at the bakery, very little prepared food by the deli area. There was little to no meats, lunch or otherwise. No milk. And prepackaged bread section was fucking picked clean. Ramen was scarce. People had gotten a bunch of chips and snacks. It was wild. There were no frozen pizzas. Surprisingly good number of eggs still around, though. (My Dad often jokes about how eggs, bread, and milk are on everyone’s emergency supplies to get when disaster approaches. They must be making French Toast, he says.)

After we did a bit of shopping, we wandered on our way home. (We had a bit of a tiff about whether my backpack could hold the big pack of toilet paper we got and I had to wrench it out of his hands so I could mash it down in there. I have the Tetris genes from my Dad, I said. Not much training, but I have the potential.) I noticed the alarms weren’t going off and the truck we had seen earlier was gone. I wanted to check how the tunnel looked. Which is when I took that picture. We continued up the sidewalk.

On the way, the water was rushing pretty hard. At one drain there was a little sluice gate that was forcing all the water into a main drain and it ended up very loud. We passed another new pond that was formerly a field that was draining water off very quickly as well. There were fish on the sidewalk around the drain. Wherever those fish came from must’ve gotten washed to that drain and left stranded when the water drained away. It was pretty sad.

We got into a pretty heated discussion about challenging beliefs and how my boyfriend and I are pretty open to changing our minds about stuff. I don’t remember how it got started, but it fell apart when I mentioned a bit from Adam Ruins Everything about how people can feel personally and physically attacked when you challenge things they thought they knew.

It started to rain as we got closer to the apartment, and since the umbrella isn’t big enough for both of us, we have two, but Drew always wants to be close to me, so we kept getting each other’s arms wet anyway. (It’s cute and annoying when we’re sleeping because he migrates to the center of the bed to get closer to me, but that means I have a small section to roll around in as a result. But he just wants to be closer to me so it doesn’t bother me.)

[ncfn]

Nothing Comes from Nothing Part 3: Excerpt

Pulling out a grocery cart, Regina dropped her purse in the child’s seat and pushed it toward the produce. Catching Emma’s slight pout, she stopped and asked, “Do you want to push the cart?”

“No,” Emma mumbled, scuffing her toe on the tile. “I don’t want to grocery shop.”

Sighing, the new sheriff’s consultant continued onward with a sulky sheriff in tow. “It has to be done, Dear.”

“I know,” Emma sighed, defeated, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

Selecting a few red onions and pods of garlic, Regina moved on to gather a nice selection of potatoes, a few tomatoes, grabbed a bunch of green bananas, and eventually stopped in front of the mangoes. She crossed her arms and turned to face Emma. “What is it?” she demanded.

Startled, the sheriff’s eyes widened slightly. “Nothing,” she reflexively responded. She glanced around them; the produce section was thankfully still empty, only a lone stock boy lingering by the lettuce. When her gaze returned to the consultant, she swallowed as her shoulders slumped. “I’m broke,” she finally offered.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Regina questioned softly, sensing the embarrassment rolling off Emma in waves.

The sheriff bit her bottom lip. “I can’t help pay for anything,” she mumbled, waiting for the cruel laugh or scathing comment. After all, people lesser than Regina Mills had crushed her fragile ego just for asking for a candy bar.

“Ah,” the former mayor said. Yanking a plastic produce bag off the roll, she selected a few mangoes and dropped them in the bag. She spun the bag and deftly tied it off. Dropping it in the cart, she gently said, “I wasn’t expecting you to, Miss Swan.” No matter what world or people, financial matters were delicate things. She walked away with the cart, considering the topic done.

“Well, I should,” Emma said, a little louder than she had intended. The stock boy actually looked over at them. Huffing, she caught up with Regina by the citrus. “It’s just that,” she paused and rubbed the back of her neck, “I feel guilty.” Damn, she felt incredibly guilty about several things regarding Regina.

Realizing the sheriff wasn’t going to let this go, the former mayor ignored the sad citrus selection and pushed on to the leafy greens. She picked out a bundle of spinach, sighing as the idiotic mister chose that moment to kick on as it was signaled by badly simulated thunder. She flicked the bundle a few times before stuffing it into a plastic bag. Sometimes, this world infuriated her.

“You don’t care,” Emma accused, crossing her arms. She felt stupid, and that made her angry. To top it off, she’d felt like they’d made some real progress during the last week, like they’d at least entered the awkward friend-of-a-friend territory.

Placing the spinach in the cart, Regina gripped the cart handle. “I didn’t say that,” she spat through gritted teeth, pushing the cart down a few inches. She considered the herbs.

“Saying nothing is the same thing,” the sheriff countered. They may have worked well together, cohabitated reasonably well considering everything, but something was missing for her. She actually missed socializing.

Slapping the cart’s push handle once with her palm, the brunette turned and glared at the sheriff. In a low tone, she snapped, “I didn’t see the point of dragging out an obviously distressing issue for you in public.” Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and turned away. “Just drop anything special in the cart, Miss Swan. We’ll deal with it later.”

“Alright,” Emma answered, feeling slightly better. She glanced around the woefully vacant produce section and caught the eye of a bored cashier who had obviously been watching them. However, once the cashier realized the sheriff saw her, she turned around, pretending to be straightening her work area. With a heavy sigh, Emma followed Regina toward the next aisle. “So,” she started, looking at a section of melons as they passed, “why doesn’t Storybrooke have a farmer’s market?”

“Most of the local farmers sell directly to the store,” the consultant advised distractedly, trying to concentrate on shopping. Before turning down a dry goods isle, she pointed to a large sign hanging predominantly over the produce area. It said ‘We’re proud to support Storybrooke farmers by buying local produce!’

“Oh,” the sheriff mouthed. She’d never before noticed the sign. Of course, she also avidly avoided grocery shopping. When it was a solo affair, she was in and out of the corner market within ten minutes. “So, why didn’t we wait for Henry?”

Putting a few bags of pasta in the cart, Regina rolled her eyes. “Apparently, you haven’t had the pleasure of shopping with him.” She moved down and grabbed a several bags of rice. Her pantry stores were terribly low, and if Emma kept eating like she had been the last week, she’d seriously have to rethink the portions.

Chuckling, the sheriff continued to walk beside the consultant. “He keeps asking for stuff, huh?”

Rolling her eyes, Regina handed Emma some dried beans. “Or sneaking things into the cart,” she added, watching the sheriff study the bag of beans. “It’s for chili,” she supplied.

“I love chili,” Emma said with a smile. Putting the beans in the cart, she explained, “Mary Margaret made chili, once. It didn’t turn out so well, and Granny’s isn’t much better.”

“That’s because it can pass as rocket fuel,” the consultant snarked, continuing on to the next isle.

Moseying along with Regina, the sheriff smiled. She did, however, cock an amused eyebrow at the small cluster of gawking cashiers and stockers. They’d been getting quite a bit of varying looks since the whole adventure in shopping had begun. As they headed down the cereal aisle, she shrugged it off. She couldn’t help the smirk as Regina grabbed a box of cereal, glanced at Emma and wordlessly grabbed a second one. They continued shopping in relative silence. The sheriff would occasionally add something to the cart, pop tarts, energy drinks, chips, etc.

Passing a Hostess display, Regina watched Emma drop a box of Twinkies in the cart. Casually, she continued onto the next aisle while saying, “If you like Twinkies, you’d better stock up.”

“Why?” came the worried response.

“They’re going out of business,” she supplied and shook her head when four more boxes promptly found their way into the cart. The consultant lifted a speculative eyebrow.

“Come on, they last forever,” Emma gushed, rearranging the contents of the cart. “I’ll pay you back when I get paid.”

“Miss Swan…,” Regina started with a sigh, moving the cart down the aisle.

“I mean it,” the sheriff reaffirmed, contemplating grabbing another box of Twinkies but was interrupted by the prickling sensation. She trotted toward Regina. “It’s just after moving and helping Mary Margaret get her jeep repainted, my savings was used up.” She stopped and narrowed her eyes. Crossing her arms, she asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Slipping a whole chicken into a plastic bag and dropping into the cart, the consultant went about selecting another chicken. “There’s a chicken farm in Storybrooke, too.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Emma hissed. “You spray painted her jeep.”

Adding the second chicken, Regina tilted her head and innocently said, “I didn’t realize there was a topic.”

Rolling her eyes, the sheriff followed the consultant down the refrigerated meats section. “That was awful petty, you know,” she grumped as they passed the beef, the shelves stocked with beautiful steaks, plump roasts, and glorious hamburger.

“We’ll get beef and pork from the butcher,” Regina explained, unimpressed with the quality of the mass produced food the world thrived on. Glancing briefly at Emma, she shook her head. She didn’t have to explain her actions, but she did, anyway, if only to make life easier. “Perhaps it was petty and juvenile, but I now understand the thrill of graffiti.”

Surprisingly, the sheriff let out a short bark of laughter. She cleared her throat to compose herself. An elderly shopper several aisles down had thrown her hand on her chest and leveled a startled glare at them, or more accurately, at her. Softly, she teased, “Your inner vandal aside, it was still mean.”

“Yes,” the consultant smirked, her voice taking on a low, smoky quality. She looked Emma right in the eye and drawled, “I also could’ve done worse.” She pushed the cart down to the dairy section and picked up a few packages of string cheese for Henry’s lunches.

“True,” Emma agreed. She reached for a package of sliced cheese.

“Don’t get that,” Regina said, curling her lip in disgust. “The deli has better quality.”

“But this is cheaper.” The sheriff hesitated for a moment but eventually put the package of American cheese back.

“It’s also a few chemical bonds short from plastic, much like margarine,” the consultant sniffed, lip curled in distaste, before continuing toward the deli. Quickly, she placed her order after a brief inquiry to Emma’s preference.

While they waited, Emma glanced around and fidgeted with the sale signage on top of the refrigerated case. “Like I was saying earlier…,” she started, pausing to make sure she had Regina’s attention. “My savings got used up, and shortly after getting back here, I had to lend David a couple hundred bucks to fix something on his truck.” Frowning, she added, “It pretty much cleaned me out.” Usually, she didn’t have problems saving money, but then again, she didn’t usually have friends, either.

“You don’t need to explain, Miss Swan,” Regina gently reproved.

“No,” the sheriff shrugged, watching the deli man slice the Black Forest ham. “But it’s the polite thing to do,” she finally admitted, remembering her impromptu session with Archie. Flashing a mischievous glance at the consultant, she suggested, “Of course, if you feel guilty about it, you could reimburse me for the paint job.”

Amused, Regina merely arched an eyebrow and lifted her chin. Taking the order off the counter, she thanked the deli worker who acknowledged with a nod and a smile.

“I thought not,” Emma mumbled good-naturally as Regina pushed the cart past her toward the registers. She trotted in front and started unloading the cart. Wordlessly, the cashier began checking them out. “So what’s for dinner?” she asked shamelessly.

“You just ate lunch,” the consultant quipped, opening her purse and fetching her billfold. She wouldn’t admit it, but having help with the grocery shopping was nice for a change, even if the sheriff chattered endlessly.

“It was a sandwich and a handful of chips,” Emma countered, still putting items on the belt. With the cart finally empty, she pulled it down to the bagging area and started packing up the scanned items in paper bags. “Yeah, I know I also had a banana and a chocolate chip granola bar, but it’s not going to last forever.”

Uncertainly, the cashier glanced between the two women. She didn’t know if she should call the manager over or not.

“May I remind you that you also ate my granola bar and the last cheese stick,” Regina rejoined, pulling out several large bills. She patiently waited for the checker to finish.

“You weren’t going to eat them,” the sheriff grumbled, loading the cart with the packed bags.

Rolling her eyes, the consultant asked, “And precisely how would you know that?”

Packing the second to the last bag, Emma merely shrugged as she explained, “They were just sitting there.”

Lightly clearing her throat, the cashier softly relayed the total. She fiddled nervously with her name tag.

Paying the unsurprisingly higher than usual grocery bill, Regina harrumphed while handing over the money. There was no point in arguing the logistics of saving snacks for later.

With the conversation already forgotten, a discarded circular caught the sheriff’s attention. Holding it up, she said, “We should get some pudding.” She pointed to the buy two get one free ad for Jell-O products.

The cashier paused in her counting, looking curiously between the two women. Tentatively, she handed over Regina’s change.

Glancing up from putting away her money, the brunette simply said, “I made pudding yesterday.”

Dropping the flyer, Emma asked, packing the last bag, “Oh, really? Where is it?”

Stowing her billfold in her purse, Regina sighed. “I stashed it behind the practically empty jar of caramel sauce you noisily slurped down the other night.” She had quickly learned that living with Emma Swan required hiding food.

Subconsciously licking her lips, the sheriff grinned as she remembered her homemade sundae. “Yeah . . . that was really good,” she breathed in appreciation but mentally kicked herself for not grabbing another jar.

With an almost silent gasp, the cashier’s eyes widened in stunned shock. She quickly schooled her features to what she must have thought was a neutral expression.

However, Regina had caught the reaction, and she ever-so-slightly curled her lips as a plan formed. “I wouldn’t know, Dear,” she said smoothly to Emma. “I wasn’t offered the opportunity to partake.”

Sighing dramatically, Emma put the last paper bag in the cart. “I promise to save some for you next time.” She stepped to the side, allowing Regina to push the cart toward the exit. “What flavor?” she asked, catching the cashier’s too-attentive look. She hated it when people were nosey.

“Pistachio,” Regina said with a smirk and a quick quirk of an eyebrow.

With a rather suggestive moan, the sheriff smiled adoringly at the consultant. “My favorite. I’m allergic to butterscotch, just so you know . . ,” she paused and drawled out, “for future reference.”

“Duly noted,” Regina said over the cashier’s sudden coughing fit behind them.

“Thanks, Terri!” Emma called as they exited the store. When the automatic doors slid shut, she looked over her shoulder to see the cashier still watching them. “That was pretty sneaky, Regina. You know she’s going to jump to all kinds of conclusions.”

Unconcerned, the consultant purposefully pushed the cart to the lone yellow Bug in the small parking lot. “Nothing new, I’m sure, Miss Swan.” She ignored the sheriff’s perplexed expression as she waited for her to open the front trunk.

Shaking her head, Emma loaded their groceries into the car. She flashed Regina a cheeky grin. “I guess now would be a good time to mention I’m almost out of gas.”

The Beetle had been running on fumes for the last two days. Slamming the trunk shut, the sheriff lost all her bravado as the brunette returned the shopping cart to the front of the store. Climbing in and starting the diesel engine, she winced at the intensity of the vehicle’s full-body rattle. It was in desperate need of a tune-up, but she didn’t know anyone in town who worked on diesel engines.

“I suppose all this clattering is a testament to this deathtrap’s construction,” Regina sneered, getting in the car and fastening her seatbelt. Looking at Emma, she added, “It’s truly amazing it hasn’t left pieces of itself littering the roadways.”

Snorting, Emma shifted into gear, dropping the noise level slightly. “It hasn’t been this bad in a long time, but I haven’t found anyone in town who works on diesel engines.” Pulling out of the parking lot, she headed toward the only gas station in town that sold diesel fuel.

“Perhaps we could ask Mr. Salter to look at it.” At the sheriff’s puzzled look, the consultant explained, “His boats have diesel engines. I realize there’s a significant size difference but I’m sure the general mechanics are quite similar.”

“I don’t think he’d do me any favors, Regina,” Emma said dejectedly, glancing at the fuel gauge hovering over the E. The man didn’t possess the friendliest personality.

“No,” Regina admitted a tad softly. “However, he owes me a favor or two.” With that, she quietly gazed out the window, taking in all the quaint comings and goings of Storybrooke’s residents.

The rest of the ride to the gas station was made in comfortable silence. Again, the sheriff couldn’t shake the new and contradictory feelings developing for the woman beside her. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile her with the woman she’d been at odds with since her arrival. Emma’s analysis was cut short, however, when she pulled up to the pump, and a wad of bills was wordlessly handed to her.

Shyly, Emma eyed the cash and murmured, “Twenty bucks should cover it.”

“It’ll be two weeks before your next paycheck, Emma.” A sharp retort titillated the tip of Regina’s tongue, but she held it, aware Emma didn’t want to take the money. “Besides, I still expect you to pay for our occasional lunch out.”

Rolling her eyes, the sheriff gently took the offered cash and climbed out of the car. She pulled out her wallet while walking into the service station to pay the attendant, eyebrows rising at the amount of cash she stuffed in it. What the hell type of lunches is she expecting? she thought before handing the elderly man working the counter twenty bucks for Pump No. 3.

Filling up in short order, Emma and Regina were finally on their way back to Mifflin Street, each silently pondering this new and strange relationship in which they found themselves

FF.net / AO3

[artificialqueens]

Check You Out - Chapter 3 - May

A/N: So, I recently made the incredibly intelligent mistake of deleting the file with this chapter off my phone, and emptying the recently deleted folder accidentally, so this is a lot later than I expected it to be. Anyway, I hope you guys like it, feedback is always appreciated 💝 (also I set up a side blog if you want to check it out @artificial-may)

The early morning sunlight filtered through the window, lighting up the dust mites mottling the air. Bianca turned her phone on and off, counting down the minutes until she could open the large roller doors at the front of the store and let the day’s customers in.

She glanced out the window, and noticed that the car park was abnormally empty. Usually, the car park on a Saturday morning would be a third full, today there was a red ute and and a bike propped up against a tree. Groaning, she leaned her head on the wall. It would be a slow day, and that kind of day was the worst. Slow days meant customers thinking they could have long conversations with her just because there was no one else in the queue, which made it hard to bite back the cutting remarks that often rolled off her tongue. It was a little mantra Bianca had. The customer is never right.

Her phone buzzed on the till, signalling it was time for the store to open. Unlocking the heavy bolt she heaved the roller up and returned to her till, and tapped her acrylic nails on the bench. The store was empty, which wasn’t abnormal, but Bianca had gotten used to one little thing. Adore.

Since their last meeting, Bianca had indeed checked out Adore’s Instagram, as well as every other social media account she could find. She’d almost fallen into the habit of expecting the green haired girl in the early morning. Rolling her eyes at herself, she ceased her tapping as an elderly man entered the store.

A few minutes later, the sliding doors opened with a faint puff of air, and Adore rushed through them, obviously in a hurry. Only stopping to give Bianca a quick hello, she disappeared into the aisles, only to reappear holding her drink.

“Sorry I’m in a rush,” she said, too loudly, “I have work soon but I overslept and was late here-” “Hold up,” responded Bianca, “you have a job? Isn’t your job getting drunk and being the pretty little indie musician you are?” “Well, yes,” said Adore, “but that doesn’t pay for petrol, so I work as a receptionist down the road. I go from here to work, and it just so happens that today I was due to start five minutes ago. So sorry to be like this but see ya Bianca.” And then she was gone, the coins for the drink left in a little pile on the counter.

Picking them up and putting them into the till, Bianca looked once again out the front window, at Adore’s retreating figure, and the very slow trickle of people coming in through the doors. She realised she was grumpy, and she was grumpy because she hadn’t gotten to talk to Adore that morning.

Smiling to herself as an idea popped into her head, she left her till, and went and grabbed a bottle of Berocca. In no particular hurry, she returned, and tucked the drink just under her counter.

That gives you plenty of time to talk to Adore tomorrow, thought Bianca, her stomach fluttering a little in anticipation. •••• “Do you even see the point of having a break today?” asked Courtney stormed into the staffroom. Willam shrunk a little into her chair. Although they always had breaks at the same time, Courtney never really spoke to Willam, except to maybe toss a weak insult. Despite the friendliness Courtney had showed just a few weeks earlier it had all dissipated over New Years.

“Well,” quipped Willam, “the demand for fresh fruit and vegetables stops for no man.” Courtney turned, wide eyed. “But it has!” she exclaimed violently. “The store’s practically empty.”

Willam had noticed that. There had been fewer price checks, fewer people at the deli counter, fewer jobs to do. It had been great, in Willam’s opinion, but for someone obsessed with their work like Courtney, Willam could understand how the busy days could be curses.

“Well if you want something to do you can always clean the fridge or something.” Courtney’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know the last time this thing was cleaned,” she said gesturing to the fridge. “I don’t use it, ever since people started eating my food out of it.” Willam swallowed, knowing that she had been one of the people who had eaten Courtney’s salads and smoothies when they had first started appearing in the communal fridge.

“I mean,” said Courtney, the fridge door now open, “I don’t know if this gnocchi has pesto on it, or if the green stuff is mould,” she continued, brandishing a Tupperware container with some sketchy looking pasta inside. Willam grimaced.

Shutting the fridge with a bang, Courtney slumped back down into another plastic chair. “This sucks,” she said. A long pause ensued. Willam recrossed her ankles, and waited.

The awkward pause stretched on.

“So…” she said, trying to relieve the tension that was thick enough to be cut with a knife. “Why did you go vegan?” Courtney’s delicate eyebrow raised. “That’s heavy for small talk.” “It is?” asked Willam, mentally kicking herself. “Look, there’s a lot of factors, I guess I just didn’t like the connotations meat and all that had. I don’t like the idea of something being harmed just for me.” Willam nodded, and Courtney checked her watch, then sighed. “I’m supposed to receive a call soon,” she said, apologetically, “see you later.”

She left, Willam watching her go pensively, wondering at the change that had occurred between them. •••• “Is there any point me being here right now?” asked Sharon. “What do you mean?” asked Phi Phi. In the past few weeks Phi Phi had found that Sharon had mellowed a bit, turning from hatred and contempt to everything in the store, including Phi Phi, to just general dislike of the job. “I mean, no one’s here, no one’s going to be here and if they are, you and Violet can deal with them easily,” said Sharon. “I don’t need to be here.” “You’re getting paid,” Phi Phi reminded her. “Yeah for doing nothing. I could be doing something I actually want to be doing.” Phi Phi leaned forward on her till. “What do you want to do?” “Like right now-” “Nah not now. What would you prefer doing with your life. What’s your endgame?”

“I don’t really know for sure, but I want to sing and I want to travel and I want to spend my time before I have to be an adult actually enjoying myself, not stuck in a box, waiting for customers that aren’t going to come.” Phi Phi nodded. “That’s good, you know that you have passion I guess.” “Everyone does, what are you passionate about?” “I-I’m doing a law degree at the moment,” she responded after a pause. “But it’s not what you want to do is it ” “Well, no.” “So what do you want to do?”

Phi Phi hated this conversation, she normally would weasel out of it with some half hearted excuse about law was her passion, but for some reason she found herself telling Sharon. “I want to go into fashion design,” she said, her voice low. To her surprise, Sharon didn’t laugh or snicker as she’d expected her to, instead she nodded her head. “That’s cool. I reckon you’d be good at it.” “My parents don’t want me to,” said Phi Phi, “they-” “Who cares what your parents say,” responded Sharon, twisting a ring around her finger. “Do what you want, it’s your life isn’t it?” Phi Phi turned to respond, but was stopped by a group of teenagers queuing at her till. She smiled at Sharon, and lifted up her closed sign.

As she turned to the customers at her till, Phi Phi’s mind was racing with dangerous questions. Why don’t I quit my degree? What’s stopping me from design?

Why does Sharon’s opinion matter so much to me? •••• Violet was bored out of her mind. Her shift, which had started around two hours ago, had inched on slower than she’d ever known time to pass. Rather than serving customers, she’d spent the majority of the time picking at her nail polish and planning her schedule for the next week. She was contemplating sitting on the floor and taking a quick power nap, when a woman came into her line of sight and placed a basket of groceries and a reusable bag on the conveyer with a heavy thud.

Looking around the store, Violet could see the store was getting busy - or at least as busy as it could be. She also spotted a familiar head of blonde hair headed toward her till, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Hello?” asked the lady in front of her. “Can I get some service?” Violet apologised profusely, and began to scan items as quickly as possible, because there was now a blonde figure cloaked in layers waiting patiently. Violet sent a half smile at Pearl, and was pleased to see she had received one back.

After what felt like far too long, Violet finally handed the lady her receipt, and turned to Pearl. “‘Sup,” said the blonde. “Hey Pearl,” responded Violet. “How are you?” “I’ve been going well thanks,” said Pearl and they both chuckled at the awkward formality between them. Violet scanned Pearl’s groceries languidly, in an attempt to stretch out what was sure to be the highlight of her shift. She was about to ask if Pearl was doing anything that evening, when her register let out a long beep, and the screen turned completely black.

Shit, she thought, searching behind the register for the on button, thinking the can of tomatoes in her hand had knocked it. Pressing on the button, the screen stayed black.

Very slowly, but surely, people were lining up behind Pearl, and the line was slowly stretching further into the store.

Shit, she thought again, banging her till with her hand, shaking the screen desperately trying to get the till to work again. Supervisor to lane 4,“ she called over the PA, hoping Phi Phi would be able to come and sort out the situation, but the supervisor just shook her head sympathetically as she gestured at the queue trailing from express.

Of course the one time the till breaks it gets busy, thought Violet. “Is everything alright?” asked Pearl, eyes wide with concern. “Yeah, um my monitor’s just having a moment,” replied Violet, watching the queue. Banging it one more time with her fist, the screen flickered back on, showing the can of tomatoes had been scanned 75 times. Groaning, Violet called Phi Phi again, knowing she’d never be able to void such a large amount without the supervisor code.

After everything had been sorted out, and Pearl was finally paying for her things, she said, “sorry to be such a problem today.” Instantly Violet responded, “you’re not a problem, it’s good to see you,” cringing at how she sounded. Pearl smiled, and flushed a small amount, although it could have just been a trick of the light. “It’s good to see you too. Enjoy the rest of your shift Vi,” she said as she walked off.

“Why am I not a supervisor yet?” asked Violet, as she handed her till to Phi Phi at the end of her shift. “I’m one of the best workers here.” Phi Phi snorted. “Maybe it has something to do with the fact you keep flirting with certain customers,” she responded, laughter in her voice. Violet smirked. “What’s the difference between flirting with a customer and flirting with the new employee.” Violet felt a sharp sense of satisfaction at Phi Phi’s mouth dropping open. “I’m…not…” she stuttered.

Just at that moment, Sharon walked back in to the store on break, looking stormy. Phi Phi went a deep shade of red. Violet chuckled as she pranced out the door. •••• “Do you want to catch up sometime outside the calming fluorescent lights of this supermarket?” Katya asked half an hour before they closed the store, “like go to Chipotle or something?” “Will you pay for my guacamole?” “Bitch who do you think I am? I work minimum wage at a supermarket!” Trixie laughed loudly, and responded, “but seriously that’d be great. I’ll just double check I’m not going out with my boyfriend or anything and I’ll text you.” She smiled at Katya but the blonde’s face had fallen a tiny, almost imperceptible amount. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend?” “Yeah, it’s um kind of new,” responded Trixie. She felt suddenly awkward for some reason, her insides knotting with a strange emotion that she quickly recognised. Dread. “It’s not a big deal is it?”

Katya’s face lit up again, a goofy smile stretching from one ear to the other. “No of course not.” Though her tone and face was cheerful enough, Trixie couldn’t help feeling as though there was something off about the whole expression. Come on Trixie, she thought, you’re allowed to have a boyfriend. If Katya can’t get over that it’s her fault. “What else are you keeping from me? Next you’re going to tell me your entire family is actually the mafia’s founders!” “Well, now my secret’s out you rotted Gila monster.”

Trixie laughed, thankful for the relieve, though there was still something dark and uneasy in Katya’s eyes.

[sundaynightbombers-blog]

Chapter Eleven

XI

            His nostrils are plugged up and in the bag of his throat is a thick sour taste. In his ears ring a steady high-pitched note and through the smoke he can see people moving past the intersection. He isn’t sure if they are coming towards him or away or if they are running or walking. He gets out of the van. No cars are coming down the street. There is no traffic at all. He doesn’t own a gun but right now he feels he should have one. The grocery store he was just in was now closed with a big metal gate shut down over its front. Gator tries to get his head right. He walks into the smoke and slows down when he thinks about other bombs. The smoke doesn’t stop rising but it isn’t obvious what exactly it is that is burning. The pavement? He starts hearing sirens and the ringing in his ears begins to calm down. The blood is what has his attention now. The smell is what’s clogging up his nostrils. There’s so much, everywhere, he can smell it coming off of the sidewalk and off the walls. It’s too much stimulation for his head.

            The sirens begin to get louder and Gator thinks about what he looks like in the middle of the street sniffing at the air for blood. He goes back to his van, light headed from the smell. The sirens keep going but nobody has come yet. He wants to leave. What a mess. Now he has to wait to talk to someone and explains what he saw. He thinks about what he is going to tell them. He envisions the conversation, viewing it unfold from an impossible vantage point. Who he is, who the guy was, what he knew about him, why he was following him, about the client. He thinks about Aramis and the strange meeting underground, about Ramona and what she told him yesterday about the hotel. He begins to get paranoid and thinks about a set up, about crooked police and getting framed by a guy in a maintenance shirt. He puts the van in reverse but remembers he isn’t done with his job yet. He grabs his camera and hops back out. He takes a few pictures; the smoke, the apartment, the mess that could be seen once the thicker smoke has left. A lot of blood, blood and yellow stuff. He jumps back in his van and hits the gas until he can drive away on a side street.

            His van zig-zags through the one way streets to the Olgatrail detective agency and Gator parks it beside the building hidden from view of the street. The building was ugly. It was not very tall, only seven stories, and the colour of brick was a mud brown. It was a perfect rectangle, except it lacked a sense of perfect symmetry. On the left half the building shared its foundation with an apartment building that was taller by at least five floors. On its right half the building was supported by six mighty square and white columns, similar to what you could find in an underground parking garage. Tenants parked in between the columns. The first floor of the building lacked a lobby or anything a regular office building would have in its entrance. It was merely a hallway with an elevator and a door beside it. The giant directory on the wall has the suite listed as the Olgatrail agency. 

 He still hears the sirens in the distance. He hurries inside with an eye on the street for anybody that’s following him. The office is empty and dark. He keeps the lights off and ignores all the papers and office supplies he accidently sweeps off a table when he walks by. He sits down on his office floor and then lays onto his side. He drifts asleep while wondering what the hell to do now.        

*

            The phone rings but he doesn’t answer. It takes him a while to remember where he is and what happened. He doesn’t know if it just started going off or if it’s been going on for some time now. He stays still. Gator lets it ring until it stops. He woke up on his belly, he must of flipped over without realizing. He feels just right, his heart beating so calm it’s hard to tell that it’s pumping at all. The room just the right temperature. He didn’t see a reason to get up at all. The phone kept ringing. 

            His memory starts to piece itself together and he remembered what happened earlier in the morning. The thought of who it might be calling puts a sinking feeling into his chest. He closes his eyes when the ringer stops and opens them again when it starts again seconds later. He pushes himself up off the floor and it feels unnatural. I should be on the floor with the dirt and dust, he thinks to himself. The phone keeps ringing but he doesn’t answer it right away. He walks over to the makeshift pantry Ramona made in the closet that they have their internet hooked up. It used to be a mess until his partner straightned it out and put in a mini fridge, a cabinet, a coffee machine and a electric kettle. He searches the cabinet and takes out a box of cookies and puts more than one into his mouth. He brings the package with him to his office, knocking a few things off tables and shelves as he walks by them. 

            The phone stops ringing when he sits down.  He looks through the caller ID and sees the calls were from a blocked number. He puts more cookies in his mouth. 

            When the phone rings again he waits a couple rings before he answers.

-       Olgatrail agency.

-       Frank.

-       Hello.

-       It’s Ramona. 

-       Ramona.

-       Where were you? I was calling.

-       I just got in. I was on the case I’m working on. Was working on.

-       What happened? 

-       Did you hear anything about a bomb going off on Somerset this morning? 

-       No. What?

-       The guy I was following. I saw him bow up, maybe, I don’t know, three hours ago. 

-       He blew up?

-       He blew up right in front of me. I was waiting for him and he stepped onto the sidewalk and he-blew up. Exploded. 

-        How?

-       I don’t know, Ramona.

There was a silence over the line. Gator was waiting for his partner to break the silence. He had nothing else to hell her. He eats another cookie.

-       You talk to the cops?

-       No.

-       Why?

-       Felt strange. The whole thing. Didn’t trust them at the time.

-       What do you mean?

-       Felt like a set up. I don’t want to get roped into anything. I was only getting paid to follow him.  What do you think?

-       Well, do you know why you were following him? What did the client want?

-       Didn’t tell me. Just wanted a record of his movements. Where he went, who he talked to. 

-       Did you see anything? 

-       He stayed in his studio mostly. Looks like he has some errand boys that run out for him, get him groceries and what not. I snuck up to the window one night. Looked like a workshop, like an art studio. Looked like a bunch of sculptures around the room. 

-       Well. Go tell him what you saw. Tell him he blew up. That’s all you needed to do, right?

-       Yeah. Seems fishy is all. I got out of there so I wouldn’t get framed or something.

-       Well they can still come find you I guess, if they wanted to. I’m sure some body else saw what happened and saw you leave.

-       I don’t trust it, Ramona.

-       We need some money coming in, Frank…

-       I know. I know.

*

            Before going to the hotel Gator decides to eat lunch. There is a deli that caters to tourists in The Market. They have delicious sloppy joes. Gator has been thinking about the two he is going to eat all morning; thick bread buns with chunky red meat in between. Gushy tomato sauce. The accident this morning, or the explosion or whatever you want to call it, really raised his appetite in a way he isn’t proud of. A mouth-watering sensation creeped into his mind from somewhere else. His stomach had a painful sinking feeling. He is starving. He has been starving his whole life. 

            Walking into The Markets narrow bricked streets Gator notices a man on top of a milk crate talking through a mega phone. The voice sounded like it was coming from far away. It hung above the noise of the busy market but did not smother it completely. The man looked other-worldly. He was in what looked like rags but they looked thick and durable, like they could keep you warm through winter. 

            His voice, coming from someplace else as his lips barely moved - they quivered like a cowards -spoke calmly and prophetic. 

                         What was not supposed to happen—happened. 

                        What was to happen—has not passed.

                        What forces saved me? Was it good? Was it evil?

                         Two fresh and warm buns, puffy in appearance and fluffy in its texture, and in-between seasoned ground beef with a tomato sauce smothering; It’s what he needs right now. He eats them inside the deli standing up. He barely chews. A child looks at him in amazement and fear, but respect. 

He’s satisfied for now. He can think calmly. He can think about Aramis and what to say to him. He has his surveillance log printed off and tucked into a red folder. Ramona helps him with the printer. He gets too frustrated and angry and she always worries one day he’ll turn violent against the machine. 

Should be fine. His paranoia is inexplicable. He can’t think of a reason why-

he can think of a few scenarios actually. How likely are they?

1.    He’s wronged a few people. It’s unavoidable in his line of work. He’s met with some shady clients; lawyers, managers, paranoid husbands and their suspicious wives. Some clients he couldn’t satisfy. Some results weren’t favourable to the other party, and maybe they didn’t forget who was involved. 

2.    Aramis set me up to be there. Made me follow the guy, set me up to be the patsy. Classic maneuvering and Gator fell for it. He hopes it isn’t this scenario just to save himself the embarrassment. 

3.    The police? He’s always stayed out of their way. A rival agency? There are none, at least that he knows of. He’s a dying breed of investigator. A walking dinosaur.

 Who’s to tell? He can’t think of a reason why anyone would try to frame him. But how would he know the reason? He goes through the scenarios the best e can but the truth is that there are always blind spots or something you can’t account for. 

His angle will be to get in and out, here’s what you asked for now give me what you owe. 

Outside the deli the raggedy preacher is still on his milk crate continuing on with his paper-back philosophy. Outside the puddles are frozen and the sidewalk is peppered in salt. The weirdo is still on his box. 

No promises!

No limits!

When? Always!

            It sounded like he was coming to the conclusion of his speech. Gator must have missed its main thesis. It is festive on the street. Out of character for the type of town it is. 

He walks up the wide-lane Government Street to the front of The Chateau Hotel and descends to the service corridors using the elevator behind the bell boy’s station.

It smells like an old church in the basement. It must be from the stacks of old furniture. The lights on the wall beam towards he ceiling so gator can barely see where he walks. The noises of moving wheels on laundry carts and food carts can be heard but he hasn’t seen anyone else yet. Gator remembers where to go but it feels like the walk takes longer than he recalls. The same office has the door open and inside Gator finds Aramis sitting across somebody else. 

-Frank, come in

He steps over the threshold but stays by the door

-We were just talking about you

Gator hates hearing this

-Well here, you better read it because you wouldn’t believe it if I just told you

-I doubt that gator. I already know everything. 

-Yeah? You know he’s dead? You see the news? 

-Have you? There’s nothing on the news. It’s a slow news day. Some fire, some fluff pieces, politics as usual. Tell us what you saw, though. I have a hunch I know what it is. Did you lose him? He disappear? Into a cloud of smoke?

Gator didn’t like how it was going so far. He didn’t like there was a stranger here to listen to the debrief.

-Yeah, smoke. Smoke and fire. Guy exploded. He’s gone. Blood everywhere. Blood and yellow stuff. Look, here’s some pictures. 

He throws the folder onto Aramis’ desk.  

 Aramis flips it open and looks at the pictures with a smirk. He places the written report on his desk. The stranger opposite Aramis looks completely non-threatening; a little pudgy man with a long coat. He hasn’t looked at Gator since he entered the room. And now that nobody is talking his silence is heavier. 

-I take it you were worried? Gator?

-Look. I don’t know what you did to this guy. I don’t know why I was following him. I don’t want to. Here is my assignment. If it’s to your standards, send the cheque to my office. 

He places a yellow invoice on the desk. 

-Don’t worry Gator. This has nothing to do with you, nor does it have much to do with me. You won’t hear from me again.

He opens his desk drawer and Gator remembers the gun he saw there the first time he visited. Aramis pulls out an envelope and reaches across his desk to Gator.

- This was more than a fine job. 

-I’ll have to take your word for it, I guess.

He takes the envelope and puts it in his breast pocket. 

-Do me a favour, don’t refer me to your friends. I have a feeling there’s more to this hotel than I want to know and I’m old enough to leave it at that. 

He leaves without waiting and walks the slippery street back to his parked van. 

*

            Gator notices that the roads seem darker on his drive home. The pavement itself was a deep black, like he was sliding along a void. He didn’t notice any cars around him nor any street lights. He could only see the deep black pavement and the beams shooting from his headlights in front of him. They didn’t illuminate anything, they just sort of lit up the dust, so Gator felt like he was driving at the bottom of the ocean.  

[millennialtestkitchen-blog]

About Me

As is tradition with most new blogs, I must introduce myself with a brief life history. I must explain events and adventures I have been through that brought me to the point that I decided I need to blog about myself.

This blog has been created mainly to share my trials and triumphs with trying out recipes from the internet, and sometimes inventing my own. Another huge inspiration for making this blog, and hopefully something I will be able to pass along to my readers are creative ways to cook for special dietary requirements or restrictions. I will explain more about why this is important to me in a few paragraphs. 

I have always had a passion for cooking. I grew up watching the Food Network with my grandfather and cooking with my grandmother. I learned the basics from my own mother and father as well. If I look back, I think the first thing I ever learned to make, then successfully made for myself - by myself - was pancakes. Yes, they were the “just add water” kind, but my grandmother always added a dash (no measurements) of vanilla extract. I did the same thing and they turned out pretty good. She taught me how to look for the bubbles that rose from the bottom a few minutes after they hit the hot griddle. once the bubbles did not fill themselves back in after they popped, it was time to flip. My parents came down stairs around 6:30am on a Saturday to find me in my pajamas enjoying 3 pancakes by myself watching cartoons. I was hungry and they weren’t awake yet, so I taught myself how to cook out of necessity and desire for a specific thing.

Honestly, the first thing I actually ever made for myself in a similar context was Cheerios and milk with honey. Except we were out of milk and honey so I used water and cinnamon powder. I was 5 years old and the sensation of flavorless soggy Cheerios congealing in my mouth with the heaping pile of cinnamon still lingers when I think back to that fateful morning

Looking back, a lot of the things I have created or learned to cook very well have all come from necessity. I hope to share all of my own original recipes on this blog at some point, but this “cooking only due to necessity” brings me to where I am at in my life at the moment. 

I found out November 2016 that I have a dairy allergy, and wheat and gluten also were causing reactions in my body that I was not happy with. My doctor and I decided that Thanksgiving 2016 would be my last hurrah with dairy and wheat in large amounts. Since then I have been 99.9% dairy free (that 0.01% is accounting for times I did not realize I was eating something with dairy in it). I have also been 90% gluten free as well (I will let myself have a piece of bread at a restaurant, or a few sips of my partners beer, but that’s about it. However I was served a beer at a family friends house and due to social anxiety and lack of other beverages I drank it without saying anything and I did not have a terrible reaction to it) 

Within 3 days of giving up dairy and gluten back in 2016, my face cleared up, my stomach stopped hurting all of the time, my body felt less lethargic and my mental fogginess cleared up as well. Before I gave up dairy and gluten I was eating a mostly vegetarian diet, inspired by my current roommate and the fact that I lived in Hawaii and everyone I knew was vegan. And there is so much great access to veggies there, it was cheap way to fill up without spending money on meat. However I did start consuming a huge amount of dairy, especially considering I never drank milk as a kid and always hated cheese until my later teen years. I grew to love fresh mozzarella, cream in my coffee, and my late night hangover cure of a 2AM Smoked Mozzarella and Tomato Grilled Cheese Sandwich. I also loved beer, and having turned 21 earlier that year, I was drinking a lot of it (while slightly priding myself on being a woman who actually appreciated a good IPA) 

I remember about a week before I had to stop eating dairy, I went into the local grocery store in Hawaii, grabbed some random dish from the deli and sat in my car eating it while thinking to myself “I’m so glad I don’t have any food allergies, I love being able to eat whatever I want and try all of these new cuisines and foods. Maybe I should be a food critic” 

The first few months were hard on me. I loved to cook already, but I lost the ability to cook about 90% of my comfort staples and nightly dinner ideas. I was stuck and found myself eating a lot of rice and veggies, and I ate a lot of corn chips and salsa. One time I even had a reaction to those because some dumb brand at the local store added whey into their corn tortilla chips... 

I finally got tired of eating Asian themed food and snacks and started to think outside of the box. I think one of the first things I made that was remotely creative was Vegan Street Tacos. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I loved that I could make something so hearty and lovely and I didn’t have to worry about it giving me a reaction or asking too many questions at a restaurant. I was able to just cook it, sit down, and eat until i felt like exploding.  

This inspired me to think of all of my favorite comfort dishes and try and recreate them in dairy free and gluten free ways. This is pretty hard sometimes because a lot of things that are Gluten Free are not always Dairy Free and vice versa. Most of the time if I am feeling lazy I have to look up Gluten Free and Vegan recipes to ensure I don’t have to find a good substitution for butter, or get a good gluten free flour recommendation. These recipes often call for crazy substitutions though, and since I am a meat eater, and I can eat eggs, the vegan recipes call for ingredients I do not have on hand, and sometimes ingredients that are very expensive or hard to find. 

The hardest stuff to make in the kitchen are actually deserts. Substitution is easy with cooking, because the chemistry between ingredients isn’t as important. Baking is a science and There aren’t a lot of people out there who have perfected the science behind almond flour acting like regular flour. So it’s a lot harder to just “sub in” a gluten free or dairy free ingredient. Butter is the absolute hardest thing to find substitutions for, and it’s the bane of my existence. I have been told so many times “oh this is dairy free, it just has some butter in it, but no milk or cheese” and I have to explain to the person that BUTTER IS DAIRY. It doesn’t help that I am allergic to Casein, and not Lactose. This means that I am allergic to the protein in diary that wont bake out of stuff like lactose does. And butter is like concentrated Casein. 

Thanks for bearing with me so far, I’ll get to my blog theme right here. 

After adventuring around in life and having 2 years of gf/df eating under my belt, i have found myself becoming more creative in the kitchen. I read a lot of recipes online and have figured out what substitutions work best for me, and still taste great for my boyfriend, who can eat whatever he wants. I make food that is satisfying and delicious for me, and is still enjoyable for those who do not have allergies or restrictions. 

On this blog I will mostly be sharing recent meals that I have made and explain how I did it to achieve a GF/DF meal. I will try my best to share price of ingredients but keep in mind this will change based on location and time of year.

I will also tag and label a recipe that is VEGAN if I did not use any meat or eggs. Keep in mind though, that 99% of what I will post about will already be safe for gluten sensitive and dairy avoiding individuals. That being said, there are some products I purchase that are “made in a factory that shares equipment with milk or wheat” I have found some products with this disclaimer that do not give me a reaction, and some do. SO keep in mind if you are Celiac you will still need to check your food labels for ingredients you buy. If you want though, I am happy to test products for you (just let me know)  

Basically this blog will have a link to a recipe I found, or the name of the cook book, and I will explain how easy it was to replicate.I will explain any substitutions I did to achieve a meal I can consume as well. In addition, I will post some of my own original recipes I have created, and on occasion I may be posting restaurant or product reviews when I find a place that I felt was really accommodating or a product I found and loved. (right now I am obsessed with Skinny Pop’s white cheddar popcorn because it’s vegan and I missed white cheddar popcorn a lot)

And with that now you know about me and what I am trying to accomplish here. I want to share my experiences to hopefully inspire other people who share my struggles. I love to eat and just because I have to watch what I eat, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy what I eat. 

Always feel free to send me questions on tumblr or via email :) 

also I would appreciate any patience with me and my new blog. I am still figuring out how I want to format things and when and what to write. 

[authorjanellesamara-blog]

My First and LAST Time at Hy-Vee Market Grille

If you're from the central midwest, you've probably heard of the grocery store chain, Hy-Vee. It's a middle-grade grocery store, not full-on gourmet, but not a discount store, either. They're employee owned and they usually have decent stuff. It's a bit more expensive than Walmart, but they have a higher quality of fruits and vegetables and a larger selection of organic food, which is mostly why I shop there. In the last year or two, they've been adding a restaurant to many of their stores here in Kansas City, which is named Market Grille. We decided to try it, and we were not very happy with our experience.

This all started in early May, the day after my husband's immigration interview. We wanted to celebrate his recommendation for citizenship, so we went out to lunch. We don't eat out very often since I cook so much, and we didn't really know where we should eat. We settled on Hy-Vee Market Grille since it was supposed to be such fresh food. 

Fucking shit... We were there for over an hour for just burgers.

We got there and waited at the front counter for at least five minutes before the guy came to help us. We both got the special--a burger, fries, and a drink for $6.99. We both ordered cheddar on our well-done burgers. We were given two small plastic cups and pointed toward the Coke Freestyle machine. He said we could sit wherever we wanted. 

Most of the tables were empty and dirty. We found a clean one in the corner and sat down.  In the middle of the room, several tables had been pushed together so that a group of ten could sit together. He'd said that he'd put our order in first so that it wouldn't be stuck behind the large order he'd taken from the cluster in the middle. They got their apps after ten minutes, but whatever. We figured our burgers couldn't be too far behind.

Twenty minutes later, the guy came out with two burgers and said, "American and gouda?" Um, no. We both had cheddar. He apologized and took the food to the right table. A table that I'm pretty sure got there a while after we did, but contained a guy who worked for Hy-Vee, so it was possible he got his order put in before we'd arrived. 

Another fifteen minutes had passed when I saw someone exit the kitchen carrying two burgers. He walked around to the other side of the huge wall/partition that splits the dining room and was intercepted by the guy who'd helped us earlier. They talked for a couple of minutes before he finally came back into view with our plates and set them down. He hightailed it out of there and was not to be seen again until long past when we were ready to leave.

My husband and I both reached for our fries first. They were cold and hard like they'd been overcooked and then left to sit out for a while. I only ate three fries off of my plate. They were just intolerable. I tried to build my burger--a hugely thick patty that was smaller around than the bun because whoever formed the patty is a moron. It's charred black on the outside, but at least it wasn't bloody on the inside. (I love my steaks to be medium, but I only eat thoroughly cooked burgers.) I had two complete stacks of toppings on my plate--lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles. My husband had one stack and it only contained the first three. No pickles for my sweet Karim who's just trying to celebrate. I insisted he take one of my stacks of veggies.

The stack that I kept was despicable. Part of the lettuce was hanging off the edge of the plate and it was literally dried to a crisp like it had been dehydrated under the heat lamp. The lettuce that rested on the plate was hot, dark, and wilted. I wasn't eating that crap. I don't eat raw onions, and the tomato slices had a gritty texture when I touched it--a sure sign of them being hothouse garbage. So, I only put the two pickle slices on my burger. 

There were no condiments. No ketchup or mustard sat on the table. We were not offered any. There were no small ramekins of sauces to accompany our burgers. We were expected to eat them dry. No mayo, no mustard, no ketchup, no BBQ sauce, no nothing. And dry they were! The buns were hard and stale but also toasted in order to make them extra dry and hard. All that time under the heat lamp sure didn't soften them any, either. Like, could they not even bother to give us fucking packets of ketchup for our fries? I'd seen stuff for coffee and tea over by the drink machine--sugar, creamer, etc.--but I sure didn't see any ketchup anywhere. Not that I eat ketchup, anyway, but most people do, so...What the fuck?

When we were done, we waited for our bill. We waited to complain. We waited for over ten minutes after we were finished, getting more and more angry that this guy was nowhere in sight. Finally, we went to stand by the front counter, while I looked back into the kitchen. It's clearly a shared kitchen for the hot deli, salad bar, soup bar, Chinese food, and pizza bar that are all inside the grocery store. We waited some more.

Another customer approached me and we started talking about how it seemed like this one guy is the only person who works in the restaurant part. There's no bartender, even though several people were sitting at the bar, drinking. There was no cashier. There were no other servers. He and the obvious cook who came out of the kitchen with our food were the only people we'd seen. But the one guy who's working was spending 90% of his time in the kitchen, well out of sight and earshot of his patrons. Bad. Fucking. Job. One of the first things you learn working the floor at a restaurant is the 80-20 rule--80% of your time is spent on the floor and no more than 20% of your time is spent in the back. And you'd damn well better be in the back for a reason, like retrieving an order.

The only good reason he could've been back there so much was if it was also his job to cook everything for that restaurant. If that's the case, shame on you, Hy-Vee, for placing so much on the shoulders of one person when there is a kitchen full of people. If it's a shared kitchen, it should be shared work. 

Finally...FINALLY! This guy comes out of the back. He's not carrying anything. All of that time in the kitchen, ignoring the paying customers, and he's not even bringing out anyone's food! The big table of ten people has still only gotten their appetizers. Whatever. His friendliness and seeming attentiveness once he sees we've seen him is all just a spectacular front. Dude should be an actor. If he really cared as much as his smile claimed he does, he would have done his job better. 

"Oh, hi! Were you guys ready to check out?" he asked us as he rushed to the computer.

"Yep." I popped hard on the p, showing my dissatisfaction. "We have been for a while." Yes, I'm sassy. Or a bitch. Whatever. If I'm not happy, you're going to know it. I'll get mouthy. I don't expect perfection, but I expect people to try. I've never understood complacency in others. How can people not try to be better? How can they be fine with remaining stagnant? But that's a whole other thing...

His brow furrowed. "Are...are you sure you didn't already pay?" He looked up at us, his smile fading in his (perhaps feigned?) confusion. 

"I...I don't know. I don't have a receipt." I turned to my husband. "Did you pay? When we got here?"

Now it's his turn to look confused. "I don't carry cash. I didn't swipe a card?" He wasn't sure and he stared off at nothing, trying to remember. "No?" He said it like a question, still not positive.

"I have cash, but did I pay?" I looked in my wallet, but it didn't matter since I didn't know how much money I had, anyway. 

"I only have three open tickets," the guy said while he looked at his computer. "The table of ten, a table of three, and the people at the bar. I don't have an open ticket for your burgers."

"But I don't have a receipt. I keep my receipts."

He shrugged. "Sometimes, they get lost in the shuffle up here."

I looked up at my husband and saw it in his eyes. Let's go. 

Fine. I wasn't going to complain. I wasn't going to let this guy have it. I'd already unloaded by telling the dude from the bar that it was terrible and we'd never be back. He'd commiserated with me, said the place was great when it first opened. Fully staffed, quick service, good food. Anymore, though, it was only ever one person, even during dinner. They were killing their own restaurant by not staffing the damned thing. Sucks to be them, I guess.

We checked all of our cards later. None of them had a charge for our meal on it. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that we hadn't paid. I don't recall ever hearing a total, nor do I remember dropping coins into my wallet, both of which are things I always take particular notice. Then there's the receipt...If I'm not given one, I ask for it. 

Now, I'm certain I've unraveled the mystery. I believe I've figured out why it was free and why it took so fucking long. He didn't complete our order. He didn't do whatever he had to do to send our order to the kitchen. There wasn't an open ticket, because there wasn't a ticket, period. When he brought out the other people's burgers, he realized that they should have been ours. He went back into the kitchen like, where are my other burgers? He had to have them make them on the fly. But clearly the cooks suck at timing and staging orders, so they dropped the fries and started the burgers at the same time. Prepped the plate, cold veggies and dry bun sitting with the heat lamp ruining it all while it waited for meat. The meat got added and it sat there and waited for a good while longer until a cook came out to look for him since he'd needed these now ruined burgers so urgently. He probably stood over there, arguing with the cook, then gave up and brought us our crappy food.

Yeah. That's my theory. He probably hid in the back to hide from us. I was facing the kitchen while we waited for our food and ate. I've been told that I have one hell of a mean/angry-face. I've never really seen it for myself, but I have seen other people's faces when they see me irate or furious. So, I think he let us have our food for free because he forgot to enter our ticket. I think he was avoiding confrontation by confusing and surprising me with free food because an angry woman wearing a camo floppy hat over purple hair is more likely to make a scene.

Well, scene avoided, dude.

Future customers avoided, too. An understaffed restaurant stays empty because no one wants to come back. I also won't be going back because if this is what happened--if he really forgot to send back our ticket and then just let us have it for free--then he should have told us. He should have come to the table and explained why it was taking so long and that it would be free for the inconvenience. That would have been much preferred over us waiting, wondering, and getting angrier the longer we waited. A sure-fire way to have cemented that we'd go back would have been to offer a free dessert after our meal. But, then...that's how I do my customer service, so...yeah. Either way, we won't be going back due to poor customer service.

[3one3]

The Sequel - 856

Double Life

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“You know, you’re right. I don’t know how I get on when I don’t see you.”

“Hey, don’t think you’d get this every day, man.”

“I could get by on just this look on your face every day.”

“Well maybe you could have that. This is what I look like when I feel like I did something really good for you.”

“You did very well, angel.”

“Your face right now is pretty nice too. I look like this because you look at me like that.”

Juan smooched Christina’s forehead after her general expression went from placid and content to intense and serious. The thing binding both looks was the glow of her satisfaction, happiness, and love that shone through in her eyes and her cheeks, beyond her control. They were still on the daybed at the end of the pool, lying side by side and facing each other, but with less clothes than when they were just drinking iced coffee and chatting. Partway into catching up with one another physically, the rider was compelled to help make up for all the abstinence imposed on the footballer between their visits with one another. And she wanted to pay him back for his patience with interest too. For as long as he wanted or could stand, she was going to love him with her lips, tongue, hands, and even her teeth. Juan didn’t realize he was in for such a service, and kept trying to get her to let him provide some love for her too in the beginning, until he was lulled into submission. His girl only allowed him to rub her back and her arm, or play with her hair. She just wanted to do all of his favorite things, and give each one her full attention and enough time to make an impression. There was no speeding through the things she knew got him off or temporarily drove him crazy. His thighs got attention. His stomach got love. His chest got kisses. His dick got everything. His balls got in her mouth. And then she did all of that over again in a different order, just to make sure he got enough of each thing and never too much- never so much that the line was crossed. Christina kept him comfortably shy of the edge so that it wasn’t like torture for him, delicious as that can be. He said things, and made sounds that helped her know exactly where he liked her tongue best, and how fast or slow to shuttle her hand up and down, and when her teeth caused too much pain instead of just the right amount near his hip. Only when he lovingly pleaded to actually be inside her did the rider halt her mission. She got in his lap then and “fought” with him for control for a few minutes. Juan lost but they both won, really.

She was sweaty by the time she’d finished her work, and finished herself too. That’s why she was still naked while the Spaniard watched her come down and he was back in his underwear and t-shirt. Watching him watch her was actually better for her than the sex. He was so enamored. They were just passing that “look how much he/she loves me” thing back and forth. Juan loved how much she loved to give him pleasure, and Christina loved how much he loved taking in her glow. The bonus for her was how easy it actually was to get total control over him- how he was fine with and willing to be completely vulnerable with her, and transparent, and authentic. Even André sometimes tried to hide exactly how much he liked things she did for him, as his old teammate did even more frequently. They could hold out and resist giving up that power over themselves to her. It depended on mood. She felt accomplished whenever the loves of her life let her all the way in. It was special to her when they got into the sort of hyper-emotional place she found herself in sometimes- when sleeping together was more meaningful and significant, and the connection more powerful than during or after run of the mill sex.

“Love you,” she whispered under his chin while Juan kissed her head. He sighed contentedly in response and just mumbled “angel”. He didn’t need to say he loved her too. They were quiet for a couple of minutes after that, just listening to the ambient sounds of her backyard- the water in the pool, the fan overhead, the radio, and the tractor mowing the grass around the paddocks behind them.  Thinking about who might be operating the tractor was the only thing that prompted Christina to extract herself from her post-sex love bubble. It was unlikely but still possible that any of the two guys working on the property could spot her and her friend being too friendly and too naked. “Are you ready to go have lunch now?” she questioned as she felt around for her shirt.

“The part of the day where you look at me asking “Did I do a good job for you, please, please say I did” is over now?”

“Yes,” she nodded. The Spanish player gave her a small kiss on the cheek.

“Where are we going for lunch?”

“Jewish deli. Let me just go put some different shorts on, and then we can go eat our weight in corned beef on rye.”

Christina ran upstairs to exchange her around-the-house shorts for cutoff denim ones, and to fix her hair. It was still in a knot high up on her head, but she was able to make it look less like she’d just had sex with somebody. The pair of athletes then got in André’s G-wagon and dropped the dogs at the barn before heading to what was really a kosher grocery store with a deli counter and four small tables out front with umbrellas. It was the ex-New Yorker’s favorite eatery in her new home, because it reminded her of her first home. It offered all the Manhattan Jewish delicatessen staples- thick cut, moist corned beef, beautifully colored pastrami, tender brisket, nitrate-free kosher hotdogs, dense, seedless rye bread, golden potato knishes, crunchy pickles, light and flaky rugelach, and delicious smelling matzoh ball soup. Luckily for her waistline, none of those wonderful foods tasted as good cold, or heated up at home, as they did hot and fresh, otherwise she would have been eating corned beef, brisket, or hotdogs every day. She got a mountain of corned beef on rye, no mustard, a bottle of root beer, and side of made-to-order French fries in lieu of the coleslaw that ordinarily came with her sandwich, and a new pickle. Juan tried the pastrami, and he did get the mustard and the coleslaw, and the full-sour pickle.

“I feel so insignificant now,” he chuckled across the table after unwrapping his straw. His late lunch date was already two bites into her massive sandwich, which she actually ate with a knife and fork. She glanced up from the paper plate with a curious and confused pinching of her eyebrows. Her mouth was full so she had to rely on her face to convey her response. “Just now you looked as happy about the food as you did earlier. I thought I was special, cariña.” She rolled her eyes while she smiled, and then moved her sunglasses from her shirt to her face.

“There, now your precious ego can’t be hurt by my adoration for kosher meat.”

“Hey, I enjoy when you’re happy, no matter which reason,” Juan shrugged. “Even when it’s André.”

“Uhhuh.”

“Do you feel yet like you’re living a double life? I almost do, and I don’t even have another person for the times when we’re not together, so I can’t imagine how hard it is for you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Uhh-“ I know he sounded somewhat serious-ish when he said “Even if it’s André”, but I didn’t know we were going to have a real conversation, Christina thought behind the protection of her aviators. I thought he was teasing, or being sarcastic. She blew all the air in her lungs out at once, making her lips vibrate.

“Err-well...yeah, I guess I do. It’s exaggerated right now though because it’s summer and we’re all traveling. I keep going back and forth between the two of you and I’m never by myself. I don’t know if I’d call it a double life. That feels like something where you have to hide one life from the other. We don’t have that situation. Sometimes I catch myself confusing the two of you though. I made Schü’s coffee the way you like the other day. I dunno.”

“It’s different now, yes? Like you said, because of the summertime. In the beginning of this thing with us you were either in London with me for a long time and only saw him a little, or you were here with him mostly and came to me for a day or two. All summer it’s back and forth, hm? I think often about how you keep it together inside- how you keep it all straight. I think I would struggle.” The Chelsea midfielder kind of shrugged one shoulder and then dug into his similarly enormous sandwich, determined to tackle it without silverware. Half of his almost-double life studied him intently, hoping to find guidance as to whether he was attempting to tell her he wasn’t happy with their arrangement, or that he needed to talk about it, get it off his chest, without literally telling her, or if he was just making conversation.

“When you say you feel almost like you’re living a double life- Is that a bad thing? I mean, it’s not a good thing, probably, but is it a problem? Is it messing you up, for lack of a better- Ya know what? I’m trying to ask if it’s upsetting you. That’s the word for it,” Christina chuckled.

“Not really. I worry more for you. I know we all say, “if it works and makes us happy, it’s fine”, but sometimes I think our situation between us could give long-term issues or something. I don’t know, exactly. Something I think about at night,” Juan shrugged again, very obviously trying to diminish the significance of what he brought up. His friend still couldn’t tell if that meant it really was insignificant or incidental, or if he actually wanted her to dig deeper and extract more feelings from him. He didn’t always sit down or phone her up and say “I need to talk about stuff that’s bothering me”. She worked on her sandwich for a few minutes to digest his words and his body language. The salty, savory, delicious meat was so enjoyable that it was almost distracting. The narrow veins of fat running through it melted like butter in her mouth. It was a rare food that could so dominate her palette that the French fries on the table could go virtually untouched.

“Do you like the pastrami?” she questioned during a corned beef break to have a piece of pickle.

“Yeah, it’s great. Your dad told me a story about you that involved pastrami I think. Did he eat it a lot?”

“He liked it, yeah, but I wouldn’t say he ate it a lot. I can’t imagine what he told you about me that has to do with it. I don’t eat that.”

“He said he had to take you to the dentist to have your braces adjusted every few weeks because your mom was taking Aidan to his art school?” Juan explained with a questioning lilt to solicit validation of his memory. Christina nodded to confirm, and had to smile a bit at how much he remembered from his communications with her father. For once, it didn’t automatically irritate or anger her to think back on their secret pen-pal relationship. “He was telling me how much you hated having to miss out on riding, and getting work on your teeth was bad too, so it was a double-bad day to have to go to the dentist.”

“Orthodontist, actually, but yeah. I hated that. I used to cry about the braces because it hurt so much later at night, and I couldn’t eat anything. Oh! I know what he told you.” Her smile grew with the recognition.

“I can’t remember the name of the restaurant.”

“Ben’s. It’s a kosher restaurant with a big deli counter. It’s a chain. They’re all over. He used to take me there before the orthodontist appointment so that I could have awesome food before the torture.”

“Mm. Herb said he had the pastrami sandwich, or tongue, which I think I saw on the menu here too.”

“Yeah. It’s different than what we had at home but both are gross. He usually had the pastrami though, and I either had two hotdogs- the best hotdogs in the world- or corned beef on white. I didn’t like rye bread until I was a little older. We got chicken noodle soup to go so that I could eat it later when my teeth hurt too much for solid food. The noodles were like little pieces of spaghetti, and it had carrots that were soft and mushy. The crinkle-cut fries there were kind of terrible but I usually got those too, extra well-done. I went there with my mom sometimes too. There was one in this shopping center with a bunch of stores we liked. She has brisket on rye with mayonnaise.”

“What do you think it says that your favorite place to eat here in Germany is with the kind of food you had ritually with your parents?” the restaurant owner thoughtfully inquired at the end of Christina’s fond but rather sedate recounting of her kosher deli past. She resumed eating but her mind was actually still on hotdogs. She’d said Ben’s were the best in the world, and that wasn’t true. The existence of Nathan’s- of Independence Day hotdog eating contest fame- came to her a bit late. It was a little unsettling to realize she could forget pieces of “home” so readily. Nathan’s has been a Coney Island landmark for generations, and it expanded to other standalone locations as well as food court spots, and even sports stadiums and movie theatres. Their hotdogs were her real favorite, and their crinkle-cut fries were even worse than Ben’s but you can get them with melted cheese so that gives them a leg up. She thought of the tiny red two-prong plastic fork that comes with the French fries, and how she was occasionally swayed by the lure of chicken fingers on the menu- always to her ultimate regret. Her mom or dad always had the hotdogs, and as she ate her chicken and watched them gobble down the alternative, it was tempting to go get a hotdog of her own. The freestanding locations have historically also featured big arcades with tons of games and cheap, junky prizes. Christina once went on a school field trip to a garbage processing plant to learn about recycling, and it was just a few minutes from the second biggest Nathan’s so that’s where her class went to eat and play games. It definitely made up for having to visit an actual garbage dump.

“That I like Jew food?” she suggested to Juan, deflecting. I don’t know what it means. I don’t care what it means. It probably doesn’t mean anything, she concluded in part because she was so disinterested in letting him lure her into some intellectual place, or some heady analysis.

“Sure.” The Spaniard was willing to let her off easy. He was pretty into the sandwich too.

“Let’s talk about your parents instead.” The rider was ready for French fries. They were a better interrogatory food. She could use them to point or gesticulate.

“My mom would like a complete schedule of when and how she can watch you ride in Tokyo. I told her we usually text about when you compete and where it’s streamed or broadcast, because I can’t remember if you give me more than a day notice. She wants the schedule up front so she can plan around it.”

“Awwww. That’s so cute. I love your mom.”

“She loves you too.”

“Have you ever imagined as the scenario for me wanting to get married that I like propose to your mom?”

“What?” The Chelsea man snorted and laughed, and a piece of pastrami flew out of his mouth and landed on her root beer, which made her snort and laugh too. Luckily there wasn’t any food in her mouth. The food in her stomach made it uncomfortable when she couldn’t stop laughing though. Only when it actually began to hurt, and when her face started to hurt too, did she take deep breaths and get over the hilarity of the faux pas. It was rare to see Juan embarrass himself.

“What if I asked your mom to be my mom?” I think she might be more overjoyed than he would be if I ever did that, she smiled to herself inside, imaging Mrs. Mata’s outpouring of love, and hugs.

“The only thing she would enjoy more than that is if you asked her if you could be the mother to her first grandchild,” the player shot back pointedly.

“Yeah, I bet.” I shall not take that bait. “Do you want this back?” Christina offered the chewed up piece of meat from her drink bottle back to him, and he just handed her a napkin. “What are you going to do later while I’m riding?”

“Watch?”

“Isn’t that going to be boring?” She wrinkled her nose before inhaling another forkful of warm corned beef along with half a French fry smooshed under the little piece of bread that came with it. The trio of tastes together was almost as good as just the meat.  

“What else do you want me to do? Babysit?”

“You can go exploring or something. Pick a car that isn’t my R8 or the Vantage,” she smirked.

“I’m fine watching. I like to see the horses,” Juan shrugged.

“Is this when you tell me you came to see me, not sightsee in Dortmund?”

“Do I need to? I thought it was obvious.���

“No. I just have this Groundhog Day thing right now because all summer I’ve been flipping back and forth between you and Schü and I’m used to visits being about doing things, or seeing things, not just...like...being together the whole time. It’s not even déjà vu because it literally keeps happening,” the rider sighed while the footballer picked through her fries with his fork. “I always feel like the host, not the attraction, and then one of you tells me it’s not like that.”

“I actually just came to see Lucky, Spencer, and the gray horse with the name that keeps changing. I like him! He’s my friend.” Juan triumphantly showed off the extra-crispy little piece of potato he knew she probably wanted and classed as the most desirable fry. Then he offered it to her. Then he yanked the utensil away before she could get it. Then he ate the French fry. His date pouted and flicked condensation from her root beer off her fingers at him. “I didn’t know you like root beer,” he noted when she went back to the drink to stick her straw in it.

“I like it once every 4 years or so.”

“Oh, this reminds me, I brought something for you.”

“I hope it’s a dragon.”

“What is with you and dragons? You always want it to be a dragon,” he mumbled while fiddling with his combo phone case-card wallet.

“Who wouldn’t want a dragon?”

From it he produced a plastic keycard, like for a hotel room. Christina accepted it and flipped it over to see what it was all about. Why is he giving me the key to a London hotel room, she wondered when she read the name and address below the graphic on the dark blue piece of plastic. She turned it over again for more clues, but there was just some fine print and more contact information, so she looked up at Juan and raised her eyebrow high enough to be visible over her shades.

“You always tell me that you like to keep a little something with you for big competitions, or when you know it’s going to be tough, like when I gave you the rock from the moon? That’s the key to the room I stayed in for the Olympics in London. I thought to give you my credential but it’s too big to keep with you. That fits in your pocket, no?”

“Yeah, I-“ Man, he’s good. He never forgets anything and he’s always so thoughtful. How sweet of hiiiiiiiim. The new Olympian removed her sunglasses to study the token more carefully. There was nothing on it that really necessitated a closer or clearer look, but its stated intrinsic value made it worthy of an unadulterated viewing. The original owner’s explanation took it from a curious keycard to a piece of treasure.

“It wasn’t lucky for me but for you it can either remind you not to lose your composure and lose your head and fuck it all up the way we did there, or you can just have it as a reminder that I’m always with you.” Juan was nonchalant about his gift. If he knew he was presenting precious treasure, he didn’t show it.

Christina mouthed “I love you” across the table because she was afraid to say it out loud- afraid of being overheard. And then she brought the key to her lips for a demonstrative kiss before stowing it safely away in the body of her elephant-shaped, hot pink Loewe mini shoulder bag. The small purse was her anniversary gift from André, and she adored it too. She wasn’t sure yet if she’d take something to the Games with her that would work like the keycard was meant to- as a talisman that could magically connect her to him in the moments when she most needed him. The question arose for her just the day before, when she was helping the German pack his things for camp. He wanted to take a certain t-shirt with him and she tried to hold it hostage so that she could sleep in it. It smelled like him, and it was a little small on him so it was less of a dress on her than most of his shirts. He offered her many other shirts, including a brand new Borussia Dortmund kit that was actually supposed to be for some friend of one of Socks’ owners. It reminded Socks’ rider that she used to bring his football shirts when she first began traveling with the team, so that she’d have a little piece of him with her on the road.

“I don’t want to get too far ahead, but you know you have to give me the medal you win, right? I’ll put it with the Nations Cup one. My own collection.”

“First of all, don’t talk about medals,” the rider warned. “Second of all, keep dreaming.” Her phone vibrated beside her drink with a notification. “Oh! Yay!”

“What?”

“I asked Aidan to ship my rocking horse from mom’s. It was just delivered. Kyle signed for it. I’m so excited! I hope Lukas likes it. I have to figure out where to put it.”

“He has two of his own rooms...”

“He can’t be trusted to have full access. My rocking horse is my rocking horse. It means the world to me. Dad got him for me when I was like 4, for Christmas. He’s from FAO Schwarz and cost a fortune. Lukas would destroy him. He destroys everything,” Christina chuckled. Her son definitely didn’t value most of his belongings the way she did as a child, and was naturally more physical in his play. The worst she ever did to her rocking horse was trim some of his mane.

“Supervised play only.”

“Why not get him his own then?”

“FAO Schwarz went out of business. I hope he traveled okay. New York to Dortmund is a long trip for a 20-something year old rocking horse. I also hope Aidan was able to find his saddle and saddle pad. I did actually cut his bridle off because it was sewn onto his head. I got a foal-size grooming halter to put on him instead. I’ll probably need to do that again.”

“Are you sure you want Lukas to play with it at all, or did you have it sent over just for you?” Juan asked knowingly. She hushed him.

“Hey! Speaking of foals. Wanna go see Dirk and Navarra’s colt? I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“Sure.”

“Do you mind if we pick up Lukas from Marco’s on the way?”

“Why would I mind?”

“I dunno but it’s polite to ask,” she shrugged. “Should I get a to-go hotdog for him or should I just get some uncooked ones and make him one later? Or rather, let Espen make him one later since I’ll be riding. That’s why I want to get him now. I’m running out of days with him.”

“To-go hotdog. Nothing is better than Mum having food for you in the car when she picks you up.”

“K.”

“Probably it’s pretty good when you finish riding and someone has food for you too, no?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to make dinner for you, then,” Juan announced with a big grin. Christina looked at him like he was nuts. “I own a restaurant!”

“You own like part of a restaurant, and you’ve probably never even touched a pot or pan in it.”

“Do you have food in your kitchen? I’m going to find something to cook for you.

You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait. Don’t burn the place down though. The kitchen is brand new.”  

[lexswygertdotcom-blog]

Being Frugal AF

ok, here's a simplified list of how I fed four people for 25 days for less than $200.

***Disclaimer*** this is in NO WAY SHAPE or FORM meant to be a healthy meal prep plan. This is just what worked for my household. So, please don't come for me telling me that my meals aren't healthy.

***Another DISCLAIMER*** I went grocery shopping earlier this month so please don't hold me if my prices aren't 100% accurate. I can't remember and I honestly never planned to type this up.

P.S.: This might not work if you're environmentally conscious. I'm about to waste A LOT of plastic.

Unfortunately, some things just cant be prepared weeks in advance (like seafood and pasta) So, you'll obviously have to make those things the day of. I won't bother adding those things to this list.

Feel free to #share

Ok, here goes ...

1. I did not buy any juice or pop. That's OUT. I only bought cases of water and the flavored water packets. I believe we went through 6 cases of water this month.

2. I subscribe to the African Heritage Food Co-op for all of my fruits and veggies. $30 for the full box or $15 for the 1/2 box. That's the fresh produce plug.

3. You will need Ziplock bags. LOTS of Ziplock bags (in all sizes) I'm a real stickler about my Ziplock bags so I have to have the Ziplock brand. But, I don't care what kind you use, lol.

4. A sharpie marker to label the Ziplock bags.

5. I went to Aldi's and bought two boxes of waffle/pancake mix for $2/e. We made about 50 waffles and pancakes and stored them in the Ziplock freezer bags. BOOM! When we are ready, we just pop them in the toaster or microwave just like any other frozen waffle or pancake. Breakfast is served.

6. My kids also like cereal and oatmeal too so I try to keep those options handy also. Milk, eggs, Bacon and Sausage on deck as well.

7. 5 loaves of bread $1/e at Wegmans. (I think they are probably cheaper at Aldi's.) cheese, and lunch meat. Wegmans deli had the lunch meat for about $3/lb. So, I solicited the help of my teenager and we made over 90 sandwiches, at one point, I just stopped counting. We didn't put any condiments on the sandwiches because everyone in my house like different stuff. Each sandwich goes in its own sandwich size Ziplock bag and then they go into a larger gallon size Ziplock bag for the freezer. I only pull out enough sandwiches for the week. Everything else stays frozen until we need it. Essentially, all you have to do is grab your sandwich, add the condiments, and be out the door. Packing lunch is a BREEZE now.

8. Party size snacks. The individual bags are expensive so, I opted for the party/family size bags and solicited the help of my teenager once again to divide everything up into the snack size Ziplock bags. She even went the extra mile and used measuring cups for accuracy. SHE DA BEST!

9. Family size pack of ground beef. (Probably would have been cheaper if I would have gone to BJ's or the meat market but, I was already at Wegmans) I was able to divide the family size pack into four meals, I assume each section was about 1.5lbs but, yall know I didn't measure soooo ....... We will just say it was 1.5 lbs. Each 1.5lb portion went into its own ziplock bag along with all of the seasonings needed for that particular meal. BUT, if you're going to season the meat like I did before freezing, don't forget to label it with your sharpie. The last thing you want is to think you're making spaghetti but your meat has taco seasoning. I also flattened the Ziplock bags with the raw seasoned meat so thy would stack easy in my freezer. I usually pull out my ground beef in the morning straight from the freezer and throw it in the crock pot for 6 hours on low with 1 cup of water.

10. Chicken wings and breast. I pull them out the night before to clean and season so that step is eliminated when I'm ready to cook. They will be fine in the fridge overnight in a Ziplock bag with the seasonings or marinades. ---sidebar Chicken breast also does well in the crock pot.

11. Head of lettuce $2. My husband loves salad (I honestly think he could live off of salad alone) and bag salad is expensive and usually gross after about three days in the fridge. I just cut up the head of lettuce and keep it in a Ziplock bag.

12. Sides dishes are easy and don't really require much prep work so I make those as needed for dinner. You guys are on your own with the side dishes. HAHA.

I can't remember everything we had for dinner this month. Next month I'll let you all know how it goes.

In the meantime, hope this helps.

-Yours Truly Mrs Frugal AF

[janiklandre-blog]

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

9:21 a.m. cool day - getting used to a much brighter world - still, all a bit confusing.

Thinking how this here computer room now is structuring my day - used to write in Ken computer days - computer on my desk - early in the morning - have been waking up again around 6, the new time - hate the twice yearly time changes and am not alone - New England considering to abolish them and live on their own time.

First thought now the drops - then I do turn on ABC TV - since I never had cable and luckily Ken was around to install for me the $40 box I needed to keep using my TV - and ABC is about the only channel I get now,  also breaking up a lot - after pushing three buttons in the right order (it used to be one) - the breaking news is all about murders, fires, accident and a very extended weather report that only confuses me. Still, that is how I have come to begin my day. Since today Passover is over and the streets will get cleaned again - no alternate parking during Passover - also Moishe's bakery reopened - I head down the Bowery to 8th Street - so much garbage on side walks, people sleeping on the side walks - down 8th Street also called St.Mark's place - how changed from the time I came here - to a something Spa corner 8th and second ave - one of the few remnants of olden days - a friendly man selling me the New York Times - today a detour to 9th street to a bank with a relatively simple ATM - Apple bank that I used refuses to service my Amalgated bank card. On to Moishe's - no cake yet, no coffee, I got some cheese strudel - and on the deli on 4th street - super market opens at 9. In 1973 many stores opened at 6, all were open by 8 - now many don't open until noon - every store has a different time - but the delis: 24/7 - open day and night.My mother would have loved it, in her Vienna store was open from 7-12 - then a siesta until 3, and once more from 3-6 - closed from Saturdaynoon until Monday morning. She should have come to New York - she would have loved this city - I begged to come - to no avail. By 8:10 I was home again, to read the NY Times until 9 - with a coffee I buy, half of the cheese strudel - reading with interest the review of a British book about Snobbishness - and class - so discussed in England and denied in America. By now I've been made aware of people of value - the indication of the French woman that I was not one of them - this afternoon she once again is returning to Paris for medical treatment. Free so I hear in France - she  at this moment my cell phone rang and she returned my call from yesterday - she is one of very few conscientious returners of calls. She does get treated well in France, I was about to write - we all do hope she will return soon - she much prefers New York to Paris - most of my European friends much prefer New York to where ever they come from in Europe. They do feel a lot freer here. Another friend introduced me to the concept of a,b,c and so on lists - did correctly state - as a young and beautiful woman you are much higher on the list - that is why I noticed the list a lot less when I was young. But one topic I sort of started on yesterday was intrigue - in German we speak of "Intriganten" - English does not seem to make it into a noun - earlier I  looked for definitions in my Webster, found schemer, manager and a few other terms. One thing that came to my mind that people growing up in a brood - some still do with with nine or ten siblings, but even those with five or six - or even just one - by necessity become early schemers to get some attention. It obviously does make them the natural schemers that I never became. Obviously my this here blog is a tiny, very late attempt at a little attention - and very much held against me by some - who find it totally unbecoming.

Never thought much about intrigue before, now I do. I am - I believe - utterly inapt - also my inaptitude at politics - that is all about scheming? Snob - the author of the book says some of it is good - and we often express it in ways we are not conscious of. I suspect I have and do express some snobbery.

Yesterday. Polish church - I do end up at a table with Chinese. Things were a bit slow - a Slavic lunch - cooked by some Polish restaurant in Brooklyn, the food is catered - very nice buttered noodles with lots of sour cream and some canned peaches and carrots - in Prague we often had something sweet for lunch - poppiseeds used a lot, cottage cheese more like what they call here farmer's cheese, with noodles and sugar, sweet dumplings and also some dish with cabbage that was sweet. Not all that much meat - not much meat during the war - I can happily live without it. Sugar also was rationed - nothing was too sweet. Then they have been wanting me to register - required for the city funding they get - it reminded me of Polish jokes, how many Poles does it take to change a light bulb - in this case it was two Polish women struggling with a computer - always forms, forms that go with anything subsidised - I guess that is one of many reasons people do like the Catholic Worker - no government involvement, they never have become a non-for-profit that among other things makes institutions tax exempt and also would facitilate - at least before our new president - extended visitor visas for volunteer workers. Among the very best workers they had were young German woman - there was some man in Berlin who was excellent at recruiting them - Germans were liked - I too profited from that. Now that source seems dried up - visas are for shorter and shorter periods.

In any event, anything having to do with bureaucracy exhausts me - the two Polish women were exhausted also - then I still did some shopping - and everything has become heavier than it used to be - I did take my little green back pack - most women in my house allot more time to shopping, go with their carts and go to Key Foods on Avenue A - three city blocks from my house - cheaper than the 2nd Avenue market where I go. Must be a tiny fraction of the markets outside of the city - they do provide motorized scooters for those with difficulty walking - will bring their groceries to the trunks of their cars - and until now drivers licences get extended until people die over 100. Couple of phone calls - I was exhausted - fell asleep for a while, woke by 3 p.m. - called a Central Park friend, she kept me on the phone - people do seem to do that - finally I headed for Washington Square Park, closer to the West, where I had gotten into talking to Ferdinando before - he arrived as I arrived - alas it had turned cold and I was cold, still talked with him close to an hour - he is 88 and in great shape - only once saw his father who was from Peru and did not speak English - he grew up in a Catholic orphanage and never learned Spanish, his mother was Puerto Rican, never told him about family. He profited greatly from years in the army, ended up in the Korean War, came down with TB, was cured - and should I see him again I'll find out more about his life. I told him he was a great example of being fit, healthy, bright at 88 despite of truly disadvantaged younger years. It was some politician - Moynahan I believe - also from a disadvantaged background who praised people pulling themselves up by their shoe strings - Feerdonando seems a good example. Talking to him cheered me up - obviously is in some awe of me, the world I come from - in much worse physical shape than he is and probably a good deal less content than he is. Pleasures of New York - pleasures of Washington Square Park - lots of young people, bands playing - I decided a lot more happening than in Tompkins Square park. Luckily, still a pleasant walk for me. My eyes acting a bit funny - I do see black floaters - am told it will take a while for complele normalcy - telling me, enough computer? Off to the dentist - some teeth to extract - what a drag it is getting old. Ferdinando has good teeth - found out what I have been taking is an Ace inhibitor not a beta blocker as I thought - Jane Brody in the nyt yesterday on how many people pay lots of money for pills and end up never taking them - to ill effect. I have been taking the pill. Hope to be back tomorrow morning - take train to 86th, then cross town bus to my dentist on West End Avenue - plan later stop in Central Park - yesterday on TV shown in beautiful bloom   -  still, fast cars, bikes, motorized scate boards coming from all directions so many people I know have gotten run over - say a prayer when I leave the house. Marianne