#i loaf bread sm

[fiadh-doodles]

Okay I've posted art, rambled, & finished baking bread finally I'm gonna pass out now gn

[fuckwhoeverpickedallthefunnyurls]

I don’t know how to tell you this man. You’re the Elsa mutual. Blonde hair in your pfp with the light blue accent background. Makes me think of that girlboss ice queen. But you’re also the writer mutual and the German mutual . Unless you’re not German and I made that fact up in my head. Mutual headcanons, guys. Anygays, thanks for being a nice person on the internet, smelly!!!

WDYM I'M THE ELSA MUTUAL?!?! THIS CAN'T BE MY LEGACY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I gotta change my pfp now especially since my haircut is outdated on there

I need you to know that I did not at all think of Elsa when making my blog colours but I'm not gonna change it. I've come to terms with it. Ok I AM the Elsa mutual!! Whatever!!!

Also yes I am german lol

[levtashine]

Thinking about selling at a farmer's market next year tbh...if nothing else I'm having fun thinking about it. Will need to make labels and type up costs etc...

[lactosegremlin]

Introducing the new “BitchFace Purrito”

edit: with a side of burnt cinnamon roll

[jamminvroomvroom]

congrats on 5k queen! you’re writing is so brilliant beyond belief and you deserve all the love and support this site has to offer. can i request lando+angsty smut (the best combo)…prompts along the lines of “i don’t think im ever going to love anyone the way i love you”//“i don’t think i want to love anyone else”

how did it end?

ln x famous fem!reader

in which it ends, until…

i love this fic with my whole heart. thank u sm for this request, anon, and for being so absolutely for gorgeous and kind <3 kicking off the 5k celebration with a big, sad, sexy bang! lemme know what you think, hugs n kisses

songs to set the mood: how did it end? by taylor swift

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, angst angst angst, fluff, happy ending! exes to lovers, just. a lot going on. sad!lando, sad!everyone, so many feels, r is a big deal model, alcohol consumption, mentions of smoking

4.1k words

one gasp, and then…

“how did it end?” the woman strokes your arm, soothing, tentative.

you don’t know her all that well, she’s signed to the same agency as you, you see her in the halls sometimes and sit next to her in makeup chairs.

you stare blankly at her, registering. news travels fast apparently.

you smile, small, fake, tilting your head to the side. you mumble something about different schedules, timezones, right person, wrong time. she watches your face intently, with sympathy. you want to throttle her. she’s being kind and you despise her for it right now.

“i won’t tell anyone.” she affirms, her fingers still smoothing over the skin of your arm.

yes you will, you think. all of her friends, the rest of the building will know exactly what you’ve told her by the time you get to your meeting. you don’t begrudge her, though, that’s the nature of the industry.

“well, it was good to see you.” you nod, even go in for a quick hug, and then you speed away, beelining for the elevator. the ride is short, your managers office somewhere on the third floor and you shuffle down the corridor, ready to be informed of what your life will look like for the next three months.

fittings, shoots, paris trip.

mhm.

swimwear season, charlotte tilbury, meeting with the vogue journalist.

cool.

week off, few days in london, monaco grand prix.

no.

“what? no.” you splutter. out of habit, you reach for a necklace, frown when you realise it’s no longer there.

“what do you mean, no?” she narrows her eyes at you.

“i can’t go to the race. no.”

“girl, i love you, but did i ask?”

“you know i can’t-“

“you won’t have to see him.” she reasons.

“but what if i do? he’s obviously gonna be there, and the events before and after- no. no.”

“lando norris is not gonna be the end of you.”

you stifle a laugh, one that sounds more like a strangled cry.

what if he already was?

-

look who we ran into at the shops,

walking in circles like he was lost

lando stares at the shampoo.

specifically, the one you use. used. he can’t be too sure anymore, he supposes.

he’d popped out for a loaf of bread, about an hour ago. he didn’t want to acknowledge how long he’d been staring at the women’s toiletries section.

you seemed to live on, everywhere. lando could see you in his apartment, the passenger seat of his car, the back of the garage. even the fucking supermarket wasn’t safe. you were very much alive, moving on with life, and yet you haunted him like he’d killed you himself.

perhaps he had, in a way.

the basket grazes the outside of his leg.

that’s the shower gel he’d buy for you, the one you only used when you stayed with him in monaco.

there’s the tampons you asked him to buy, crying back at home on your- his bed.

oh, and there’s the shampoo that you made him buy, the one that you told him made his curls feel extra fluffy when he was between your legs-

“lando?” a voice calls, drawing lando out of the mist.

“oh, alex. hey.” lando croaks. he hasn’t noticed the lump in his throat until now. he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“what you doing, mate?” alex asks, eyebrows furrowed. he scans lando’s face, puffy eyes, watery.

“shopping.”

“for women’s shampoo?”

“no, no, just… looking.” lando stutters.

“when was the last time you slept?” alex’s voice is laced with concern, apprehensive. he doesn’t know what to say to his heartbroken friend.

lando smiles weakly.

“i’ve been sleeping.”

alex sighs.

“okay, when was the last time you slept properly, then?”

lando’s shoulders visibly sag.

“about a month ago.”

-

we hereby conduct this post-mortem

“we can’t do this anymore.”

the words fall from your lips in a whisper, but they reach him like you’ve screamed them at him. he sits opposite you, in the arm chair, so far away, only a metre or so.

“i know.” lando breathes shakily.

“i don’t want this but…”

“yeah.”

it’s been such a good year. you’re in love. it’s not enough. there’s too much distance, too many outsider opinions, too much longing for someone who’s on the other side of the world.

he’ll be in london. you’ll be in brazil.

he’ll be in australia. you’ll be in amsterdam.

it’s too much.

“i love you, though.” you remind him meekly.

“don’t know how to not love you.” he sniffles.

your heart shatters, the pieces flying over the room, spilling across the floor. they mix with the splinters of his, painting the room red. all you feel is blue.

you cry in his arms when he takes you to bed, his own tears spilling over your collar bone when he buries his head in your neck, licks over the marks he’s left there. to remember me by, he’d muttered dryly.

when you’re both finished, he lays there for a moment, still on top of you. damp with sweat and tears, the taste of one another still lingering on your tongues.

“how is it possible that i miss you already?” he pants, lips grazing just below your ear.

“i get it, lan. i’ve been missing you for a while.”

you’re gone when he wakes up.

and so, a touch that was my birthright became foreign

-

come one, come all

it’s happening again

the empathetic hunger descends

there are about six cameras pointed at you when he asks the dreaded question.

you’re in new york, sat on a talk show hosts sofa, lit by stage lights and his inquisitive eyes. two hundred people sit in the audience, on the edge of their seats waiting for you to spill your secrets.

“so, what happened there, with lando?”

you plaster on the fakest smile to date, crossing your legs anxiously.

“we’re both just so busy, you know? he’s doing amazing things in f1 and i’m all over the place with work.”

“we love both of you over here, it was sad to hear.” he sympathises, adjusting his tie and leaning back in his chair. his fingers drum over the wood of his desk, waiting for more.

vultures. everyone is a vulture.

“and we still have a lot of love for each other. he’s a wonderful person.”

there are tears in your eyes and bile rising rapidly in your throat when you shake hands with the crew, the host, and retreat to your dressing room. you stumble into the en-suite and throw up. then, you fall onto the sofa and cry. you fix your makeup at godspeed and reply to the text from your team, inviting you to drinks at some rooftop bar, promising to meet them there. you punctuate the text with one too many exclamation marks, feigning excitement.

“we still have a lot of love for each other.”

translation: i can’t understand: how did it end?

-

lando watches your interview. of course he does. he watches everything that you do, watches the way you set the world on fire.

he can’t help himself where you’re concerned, like an addict craving the next hit. you look so pretty on tv, glowing. you look fine.

god, why do you look fine?

he hates himself for hating just how fine you look. he is not fine.

“he’s a wonderful person.”

your words ring in his ears. they anger him, because if he’s oh-so-wonderful, why aren’t you here? why isn’t he there with you, waiting backstage? why can’t you just hate him? why can’t he just hate you? maybe you will, if he shows you just how not wonderful he can be.

he gets drunk that night. forces max to hit the clubs with him. sticks his tongue down a pliant woman’s throat. doesn’t ask her name. let’s her invite him back to her place. it has to be her place, he can’t fuck someone else in your bed, the one you used to share. he leaves minutes after he’s pulled out. he’s sure she’s lovely, too good for him and his bitter fucking heart. he feels utterly disgusting.

lando goes home, scrubs his skin red, and then does it again. he doesn’t go to sleep, watches from his balcony as the sun begins to rise over the sea. he hikes to the highest point he can reach in monaco, where it’s quiet and there’s no one to judge him, or worse, sympathise with him.

he stands at the edge of the cliff. screams once, twice. he sits on a rock, and lets himself cry.

the deflation of our dreaming

leaving me bereft and reeling

my beloved ghost and me

sitting in a tree

d-y-i-n-g

-

your stylist is plying you with options.

you can wear the denim with the cream OR you could do the red and white? or we can go full glam! or! or! or! we could-

you drown her out. you don’t give a fuck. not a single one.

what you wear to the monaco grand prix is quite literally the least of the your problems. your biggest problem, of course, is that you have to go to the fucking thing.

visibility is important, get people talking! the words of your manager ring in your ears until you have a dull migraine brewing behind your ears.

you leave the fitting not entirely sure what you’re wearing, but your stylist will be sending the clothes over so you can pack.

when you land in all too familiar nice, there are cameras. when you get to the hotel in monaco, you and lando are already trending on twitter. well, at least he knows you’re coming. when you’re getting your makeup done before your first event, you get a text.

i’ll try and keep my distance.

try.

try is such an interesting word. the fact that he has to try to stay away makes your belly flutter with embarrassing, self loathing butterflies. don’t try too hard, you want to respond. you don’t.

should’ve told you i’d be here you shoot back.

you think i didn’t already know?

of course he knew. he’d probably asked god knows how many brands to invite you. you try and feign an illness but your team drag you kicking and screaming to the event.

-

there are no two ways about it: you’re drunk, on a tuesday night, somewhere in the principality. a few cocktails with a jewellery brand turned into a night on the town, bar hopping with people you hardly knew and barely recognised.

you’re shaking your ass in jimmy’z, pretending to have fun when you see him.

lando stands at the bar, watching you, jaw tensed, eyes solemn. you exit the club faster that his car down a back straight, stumbling into the smoking area. you bum a cigarette from a guy who tries really hard to convince you that he’s the son of a british lord, and sink into the corner, ignoring the people recording you.

depressed model shame smokes outside monaco club because she is fucking pathetic, the headlines will read.

“thought you quit that shit.” his voice washes over your body like you’ve been set on fire, smooth tone, ambiguous accent making you ache.

“i did but then i got forced to come to monaco, so.” you shrug.

“forced?”

“‘m here for work.” you sigh.

“i guess i am too.” he mumbles. you raise an eyebrow.

“you live here, lan.” you tease. lan rolls off of your tongue too sweetly.

“doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

how can it, without you? he wants to scream at you. he can’t, you don’t deserve it.

“how are you?”

you want to touch him.

“shit.”

he needs a taste.

“yeah.”

you put your cigarette out. it tastes like shit, half smoked.

you stand there, stare at each other.

take me home, you want to beg.

come home, he clenches his fists, trying not to grab you and remind you how you’ll always be his, right here, up against the side of the club.

“good luck, if i don’t see you.” you whisper. you linger, praying that he’ll beg you to stay so that you can crumble into his arms, without having to make the first move.

lando ponders his options. his head and his heart wage a war.

logic wins, unfortunately.

“thank you.”

you take that as your queue to get the fuck out of there, and disappear into the night.

-

it’s raining on sunday. the dreary weather seems to perfectly sum up what has been the worst week of your life.

you’ve seen your ex boyfriend more times than you can count, ended up with about four hangovers as a result, and with a pounding head, you have to sit in the paddock club and wait for the sound of engines to split your head in half. it was your own doing, so you’d suck it up, recognising that you were a disgustingly privileged bitch, and there are people who would sell their kidneys to do what you’re complaining about.

you never complain, not usually. but your heart hurts and your body hearts and your mind hurts and it’s just not fair. lando is gorgeous, and you miss him so badly, and your shoes are digging in. who the fuck thinks it’s a good idea to wear heels to an f1 race?

you see him before the race, mouth good luck from afar. he winks. it’s something you used to do before every race. old habits die screaming.

the rain falls harder, the track slick. you say a prayer and take your seat.

“norris has this in the bag, he’s bloody good in the wet.” you hear some old guy say behind you. you are cursed with the knowledge of just how good in the wet he is, and you end up flushed.

he wins. his second one in three races. you pray that no one notices the way you weep. everyone notices.

you make a mistake and rush for the podium, your pass giving you access. he graces the top step and you sob, grinning like a fool, soaked through with rain. the anthem plays, the champagne pops. he finds your eyes in the crowd. your hair falls, stringy and curled, mascara smudged. you are the most breathtaking sight. he stands still, washed with an onslaught of champagne, watching you like he’s scared to take his eyes off of you. his boyish grin and hopeful eyes render you weak - you’re there for him, after all - and he can’t help but bask in that little fact.

dangerous territory. you break, and disappear.

-

say it once again with feeling…

the photographers barely get a second to snap a picture of the top three, because lando is gone. he takes the stairs two at a time, descending from the podium and throwing his pirelli cap and a shaky apology at his pr rep. the adrenaline spike makes his blood rush; he needs to find you and stop you and tell you that he will never be able to stop loving you.

the exit is the natural assumption, and he nearly slips a thousand times as he sprints through the paddock. the ground is wet, but he figures that if his car made it, so can he. the gates are in sight, and so are you, your clothes sticking to your shivering frame.

he calls your name, thunderously travelling towards you, his voice hitting your ears like a sonic boom. you freeze, turn slowly until your facing him. the rain splashes around you, not letting up.

you’re within his reach, and he pulls you in, hugging you tight. you melt into him, clinging like he’s a life force. he inhales you, your scent that he’s missed so horrifically. you crumble, and so does he, pieced back together as one.

“i can’t do this, i can’t.” he kisses the words into the cold skin of your neck.

“no, neither can i.” you choke wetly with emotion.

“miss you too much. it’s too hard, it’s stupid, it’s-“

“wrong. it’s wrong. ‘m sorry.” your breath fans his face, breathing life into him, life that he’d lost four months ago.

he grabs your shoulders, lowering so that his eyes are level with yours. his curls fall over his eyes, sodden from the rain.

“i don’t think, no, i know: i’m never gonna love anyone the way i love you.” lando speaks slow, convincing. your chest is tight.

“i don’t want to love anyone else.” you croak, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe.

“come back to me.” he mutters, pleading.

“don’t think i ever left.” you breathe, hushed.

your lips slot over his easily, it’s like breathing. the kiss is messy, helpless, and he engulfs you whole, his body wrapping around yours like a blanket. you latch onto his race-suit, drawing him in, and then you both seem to remember where you are.

lando norris caught kissing ex like horny teenager in monaco paddock!

you pull away with breathless chuckle. the air is fresh, and you feel alive. he steals another peck.

“wait for me at home. i’ll be quick.” his hand finds you ass, just for a second and you scold him playfully.

home.

yeah, home.

“don’t make me wait.” you grin.

his brain short circuits.

“do you still have your key?” he splutters, refocusing.

you scoff. “never took it off the chain.”

-

you pace the apartment, taking in the space. it hasn’t changed, but it’s messier, a visual representation of lando since you left. the pit of your belly swirls with anxiety, anticipation. he’ll be back soon, and he’ll kiss you, make love to you, remind you that you’re home and that it’d be stupid to leave again.

you’re still damp from the rain, shedding layers until you’re left in your vest and jeans, ridiculous heels kicked off by the door, your jacket airing over the back of a chair.

he hasn’t taken down the pictures of you together. he hasn’t moved your ugly collection of magnets from the fridge. he hasn’t changed the blinds that you chose, but he didn’t really like. your candles sit on the bookshelf half burned, the teddy he’d won you at a fair sits neatly on the sofa. the L pendant and it’s chain is strewn over the coffee table, right where you left it the morning after it ended. your breathing is heavy.

the front door opens behind you.

you don’t move, your eyes still fixed on the silver chain, overwhelmed by how empty your neck feels all of the sudden. he comes up behind you, his head resting on your shoulder, arms finding home around your waist. you often used to find yourselves in this exact position; while you brushed your teeth, made coffee. the room is deathly silent, breathing and the distant buzz of post race festivities the only thing you can hear. lando follows your gaze.

“kept it. knew that one day, you’d come back for it.”

“i came back for you.”

“and that necklace will stay with you when i can’t be there.”

you nod. he kisses your neck.

“missed you so bad.” you gasp. he licks your skin, bites down softly.

you spin in his arms, his hands pawing at your hips and everything blurs when he kisses you.

-

shaky fingers work over zippers, buttons, clasps, and then you’re both bare. you sink into the mattress that you missed so much, his body moulded with yours when you both tumble into the sheets. this is messy and frantic, utterly lovestruck. the lightning strike of his touch has you keening, sweating beneath him already.

“missed you. missed this.”

“do something, lan.” you cry, quiet against his shoulder.

“missed my perfect girl.” he grunts, lips working your chest while his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps over your inner thigh.

“please.” you sigh when his fingers dip between your folds, sliding over your wet flesh. his lip catches between his teeth, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of you.

he thumbs at your clit, stroking over you in slow, firm swipes, and then he’s sinking a digit into you, slow and steady. your toes curl, tears pricking your eyes at the intrusion, but you don’t have much of a chance to adjust, a second finger joining the first. he fucks you full, the stretch of just two fingers making you whine, one hand threading into the sheets while the other slams over your mouth. you want to hide, the pleasure rendering you a mess across the pale grey linen.

“no, let me look at you.” lando rasps, spare hand tugging at your wrist. you whine, writhing when he curls his fingers. “why are you hiding?”

you can’t hold back the choked cry that sounds from the back of your throat, his palm bumping your clit as he grinds his fingers deep.

“gone shy on me, baby? where’s my good girl gone?” lando coos, moving so that he’s leaning over you. the angle change sends your legs flying, kicking out at the sweet torture. “‘s because you haven’t been fucked right in so long, hm? can’t remember how to behave?” he’s smirking down at you, scanning the changing lines of your face.

“need it, need-“ you stutter, the words dying on your tongue.

“words, pretty girl, words.” lando encourages, false sympathy dripping from his tongue.

“need to cum, want you to make me…” you trail off.

“was that so hard?” he tuts, and everything speeds up.

the sound of him working you so sweetly makes you shake, your thighs clenching tight around his hand. the wet squelch hits your ears and you blush, cheeks coloured deep with embarrassment, awe, desperation.

your mouth drops open, screaming silently when it hits, your thighs slick. you drip down his wrist, his hand covered in your release.

“there’s my girl.” lando sighs, diving down to kiss you hard.

you can feel the damp press of his fingers as they dig into your thighs and you squirm beneath him, finding your way into his mouth.

“fuck me.” you slur, teeth knocking with his. he swallows you whole, groaning into your mouth.

“not so shy now, hm? been dreaming of hearing you beg for it.” lando shudders, shifting between your legs.

you can feel the press of him, thick against your cunt and you wiggle your hips, pushing to meet him halfway. the stretch burns deliciously, and you grab at his shoulders, dragging him in.

“fuck, baby.” he breathes, sinking into you slowly. “feel like heaven.” disbelief coats his voice, like he can’t reconcile that this is real; you’re back here, his, in the bed you were always supposed to share.

“it’s so good. feel so good for me, lan.” you whisper, lacing your fingers through his hair.

“love you so much.” he kisses you like he means it, rocking into you with purpose.

“can’t believe i lived without this.”

“can’t believe you’re all mine.”

the release builds, every thrust reminding you of what you could have lost for good. there was no lack of love, in fact you were starting to wonder if you had loved each other too much before.

“never losing you again. can’t live without you. my beautiful girl.”

your tummy grows tight, and he finds your clit when he feels you clamp down on him. he pulls you through the pleasure, guides you to your orgasm and you blindly follow him. you’d follow him anywhere, you decide.

you tell him you love him when you let go, spilling all around him, warm. he’s panting, kisses your forehead gently. he rolls off of you, and you feel the slow drip instantly, but you curl into his side and he wraps around you.

home.

“promise me something.” he whispers. you feel the way he shakily inhales.

“hm?”

“don’t leave again. you belong here, too. with me.”

your eyes are watery.

“i’m staying. ‘m yours.”

“about that…”

lando springs from the bed, naked, disappearing from the room. you watch, confused, cold all of the sudden.

you can hear his footsteps padding through the hallway, and then he’s back, his figure in the hallway. he runs, jumps, lands gracelessly next to you. endeared, you laugh softly.

“sit up.”

you do, leaning up to sit next to him. his fingers skim your shoulder, pushing your hair out of the way. cool metal dances over your skin.

“back where it belongs.” lando smiles at you, eyes wide and stunning.

you toy with the L. something heals in your chest, right around where your heart is.

“the sweetest boy.” you shake your head in disbelief, grin up at him like a fool.

“bath?”

“you know me so well, noz.”

come one, come all

it’s happening again

-

oh, my heart. there is something deeply wrong with me

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne

[kaiserkisser]

doing this cos why not :3

@damyoujackson yoooo u literally said half of these lol

[room-temperature-orange-juice]

Slay the princess spoilers

Imagine the arguments Long Quiet and Princess would have as a married couple. Just- consider:

Sm: “I swear to god stop arguing with the voices in your head!”

Lq, muttering to himself: I’m not going to give her the look again…we did that last time…

Sm, looking at him judgmentally:

Lq: Shut up before I perceive you into a loaf of bread

[jo-harrington]

This is a weird Store Manager Verse thing that will never make it into the larger story.

Store Manager Verse started with me revisiting my journey as a retail store manager but then evolved into something about…sharing food memories and experiences with someone new through Eddie and SM’s not-dates. Again, some based on personal experiences.

TW: Food/Eating, and maybe some personal growing up italian american experiences but…I’m in my feelings tonight so I need the overarching theme of showing affection through food. (Im crying into my dinner, please leave me alone).

Tonight for dinner I’m eating Chef Boyardee. Obviously the thought in this fandom immediately goes to Eddie.

I have had Chef Boyardee a grand total of once in my life before tonight. I was five years old. It was a jarring contrast versus my nonna’s homemade ravioli, and even more jarring still because she had just passed away. It was an emotional experience, and I vowed never to eat it again.

So let’s imagine now…you’re the Claire’s Store Manager now. Far away from home and living on your own. No family to cook with you, you just have your little handwritten recipe book that went from your grandma to your grandpa to you. All the family recipes, even those you haven’t memorized yet.

And here’s Eddie, who is helping you embrace your newfound independence and identity, one convenience store snack at a time. He’s enjoying seeing the brightness in your eyes and the joy. And one Sunday, after you promised to make pasta for him…you have the worst and the longest day. It was a horrible Sunday, everything that could go wrong did, including several consecutive piercings with screaming babies.

“Don’t worry Sweetheart,” Eddie soothes after hours as he’s giving you a much-needed hug. “It’s just a bad day.” He’s had his share of them now, and you reassured him after all of them.

“I just…can’t make dinner tonight,” you tell him. “I know you were looking forward to it.”

Carbonara sauce and heaps of parm. You were looking forward to it too.

“How about I take care of dinner tonight. Don’t worry. Lemme make a stop and I’ll meet you at your place.”

And he does.

He arrives at your apartment laden with bags from Bradley’s Big Buy. You expected some kind of greasy bag from a drive thru, so it’s a surprise when he sits you down on your couch with a glass of lemonade and takes full ownership of the kitchen.

You hear the pots banging, the oven going, dishes clacking.

And it smells pretty good. You’re intrigued. You knew Eddie’s cooking repertoire by now and while he certainly aced Home Ec, this didn’t seem like his wheelhouse. Color you impressed.

“Alright, close your eyes, no peeking,” he tells you. Throws a dish towel at your face to really make sure you don’t look. And he bustles out of the kitchen, juggling plates and a tray and a handful of cutlery.

Then he tells you it’s safe to look and it’s…

Easy Cheese on Crackers, and a Sara Lee All Butter Pound Cake that he’d warmed in the oven, and two bowls of Spaghetti-O’s.

You can’t help but laugh. A silly little giggle. Your heart…so full.

“Eddie this is…”

“I did good didn’t I? We haven’t had any of this.”

He’s beaming.

How can you tell him…that you hate Chef Boyardee?

You tried it once. Begged for it at the store. But it was the antithesis of your upbringing. Of your grandma in the basement kitchen making homemade sausage once a week or grandpa who came home from the home from his factory job and opened can after can of tomatoes to make a big pot of sauce for the whole family.

He let you take a heel of a loaf of bread to dunk as it bubbled on the stove. A secret to be kept between the two of you. None of your cousins ever got the honor.

How could canned pasta ever hold a candle to that?

Still you fawn over the dinner, over Eddie’s efforts. You fully savor the tacky, savory easy cheez on ritz and even pretend you’re being a little naughty by indulging in dessert first with the pound cake.

You just can’t hide your lackluster reaction when it’s time to put the pasta…if you can call it that…into your body.

“This is a treat,” Eddie explains enthusiastically. “Mom didn't really like the Beef Ravioli but Spaghetti-os were her favorite. And then when she was gone, Rick always had a few cans in the cupboard to surprise me for an after school snack. Shit I’m pretty sure he still does.”

He scarfs down the delicacy and your stomach turns further when you realize…

You cant disappoint him like this.

So you load up the spoon and you cringe a little as you raise it to your mouth. And you think about…Eddie being more important than your stupid snobbish childhood.

He stares at you as you take that first bite.

And it’s…perfect.

You’re not at the stove with your grandpa. You’re not with your family. You’re with Eddie. A different experience but nonetheless important and special.

You can see him sitting at the table after school, doodling on his homework sheets instead of doing math as he shoveled spoonfuls of the too-sweet sauce and noodles onto his mouth. You can see Rick mixing a pitcher of Country Time lemonade for Eddie’s mom so she could kick her feet up and listen to records with an ice cold glass after her shift. You can see them all enjoying pound cake on a special occasion; maybe Eddie getting an A on a test or his mom’s birthday or something.

It’s his life, his history that he shares with you willingly. Just like you share yours so openly with him.

“Well?” He asks. “Verdict?”

And what else could you say? But how you feel? About the spaghetti-os. About the little ritual the two of you had started. About…about Eddie himself, even though you couldn’t admit it outright just yet.

“I love it.”

[liamthemailman]

HEY HEY! Can I pretty please with cherry on top give Queen just one slap in the face?

And can I give Jack some of the homemade sourdough bread I made? She deserves it sm, they’ve been through enough with Queen <3

Jack eats bread straight from the loaf so.. I hope you're ready to part with your sourdough..

on the other hand, the answer is no, you may not slap Elize. Not yet anyway. You'll know when you can.

[a-wins-a-win]

👀 your headcanon Jason McConnell's top 5 favorite foodstuffs to samefood with? i must know!

hi! thank you for the ask! autistic Jason is very special to me and I love talking about him ;

Jason McConnell’s 5 Best SameFoods (in no particular order) :

1) Animal Crackers, specifically the frosted kind

2) Garlic bread, but only the flaky crispy kind, not the soft loaf ones you can get

3) shortbread cookies ! Jason may not love Christmas as a whole event, but he can’t fault it for the inordinate amount of shortbread he gets to eat

4) cheerios - he never really outgrew occupying himself with handfuls of dry cheerios, I think

5) tinned spaghetti, but he’ll only eat two brands in particular (idk what they are tho bc I’m pretty unfamiliar with the intricacies of American grocery brands)

honestly I don’t even know if they make sense but they’re very much the vibe for the way Jason exists to me — again, thank you sm for the ask, and I hope the world’s treating you well

[lemonyama]

AND ANOTHER ROYALE HIGH BUTLER!!!! I have been so fixated on them it’s crazy. anyways here is Demetrius!!! :D

I’m still learning how to draw locs so any construction criticism on them is welcomed!! Also I can’t remember what he gives us at the ball the image on wiki doesn’t say it it just looks like some bread, which personally if someone offered me a loaf of bread at a fancy ball i’d be SO EXCITED He’s so silly I love him sm.

Adam and zed coming soon promise 🙏🏻🙏🏻 Adam is probably next lolsies

funny to think this all happened because I was ranting about royale high to Xenon on call and I walked into the ball area and gasped SO HARD it was so nostalgic seeing them all and then freaked out ranting to them about them 😭😭 Rip xenon I talked his ear off like crazy that day. That’s where the obsession began 💔

[slutforstabbings-archive]

I saw you’re taking requests 😊 could you do Corey planning a romantic evening in—candles and roses all over the place, romantic music, a nice dinner and then a movie after—the whole spiel. Hope that helps the fluff funk! Good luck with writing by the way, don’t push yourself too hard! ❤️

Ummm, I only know how to push myself too hard but thank you for you concern lol. I really enjoyed writing this, it definitely helped me get more comfortable with fluff! I think this is gonna find its way into my long fic I'm working on. Thank you sm for the request, I hope you like it <3

LoveSong

Corey Cunningham x gn!Reader

1754 words

taglist: @rebel-blue @nachtmahr666

Corey parks his motorcycle on a side street instead of his usual spot by the door and lets himself into your apartment with the key you gave him. It feels weird, he’s never been in here without you before. But you wouldn’t have given him a key if he wasn’t allowed to come and go as he pleased. He’s been planning this for a week, going back and forth with himself if it was too corny or not. He struggles to close the door, his hands are so full of all the stuff he needs to make tonight perfect. 

He goes to the kitchen and spreads all his supplies on the island. Two bouquets of roses, one to tear apart for the petals, a bottle of wine that he hopes is good for as much as he paid for it, a salad kit, a frozen lasagna from the take and bake section of the fancy grocery store, a big long loaf of Italian bread, a pack of tea lights, a carton of raspberry sorbet, a real vase so you can stop putting the flowers he gets you in containers you fished out of the recycling. 

Your oven groans like it’s haunted as it preheats. Corey darts around your kitchen, starting and stopping different tasks, feeling scattered. He places the wine and the sorbet in the freezer. He fills the vase with water and dissolves the plant food, but forgets to put the flowers in it. He grabs a small bowl from the cupboard then abandons it on the counter. He pulls all the petals off a single rose, then remembers a story you told him. 

“One time a roommate I had put a bottle of wine in the freezer and forgot about. I guess because hard liquor doesn’t freeze she thought it would be okay but wine is way too low in alcohol content for that. It expanded when it froze and the fucking bottle exploded on me when I opened the freezer. Scared the shit out of me.” You laughed and shook your head. “Our freezer was sticky and full of broken glass the rest of the time we lived there.” 

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck. He opens the freezer apprehensively, squeezing his eyes closed in case of projectiles. The wine is still liquid and the bottle is intact. Close call. He breathes deeply and tries to organize his thoughts. One thing at a time. The oven chimes. Lasagna first, then. He reads the instructions a third time and notices something new. TIP: it says next to a little drawing of a lightbulb. Place a cookie sheet under the lasagna pan to catch any sauce or cheese that bubbles over. He finds a cookie sheet and slides the lasagna onto it and into the oven.

The rest of the preparations go more smoothly. He follows a recipe he bookmarked last night to make garlic bread. He finds a giant mixing bowl and fills it with ice for the wine, like how fancy restaurants always do it in the movies. He does his best to clean off your dining table. Usually when the two of you sit here to eat, you just shove all the shit that accumulates over the week to the side. But you know what’s on the table and Corey doesn’t, so he awkwardly stacks things instead, placing the piles all at one end so there’s room for the spread he envisions. Then he smooths one of your kitchen towels flat on the table and sets the lasagna in the middle. He brings the salad and the garlic bread into he dining room and tries multiple placements to see what looks best. He feels so out of his depth but he’s determined to do a good job. He Googles table setting diagrams and does the best he can with your mismatched thrift store dishes. 

He’s doing the last few steps, sprinkling rose petals in a path from your front door to the dining room with one hand, and scrolling through all the playlists you’ve made him with the other when he hears your car crunch the gravel outside. Corey sprints to the dining room, slipping on his sock feet and gut checking himself on one of the dining chairs. Wincing, he hides where you won’t see him from the door, and presses play on a song just as you unlock the door. 

______________________________________________________________

As you stand at your front door preparing to insert your key into the lock, you hear a thump and then a very faint groan come from inside. What the fuck was that? You unlock the as door as noisily as possible and swing it open very slowly. The last thing you want is to surprise an intruder. You peak inside hesitantly. It smells good. Why does it smell good? Just as you start to fear something way freakier than a simple robbery, you notice the song playing over your speakers. 

Whenever I’m alone with you… You make me feel like I am whole again. Wasn’t Corey just saying he was glad you introduced him to The Cure? You step inside and finally see the rose petals scattering the floor and the warm glow of candle light coming from the dining room. That cheesy motherfucker, you think as butterflies fill your stomach. You smile and bite your lip in spite of yourself. 

“Where are you, you big sap?” You call out.

“Follow the petals!” He shouts back.

You follow the petal trail into the dining room and see him standing at the head of the dining table, beaming above all his hard work. Your mouth hangs open in shock as you take in all the details. More rose petals surround the table, on top of which you see a dozen roses in a gorgeous crystal vase, a delicious looking dinner and -

“Are those proper two course place settings?” You laugh.

“They’re my attempt,” Corey says sheepishly. 

You come around the table and grab his face in your hands. “This is so…” You trail off, opting to kiss him instead of finishing your thought. It conveys what you mean much more eloquently anyway. When you release him he pulls a chair out for you. 

“Thank you, sir,” you say. His face instantly turns bright red and he clears his throat.  

Corey piles salad on your plate and pours you a glass of wine. The two of you eat and try to talk through your giggles. You knew he had a romantic side, but this is really something else. Somehow you feel even more giddy than when you first met him, even more like a silly middle schooler writing Mrs. Corey Cunningham all over your notebook. You watch his every movement. Could it be possible he’s becoming even more of a babe? Or is it just because you love him?

God, that’s a scary thought. You’ve been suppressing it violently every time you have it. It just seems so fast, you’ve only been “official” for a month. But trying to shove it down the past few days has made you feel like a cartoon character on a sinking ship, plugging holes with every finger and every toe just for more to appear and the water to keep rising. He smiles at you, all long teeth and crinkled eyes, and the boat capsizes. You love him, you love him, you love him. And now that you admit it to yourself, you have to admit it to him too. 

Before you can say anything, he stands.

“Are you ready for dessert?” Corey asks

“There’s dessert?” 

“Of course,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Stay here.” He stacks all the dinner dishes onto the cookie sheet and takes it to the kitchen. You idly wonder if he’s ever had a job as a bus boy. You try to guess what dessert is by the sounds you hear him making in the kitchen. Something refrigerated, or maybe frozen. That doesn’t narrow it down very much. 

He returns with a bowl heaped with scoops of something the color of blood, two spoons sticking out. He sets it on the table and scoots his chair closer to yours before sitting down. You take a hesitant bite. Raspberry. It’s delicious. You devour the bowl together without speaking, just watching each other. 

“Corey…” You finally break the silence. “This was really special.” 

“It’s nothing.” He shrugs.

“It’s a lot more than nothing. You put a lot of hard work into this and it was really cool. No one I’ve dated has ever gone out of their way for me like that before.”  In the short time you’ve known him, he’s done more for you than your ex did for your entire three years together. He looks at you like you’re God. He cares if you cum. He listens. 

“How is that possible?” He asks. You snort at the question.

“I thought that was just how it was.” You say, shaking your head. “Corey I… I love you.”

Before you realize what’s happening he’s out of his chair, pulling you up from yours into a tight embrace, pressing you against him like he wants to fuse your bodies together. You squeeze him back and you can’t fight the goofy smile you break into. 

“I love you,” he says back, voice strangled with emotion. He releases you just enough that he can look at your face. “I’ll never treat you bad. I’ll never hurt you. I’ll never walk away from you.” You look into his eyes. He looks so intense in the candle light, lit almost like the villain in a black and white movie. To your own astonishment you believe him.

“I have one more thing planned,” he says after a long pause. He leads you to the living room. You sit on the couch. Corey turns on the tv and connects his phone. You see the name of the movie he’s casting and laugh.

“The Lobster?” You say, incredulous.

“You said it was your favorite romcom,” he says. 

“That was a joke,” you say, face scrunched to keep yourself from dissolving into a giggle fit. “I do really like the movie but it’s a dark comedy. It’s not a date movie, unless you’re on a fucked up date.”

“You’re on a date with me,” he says. 

“Point taken,” you say, amused and surprised at his self deprecating joke. You pat the couch next to you. He puts his arm around you as he sits down and presses play.

[warmblanketwhump]

Ooooh I love the baked goods comfort sm so here's my addition

Bread, deffo warm fresh bread but imagine this: B gets bored while sick A is sleeping so they raid A's kitchen and manage to pull together a loaf of fresh homemade bread.... A who was previously nauseous and not wanting to eat anything wakes up to the smell of baking bread and suddenly is starving and ready to try eat something so stumbles down to B who is overjoyed and offers A whatever bread they want (toast ,sandwiches ect)

Wet denim anon

hello wet denim anon!!! 👋🏻

and i absolutey love this!!! there's truly nothing better than A getting their appetite back, and B's so happy that they're feeling better that they bake them everything and anything

(and sure, A's really only up to eating a few nibbles at a time as they recover, but B will take any progress at all)

[shatenfart]

Soup recipe

YAAYYYYY thank you sm, I’ll post it whenever I make it, plus probably another loaf of bread.

[wheeboo]

my regular drop by every time u change ur theme just to tell u how gorgeous it is. LIKE??? ur so good at themes i feel like a stale loaf of bread (also HIII hope ur doing well❣️)

HANA 🥹🫶 thank u sm omg i'm so happy u think its gorgeous sdlkfjsd i kid u not finding all the pics n making sure that every part of it matches colours n adjusting them w filters is just SDFKJDS (i hyperfixated at 3am doing this),, but i'm glad it turned out well hehe :')

and i'm doing fine !! was kinda shit week but break has officially started and work has been occupying my time but we r surviving somehow 💔 how have you been ?? i hope you've been doing well imu ty for dropping by 😭💘

[eternadreeblissa]

I'm curious about the inspiration and thought process behind Ava's creation!! Was her 1st iteration completely different from what she is now, or has she stayed relatively consistent in her development?

Along with what era is she from, or I'm assuming she is most likely from a separate time that doesn't involve any of the chain members? If so, what was life in general in that time?

Have a lovely time, and remember to stay hydrated!!

— A Slice of Bread <3

Lemme just say I beam with happiness every time I see you in my inbox— and all the future ones who will visit and generally interact w me? I love y'all sm even tho there's only you for now <33

Do u mind if I give u a nickname? Breadie is coming to mind XDD or Lola or Loafie, cuz ur icon pic of a bby looks like a cute loaf— ok enough KAUXKSUFBFH

Anyway to answer your question, she's actually a revamp of an old OC! She used to be known as Ailani Ellaerene. I used to post art of my OCs in my main blog lovanmari, if u look for her, she's *very* pink 🧍‍♀️She changed a lot now, but now she's used as a reader oc, basically a character I use as both stand in for Y/N but also an OC!

As for era... Actually she doesn't belong in Hyrule at all. If anything she's what you call an isekai'd character or smth when meeting the chain, and she's definitely not modern like usual Y/N 😂 she lives in a world or planet called Wysteria! There's a bit lore there, but majority of it has been rendered uncertain bcs of me inserting her to Hyrule. I didn't grow up being a Zelda fan, I'm actually relatively new so I don't have much inspo for making an entirely new era fitting for my tastes 🥹👉👈

Rn, her story moving forward with the chain is being brainstormed rn and I still need a lot of help as a newbie X'DD But for backstory with the chain? Majority of it has been set in stone! I just, need to figure how they'd be like moving forward @@

Thank you for the ask! And often dropping by whenever you do. Your presence is very much appreciated 🥹