#i wanna see recipes not have my ears attacked by the sound of your knife

[scarecrowgoat]

probably not a hot take but asmr ruined cooking videos

[carryonmylovelies]

A Lively Game

hi hi! this is for the carry on quarantine round robin that the super cool and very gucci @xivz put together and i really really appreciate it because signing up for this literally forced me to get some writing done and it was actually FUN to write so thank youuuuu. 

rating: M (there’s a LOT of swearing … you’ll see ;))

word count: 1,500+

prompt: ‘Board Game’

read here on ao3!!

***

“Shepard! Penny! C’mere for a sec,” Simon yelled from the living room.

Shepard paused the show on his phone and poked his head out from the kitchen. “Sup?”

Penny’s door then swung open and she, too, poked her head out. “Yeah?”

“I’m bored as shit and Baz isn’t paying attention to me so let’s play a game or something!” 

Shepard grabbed the chips he had been snacking on off the counter and headed into the living room, nodding. “Yeah, sounds good. What are our options?”

Penny came up behind Shepard and snatched the chips away from him before flopping down in the plush armchair next to the couch. “The games are in there,” Penny pointed, “but Simon puts them away so horribly that they’ll probably all fall out and attack you the second you try to open it. Be warned, Shepard.” 

Simon tried to defend himself but Penny just looked at him. His mouth snapped close. Shepard smiled as he crouched down and opened the small cabinet that was underneath the coffee table in the living room, snorting when he saw how unorganized and crammed together the games were.

They were going on week three of the ‘Stay at Home’ quarantine crisis and even with four young adults stuffed into an apartment really only meant for two, they were trying to make the best of it. Penny and Baz still had online assignments for their uni classes and Simon was working through recipes for culinary school, which resulted in a lot of weird but strangely tasty meals, all things considered. Shepard was supposed to be on his way home to Omaha but with all the corona-craziness and risk of infection, he really didn’t want to get on an international flight and chance bringing anything back to his parents. So. 

“Uh let’s see, you guys have Jenga, Battleship–”

Simon yawned, “Ehh I’m too lazy to set up the tower and I want all four of us to play so Battleship’s a no.”

Simon was hanging upside down, legs bent over the top of the couch, trying to bother Baz who was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. Simon poked Baz’s cheek with his tongue and snickered when Baz made a face and distractedly tried to push the other boy away, continuing to type on his laptop.

Shepard kept reading off games, “Scrabble, Twister–”

“Yes! Twister!” said Simon excitedly, a huge grin on his bright red face as he sat up and immediately tried to shake the dizziness away. 

And at the exact same time Penny shuddered and said, “No, absolutely not,” looking thoroughly grossed out. 

Shepard’s interest was piqued. There had to be a story there. 

“Why no Twister?” Shepard asked, looking from Penny to Simon.

Without looking up from his laptop, Baz snorted. 

Penny glared at Baz, who still wasn’t paying attention, and then at Simon who was now perched on the arm of the couch with his arms crossed, pouting. 

Penny directed her gaze back to Shepard, glasses glinting in the afternoon light. “Well, Shepard,” she said, matter-of-factly, “in the past three times I have allowed Twister to be played in this flat, our friends Simon and Basil here take it upon themselves to play seriously until one or both of them are in a very compromising position and then they immediately give up and get halfway to shagging on the bloody Twister mat.”

Shepard burst out laughing and then slapped a hand to his mouth, trying and failing to muffle the sound as Penny narrowed her eyes irritatedly. 

“It’s not funny, Shepard! This is a communal living space that needs to be respected and not defiled when those two horny arseholes decide to make a bloody children’s game extremely inappropriate!”

Shepard was still laughing as he looked over at Simon who was scowling at Penny, flushed red in embarrassment. Baz appeared more or less unaffected as he continued to work but with most of his hair pulled into a messy bun atop his head, Shepard could see the tips of his ears had gone pink. 

“Come on, Pennyyyyyy,” Simon whined with pleading eyes, “We haven’t played in forever and now Shepard’s here so we can play even rounds! And I promise me ‘nd Baz will keep our hands to ourselves this time, right Baz?” Simon nudged Baz’s shoulder with his foot and looked at him expectantly. 

Baz finally looked up from his laptop, met his boyfriend’s stare, and then raised his eyebrows doubtfully, as if to say yeah right.  

Simon made an indignant sound and pushed Baz again with his foot but Baz just shook his head and went back to his assignment. “I’m staying out of this.”

Penny scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger, “You’re 50% of the problem, Basil, you can’t just ‘stay out of it’.”

Baz smirked at his screen, grey eyes bright with amusement. He knocked his elbow against Simon’s calf. “Bunce doesn’t seem to be budging on this one, Snow. Best to drop it.” 

Simon huffed and let himself fall onto the couch with a wumph. His face was squished in the cushions so his words came out muffled. “Ugh, fine. Whatever. We’ll play something else.” 

Baz clicked a few things on his laptop, closed it, and set it down on top of the coffee table. 

“Prat,” Baz said fondly before grabbing Simon’s leg and yanking, hard. Simon yelped and fell off the couch, landing in Baz’s open arms. Simon adjusted himself so he was sitting upright in Baz’s lap, mumbled something about ‘stupid vampire strength’, and then happily slid his arms around Baz’s neck. 

Baz kissed a curl on Simon’s forehead and then loudly addressed the room, “If Bunce says no to Twister with her and Shep, then I suppose Simon and I will have to play Twister later tonight, in our room, when everyone’s trying to sleep.” 

Simon scolded Baz while failing to keep a cheeky smile off his face, Penny made puking noises, and Shepard laughed so hard that he started choking on the chip he was eating. 

“Ugh,” Penny groaned, burying her hands in her purple hair, “you two are disgusting. And you’re killing Shepard, so I really hope you’re proud of yourselves. Both of your game choosing privileges have been revoked.” 

Simon turned and looked at Penny with wide eyes, “What? How is that fair? Baz said it, not me.”

Penny just sighed. “Remember when I said that Baz was 50% of the problem? Guess who’s the other 50%?”

“… I don’t want to guess.”

“Exactly.”

Shepard clumsily sat down on the floor and managed to swallow the chip that almost sent him to a premature grave. He wheezed, “So who’s picking the game then?”

“You pick something, Shepard,” Penny replied, exasperated. “Something that’ll give me the chance to make these barmy gits wish they had never disgraced my poor Twister mat.” 

Shepard pushed up his glasses and grinned. “I know the perfect game.”

***

“Change it to green, change it to green, change it to gr– AW FUCK YOU AND YOUR BLOODY FUCKING MOTHER THAT WAS STINKING BOLLOCKS!”

“Did-did you just reverse my bloody fucking reverse? Penny, what the fuck is WRONG with you?”

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and uh, FUCK YOU.”

“Oh you wanna skip my turn? I KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP, BUCKO.”

“DUDE, WHAT THE ACTUAL CLOWN ASS FUCKERY WAS THAT? I ONLY HAD ONE CARD 

LEFT, JESUS CHRIST.”

“No, no, no, no, NO I WILL NOT DRAW 4 BLEEDING CARDS IN MY OWN HOME, YOU MANKY MUPPET.”

“I hate you, Shepard. No, I really do.” 

���Merlin’s shit-stained arsehole, how could you change it to blue? How could you? What did I ever do to deserve this level of hatred and betrayal from the man I LOVE?”

“Simon, I am terribly sorry to inform you that you will not be living past the age of 22.”

“YES I KNOW IT’S MY TURN; I’M DRAWING BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE ANY YELLOW CARDS YOU DISGUSTING RAT WANKER.”

“That was absolute piss. PISS, BASILTON.”

“Shit. Fuck. Bitch.” 

“THAT’S IT; I’M KICKING YOU OUT. GO BACK TO THE UNITED STATES OF FUCKING AMERICA FOR ALL I CARE.” 

“I’m going to murder you with your favorite kitchen knife. YOU THINK I WOULDN’T SIMON SNOW? SKIP MY TURN AGAIN, I DARE YOU.” 

“That was a bitch move.”

“Keep it red, keep it red, oh for the love of Crowley keep– OI YOU LOOKING FOR A FUCKING FIGHT? STAND UP AND FIGHT ME AND I’LL PUT YOUR ARSE RIGHT BACK ON THE GROUND, YA BARMY FUCK.”

“Penelope–and please know I mean this with absolute full offense–fuck you.” 

“TYRANNUS BASILTON GRIMM PITCH IF YOU PUT DOWN ANOTHER DRAW FOUR I’M BREAKING UP WITH YOU.”

“You. Are. A. HUGE. Prick.”

“BRO, YOU DID NOT JUST–OH MY FUCKING GOD BRO YOU DID NOT JUST HIT ME WITH A DRAW TWO I–”

“Morgana’s gigantic fucking TITS I WILL END YOUR ENTIRE BLOODLINE.”

“Oh I am SO breaking up with you.”

“SON OF A WEASEL FUCKER.”

It was a very lively game of Uno, to say the least.

***

i can confidently say from experience that uno games with friends DO get that crazy … especially considering those four have all been stuck in an apartment together for almost three weeks … there would definitely be blood. also i thought that it would be more fun to just get the profanity-laced dialogue rather than a play-by-play of the game so!! hope it was fun to read! <3

@bazypitchandsimonsnow was super supportive, as always, (love ya theo) and i definitely couldn’t have done it without @lifeasafail encouraging and comforting my anxious dumbass. she even SANG to me while i was editing omfg i love her so much. 

[fox-and-benedict]

[Fanfic, 100% OJ] Inevitable

Series: 100% Orange Juice / Suguri Words: 1646 Characters: Suguri, Hime Originally posted: February 18, 2017 (blogspot version) A/N: The title is a meta joke about my historical obsession with breakfast. Whenever I start a new series or experiment with new characters, you can almost always expect a dedicated breakfast scene sooner or later. This was when I first started really dialing in on Suguri and Hime’s characters; there’s a little risque content, but as usual, nothing graphic.

Eggs, milk, flour, butter; from those ingredients, the day is born. She glances down at the recipe, checking through the steps just one more time before she launches into action. It isn't the first time she's made pancakes, but she's had enough mishaps in the kitchen not to count her eggs before they're cooked. The smell of hot fat in a heavy iron pan was never one she imagined she'd grow to appreciate, but there are many things about her new home that have surprised her, and pleasantly at that. Every morning, birdsong winds its way through the yew tree beside the house and into the living room; there's nothing in space that can compare to being woken so gently, so naturally. Even now, songbirds twitter outside the window, dipping and carving through the air more gracefully than even she can. Cooking does not come naturally to her, not nearly as much as singing, or dancing, or war. There's a science to it, and an art, and she can never quite seem to combine the two, but her enthusiasm makes up for it – or so Suguri says. Really, she thinks Suguri is just happy to get breakfast at all. For all her unflappable skill in other areas, the girl makes a hapless chef, always just a little impatient and overly willing to take short cuts on the way to getting fed. Her omelettes are always speckled with long, silvery hair, her eggs are always overcooked, and she'll happily cut her toast with a beam sword if she can't find a knife. Hime quickly learned that if she wanted real meals, she'd be making them herself; today, like every morning, she dons her apron dutifully, if not with gusto. With the pancake batter gently sizzling in the pan and the bacon safely in the oven, she allows her mind to drift a little towards other, less gratifying concerns. She'll need to set the table, which is usually easier said than done. Historically, home decoration is not a thing Suguri has afforded a lot of thought to, and as a result what little cutlery she has in an eclectic, unfathomable mix. They have more corkscrews than they do forks, and there are five different can-openers but only one sad, bent little silver teaspoon. Knives, however, seem to multiply in their drawers at an alarming rate. The same design philosophy – or lack thereof – applies to the furniture. Alongside the cavernous beanbag chair currently serving as Hime's sleeping quarters, they have an old wicker chair, a barstool and a coffee table that has never seen a cup of coffee in its life – principally because Suguri insists that it belongs in the bathroom, for reasons that only make sense in an alternative universe. After a week of not-so-subtle prodding, Suguri had finally capitulated and brought home a loveseat so they could sit down together, and Hime had been very pleased until she lifted out the cushions and found a collection of coins that hadn't been minted in over a hundred years. Still, it was progress, and that was what counted. Definitely their most attractive piece was the kitchen table, which had almost nothing wrong with it provided that you didn't check the underside for fire damage. Otherwise, it almost seemed a shame to cover it with a cloth; it was elmwood, hard and smooth and cool to the touch, with attractive flecks between the grain. Trees, and the gifts that they gave, were one of Hime's favourite things about a terrestrial lifestyle. With the pancakes cooked (or a close approximation of it), she piles them onto the plates and sets out to capture some chairs. She takes the wicker chair for herself, and leaves the barstool for Suguri; it makes her feel a bit taller, and there's no weave to catch her hair in. She pours out the last of the milk for Suguri and some apple juice for herself, both served in whiskey glasses because of course they don't have anything resembling a normal glass. By the time she's finished she can hear the familiar bump, bump, bump of slippers coming down the stairs. Suguri, she has learned, is not a morning person. Suguri is hardly even an afternoon person. If there's nothing catastrophic to motivate her, she spends her first two waking hours in a warm, contented daze, before eventually transitioning into the calm, slightly bemused state that Hime knows and loves. That wasn't, of course, to say that there aren't perks to Morning Suguri. “G'morning,” Suguri says as she wanders into the kitchen, her hands balled in the sleeves of her powder-blue pyjamas. It actually comes out as 'guurmaaahnnnin', because syllables are not a thing Suguri really endorses at the best of times and even less so when freshly awoken, but Hime has a keen ear and a passion for Suguri-whispering. There is one thing she can pronounce, though. “Hug.” Morning hugs were one of the pleasant surprises that Hime found herself with in her new home. Why Suguri demanded one every morning without fail was a mystery to her, and one she could care less about the answer to; it was far easier, and more pleasant, to let Suguri shuffle over to her, wrap her arms around her waist, and gently headbutt her shoulder. Hime's part of the hug was to gently run her hands through Suguri's long hair until the girl relaxed into the embrace. “Hime,” Suguri mumbles into her shoulder. “You smell of bacon.” Hime smiles, and rubs her cheeck against the top of Suguri's head. “Yes, well, bacon is delicious. You, on the other hand, smell of not showering.” “Muuuuuh. I'll do it after breakfast.” “Ahh. So childish,” Hime teases, perhaps a little indulgently. In the morning Suguri acts like a kid, but she gets to be childish for the rest of the day. “Nyuh. It takes too long. I wanna cut my hair.” “Well, I don't disagree. We could get matching hairstyles.” The thought goes without a reply; whatever strange desire propels Suguri to indiscriminate hugging has been temporarily sated, and now she has her stomach to attend to. Gently disentangling herself from Hime's arms, she floats over to the barstool (there is usually a no-flying pact while they're in the house, because it leads to a lot of collisions with lampshades, but Hime lets it slide), and perches precariously on top of it, her long silver hair hanging down behind her. She drinks half of the milk at a gulp, grimaces, and finishes off the rest; this part of Suguri's morning is, Hime has been told, Very Important. Before long a plate of pancakes has materialised in front of her, complete with a few crispy rashers of bacon as a bonus. “How is it?” Hime asks, carefully dissecting her own pancakes with a knife. She's a little disappointed with how they turned out; she was going for fluffy, but ended up with dense instead. “Mpfmf,” Suguri replied, attacking her own plate with considerably less restraint. “I'll take that as a passing grade, then. C minus, perhaps.” “Nuh. B.” The meal continues in relative quiet; because neither of them is all that good at cooking, they both have a healthy respect for whatever food does survive their ministrations. Besides, they have all day for conversation, and birdsong in the meantime. There is nothing wrong, Hime thinks, with a comfortable silence. Before long, Suguri is sitting back – as much as she can on a barstool, anyway – and letting the food work its way through her system. The process of waking up has begun. “You know,” Hime says, watching Suguri stretch, “I think breakfast is one of the planetside traditions I wish we'd kept most in when we went to space. Everybody just ate when they felt like it, there.” Suguri yawns, and hops down from the barstool. “Mm. I think it's one of my favourite traditions now, too. I'll get the plates.” Hime smiles, but there is just a touch of steel behind it. “Oh no, you don't. I think I shall get the plates, and you can get a shower. You smell fine right now, but you'd smell better with some of that body wash I picked up the other day.” “Muurgh. Fine,” Suguri says, wearing what seems dangerously close to a pout. “I'll see you in an hour or so.” Actually, it's usually an hour and a half, but she can dream. Before she walks out of the kitchen, Suguri turns, takes in Hime's golden hair and glowing smile, and remembers that her mornings were not always so; that once upon a time there was no sound, and breakfast was a slice of bread with nothing on it. “Hime. Thank you for cooking for me. I'd like it if you'd cook for me tomorrow, too.” “And the day after that, and the day after that... I'll be a respectable chef in no time,” Hime smiles. “It is, as always, a pleasure.” Their gazes meet, and for a moment Suguri feels a warmth that has nothing to do with a full belly or the sunshine streaming in from the window. She feels herself waking up, her mind whirring into motion to really start the day. “Wait,” she says, slowly. “Hime?” “Yes?” As the haze of sleep lifts, Suguri's placid smile drops a little; her eyes widen as she checks and re-checks what she's seeing. Bare shoulders, exposed legs. Her fingertips vaguely recall the feel of warm skin. “Uh. Well. Are you, um, wearing anything, under that apron?” “Ah. I was wondering if you'd notice. I thought I'd try it out, just the once. Earth traditions are so very fascinating, don't you agree?” Hime asks, with a smile as golden as the sun. “I should probably warn you – I'm about to turn around to do the dishes. I do hope you enjoy your shower.”