#it might could have turned into a halfway decent baked good with some more time

[alphinias]

Cinnamon

Kiara had never been much of a baker.

Sure, she was decent in the sense of anyone who knew their way around a kitchen, but she didn’t have the practice with baking that she did with cooking. Rising with yeast and eyeballing the correct consistency of dough were totally outside her comfort zone.

And these cinnamon rolls were a bitch.

She wasn’t convinced they looked quite poofy enough, but she did know that if they turned out shitty after all the time she’d spent on them, she might just set the oven on fire.

The oven was one of the few utilities in the patched together little fishing shack she shared with JJ that hadn’t broken yet, so she really couldn’t afford to do that.

It was really all Sarah’s fault, she’d decided. Dragging them into that bakery downtown, where she’d watched JJ pick a giant cinnamon roll from the case.

“That good?” Kiara had joked, when he half scarfed it down.

“Acceptable. It’s acceptable.” His tone was playful, but something was off. Kiara had paused, fingers pulling her cookie in half.

The others had been paying them no mind, utterly consumed in their own conversation; some sort of back and forth about whether or not Pope was allergic to pecans. She nudged JJ’s knee with hers, feeling the warmth of him through her jeans.

“You alright?”

“I’d say so, yeah,” he said, but Kiara didn’t budge. JJ’s eyes stared hard at his plate. “Just thinking.”

Kiara’s brows popped up in mock surprise, a teasing grin haunting her lips. “You were?”

“I used to have ‘em on Christmas sometimes,” he’d offered too casually, nodding at the crumbs on his plate. Upon noticing her expression, he explained, “My mom made it.”

As if giving up this shred of information was no big deal. As if even a hint of acknowledgment of Georgia Maybank’s existence didn’t steal the breath from Kiara’s lungs. They’d been dating for three years, best friends for ten, and she could count the amount of times he’d mentioned her on one hand.

But she forced a smile. JJ scratched at his ear, and she didn’t even bite a warning at him when his hand fell on her thigh, no doubt leaving a little trail of stickiness.

Kiara hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, and that had landed her here.

At seven am on Christmas morning, up way too early for someone who had already relented and let her and her boyfriend open up all their presents from one another the night before.

Her timer beeped, and she wrangled the cinnamon rolls out of the oven. Stared down at them doubtfully, unconvinced that they were supposed to be such a rich shade of brown. They weren’t entirely burnt, but something was off.

Oh well. It was too late to do anything about it, anyway.

She raked the too watery icing she’d scraped together overtop the buns, face screwing up when it ran even thinner over their heat.

Well. They sort of looked like cinnamon rolls.

“Kie?” JJ’s voice carried down the hall, and a sudden pit of dread gaped in Kiara’s stomach.

Within seconds, he’d appeared, hanging halfway between their living room and kitchen. His fingers were in his hair, little pieces of woven gold standing up on all ends, and he wore nothing but shorts. She realized with a surge of fondness that he’d pulled on the new pair she’d gifted him the night before.

“Merry Christmas,” Kiara said, and she didn’t know why she was fiddling with her hands. She hadn’t prepared for him to be up for at least another hour.

“Is that breakfast?” JJ’s voice had grown less scratchy and a lot more alert. He padded over towards her, stopping only when he was half propped on the counter beside her.

The pit in Kiara’s stomach rose. She hoped this wasn’t a bad idea. They’d made a big deal out of starting new, and doing things differently than what their parents had done, but they still joined the Carreras for Sunday night dinners and watched Rudolph on Christmas Eve, just like her family had always done.

“Kind of. I tried making cinnamon rolls.”

JJ blinked at her, then down at the little doughy lumps that vaguely passed as cinnamon rolls. Blinked some more, and an apology was nearly on her tongue before he was slinging his arm around her, pulling her into the crook of his neck. Her arms went around him instinctively, despite the flour smeared down her apron; they’d hugged each other in worse condition. He smacked a messy kiss into her hair.

There was a murmur of something indecipherable into the top of her head, but all her attempts at hearing went out the window when he let go, one hand falling to rest on her waist and the other snatching up one of the cinnamon rolls.

“JJ,’ Kiara started, but he’d already shoved half of it into his mouth before she could say more. She watched him chew nervously. “I’ve never made them before.”

“They’re good,” JJ said, after he’d swallowed, which was an accomplishment. His words were contrasted by the snort of laughter that followed, blowing the loose curls around her forehead. She frowned, defensiveness rearing within her.

“What?” she demanded.

“We had the little white dough man kind.”

“From the can?” Kiara cried. It melted into some weird laugh hybrid, and JJ’s grin down at the cinnamon rolls widened.

“Yeah, from the fucking can, Kie. Have you met my family?” JJ took another large bite, and one hand wound through her hair, massaging into her neck. Thankfully, he had the sense to do it with the fingers that didn’t have any icing on them.

There was still laughter in his eyes, and that swell of such open, unapologetic affection that still sometimes knocked the breath out of her when he didn’t bother to hide it. His voice softened. “Yours are better.”

[fcukfodmap]

Day 21: Low-FODMac & Cheese

I didn't have anything else on deck or I wouldn't have made low-FODMAP mac & cheese, because it's still stupid hot and I had to turn on the oven. I was pretty worried about how this would turn out because I haven't had great luck with gluten-free stuff, and both the noodles and the cheese sauce would normally require gluten-full wheat flour. Maybe ironically, possibly Alanisly, the gluten-free breadcrumbs were declared the best part of this dish.

It looked damn beautiful coming out of the oven, but whoo boy, it was not wonderful. My kid declared it "not horrific," the faint praise of damns, and then declared that this dish would be something John Harvey Kellogg -- the man behind the concept of cold cereal, and Kellogg's -- would prescribe to keep kids from masturbating. (Kellogg was loudly anti-masturbation.) We'd already been calling it low-FODMac & Cheese, but at this point, it turned into no-fap mac & cheese. So everything was hilariously funny, but not, you know, good. To the recipe.

Low-FODMac & Cheese

3 slices tragic gluten-free bread

2 tbsp melted lactose-free butter &

4 tbsp not melted lactose-free butter

1 package gluten-free macaroni

2 1/2 c lactose-free whole milk

2 tbsp cornstarch

3/4 tsp dry mustard

1/8 tsp cayenne pepper

1 cup chicken broth

4 1/2 c shredded yellow cheese, plus extra for topping

salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 400F. Pulse shredded bread and melted butter in food processor until breadcrumby. Spread crumbs on a rimmed baking sheet and bake until lightly browned, 7 minutes.

Whisk 1/2 c milk and cornstarch in a bowl. Cook pasta according to package directions, subtracting a minute from the al dente time, then dump the noodles into a colander to drain. Add the 4 tbsp butter to now empty pan, melt on medium heat, and then stir in mustard and cayenne to bloom, 30 seconds. Whisk in the rest of the milk and the chicken broth and bring to a simmer.

Whisk in the cornstarch and milk, and then cook, stirring regularly, until the sauce thickens and big bubbles form, 8-10 minutes. Turn off the heat and mix in the cheese until the sauce is smooth and creamy. Season with salt and pepper, and add in the drained noodles, stirring to combine.

Pour the mixture into a hot dish, sprinkle with extra cheese, and then the breadcrumbs, and then more cheese if you feel like it. Bake for 15 minutes, then let it rest for 10.

So, writing this out, I realized I misread the original recipe, so I didn't put in enough cheese. Which was one of my first criticisms of this casserole: not enough cheese. I also did a little googling, and determined that Velveeta -- which is the secret ingredient in all good mac & cheese -- can be part of a low-FODMAP diet in small quantities. I'd absolutely add 2 oz of Velveeta to the sauce with the rest of the cheese. ETA: I have since discovered that it is NOT TRUE that Velveeta is low-FODMAP, not even a little. That article was written by a LLM and the internet is broken.

The noodles were also mushy because I cooked them to al dente before baking, but I suspect if you cooked them short of al dente by a minute or two, this would be better. Mushy noodles gross me out. Also a bay leaf and some Parmesan or similar Italian hard cheese in the sauce might punch this up a bit.

While this first attempt was not auspicious, I think you could end up with something halfway decent with some tinkering.

ETA: I had this for lunch, and after adding a bunch of cheese to it, the recipe is actually halfway decent. The amount of cheese in the recipe above is the original amount I should have used.

Disclaimer: All of these recipes are intended to be low-FODMAP, but I am no dietician, and I can be mistaken or misinformed about the FODMAP content of any given thing.

[apparitionism]

Consummative

This is mostly just some silly dialogue—I heard a particular exchange of lines in my head and then had to motivate it somehow. The place it went is one of great cliché, but sometimes that’s the ditch you drive into... plus I’ve got this other thing I’m working on that’s way more serious, and I needed a frivolous exhale—and what better time to post a bit of frivolity than in the wake of the weekend’s kerfuffle? The fairy-tale setting of this is just so they can be princesses and not have, like, cell phones. Plus one other pointless detail that I liked and didn’t want to cut. Anyway, the thing as a whole doesn’t go anywhere, but as I’m finding myself tempted to spend real time on it that I can’t afford, here you go! Raw cookie dough!

Consummative

Once upon a fairy-tale time, two princesses from neighboring realms were sent to attend the same royal boarding school. Princess Myka and Princess Helena could not have been more different: Myka always had her nose in a book, while Helena, who found her studies insufficiently challenging, engaged in whatever foolish schemes came into her head. Yet the girls became fast friends; they enjoyed each other’s company very much indeed, when Myka raised her eyes from her books and Helena in turn took a moment to still and catch her breath.

The girls grew into women, and while their differences were still apparent, they still also became closer, with Myka generally, if at times frustratedly, tolerant of Helena’s wild streak, and Helena solicitous of Myka’s quieter nature.

One day, however, in their final year of school, Myka went to the stables, where she was to meet Helena to tutor her for their final riding practical examination—Helena rode like the wild thing she was, and while the horses were well-trained enough for her to get away with improper equitation, Myka did not want to see her fail the practicum. (She also pitied the horses, who had to do most of the work.) But in the barn, she found Helena kissing a stablehand—a strong young woman who liked to wink at princesses. She had even winked at Myka once, making her blush furiously, and now Myka was blushing furiously again, and she was also, unaccountably, angry. She ran out of the stable. Behind her, she heard “Myka, wait!” But she did not wait, because she was blushing, and she was very, very angry.

She could not parse the depth of her anger at first... but, ah, of course she was angry, for Helena had made a fool of herself, again and as usual, with her imprudent actions. That was it. What other reason could there be? And, Myka told herself, she felt so angry because this was the last straw: Helena was clearly no longer even pretending to care about their examinations. She had clearly been lying when she said she wanted Myka’s help to prepare, if all she really wanted to do was... kiss the stablehand. Well, fine, then.

So she ducked away from Helena in the hallways, avoided Helena’s gaze in the classroom, and even, once late one night, ignored Helena’s increasingly loud knocks on the door of her room, despite the accompanying, plaintive “Myka, please.” Upon hearing that “please,” Myka nearly gave in. But then she re-saw the scene in the barn... and she hardened her heart. She turned back to her book: it was a heavy philosophical tome, and she told herself that its seriousness would protect her from any likelihood that Helena could sway her with that “please,” now or ever.

She imagined telling Helena, with dismissive hauteur, “How relieved you must feel, now that you need no longer feign a sense of friendship.” This despite the fact that she knew perfectly well that their depth of feeling had not been feigned, not on either side... but perhaps it had been inevitable that two people with such divergent outlooks must part ways.

School ended. Back at home, Myka continued her pursuit of knowledge. She was also, from time to time, given news of Helena’s escapades: while her mother still ruled, Helena adventured through her realm and the realms of others, vanquishing all manner of evils... and stealing all manner of hearts. Myka did not particularly enjoy receiving word that Helena had yet again risked her life, or that she had yet again demonstrated that no one among all the kingdoms’ people could resist the dashing princess.

Helena’s youthful pursuits came to a halt, however, when Helena’s mother took ill. Helena returned home to see to her care... but her mother died. Helena thus found herself home to stay. Myka, upon hearing the terrible news, sent her a letter of earnest condolence, for Helena’s mother had been a wonderful queen and, Myka knew, an even better mother. In the letter, she also, equally earnestly, wished Helena well in assuming her throne. And as an impulsive postscript, she wrote, “I regret the loss of our close friendship. I grieve that too. I miss you.” The moment the letter left her hand, she wished she had not added that postscript, for it was so... personal. They were not schoolgirls anymore. To convey such a sentiment, she should have translated it into the language of official communication and included it in the body of the letter.

Not very many days later, Myka was distracted from her reading by a commotion outside her chambers. “Let me in, you imbeciles!” she heard a familiarly impatient voice say. “I am a queen; of course I can have an audience with the princess!” Paper rustled. “And did I not receive this letter from her?”

“You don’t look much like a queen,” one of Myka’s retainers said. “Besides, the king will have our heads if his daughter is unduly disturbed.”

“What do I care for your heads? And as for my disturbing her, that would be no innovation, so all that remains for any of us to quarrel over is whether any such disturbance would be in fact undue.”

Myka opened her door and regarded the scene: a dark-haired, dark-eyed spitfire of a woman who had shed a great deal of the girlishness Myka remembered was shaking a page of Myka’s own handwriting at two impassive men half again her size and age. Her battered leather armor and muddied cape stood incongruous against her imperious aspect.

Though Myka could barely believe that Helena had had time to receive the letter, much less to read it and then to retrace its path back across both their kingdoms, she was not made unhappy by what she saw. “It’s all right,” she said. “I think I probably am due for a disturbance of this kind.” She beckoned to Helena, whose chin lifted in triumph as she sailed past the men into Myka’s rooms

For a moment, once Myka had closed the doors behind them, they did nothing but look at each other. Then Helena glanced down at Myka’s letter, still in her hand. She folded it, with a care that surprised Myka, and slipped it under her armor. “Well. Princess,” Helena then said, and Myka curtsied. Helena might have looked a mess—Myka suspected that the horses had had, this time, to do all the work—but that had no bearing on the new but true fact that she was now a queen.

“Well,” Myka said, her body still bowed. “Queen.”

Upon hearing Helena sigh, Myka looked up. “Oh, stop,” Helena said. She twisted her mouth into a combination of scowl and self-deprecating smirk. “Even if I believed that you believe yourself inferior to me in any way, do you imagine that that is what I ever would want from you?”

“I can’t imagine what you do want from me,” Myka answered quickly. Too quickly. She said, softly, “I really am so sorry, so sad, about your mother. She was always so kind to me.”

“She loved you. She knew... well, in any case, she did love you.”

“Not even the tiniest fraction as much as she loved you, and you her. I’m so sorry. I know this must be a difficult time for you.”

“It is. Or, it has been. But I... I was so pleased to receive your letter.” Now Helena’s mouth shaped itself into a simple, warm smile.

Myka smiled in return. “I’m glad it was a comfort to you.”

“Well. A comfort, of course, but also... well, but also, you did...” Helena cleared her throat. “You did say you missed me. And so here I am.”

Because of Myka’s impetuous postscript? “It was good of you to come, but I never meant to pull you away from your obligations. Your new obligations.”

“No, you... Myka, I....” Helena took a deep breath and drew herself up, and in that moment, Myka understood that she truly had become a queen. Myka’s immediate admiration—for Helena’s bearing was dignified, stately, in astonishing fulfillment of all the potential she had shown when they were children—was coupled with a momentary sadness: We are even more different now, she thought.

Helena took another, not quite as regal, breath, and Myka saw, fleetingly, the girl she had once been, one who used bravado to cover any doubts. She said. “Myka, I have all the experience of the world I need to govern my people. I lack only two things: one of them is knowledge, of the sort that comes from books.”

“You’d have that sort of knowledge if you had not always instead been so bent on trying everything. Doing everything.” She meant her words as nothing other than gentle nostalgia.

But Helena said, “That experience is something you yourself do not have. Your own people—the people who will one day be your subjects—know it; they wonder whether so learned a ruler will understand anything of the dirt of their lives.”

That made Myka bristle. “Time will tell. What business is it of yours?”

“I want to see you succeed.”

“That’s big of you,” Myka said. An ill-tempered response, but Helena had not been particularly measured either, with her gibe about experience.

“And I want to succeed as well.”

“What is stopping you? You could read books. You could gain knowledge.”

“I could read books. But as I said, I lack two things.”

“Well, what is the other?”

“You don’t know? You haven’t even a guess?”

“A guess at what? Perhaps someone who shares your worldly experience would understand what you’re talking about; I certainly don’t.” How very Helena of her: to assume that what she was thinking made so much sense that no one could fail to see her meaning. (Yes, some part of her brain whispered back at her, how very Helena... yet also how very fine and bright, to be in her presence once again, to have occasion to think how very Helena...)

“I had hoped you would,” Helena said. She sounded... petulant? Not quite that. More... stung. Wounded. “I had hoped... when I received your letter, I hoped it had at last become clear to you. But I see that I should leave you to your books... they will make you far happier than anything else ever could.” She turned away swiftly, hair flying. She put her hand on one ornately worked door-handle and made as if to pull. Myka saw her shoulders rise, fall, settle into straightness; Myka braced herself for what now seemed an enormously painful, but also truly inevitable, leave-taking.

But then Helena turned back to Myka; they stared at each other, as they had in the first moments after Helena’s arrival. And unaccountably, Myka felt a familiar feeling rise in her, as when they were young, at school, and they would catch each other’s eyes at times they knew they should not. At times they knew they should be concentrating on matters far more important than each other’s eyes... but at those times, no matters seemed more important than each other’s eyes. Unaccountably, Myka was visited, with great force, with the alteration in breathing that would strike her at those times.

Before Myka could recover breath enough to say anything—and she never knew, looking back, what she might have been moved to say—Helena said, “I made a promise to my mother.” Then she repeated, “I could read books.”

“You made a promise to your mother that you could read books?”

“I’m being serious.” Stung again. Wounded.

Myka relented. “I know you could. And in fact, in times past, you did—although only the barest minimum to get by.”

“I was restless. I have been for some time. And besides, you—”

“Yes, all your foolhardy undertakings. Your perilous quests, your slayings of dragons, your romantic intrigues... I know all about them. You’re so foolish. You put so much at risk, and you never seem to care. Even at school, you never did seem to care what you put at risk. Including our... friendship.” Myka was aware that she herself now sounded stung. Wounded.

“You didn’t tell me that you cared so much,” said Helena. No longer stung and wounded: now hushed and gentle. “You didn’t tell me anything.”

“What good would it have done? You never listened to me.”

“I would have, if you had said anything. I mean, said anything persuasive.”

“What in the world would persuade someone as headstrong as you?”

“Nothing in the world. That is what I have found. Nothing in the world, that entire large world out there, could persuade me.”

“Then I suppose your people will have to resign themselves to the whims of a headstrong, intemperate leader.”

“Not necessarily,” Helena said. She took one step, two, three; she was now very, very close to Myka. She said, very low, “I could read books.”

Myka found her breathing extremely troubled again. “You said that before,” she pointed out. “You keep saying that.”

“That’s because you keep failing to attend to a point salient to the situation.” Her face was now inches from Myka’s; every word she said was hot against Myka’s cheekbone, her ear, her neck.

“What point...” Myka said, and Helena repeated a breathy what point against her cheekbone, “salient to...” and she felt salient to, against her ear, “the situation...” and her neck was ready to receive a warm exhalation, but instead Helena said, “I could read books... but you already have.”

“I don’t see how that’s salient.”

“How can a person so learned be also so thickheaded? That question is rhetorical, by the way, in case you were considering formulating a scholarly answer.”

Myka did not see how she could possibly have been considering formulating a scholarly answer, certainly not given Helena’s proximity, so she settled for a modified echo. “How can a person so devoted to decisive action be also so obscurely wordy? That question is not rhetorical, by the way.”

“Then I will be direct: I need you. I need you, and I believe that you need me. I believe this has long been true.” She placed her hands at Myka’s hips, and she looked with great, glowing intensity into Myka’s eyes. “Nothing in the world could persuade me of anything... only you. Only this. Refuse me if you will—if you must. But I’ve loved you so long. So long.”

“You say that convincingly. Yet I’ve heard that you romanced everyone in the world but me.” Her own accusatory tone was perhaps not entirely convincing, she realized, as she had made no attempt to escape Helena’s arms, which had now moved up Myka’s back to draw her into a true embrace.

“That is because you gave a very good impression of not wanting me,” Helena said, but she was tracing her lips up and down Myka’s neck, and Myka suspected that the heat she felt blooming in her body, in the wake of those lips, was now giving a very good impression of something else.

“Funny,” she said, even as she arched her neck for more, “you gave a very good impression of not wanting me.”

“Oh, stop. Let me kiss you. All the rest of the world I may know, but not that—and that is all I want to know.”

“That’s very elo—” But then Helena was indeed kissing her, bringing their mouths together once, twice, again, this last a deepening kiss that Myka would not, until moments ago, have said would bring her such a vibrant sense of both promise and completion.

“All I have ever wanted to know,” Helena said at last, with a gratifyingly rapturous sigh.

“Ever?”

“Well. I may have learned one or two things of interest in my travels.”

“Have you.”

“For example: are you aware that dragons generally need not be slain? A stern talking-to is all they require. I suspect you would be quite good at that.”

“You’re saying you want me to be your dragon-scolder?”

“Consider the admiration you would inspire among your people: their polyhistor of a princess, become vanquisher of lizard-beasts!”

“At not sword-, but lecture-point. Sounds less than fully heroic.”

“The task may not require a sword as such, but one does need courage. They can be quite fearsome to behold. And of course they do breathe fire.”

Myka felt it would be unseemly to reveal how elated she was to be listening to Helena say words. About dragons or anything at all... so she put on the most skeptical aspect she could muster and said, “You are seriously trying to sweep me off my feet by telling me that I will be well-served by confronting fire-breathing monsters who will yield not to a sword—which I can wield quite well, you know, or have you forgotten who bested you at school?—not to a sword, but rather to my rhetorical skills. This is your grand attempt at romance?”

“Is it working?”

“What happens if I say no?”

“Then I will return to kissing you. Like so.” And she did, with admirable enthusiasm, and with—Myka had to admit it, though her own experience was quite limited—admirable skill. Helena’s mouth was still soft and close as she said, “Do not discount this element of my quite strategic plan of enticement.”

“I... am not discounting that element.”

“So is it working?”

“What happens if I say yes?”

“Then you would make me the happiest person in all the world. And I would strive every day to make you the same.”

“I don’t think there can be two happiest people. Wouldn’t one always be happier than the other? And now that I’m considering the question, how would happiness be measured at all? Is there some objective scale, some gauge with which to assess any individual’s inches or grams or pints of happiness?” Helena kissed her again, blurring her thoughts, making her heart swell and scale up, such that she revised, “Or perhaps happiness is measured by the bushel, the mile, the long hundredweight...”

“I think you will need to make an academically thorough investigation of this matter of happiness. I think it will take many, many years—decades, even!—for you to reach any definitive conclusions.”

“I think I could not possibly undertake such study alone. I think I would need the aid of some assistant... some party equally invested in the investigation. Even unto its more academic aspects.”

“I can see that prevailing upon the dragons not to singe your eyebrows will present no difficulty at all for you. And they will adore you for the smooth ease with which you make your case.”

“What did you promise your mother?” Because Helena had been about to leave, and something had stopped her. And Myka wanted to know.

Helena’s answer was prompt and florid: “To adore you even more than the dragons will.”

“Now I’m being serious,” Myka told her.

“At heart, so am I. My promise was that if I ever had a second chance with you, I would not be too proud, too hasty, too impetuous—”

“You promised that you wouldn’t be yourself?”

Helena ignored that... mostly. She did roll her eyes, but she went on, “I promised that if I found myself lucky enough to gain a second chance with you, I would not give up until you told me to go away.”

“Now that sounds a little more like you... but I should be honest. I hadn’t realized until today, until this...”—and this time she was the one whose lips sought and found, as she leaned down, just a little, to get at Helena’s neck—“until this, I hadn’t realized that I had wanted any chance at all with you. Not this kind of chance.”

Helena exhaled an unusually high-pitched “ha!” Then she said, “Do you want one now?”

“What happens if I say no?”

“I will declare you the most impossible woman in the world.”

“And what happens if I say yes?”

“I will declare exactly the same thing, even more loudly.” She was still so very close, and she spoke of loudness—yet her voice was so contradictorily soft. “But I will stand by your side as I shout it... as long as you do not tell me to go away.”

“I suppose you may have a point in your favor.”

“A point? One sole point? A single, solitary point? A point isolated, forlorn and abandoned, with not a kindred point to alleviate its loneliness?” She clearly would have continued on, so Myka took a page from Helena’s own book and kissed her to bring her to a stop... and stop she did. She stopped, and she participated enthusiastically in the kiss, and Myka began to believe that Helena genuinely had wanted her as she herself had—and she knew now that she had—wanted Helena all along. How she could have misunderstood herself, she did not know, but with Helena in her arms, with Helena’s mouth melting against hers, she could not deny the truth. How astonishing that she now knew this truth, and that she had come to know it in such a direct, such a practical way. Such an unremittingly lovely way... only some time later did Helena say, “Well, I suppose if it is in my favor... what is this point?”

“That salient one you mentioned earlier: that you need me, and I need you. Although I suppose also that just as you could read books, I could run around the world. For the experience of it.”

“If that is your desire, I certainly could not and would not stop you... but it does seem like unnecessary duplication of work. On both our parts. Would it not be better for a heroic queen of action and an equally heroic philosopher queen to rely upon each other’s expertise? In the interest of efficiency, if nothing else.”

“What of the romantic adventures, however? Would you deprive me of those?” But Myka asked this happily, because she knew exactly how Helena would respond...

And Helena did not disappoint: “I would not deprive you of those, not in my lifetime,” she said. “But I would very much appreciate your enjoying them with me and me alone.”

They began such enjoyment that very night. And thus did they live exclusively—and efficiently—and very, very happily—ever after.

END

[drabblecat]

Yandere!Heisenberg x F!Reader Part 2

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: yandere behavior, slight nudity, drugging

Part 1

Slightly longer than i was aiming for but that's ok! My initial thought was more pwp but then I realized I kinda wanted some sort of plot... Anyways, big plans for next chapters! As always I'd love to hear what you think and the ask box is open!

You took a moment to try and calm your nerves. Heisenberg still had your face in his rough hands, and you couldn’t try to run with that chain holding you down. As his thumb ran across your lips anger built inside you. Mother Miranda was supposed to protect everyone in the village, but as soon as shit hit the fan there was no one that came to the rescue. You parted your lips as if starting to speak, his thumb now pressing down on your lower lip. Tilting your head forward ever so slightly, you bit down on the man’s thumb. He pulled back and sat up in shock that someone in your current position would do such a thing.

“Take care of me huh? Like Mother Miranda was supposed to? Yeah, well look how that worked out!” The hand still next to your head quickly gasped onto your neck, lifting you up to meet his eyes.

“That bitch was just using the village. It was a lie she used to make sure we had the right number of bodies to work with and everyone fell for it!” Tightening around your throat you started to gasp for air, hands pulling at Heisenberg’s grip. He let you go, house bouncing against the mattress. “It seems you need some more time to adjust. I’ll be back later and hopefully you’ll realize your place here.” The bed shifted as he stood up. Walking to the door and closing it behind him you heard a loud telltale click of a lock.

You stared up at the ceiling for a moment, not only to catch your breath, but also in attempt to process what exactly was happening. Tears formed in the corner of your eyes, one spilling over your cheek and rolled down to your chin. You let it fall for just a moment, and then gathered yourself. What was done was done. True you saw people that you knew dying in the streets, but you didn’t truly know them. You were just the new girl in town, if they were in your place, they would just be happy to be alive. Besides, Heisenberg was one of the town’s lords, right? It’s possible that this isn’t all that bad, you don’t know anything about him besides owning the old factory. At least he’s not Beneviento or Moreau. The dolls were creepy as hell, and you were never one for going near the waters that looked like they’d eat you if given the chance.

Using the sheet you wiped your eyes, and decided it was best to examine your surroundings further. Getting off the bed, the chain falling to the floor with it, you saw the cuff had a decent amount of length to it. Besides the bed and the heavy door, there were a few other things. There was the chair still at the end of the bed, a small nightstand, a vanity, and two other doors. Walking over to the vanity you were taken back. It had a framed photo of you that you do not remember taking. Especially since it was of you just out of the shower! Hesitantly you tipped it over, not wanting to even think of what that photo implied. Below the vanity were some drawers, opening them you found a hairbrush, and what only could be described as some of the raunchiest lingerie you’ve ever seen. Then came the two doors, one was significantly smaller than the other. Trying the small one first in the back left of the room, no luck. After turning the round door knob a few times you gave it a rest. Next was the larger door, this one opened right away. Nothing too interesting, just an ordinary bathroom. It was a little dirty, but nothing worse than what you’ve seen at certain gas stations.

Starting by opening all the possible cabinets you found they were all empty. Nothing to even try to use to get out. No cleaning chemicals or even medicine in the medicine cabinet. Heisenberg must have thought this through this for some time. The chain finally ran out of length at the toilet, just short of the bath. Seeing as nothing came from this, you returned to the bed to stare at the ceiling and think. Not like there was anything else to do. Who knows how long it took you to explore the room and think your thoughts. Without windows or any sort of clock there was no way to tell. Curling up to one side you snuggled into the blankets. Once again you heard the door click, causing you to bolt upright to face the noise. Heisenberg came through the door, carrying a metal tray holding a plate of food, a fork, a glass with what looked like water, and a small white vase with two wilted yellow flowers.

“Dinner time! Now I know I’m not the best cook, but you should find this to at least be appetizing. After all you must be starving darling.” He sat the tray on the bed and sat back in his chair. The plate was just as he said, didn’t look five stars, but your stomach growled at the mess of food. It looked like some baked beans, accompanied by some thick slices of grilled ham, and a chunk of corn bread. You still didn’t move, despite your hunger.

“Ok ok, you probably think I drugged the food, right? Well, I didn’t. Drugging you would be easier with a dart gun.” He lowered his glasses slightly to look you in the eye. With a sigh he grabbed the fork, picking up an entire slice of the ham, ripping a bite out of it. “See?” he placed the ham with the fork in it back down on the plate, speaking as he chewed. You couldn’t hold out much longer. If now was dinner time, that means you missed an entire day with nothing to eat. Planning any sort of escape or resistance to him couldn’t be done on an empty stomach. Reaching forward you used the fork the cut off a bite sized piece. It was surprisingly well seasoned, and super tender.

“There you go sweetheart! I knew it would just take some time to get used to, I’m not all that bad.” He chuckled and watched you as you ate. Only because he was watching you did you eat just a little faster than you had wanted to. Sure, he was a little off putting, but he seemed happy when you played along with whatever sick fantasy he had conjured up in his head. Once the meal was done, he set the flower on your nightstand and the tray right beside it. He stood up, taking his hat and coat off and throwing it on the chair.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I had a full day today and I am beat. Time to get some shut eye.” He glanced over to the vanity; a small piece of cloth poked out from where you had rummaged around. “I see you had some fun today as well. Your still in that ragged gown, I think you might want to change into something a little more… fresh.” Shit, you thought you’d put everything back to where it was. You mentally curse yourself as he opened the drawers. He was right though; you were still in the stained nightgown from the attack. As much as a fresh outfit was a good idea, you dreaded what his choice might be.

After a few moments of rummaging, he pulled out a gown that looked like it went down to mid-thigh, in a deep crimson color. It would have been a nice gown, if it wasn’t for the fact that the entire section around the breasts were almost see through lace with slits on both sides that went from the bottom and halfway up.

“Absolutely not.” You blurted out, causing him to chuckle.

“Sweetheart I don’t think you have a choice in the matter. Besides you and I both know that if you stay in that grimy thing, it’ll make you more uncomfortable than wearing this. It’s soft to, pure silk.” He tossed it on the bed and gave you a wink. Giving a defeated huff, you picked it up. He was right, it was incredibly soft. Getting off the bed with the garment in hand you headed towards the bathroom.

“Aww, and I thought I was going to see you strip. Maybe some other time…” He looked at you with his shit-eating grin. Your face became flustered, and you slammed the door as fast as you could, not shutting all the way due to the chain. Once inside the bathroom you began to change, making sure he couldn’t see you through the crack in the door. It was only then that you found the slip came with a matching pair of panties. Sighing in defeat and honestly just tired of all the bullshit thrown at you these past days you just put them on. It did give you some comfort, surprisingly feeling clean in this lewd outfit over your much more covering, yet crawling with filth, night gown. Taking a look in the mirror you looked yourself over. At least your tits looked hot in this, a confidence boost is good, right?

Slowly opening the door further, you became almost timid at what you saw. Heisenberg had also begun to strip down to his boxers for the night. He was in the middle of removing his shirt. His muscular back was littered with all sorts of scars. His muscles flexed as he took of the white stained undershirt, the smallest beads of sweat wicked away by the fabric. His tight ass was also a sight to see. Looking over his shoulder, he locked eyes with you, no longer having glasses obscure the direct line of sight.

“Well well, seems we’ve both found ourselves some eye candy huh.” Tossing the last piece of clothing to the chair he approached the door. Opening it and taking your hand he looked down at you, you quickly looked away to avoid feeling more embarrassment. Suddenly he picked up bridal style, your hands immediately reaching for his chest in attempt to hold on. In doing so your hands felt the warm firm handful of his pecks. He chuckled as you quickly folded your hands back into your own chest. Ever so gently he set you back on the bed, a sharp contrast to what had happened earlier.

Settling down next to you, you turned away from him. As you felt the bed dip with his weight, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close. You could feel a slight bulge resting against your ass. You tried to create some sort of distance, but you couldn’t move at all. Resigning to the situation, you tried to settle down, eyes unable to close despite some tiredness. All you could see in the limited range of movement you had was the nightstand, remnants of the meal, and the two flowers wilted but vibrant as they sat in the small vase.

[rebrandedbard]

Hi! Can I ask for 30. “It’s not what it looks like…” from the drabble list?

Oh, it’s you! Welcome back! Here for another order at McDrabble? Very well then, I am obliged to use the good serving platter for the sake of continuity:

30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

wc: 1991 (Wow! That’s a year!)

No Modesty Among Thieves

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

-

Kidnappers would have been easier, Geralt thought, than dealing with burglars. Had Jaskier been kidnapped, someone would have left a note and ransom. They would be waiting somewhere easy to find. A burglar did not want to be found, which meant he’d have to track them down, which meant more work. He’d had a long day and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. The moment he’d opened the door of their room, those lovely plans of rest and relaxation had flown out the window, and he was suddenly wide awake, his heart racing, for he found Jaskier tied to the bed frame, completely bare, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He gaped a moment before the smell of fear hit him, then he hurried to the bed and tugged the blindfold from Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier sagged with relief at the sight of him. As soon as Geralt removed the gag, the words came flooding out. “It’s not what it looks like…” he sighed, knowing very well what Geralt’s first impression must have been. He shifted uncomfortably, glad of the pillow thrown over his lap. At least the burglar had been thoughtful enough to provide that before clearing out.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. As he worked the knots above Jaskier’s head, he cast eyes about the room. It was completely empty; all of their belongings had been taken.

“Burglar caught me in the bath, blindfolded me, tied me up, and gagged me. Took all of our stuff and booked it.” He rubbed his wrists and shook them out to get the feeling into his arms again. “I’m so glad you got home when you did; my arms just about lost all feeling. I’m already sore from the fight with the gargoyle last week. The second-hand blast knocked me halfway across the room, remember? Burned the doublet right off my back! Singed my shirt, too.”

“I remember,” Geralt replied. He inspected Jaskier’s arms with care. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Only my pride. I thought I could tell you from the sound of your footsteps, but evidently, I was wrong. The way the fiend came striding in here, confident as anything like they belonged—well! I thought it could only be you,” he grumbled. “Anyone else would have tried to sneak up behind me instead. They strode right in! And I know, I know; I ought to have kept the door locked, but I swear, Geralt, that I had locked it. It’s a faulty lock, that’s what I think. This inn is cheap and ready to fall to pieces when the wind next blows, and that’s the truth.”

Geralt tossed the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders for modesty’s sake. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” He sniffed the air and announced, “There’s only one trail; pretty strong, too. Likely another patron somewhere down the hall.”

It was an easy game, stealing from other travellers. There were plenty of rooms to hide in. All one had to do was pretend to flee out the door, hood down, pass a few witnesses, then sneak back to their room calm as anything. It was a play Geralt had encountered before.

His brow creased as he scented the room again. It smelled … familiar. He crouched, following the scent from the bed over to the bath, to the corner where he’d left their bags. Meanwhile, Jaskier stumbled out of the bed, the blanket wrapped clumsily around him. He peeked beside the bed and circled the tub. With a huff, he dropped onto the bed once more and sat grumbling.

“Might have at least left the pants, if not my trousers. Not any money in selling those. Rotten thieving bastard.”

Geralt turned to look at him. “They took your clothes?” he said.

“Not that I blame them, really. People are trying to get in my pants all the time,” Jaskier quipped. He resumed his sulking after when he considered how much they’d cost him to buy in the first place.

The smell was stronger as soon as Geralt opened the door. He groaned, the pieces clicking into place neatly. “I’ll be right back,” he growled.

The door slammed shut behind him as Geralt stalked down the hall. He followed the scent to the every end and thrust the door open. And there the prick was, sitting on the floor, Jaskier’s stupid hat on his head, flipping through Jaskier’s notebook with one hand and helping himself to one of Geralt’s dried apple slices with the other. Lambert didn’t even bother to look up as he entered, merely smiling as he popped the slice into his mouth.

“Still hiding your snacks among your potion kit,” Lambert said. “A wonder your bard hasn’t found them yet. His smell is all over your things; one would think he’s always in and out, fetching things for you.”

“Pack it up. I’m kicking you out of here as soon as you’ve helped me carry this shit back.”

Lambert ignored him, rolling over on his back as he flipped to a page closer to the front of the notebook. “Is this one about you? ‘What amorous sight I scowling see, the sweet delights he flares in me, with eyes the gods have wrought of gold, for men to weep and thus behold?’”

Geralt snatched the book from his hands, ears burning hot. “You’ve no right to be prying into others’ things,” he snarled.

“Ah, so you haven’t read his poetry, I take it.”

Lambert hovered over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt started shoving things into Jaskier’s bag. He grabbed the hat from Lambert’s head and gathered it with the rest, careful not the bend the feather. Of course he hadn’t gone snooping. Jaskier’s notebook was private and Geralt respected privacy, unlike some who felt entitled to anything not bolted and locked.

“How did you like my present?” Lambert asked, flopping onto the bed. He raised his arms above his head in a mockery of the position he’d left Jaskier in. “Oh, what an amorous sight!” he cried, smirking. “Did you weep? I know you to be a weeper; heard enough whores gossip about the white-haired witcher crying in their arms after a tumble. Or did you not unwrap my present? He smelled pretty good for a minute there—aroused by danger, is he?”

Geralt picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Don’t go sniffing my bard,” he said.

For once, Lambert made no retort. He only raised one cocky brow at him and smiled.

Geralt found Jaskier’s clothes folded messily on a chair. He put them away carefully in Jaskier’s bag piece by piece. He was about to put the chemise away when Lambert plucked it from him. He flapped it in the air, gave it a light sniff and said, “Kind of smells like you, you know. You two share a bed or something?”

The speed with which Geralt snatched it back was all the answer Lambert needed. In addition, Geralt took back his bag of apple slices. He shoved them in a bag and collected the rest of their things. Last of all, he slung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder.

Before leaving, Geralt seized Lambert’s own bag and stole from it a package of dried cod. Lambert hated cod. And Geralt knew why he had it. “Stay out of my room and away from Jaskier,” he said, “Or I’ll find your cat and shave him.” He tossed the bag back at Lambert and slammed the door in his gaping face.

The very first thing Jaskier did upon Geralt’s return was check his lute for damage, forgoing his awkward wrap in his hurry to get to it. His cry of relief filled the air and he cradled the instrument close. Geralt waited until Jaskier had put it safely away in its case before tossing his trousers at his head. Jaskier laughed and hugged them close, but rather than dress, he resumed his bath, the water warmed by courtesy of Geralt for his troubles. Geralt sat on the other side of the room, reordering their things as he told Jaskier the truth behind his unpleasant encounter.

Dinner was ordered to their room a half hour later, an apology sent along with it in the form of two baked pears. They ate it together on the floor, Jaskier in a towel, and Geralt kept his eyes on his food, trying in vain to forget the bit of poetry Lambert had sung for him.

“I’ll have to repay him one of these days and run his clothes up a pole,” Jaskier said. “If he’s ever in Oxenfurt, be prepared to spot them flapping below the university’s flag.”

“You’d get nowhere near them,” Geralt replied, cutting himself a bite of pear.

“I don’t know. He seemed eager enough to get my clothes off earlier. Should be easy to tempt him to do it again, then scoop his up while he sleeps.”

Geralt quickly abandoned his pear, apatite gone. He offered Jaskier his plate and returned to his organizing.

After eating, Jaskier stood. He stretched and dropped his hands to his hips, then swayed back to where he’d left his trousers. As he dressed, he looked around, humming to himself.

“Geralt?” he called. “Do you know what became of my undershirt?”

“Lambert doesn’t have it,” Geralt answered.

“Fuck, did he lose it? I haven’t got one spare.”

After another minute of rummaging, Geralt cleared his throat. “You can wear one of mine,” he offered. He produced a large black shirt and held it out to Jaskier at arm’s length.

Jaskier beamed and made a grab for it. “You’re a dear! I shall not wander cold and bare on the road, thanks to your generosity.” He pulled it over his head and smoothed it down. “Hm, very worn and soft. It’s quite comfortable, actually. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you walking around half naked,” Geralt grunted.

“Quite right. It may take some time to get to a decent tailor. Be warned: by then I may be disinclined to return it to you. You know how attached I get to my clothes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I can get another,” was the only reply he offered.

Jaskier smiled and bounced happily into bed. “In that case, say your goodbyes now. I’ve never owned anything black but for my hat—it’s quite an attractive color. I’m sure I look as raffish as you! Perhaps more so for the novelty of it. What do you think?”

Whatever it was that Geralt thought, Jaskier was not to know. Geralt gave no answer the next morning, even as Jaskier pranced in front of him, fishing for a compliment. Geralt kept his opinion buried in his throat, almost as secret as his bag of dried apples. And tucked beneath them, he kept another secret folded neatly at the very bottom of his bag. He’d forgotten it in his haste to leave Lambert’s room that night. But Jaskier looked well in his shirt. So the chemise remained where it was, tucked away. After all, if Jaskier intended to keep his, it was only a fair trade.

Jaskier danced another turn in front of him and bowed, the shirt billowing at the end of his arms. He stood upright once more and posed. “Come now, Geralt. You’ve got to admit it makes for a pleasant change.” He flicked the end of one feather from his hat and winked. “What say you? I think we go perfectly together.”

Geralt looked at him, bathed in the early morning light, the very picture of radiance. He nodded, giving Jaskier a small smile. “We do,” he whispered, so soft that no human could ever hear.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” Geralt replied, a startled blink. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment, then shrugged, striding the path ahead. They would get there, he thought privately to himself. They had all the time in the world.

-

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[clatterbane]

Banana pudding assembly time! 😎

I've been craving some for a while, and finally thought to get some bananas to make it with. (Not to mention a couple of good old peanut butter and banana sandwiches!) Those started growing spots overnight in this warm spring weather, and are a little past their prime to my own weirdo taste. But, they should still work fine in here!

I'm also needing to substitute some Maria biscuits for the vanilla wafers. Haven't tried that before, but it will hopefully work OK. They are very basic, fairly neutral light vanilla-ish cookies which do get used a lot elsewhere in very similar ways to graham crackers or the vanilla wafers.

That is some homemade pudding I stirred up last night, and left to chill in the meantime.

I totally would have used a pudding mix if you could find vanilla here. (Though, full sugar instant chocolate pudding is a thing here! Along with some vaguely moussey lemon stuff and several fruity just plain mousse flavors which should be good for some other desserts. We actually have unopened boxes of chocolate and lemon in the cabinet now.) Thinner vanilla custards are way more popular here. Plus, I wanted to use at least part Splenda to make the whole thing slightly less of a carb bomb. So, I cooked up something hopefully suitable.

Ended up subbing in some rice flour, since Mr. C forgot to buy cornstarch (double the volume of starch called for). And I used a cup of almond and coconut milk along with the dairy stuff, since we had an open carton in the fridge and it sounded good with bananas. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

As you can see here, the texture didn't turn out as silky smooth as with cornstarch, which wasn't a huge surprise. That was fine rice flour meant for baking, so it didn't turn out quite like ground rice pudding either--sort of halfway in between. Next time I would also sweeten it less, but the texture and flavor actually turned out pretty good! May have to try that basic approach for some other flavors of puddings.

Pudding construction underway, in a potato salad tub! 😅

Which looked like a decent size and shape for the purpose, since we really don't need a huge dish o' pudding right now. And I was never a fan of the texture of the classic soft meringue on top, so no need for anything oven proof. Whipped cream is more my jam, in general.

I ended up filling in some of the gaps with broken cookie bits, but 6 fit pretty nicely per layer. Got 3 layers out of it (2 of banana), starting with cookies on the bottom.

Oh no, it's more of my awesome food presentation! 😁

I figured there might be some vanilla pudding left at the end, but nope! Looks like I guesstimated what size batch we might need pretty well--infamously bad as I can be at judging amounts. (MORE. If in any doubt whatever, just make more. 😅) Still a little cook's reward left in the bowl, at least.

One slight misjudgment, however: I forgot that the lid to that bowl fits a little down in, flush with the rim. Even some further aggressive dish tapping on the table wouldn't settle the level down quite enough not to smoosh the lid down into the gloopy pudding surface.

But, there are temporary workarounds! Once it does have a chance to settle and we scoop some out, the lid should hopefully go on fine.

The dish is now stashed in the fridge to sit and meld/soften up. I got it put together later today than I meant to, so it will probably need to wait for tomorrow. 😩 Likely a better plan, but sort of disappointing anyway.

Though, that should also give him a chance to pick up some spray cream for ease. (Forgotten along with the cornstarch. I was sorry I couldn't get out shopping myself, tbh.)

As it is, we do have that plain whipping cream that he was planning to use for something else, but no electrified means of whipping it yet. So, he'd need to wield the whisk to spare my wonky shoulder. Probably much better to pick up a handy can of the stuff tomorrow. Along with some more coffee to drink with it. 😅

[thesightstoshowyou]

Bo Sinclair x F Reader (NSFW)

           Summary: Bo wants you to pitch in a little more. He gets more than he bargained for.

             Warnings: Dubcon, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, slapping, degradation, facial, swearing, objectification of reader, alcohol use, mentions of death and violence.

 ~~

             “Put this on.”

             You drop the rag in your hands to catch the yellow floral dress before it smacks you in the face. You glare up at Bo from you spot on the linoleum. Your knees ache. You’d been scrubbing grime off the kitchen floor for two hours.

             “What for?” you ask, bracing a hand against the counter to heave yourself to your feet.

             “It’s time you start pullin’ your weight.” You look around you, flabbergasted. What had you been doing all this time, if not ‘pullin’ your weight?’ Cooking and cleaning all day, every day wasn’t enough for him?

             You keep your mouth shut. The answer is obvious. Of course, it isn’t enough. Nothing would be. If it was up to Bo, you would have been dead the first day you walked into this God-forsaken town.

             “Can I at least know what I’m supposed to do? You know, so I do it right?” You adopt a sweeter tone, hoping to quell the sour mood Bo always seemed to be in when he spoke with you.

             “Two college assholes campin’ nearby.” Bo adjusts his hat and crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame before continuing, “They’ll be needin’ a fan belt. Lester is on his way to get ‘em. Need you to bring one up to the house for Vincent while I take care of the other one.”

             What is it with Bo and fan belts?

             Then, the gravity of what he’s said hits you. Instantly, you pale. They’ve never had you participate before. You can’t do it, no way.

             “Bo—

             “You’ll do this, or I’ll make sure the next one on Vincent’s table is you. Got it?” He snarls, leaning forward and shoving a finger in your face. You clench your jaw, hesitantly nodding. What choice do you have?

             “Make yerself decent and meet me at the shop in a half.”

**

             You understand why Bo chose this dress. It’s tight, flaring out at the hips and hanging just halfway down your thighs. Your breasts are almost spilling out the top too. It shouldn’t be hard to lure a ‘college asshole’ up to the house looking the way you do now. You wonder which poor soul wore this dress before they ended up in the museum.

             You think you might be sick.

             As you walk to the shop, the oppressive Louisiana heat beats down on you, making you squint and pant. Sweat beads along your forehead and chest before spilling into your cleavage. You adjust your outfit, hoping to hide a little more skin. You feel exposed. The old wax woman across the street peers disapprovingly out her window. You flip her the bird. Poor old bitch.

             You round the corner to the little gas station, heart hammering. Lester’s truck isn’t there, but you can see three shadows inside the darkened shop window. You fluff up your hair, sucking in a huge breath. You can do this. You have to do this. You don’t have a choice.

             “Hey, Bo, need anything?” You adopt a honeyed southern accent, resting your hands on your hips, your face breaking into a smile. You hope it looks genuine.

             The three men inside turn to look at you. All three are apparently struck dumb by the sight of you. As you lock eyes with Bo, you fight the blush creeping up your neck. Baby blues rake over your body before snapping back to your face. He grins.

             “Hey, sis. Just in time.”

             Sis, huh?

             “These boys need a V-belt. I don’t see any here. You remember if we have any up at the house?”

             “Yeah, we just got some in today,” you chirp, reaching behind you to pull your hair off your dewy neck.

             “Would you mind takin’ one of these two up to the house to get it? I ought to go over cost of repairs here.”

             “Can do.”

             “Dibs!” shouts one of the boys, a tall, lanky thing wearing the stupidest sleeveless shirt you’ve ever seen. ‘Party with Sluts’ it reads. Okay, maybe this won’t be so hard. His friend punches him in the arm and he laughs before sauntering over to you, motioning for you to lead the way.

             “Hey, behave yerself. That’s my lil’ sister.” If you didn’t know Bo, you’d think he was teasing, messing with the kid, but the smirk curling across his face tells you he’s dead serious. No part of that smile reaches his eyes. You do not envy the kid you’re leaving here with him.

             “Bo! Knock it off,” you giggle, pretending to be embarrassed.

             If you were to look back on the conversation you had with the nameless guy you’re leading to his death, you wouldn’t remember a word of it. Your blood rushes too loudly in your ears to hear half of what he’s saying. You just giggle and play with your hair every time he speaks. It seems to be working.

             “Uh, kay, wait here, I’ll just run upstairs and get the belt,” you say a little too loud so Vincent can hear. You leave him at the bottom of the stairs, careful to accentuate the sway of your hips as you climb the steps so he’s distracted.

             Vincent wastes no time. As soon as you make it to the top, you hear a strangled shout, a heavy thud, then nothing. You don’t turn around.

             The second you make it to your room you peel the dress off your sticky skin and hurl it across the room. Desperately, you fight the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and the burn in your throat. You had to. You had to. You can’t die yet, not after everything you’ve been through.

**

             You carefully level off a cup of flour before tipping it into a bowl on the counter. You do the same with the baking powder, salt, baking soda….

             It’s three something in the morning. You haven’t been able to sleep all night. So, you do what you always do when you can’t sleep: You bake cookies.

             You gather up the butter wrappings and head for the trash can. As you move, you catch something out of the corner of your eye and jump in shock, gasping and bracing a hand against your chest.

             Bo leans against the doorway, beer in hand, mechanic suit half off and tied around his waist. He chuckles quietly when you grasp the counter and take a deep breath to steady your racing heart.

             “You scared the shit out of me,” you chide, tossing the wrappings into the garbage. You glance down, noticing your bare legs. Right. You’re only wearing a pair of panties and one of Vincent’s flannels. You didn’t think anyone else would be awake at this hour. Three AM usually found Bo passed out, Lester camping somewhere in his truck, and Vincent toiling away in the basement.  

             “I’ll go put some pants on,” you mumble, moving to leave the kitchen, but Bo extends his arm across the doorway to block your exit.

             “Nah. You look good in my shirt,” he comments, mouth quirking up at the corner in that stupid self-satisfied smirk he always wears. You glance down at the red and black checkered flannel, then back to Bo again.

             “I thought it was Vincent’s. I must have got it mixed up in the wash.” You swallow, looking away. You don’t like how he’s looking at you, like a wolf eyeing an injured lamb. He sets his beer on the top of the fridge.

             “No harm, no foul,” he murmurs, dropping the arm from the doorway to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. You jerk out of his reach, backing away. He follows leisurely, pressuring you until you’re backed up against the counter. He doesn’t stop advancing until his face is inches from yours.

             “Bo,” you mutter, a shaky breath leaving your mouth with his name. You say it like a plea.

             “Yeah?” he purrs, placing both hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. He leans in closer, so close you can smell the beer and cigarettes on his breath.

             “Please,” you whisper, voice trembling. He groans quietly under his breath at that.

             “Hmm, say that again, darlin’.” You shake your head, tensing when he reaches up to glide his fingers, feather light, across your jaw. He continues, “I didn’t like the way those fuckers were lookin’ at you today. Not. One. Bit.” He taps you on the nose in time with the last three words.

             “Well, they’re dead now, so….” You trail off, your hammering heart trying to force its way into your throat.

             “Mmm hmm,” he hums, “You did good today, baby. Real good.” You swallow, face heating up, a jolt of arousal sparking between your legs. His voice, the fingers stroking along your collarbone, his words; they’re having an effect on you.

             “Bo,” you beg again, more insistent this time.

             “You don’t like this?” he asks, stepping forward so you’re pressed flush against him. The heat of his body is overwhelming.

             “N-no, please, s—

             Your plea is cut off by the gasp that sneaks from your throat when Bo shoves his hand into your underwear and drags his fingers along your dripping slit. He brings them in front of your face, showing you how your slick shines in the low light of the kitchen.

             “I think you’re a fuckin’ liar,” he purrs, grinning wider, “Open your mouth.” You bite your lip and Bo strikes, gripping your jaw hard. “Don’t make me repeat myself, sweetheart. You won’t like it.”

             Slowly, you part your lips, opening wider when he shoves his wet fingers in your mouth.

             “Clean ‘em off. That’s a good girl.” You roll his fingers and your own salty taste around on your tongue, sucking on them when he demands it. That pulls another low groan from him.

             “I knew that mouth was good for somethin’.” He pulls his fingers from your lips and pushes them back into your panties. You inhale sharply and bite your lip again when his deft fingers find your clit, circling slowly, torturously.

             “Fuck, you’re wet, baby girl.” The words are whispered against your lips, his warm breath washing over your face. You let out a shaky breath, forcing your hips to stay still and not buck like you want. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

             Bo chuckles against your mouth before dragging your underwear down your legs, kneeling as he goes. He throws one of your legs over his shoulder. Vincent could walk in any minute, or Lester, you’re right there in the open—

             Bo dives in, sucking your clit into his mouth and humming. All your thoughts derail, crash, and burn. Your eyes roll back and you grip the edge of the counter with one hand, the other flying to your mouth to muffle your wanton moan.

             He laughs, dragging his tongue up your slit and lapping at your clit, slow, deliberate licks with the flat of his tongue. You can’t help it this time; you grind your hips into his mouth and he grabs a handful of your ass to pull you closer. He slips two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them and making you whine pathetically. Jesus Christ, you’re already close.

             “Bo, Bo, Bo, I’m…I’m gonna—

             And then he pulls away. Your frustrated gasp is silenced when Bo slaps the inside of your thigh, hard. It makes you yelp and try to squirm away. He stands and grabs your jaw roughly, squeezing painfully.

             “Uh uh, I don’t fucking think so. Yer gonna cum on my cock and nowhere else, understand?” You nod, skin feeling like it’s on fire. You haven’t been touched like this for six fucking months. You worry you’re going to be consumed by need. You’ll say anything he wants.

             “Oh, ya’ want that now? You want me to fuck ya’?” His lips are wet, shining with your juices, and inches from yours again. He grinds his hard, clothed length against your hip.  

             “Yes,” you slur. It’s hard to talk with his hand squeezing your face so hard.

             “You forget your manners, sweetheart?”

             “Please, Bo, please,” you beg, resisting the urge to jerk your head out of his punishing grip.

             “Good girl,” he praises, spinning you around and bending you over the counter. He tugs your arms behind your back, gripping your forearms with one hand while he frees his cock with the other. It slaps against your ass, hard and heavy.

             In one, smooth motion, he lines up with your entrance and slams home, impaling you. You shriek behind grit teeth. Your walls spasm around the sudden intrusion and you wiggle your hips in an attempt to adjust to the stretch.

             “Ohhh fuck, that’s tight,” he growls in your ear, giving you no time to catch your breath before he’s ramming into you. The wet smack of skin against skin echoes around the kitchen. Every thrust pulls a strangled moan or whimper from your throat as you desperately try to contain your sounds of pleasure and pain. Bo laughs cruelly, hot breath puffing against your ear.

             “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t want anyone hearing you get fucked?” He punctuates the last word with a particularly vicious thrust. You mewl, and Bo wraps his free hand around your throat, pulling until you arch uncomfortably.

             Despite the mean treatment, Bo still manages to push you to the brink of orgasm again, his cock battering that perfect spot within you. You can’t speak well at this angle and with his hand tight around your throat, but he feels you beginning to clench around him, feels your legs trembling violently.

             “Yeah, cum on my cock, sweetheart, c’mon, give it to me, fuck yes, yes, yes—

             You bite your lip so hard you taste the coppery tang of blood on your tongue. Hot pleasure curls through your core, numbing you as you tumble over the edge into bliss. Bo groans in your ear, releasing your neck in favor of digging his nails into your hip.

             “’M gonna cum. Yer gonna—f-fuck—gonna get down on your knees and open that pretty mouth, understand?” Dazed, you nod. Bo pulls out and as you turn around, he shoves you down to your knees so hard they crack against the linoleum. Your pained grunt is interrupted when Bo fists a hand in your hair, yanking your head back.

             “Open yer mouth, stick out yer tongue, yeah, fuck—

             His voice is tense, clipped, his hand pumping his slick cock. He utters a broken moan and you snap your eyes shut as he paints your face, lips, and tongue white.

             “Swallow,” he orders breathlessly. You do as your told, forcing the bitter taste of him down your throat. He hums in approval, releasing your hair. You wipe your face on your sleeve and crack your eyes open to peer up at Bo. His cheeks are flushed pink, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, chest heaving.

             “Goddamn, you look good like that,” he says, mouth turning up in a crooked grin. After tucking himself away, he helps you to your feet and grabs a nearby washrag to blot away the cum staining your skin. Your legs wobble, your crimson cheeks growing redder the longer he grins at you. Bo smooths your hair back, tucking it neatly behind your ears.

             “There. Good as new.” He swats you on the ass, making you jump in surprise. “Now get to bed. I expect breakfast in the morning, as usual.”  

             What a bastard.

[rosesgonerogue]

I didn’t so much fall in love - It kicked me in the face Chapter Six

Several days later, Marinette was making decent progress on the suits for the Wayne family - she had the bulk of the work finished, thanks to a night of insomnia, now she just had to do the final fittings and line them. It was a bit backwards, but the linings were intricate enough that she didn’t dare do it until she made sure the silhouette was perfect. She hadn’t spent hours hand-painting silk for it to sit wrong inside the suit-coats. 

Bundling up her precious work, Marinette took Leo’s hand, leaving the hotel where a car was waiting for them. 

“Did you bring the tie for Monsieur Alfred, Maman?” Leo asked, a sparkle in his eyes. 

“Of course I did,” Marinette said, showing it to her son. “Do you think he’ll like it?” 

Leo scrutinized the article of clothing before solemnly nodding. “It’s what he needs. He’s… sad.” 

A chill ran down Marinette’s spine - Leo always seemed to know so much more than should be possible. But… “I’m glad that you like to make everyone happy, ma cher.” 

“I want Maman to be happy most of all.” 

Marinette blinked. “But I am happy, Leo. I have you, what more could I need?” 

“You try to hide it, but you get sad sometimes. You want the same kind of happy that grandmere and grandpere have, the happy you get from a person you like a lot. I want Maman to be happy.” 

“Leo,” Marinette murmured, her breath catching slightly. She hadn’t made any attempts at dating since… since Leo came along. In the beginning she’d been an emotional wreck, but she’d put the circumstances of his conception behind her years ago. With love, support, and therapy, she was… okay. 

“We’re supposed to be in Gotham,” Leo affirmed. “It will help you be happy.”

“I’ll…” Marinette faltered, unsure how she was granted such a perfect child. “I trust you, Leo. I’ll look for opportunities. But no one can possibly make me more happy than you do.” 

“Not more happy,” he assured her, patting her hand. “Different happy.” 

That left Marinette blinking away tears when the driver announced their arrival at Wayne Manor. She took the time to thank him before clambering out of the car, Leo in tow. 

None other than Alfred himself greeted them at the door, perfectly composed as always. “Miss Dupain-Cheng, you’re certainly welcome here, but I am currently the only other person home at the moment. The men won’t be available for their fittings for a while.” 

“Thank you, Alfred. And it’s Marinette, please,” she said with a smile. “But this works out perfectly. I wanted to chat with you for a moment or two.” 

“Please come in, then. May I offer you some tea?” 

The three settled down comfortably, Leo gnawing on a cookie as Marinette tried to figure out how to broach the topic of… well, anything. 

“Maman, give it to him,” Leo prompted. 

“You’re absolutely right, Leo,” she said, retrieving a small gift bag. “For you, Alfred.” 

“Miss Marinette, I couldn’t! You are a guest of the Wayne family, you shouldn’t feel obligated to make anything for me!” 

“It was no obligation, I enjoyed it. Besides, it was partially at the request of a mutual friend.” 

He hesitantly opened the bag, gingerly pulling out the tie, his hand shaking every so slightly. It was a beautiful piece of silk, carefully embroidered with intricate peacock feathers, the fabric a deep blue, exactly the same shade as - 

“Duusu,” he breathed. “Is he well?” 

“Would you like to ask him yourself?” Marinette nodded to Leo, who carefully placed a miraculous box on the coffee table. 

“He told me of the other kwami,” Alfred said hesitantly, “and I felt something about you when we first met, but I thought it was just old age effecting me. If you don’t mind me asking, how-”

“Marinette is Ladybug!” Duusu chirped, startling both adults. “You two were taking too long, so Leo let me out.” 

“Duusu, my old friend. It’s been decades.” 

Marinette concentrated on stirring her tea intently, graciously giving the older man the emotional space that he needed and ignoring the tears that were building in his eyes. 

“Alfie! I never thought I would get to see you again!” Duusu chirped, excitedly flying around the man’s head. 

“We’ll give you some time alone,” Marinette said softly, leading Leo out of the room. When the door closed behind them, she patted his head. “You did an excellent thing. I think you just made Monsieur Pennyworth very happy.” 

“We both did, Maman.” 

“We did good, squirt.” 

It wasn’t long before Alfred emerged, cupping the peacock broach in his hands with the utmost care. 

“There is still some time before the family arrives for their fittings. I was preparing to make some desserts to serve with tea. This is not a demand or a request, but if you would like to help, I would not be opposed.” 

“What do you think, Leo? We haven’t gotten to bake since we left Paris. Tikki would probably enjoy some fresh cookies.” 

Before the child could respond, the kwami in question flew into sight. “I think that’s a great idea!” 

********

For once in his life, Tim got home sooner than expected. A meeting had been cancelled, and his personal assistant seemed more worried about his lack of sleep than normal. Admittedly, he’d spent far too much time researching Ladybug. He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around everything he’d seen, not to mention the fact that the entire city of Paris had been able to keep their heroes a secret, especially as tourism had only increased since her debut. 

There was one thing in particular that Tim couldn't stop thinking about. In all of the clips of Ladybug, (and he had watched all of them), there was one move she repeated not infrequently, a certain pivoting high kick that he had recently been introduced to. It was curious that Marinette was able to execute it so well, but it wouldn’t be the first time a civilian had imitated a vigilante’s moves. It was just… curious. 

Also curious was the smells that greeted him upon opening the manor door. Alfred’s cooking always smelled good, but Tim was fairly certain that this was what heaven was supposed to smell like. He couldn’t help but follow the scent to the kitchen.

“Maman, the frosting needs more color,” a small voice said. 

Leo was standing on a stool, stirring his bowl of frosting carefully enough that his apron wasn’t necessary in the least. Tim felt his heart skip a beat when Marinette turned around to help her son with a smile. Her eyes were soft, and unlike her son, her apron was covered in flour and flecks of batter. He swore his knees went weak when those eyes landed on him and she smiled like he was the sunshine in her life. 

It was the way he remembered his mother smiling at his father.

“Leo, Monsieur Tim is  home. Say bonjour!” she said, pointing. “Why don’t you explain what we’re making?” 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Tim. Maman and I got here early, so we wanted to make treats for your family like my grandmere and grandpere make treats for me when I get home from school,” Leo said, his eyes the only indication of his excitement. 

“So what are you teaching Alfred to make?” 

“We’re making madeleines, a personal favorite of Leo’s. But no one does madeleine like a Dupain-Cheng.” 

Tim glanced around smirking. “This looks like a lot more than just madeleines.” 

“Well, Alfred wanted some tips on making macarons, and… I was raised by bakers, making small batches of anything has never been my strong suit. Luckily, I hear sweets don’t last long in the Wayne household.” 

Neither Marinette nor Tim saw the look exchanged between the butler and the boy, but Alfred was soon clearing his throat. “Miss Marinette, I think Leo and I have things handled here if you would like to begin Master Tim’s fitting.” 

“Are you sure? I can-”

“We’re fine, Maman,” Leo interrupted. “Someone needs to tell Monsieur Alfred when to take out the macarons.” 

Marinette looked surprised. “Well, it seems my son has taken to Alfred. As long as he doesn’t mind, I guess it’s just you and me.” 

“It’s a privilege, Miss Marinette,” Alfred promised. “Go on, you’ve got a job to do.” 

Tim felt inexplicably nervous, and excited, and - did Alfred just wink at him?

Taglist: 

@ii-fox-demon @queen-in-a-flower-crown @novaloptr @saphiraazure2708 @iamabrownfox @smolplantmum @redhoodedtoad @loysydark @slytheringinger300 @finallyaniguana @brokenwordsarehard2 @abrx2002 @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @moonlightstar64  @marinettepotterandplagg @black-streak @purplesundaze @maribat-is-lifeblood @the-fusionist @river9noble @chocolatecatstheron @darkthunder1589 @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @dast218 @k-poplunardreams @meanids @changelinggarden @ladybug-182 @pawsitivelymiraculous @zotinha456 @tumbling-down-hills-and-stuff @somebodyspersephone @spider-person95 @zestyzealot @toodaloo-kangaroo

Author’s Note: 

This might be the last of the daily updates, but I don’t forsee the rest of the story taking much longer to write. We’re pretty much halfway in, so prepare yourselves. I’m also contemplating writing a sequel when Leo is a bit older, that could be a lot of fun. Let me know if you want to be tagged, or if I missed you! 

[happyandticklish]

Careless Intimacy

Notes: Me? Writing a soft fic for Declan instead of all the requests I have lined up? More likely than you might think. 

I’m sorry your honor, I simply love him. 

Summary: Declan never allowed anyone to enter his life—until Jordan came along. 

An invitation to dinner with the Lynches was a harrowing affair. Few came and even less were allowed to stay. One Lynch was manageable enough, considering you had the proper fore knowledge. Two at once and you walked the razor’s edge. Putting three in a room together was a death wish.

Yet Declan had asked Jordan to come. It was the first girl—the first person, really—that he had ever deigned to bring home. There had been many before Jordan, but Declan had never allowed himself to grow fond enough of any of them to breach that particular gap. There had been an attempt made to do the same with Jordan, but for some reason he had found it difficult not to give into that vague yet dangerous grin, the lingering touches that left him wanting more. Even after he discovered what she was, a dream, an imitation, he found it didn’t change anything. She was still Jordan to him, even if the name ended in Hennessy.

Now, pulling anxious fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth out the already perfect curls, he wondered why he had decided to put himself through this.

“It won’t be nice,” he warned her. “Ronan can be—”

“I know,” she responded with a wry grin. “I have met the boy before.”

He kept sneaking glances over at her where she sat on the bed. She wore a shirt she had cut holes and stitches into, making it hang dangerously high, and a skirt that cascaded in waves down her legs, parting in moments so that he could see the sudden flash of an ankle or a kneecap. He swallowed, forcing his gaze away.

“I don’t mean like that,” he corrected, needing her to understand that while Ronan was the cutting edge of a knife while alone, he became a bombshell when cornered. “We don’t exactly get along.”

“Family can be complicated.”

“No, family is complicated. Lynches are catastrophes waiting to happen.”

“And you are dramatic,” Jordan replied with a roll of her eyes, stretching her body from the bed in one fluid motion and coming to stand besides him. Together they stared at Declan’s reflection in the mirror. Two sets of eyes, one cautious, one amused. “Whatever it is, I’m certain I can handle it.”

Declan couldn’t find the same conviction in himself.

Surprisingly, Ronan had shown up. Or rather stayed. Every month or so Declan liked to arrange a family dinner between the three of them, and seeing as Ronan refused to come to Declan’s loft, it was usually held at the Barns. Despite this, Ronan often found excuses to get out of the dinners, or simply skipped with no explanation. Declan had failed to mention the fact that he would be bringing an added guest to him, worried it would make his constant absences worse.

Throwing open the door with a wild abandon that only he could accomplish, Ronan raised his eyebrows as he was met with the sight of them.

“Declan.” His gaze slitted over to her, calculating. In the background, Declan could hear the vague sounds of music, though the words and rhythm were unidentifiable from their position in the doorway. “Hennessy.”

“Jordan,” she corrected swiftly. “The double, or fake, if you will. I would ask that you make an effort to remember it. I might be here a while.”

Her tone implied here was more than just that dinner, that night.

“Jordan,” he adjusted with a grin. “I thought we weren’t supposed to bring guests.”

“We never specified,” Declan cut in.

“It was implied.”

“Didn’t you bring Adam to the last one?”

“Adam isn’t a guest.”

“Neither is Jordan.”

The two held eye contact for a tense moment. Jordan watched their dance, pride and amusement flickering over her expressions. For some reason, the sight made Declan’s heart skip a beat in his chest. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily, and moved past Ronan. Jordan followed, patting Ronan lightly on the shoulder as she went. Declan choked on a tiny laugh that he quickly swallowed down, remembering that this night was supposed to be civil.

Declan had not expected dinner to be prepared as Ronan rarely deigned to set foot in a kitchen, but he had clearly miscalculated for the involvement of Matthew. The kitchen itself was a tatterdemalion of ingredients and forgotten, dusted off baking tools. There was flour scattered over the counter, a bowl of poorly mixed batter sitting in the center of it. The oven was on, but whether or not anything was actually cooking inside of it was unclear. The music was coming from a radio in the kitchen, though radio was a vague term for what it was. It was one of Neill’s inventions, an old-timey radio that played the desired music of its user, regardless of genre, era, or existence. Right now, it shrieked something upbeat with a pounding bass that Matthew merrily danced around the kitchen to. His eyes widened when he noticed them, a wild and infectious grin taking over his features.

“Declan!” he exclaimed, moving to hug him but not entirely stopping his dance so that he half swung the other around when he did. He noticed Jordan with a smile. “Declan’s friend!”

“What are you… doing?” Declan asked slowly, disentangling himself and examining the scene.

“I’m making scones.”

“Scones?”

“Scones,” Matthew agreed.

“For dinner?”

“He wanted to help,” Ronan interjected, swinging around into the kitchen. He leaned on the counter, plucking a strawberry from the mess and swallowing the whole thing in one bite, his words coming out slightly muffled as he continued. “Is there a problem with that?”

Declan could feel the crease of exhaustion between his brows, but before he could speak, Jordan moved forward, her presence easy and light. “I love scones. Sometimes Hennessy would buy some for us when she was feeling charitable that night, or to be more specific, guilty. Do you mind if I help, Matthew?”

Matthew’s grin grew wider if that was possible. “Yeah! I’ve already started on a batch—it’s in the oven right now.”

Jordan leaned down cautiously, opening up the oven to reveal a tray of black, gooey clumps. “No offense Matthew, you seem nice, but these are shit. There is no way we could possibly ingest this into our bodies.”

Declan’s stomach dropped to the floor at her words, words that in a million years he would never have the confidence to reveal. He stepped forward to intervene, but Jordan was already continuing, taking the tray out with a towel in place of a missing hot pad. “Why don’t I help you make some new ones? Ronan here can help.”

Ronan made a disgusted noise at the idea, but Matthew merely shrugged, dumping the burnt tray into the trash. “Alright. I’m terrible at cooking anyway. So, where do we start?”

Declan watched as the three of them set into motion, bustling about the kitchen and grabbing out proper ingredients. Even Ronan helped clear the counters, with a moody reluctance. Slowly, a weight on his shoulders lifted and he allowed himself to let out a soft sigh of relief, grabbing out plates for the table.

The scones turned out halfway decent due to Jordan’s involvement; it had quickly became clear that she too possessed minimal knowledge of baking, but with the three of them combined everything had turned out alright. Sitting around civilly at a table eating scones had certainly not been the way Declan had predicted the night to turn out, but he couldn’t say he minded it.

As Ronan and Matthew chatted idly between the two of them, Jordan nudged his shoulder subtly. “You should smile,” she whispered, her lips quirking into one herself as she spoke the words. “I know you’re enjoying yourself, despite what you would like to think.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Declan recited, his face smooth except for the telltale twitch of his eyebrows. Deep down he knew what he was doing, but he refused to wise up to himself the game they were playing.

“Oh?” A quick tap against his leg that he recognized to be Jordan’s foot. “And what if I force you to give up this little charade of yours?”

Declan’s breath caught in his throat. Ronan glanced across the table at them, catching onto to their little whisper fest. “I’m trying to eat my dinner here, if you don’t mind. I’d prefer if you didn’t discuss your fucking plans at the table.”

Jordan snorted. Matthew’s eyes were wide with delight at the use of the word fuck at the dinner table. Declan kept a cool tone as he replied, “Last week I caught Adam with his tongue halfway down your throat at the supermarket, I hardly think I’m the one who needs to worry about decen—”

His words broke off into a strangled yelp as he felt Jordan’s foot once more, gently tracing a line up his leg. Her shot her a questioning glare and she simply shrugged, playing the innocent. Again her foot, dragging up and down, and quite suddenly Declan was aware of her play as his nerve endings sprung to life.

Declan was an amalgamation of secrets and Jordan had a tendency of discovering them. Last week had revealed one he had been hoping to hold on to for much, much longer, possibly forever—Declan Lynch was ticklish. Horridly ticklish. Unfairly ticklish. Ticklish in places that had no right to be so. And thusly as her foot traveled a lazy path along his calf and ankles, Declan found himself gripping his glass tighter, his lips screwing together into a repressed smile. He had hoped she had forgotten about this particular factoid of his person, seeing as she had left it alone for this long, but evidently she had simply been biding her time.

“Did the exorcism finally work?” Ronan asked, raising an eyebrow and reminding Declan that there were others still in the room with him. “Is the devil finally leaving your body for good?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Declan gritted out. “Choked on water.”

“Damn.”

“Damn,” Matthew repeated solemnly, wanting to be included.

“As I was saying,” Declan continued tensely. “I hardly think you have any room to talk with the way you and Adam have been going at it like r-rabbits for the past week.”

Ronan leaned back in his chair, taking a large bite of scone off of Matthew’s plate. “My house, my rules.”

“Our house.”

“But you don’t live in it,” Ronan pointed out.

Declan was finding it difficult to concentrate as Jordan continued to circle this one spot on his ankle. A giggle was trapped in his throat, and he clamped down on his next sentence in an effort to keep it there.

Fortunately, Jordan saved him from having to respond but in the process presented him with a whole new realm of problems. “You know, you guys are always talking about Adam, and yet I still don’t know the first thing about him. Would you care to enlighten me on the subject?”

This last sentence was directed at Ronan, who found himself caught between the oppurtunity to discuss Adam and the mortifying ideal of being nice to a stranger. Meanwhile, Declan was quickly realizing just how long this dinner might take and weighing that against his ability to hold in his reactions. It wasn’t difficult to see he was fighting a losing battle.

He managed to last another couple minutes after Ronan gave in, the urge to brag about his boyfriend ultimately too strong to resist. Declan remained silent throughout the conversation, his fingers tapping out an anxious melody against the table as he fought to avoid the sensations. It was when Jordan swept a teasing touch up the underside of his shin suddenly that his resistance finally broke.

“Jordan,” he said firmly, launching suddenly up from the table and interrupting whatever Ronan had been about to say, a fact the other seemed less than pleased with. Even now, with annoyance ringing through his words, Declan still felt a strange thrill at saying her name. “I need to discuss something with you in the other room.”

The sparkle in her eyes said she knew exactly what he was doing. “Something you can’t say here at the table?”

He fixed her with a look. 

She smirked. 

He sighed and stalked from the room, knowing, in the end, that she would follow him. 

She did.

“Get a room,” Ronan scoffed as they left.

Matthew gasped as he glanced down at his plate. “You’ve been stealing my scones!”

Meanwhile, Declan frowned down at Jordan as she pressed him against the wall the minute the two had retired upstairs. They had quickly found their way to a bedroom, though whose it was Declan couldn’t be certain. “That was entirely uncalled for.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied, hands already moving to his sides where they remained curled preemptively.

“Jordan,” he warned, his lips tugging up at the corners as he tensed under her touch. “Please.”

“Is the great Declan Lynch begging?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed, but then her fingers dug in with a light but vicious glee and his held-in laughter escaped him all at once in a startled burst. His legs weakened as he doubled up against her attack, his hands circling her wrists but doing little to stop her.

“W-Wahahait!” he protested, his words tripping over laughter. “Thihis ihihis—”

“Begging and giggling?” she exclaimed, not even attempting to hide the delight in her voice. “And I was certain this night couldn’t get any better.”

“Johohordan!”

“Declan,” she mocked teasingly.

His name spoken between those lips felt like a fatal misstep on the stairs, his stomach dropping and rising quickly in succession. A flush scattered across his cheeks, tinging the tips of his ears pink. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. He wasn’t supposed to lose control like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like waves crashing inside him when he looked at her. It wasn’t supposed to be wild, uncontrolled laughter and fingers that wrenched any power he might have had away from him.

Despite this, as she led him to the bed, the two crashing gracelessly into it, he found he didn’t really mind the loss. There was something freeing about the sensation, unbearable and euphoric all at the same time—he wanted to hold onto that feeling for as long as he could. And so, despite the fact that he could stop her at any time, he fisted his hands in the sheets, closing his eyes and giving himself over to the moment. It was delightfully vulnerable and he wouldn’t have exchanged it for anything else in the world.

“Ohohoho mihihi gohohod!” he gasped, squirming as her fingers danced a waltz along his ribs. He was giggling, he realized, the sounds escaping him suddenly and not of his own volition. “Ihihit, ahaha—”

“Tickles?” she guessed.

“Y-Yeheheah!”

“That’s kind of the point here.” Her touch traveled carelessly along his torso which twitched and jerked helplessly underneath her. “You know, I’ve decided I like seeing you like this. We’ll have to do this more in the future.”

Declan huffed indignantly, but the sound was soon lost to a sudden yelp as her nails found their way to his hips, protected only by the thin dress shirt he had worn to the dinner. He lurched forward, grasping her wrists and pulling them away.

“No,” he said, his words breathless with a nervous smile. “Not there.”

Jordan appeared unbothered by her trapped hands, giving him a knowing look. “Is that a bad spot, then?”

“Possibly.”

“Then I think there is exactly where we need to explore.”

“Why do you insist on tormenting me in these ways?” he moaned, his words light as he dropped his forehead against hers. She leaned in, accepting the gesture and tilting her neck up to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Was that a no?” she whispered afterwards, her words a dare left hanging in the air. Declan had refused many a dare in the past, and prided himself on resisting their temptation. He knew if he wanted to, he could call this all off and go back to dinner once more.

But Declan was feeling reckless that night.

Moments later, laughter roared from his lips as he thrashed on the bed, wanting to crawl out of his own skin as thumbs pressed deviously into the divot of his hips. His hands fisted in his hair, stopping him from doing anything to prevent it. He didn’t protest for he had long since passed the ability for words. He had never needed anything to stop as bad as he did then, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to end it yet, not now, not when electricity soared in his veins. 

They stayed like that for a while, just fingers on skin and laughter spilling helplessly from his lips in that forgotten bedroom. Dinner had quickly been forgotten by the both of them. Eventually Declan would return downstairs, hair disheveled and face flushed with Jordan at his side, as he fought for some explanation for their absence. Yet for now, he was content to lose himself to the moment and the intolerable sensations coursing throughout him.

Declan couldn’t imagine how he had ever thought this night would end badly.

[forevfangirlwrites]

I'm obsessed with the actors au! first date/kiss for that au?

Part 1: Here (Part 2: Here)

The best thing about Percy’s life is that he has managed to score a date with The Annabeth Chase.

The worst thing about Percy’s life is that he has no fucking clue how he’s supposed to pull this off.

She’s a famous actress. So it’s not like he can just take her to Olive Garden and he does not have the budget for something super fancy and oh, did he mention, she’s famous, so going out in public is going to be an issue and—

He calls Grover.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” Grover says in utter disbelief over the line.

Percy groans as he plops down on his couch. “I almost wish I was, this is too stressful. I can’t do it, why did I even say anything?”

Luckily, Grover is his best friend and completely used to rambling that’s usually just a tad dramatic.

“You just need to play to your strengths.”

“Did you just quote a sports movie?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Yes, please, sorry.” Percy's too desperate. “Continue.”

Grover sighs. “As I was saying, it seems like she just wants to spend some time with you--though I'm still having a hard time believing that you actually scored a date with Annabeth Chase, are you sure it was her?"

"Grover!"

"Sorry, just making sure. Anyway, you should do just that: spend some time with her. And do what you do best.”

“Which is?” he asks, but he thinks he knows the answer. His oven is already on.

“Don’t play dumb, I have no doubt you’re stress baking cookies right now.”

“Okay, okay, but…” he trails off, another thought coming to him. “What if she doesn’t like baked goods?”

“Oh my god Percy, it’s baked goods, who doesn’t like them!”

Grover makes a fair point. (Plus, he’s pretty sure she’s posted stuff on her Instagram that was baked goods.)

So, miraculously, with some help from Grover and the okay from Cali, he manages to pull together something that he hopes is at least halfway decent.

The small, cramped café is already cute, but Percy hopes that by drawing down the blinds and lighting some candles and lamps he’s made it cozier. (He even bought a table cover for one of the two lone tables at the place.)

The bell rings just as he’s finished setting out some plates and his head snaps up as Annabeth Chase, in all her dark jeans and crème blouse glory, walks in. (Seriously, jeans never look that good on anyone and what probably really famous designer thought it was a good idea to have off the shoulder blouses because he might be choking a little right now).

“Hey,” she says softly while he stares.

She laughs and crosses the distance between them to smile sweetly. “Percy?”

“Huh? Yes? Hi, Annabeth, you came, I mean, of course you did, have a seat.” He gets the words out all in one breath and turns towards the counter where he’s laid out some food.

A hand on his arm stops him and forget Jason Grace’s eyes, her touch is electrifying.

“Percy,” she says slowly and he’s afraid he’s fucked things up and the date hasn’t even started. “Does it help to know that I’m nervous too?”

What?

She offers a small smile. “Believe it or not, I don’t normally do this, and I don’t know what’s going through your head but right now, I’m just a girl on a first date, and I’m nervous too. So,” she takes a breath, “let’s just be nervous together, okay?”

He wants to slap himself in the face for being an absolute (insensitive) idiot. But he doesn’t think that would help the situation, so instead he nods.

“Yeah, okay, sorry. Can we start again?”

Annabeth smiles, her first real true smile so far and Percy feels a warmth in his chest. She nods and he thanks every deity in the world

Squaring his shoulders, he turns properly towards her, taking in her appearance with a wide smile, and takes her hand. “You look beautiful,” he says, raising her hand to his lips. “And thanks for, you know...” His brain kinda short circuited when he kissed her hand, but he tries to power through anyway, “joining me tonight.”

She giggles as he pulls out a chair for her. “You look pretty cute too,” she replies with a wink and Percy tries not to have a heart attack.

“You’re cuter,” he argues back, as she slips into her seat. She makes a face and he shoots her a grin as he turns around to get the food.

“I don’t know about that, my view is pretty great,” she calls, and he almost drops the dish of enchiladas he’s made.

He tells his brain to come up with a quick and witty retort. His brain returns an image of Annabeth kissing him that is entirely unhelpful to the situation.

Turning back around with the dish firmly grasped in his hands, all he can manage is making the same face as she did fifteen seconds ago. But at least he doesn’t drop the food. Baby steps.

She laughs and he places the dish in between them, maneuvering around the drinks he’s already set out.

“Clearly you haven’t looked in a mirror,” he retaliates.

Annabeth rolls her eyes and smiles. “How about I call a truce and say that the food looks the best out of all of us. Did you make it?”

 And the nervousness is back as some heat flares up to his cheeks and his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry if it’s not the best, it’s my first time making them, really and—“

“I’m sure they’re going to be good, now please sit down and have some too, I’m feeling kinda lonely here,” she jokes, but he catches the look behind her eyes. 

He quickly sits down, wiping the palms of his hands on his jeans. Nodding towards the food, he aims for the casual that he had lost the moment he had served the food. “Well? Don't leave me hanging.”

Truthfully, he had already taste tested (he couldn’t serve something bad) and from the little he had, it seemed pretty okay. But that doesn’t stop him from anxiously looking over at her as he serves himself.

Annabeth's eyes widen as she chews and he hopes that's a good sign. “Percy," she says as she finishes up her bite. "This is so good! There’s no way you made them for the first time!”

He blushes again and wonders when he went from being 26 to 16 again. “I had help, my best friend Grover makes it even better.”

“Still. Do you like to cook?” she asks, taking another bite.

“Yeah, but I like to bake even more.”

Seeing her questioning face, he laughs, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. “Yeah, you’ll get to taste some of that later.”

She beams at him. “I can’t wait!”

“What about you? Do you like cooking?”

It’s kind of bizarre to be talking about cooking with Annabeth freaking Chase, but if there’s one thing he’s learned, she’s only human (an amazing, beautiful, talented human in his eyes, but still just human) and he needs to get over himself.

“I wish, I am horrible in the kitchen though.”

“What? No way? You’re telling me the guest star on Cooking with Dionysus can’t actually cook?” He jokes back.

She groans, leaning back in her chair. “Oh my god, that was so nerve wracking. Thankfully, I had a recipe and some help, even if it was snarky help.”

He leans forward. “Is he actually that snarky?”

Annabeth shrugs, her exposed shoulders rising and falling, and he represses a sudden urge to kiss the freckle on her right one. “Hard to tell. I don’t think he hated me though.”

“It must be tough, being around all these famous people, must be a lot of drama.”

She sighs. “Yeah, I mean, it’s a tough industry, but there are some really good ones out there.”

“Like Jason.”

“Like Jason,” she agrees. “I’m glad he told me about this place.” Her eyes wander the room and the nervousness about his choices crops up again.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he blurts, causing her focus to shift back to him.

“Mind what?”

Well now that he’s talked himself into a hole, he has to talk himself out of it. Nervous together, that’s what she had said right?

“That our date is here, I didn’t think being out in public would be the best so I tried to make it as private as possible and this was the only place I could think of that—”

For the second time that night, she cuts him off. “Percy, it’s perfect.” She lays a hand on his across the small table. “You’ve clearly put a lot of thought into this and I really appreciate it, thank you.”

He smiles, the anxiety slowly melting away. “Good, I’m glad, I was just kinda worried about it, you know, and I’m glad that you don’t mind this, so um, thank you,” he ends lamely.

“Don’t worry,” Annabeth assures, squeezing his hand, “I’ll make sure to plan the next one.”

“Next one?” Internally, he’s dying a little, but he has to play it cool you know. So naturally, his voice totally definitely doesn’t crack.

“We’ll see, depends on the baked goods,” she teases back.

He shoots her a conspiratorial smile. “How do you feel about cupcakes?”

As it turns out Annabeth Chase (like most people, as Grover would say) loved the cupcakes and Percy Jackson loved the way the frosting tasted in her mouth when he stole a kiss.

A/N: Thank you for sending a prompt! This AU is the most requested one that I get so I’m glad I was able to write a little first date bit to establish it a little more! I hope you liked it and thanks again!

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 191

191

   Lance spent every moment he could before they left making sure the house was cleaned from top to bottom, then bottom to top. The nursery had gotten his blood flowing again, Pidge roped into playing delivery person for him as he fixed up his garden, mulched and pruned, then scolded himself over spending so much money. Then there was Pidge’s birthday party that they’d nearly missed as Lance had let the days of the week slip by. If it hadn’t been for Hunk, they would have been fined a hefty present tax, and had Pidge teasing them for the rest of their lives. The party was small, games and alcohol, Lance trying to do the catering, while Hunk tried to make sure he got in and did everything that needed to be done before Lance could do it. Moving felt better than sitting still. Keith letting him work until he was too tired, then would force feed him as he put him down for a nap... from which Lance would wake up and find himself cleaning again.

  Deep cleaning the house felt good. Keith putting up with hanging the washing out, then bringing it in. Everything from the linen cupboard hit with vinegar washes to kill any mould particles that thought they had a right to make themselves at home. The only room to escape was Matt’s and Rieva’s, as they were entitled to their privacy, and Rieva was being fussy over how many hours he was spending on his feet. He’d been banned from cooking by her, and even having to get up to pee earned him a scowl over being on his feet. She’d smacked when he’d tried to mow the lawn, pretty much chasing him back inside and forcing him to leave his precious lawn half mowed. He was an old man robbed of his pleasure as far as he was concerned. Sure, he was plenty sleepy during the day, but once he’d been stung with cleaning bug, it left him feeling useful, and being outside meant he didn’t have to listen to Rieva scolding Keith for letting him do too much.

  Honestly, when they’d left the house for their trip, the only thing he was sad about was leaving Blue and Kosmo behind. The pair seemed to think that his cleaning was for their benefit. They’d taken to playing in the middle of night, which spilled over into Blue less than ceremoniously waking them by jumping on Keith’s head as Kosmo barrelled up the bed to get to her. The pair thick as thieves and Blue not afraid to use her humans as a convenient escape. The drive was something like 6 hours, with Keith being on edge over how he’d react to being in the outside world again. His ego putting Lance’s ego on edge, leaving them having a spat just as they’d put their bags in the back of Lance’s bronco. Lance had faith that Keith could do this. Keith had anxiety gushing out of every pore by the bucket load. When Keith snapped at him, Lance had snapped back twice as hard.

  This led to a very tense first hour of driving. No radio. No snacks. No talking. There were plenty of snacks packed. All the snacks and drinks within hands reach sat on the backseat. Hunk had baked cookies, and sent along a bag with them, that they were absolutely not allowed to open until they reached the hotel. Their planned six hours seemed so long, until they reached the first unplanned stop on their trip. Keith pulling in at a service station, Lance knowing instantly that his boyfriend had to know he needed to pee. Even when they fought, Lance knew Keith still had his best interests in mind.

  With breaks in almost every small town they passed through, Lance felt like he’d peed his way half way up America. They’d stopped for lunch at a kind of backwards diner off the main road. The food greasy, the milkshakes icy, but the company made up for it. Being alone with Keith felt soothing, despite the shaky start. He didn’t have to adult. He didn’t have to run around after anyone. He didn’t have to worry about the tiny flecks of dust that seemed to have it their personal mission to settle almost immediately after he’d dusted. All he had to worry about was Braxton-Hicks contractions that worried him a whole heck less now he’d been through real ones, their twins spinning summersaults, and Keith’s terrible choice in music... that’d he’d never admit to secretly loving, especially when Keith would seem to forget he wasn’t alone and start singing along.

  Seeing Keith smile, and having his whole attention sent Lance’s ego into some kind of blissful state. His scent filling the car, accidentally, as he found himself getting horny from watching Keith be so happy. Keith teasing him as he pulled off the main road at the first available chance, for some very awkward car prepping in which Lance got a leg cramp and Keith smacked his head on the sun visor. It then progressed to out of the car sex, Lance lost in bliss all over again at the feeling of Keith’s hands over his skin as his head swam, drunk on Keith’s scent. He hadn’t known what he’d missing, or maybe he had, and that’d contributed to him discovering that he didn’t mind Keith biting his neck, or nipping at his nipples hard enough Lance was sure he’d end up pierced by Keith’s fangs. He’d been so caught up in cleaning, that being intimate had slipped the last few days. He’d become such a slut for Keith’s undivided attention that he could have purred contently, like a fat cat whole stolen a whole bottle of milk for himself.

  He hadn’t told his boyfriend, but he’d packed to play a girl depending on the kind of town it was. He looked female enough to pass. No fake chicken fillets were required to fill out a brallet anymore. He’d packed a wig, and a dress, kind of embarrassed over both, yet willing to face the embarrassment if it meant making the trip easier for his boyfriend. When they’d climbed back into his car, Keith was all smiles as Lance curled into him, ignoring his own rules over seatbelts and sitting properly in a car. He didn’t need to fear his car rolling over, not with Keith behind the wheel, plus leaning against Keith meant kisses on the top of his head as Keith drove, Lance unable to offer to drive thanks to no longer fitting comfortably and a new fear that they would crash and he’d lose the twins if his stomach impacted against the steering wheel. This was really nice. Just a vampire and his werewolf boyfriend off on a life changing trip, and some alone time, until they were party crashed in a couple of days by humans. Yeah. It was nice.

    *

The hotel was a piece of shit and Keith hated it. The town he’d once apparently called home, now verged on some kind of city. The sign in boasting a population of 3000 people, though you wouldn’t know it with sheer amount of people at the hotel. Kids were yelling as they played in the tiny pool in the centre of the U-shaped complex. Parents yelling at their spawn. Their room was upstairs, and the bedding so basic it made his bedroom look fancy. For a hotel boasting about being the only one in town, they had nothing to boast about. Every noise seemed to drift right and through their room.

  Late to check in, Lance offered to go in, Keith shaking his head at the offer. He could totally handle one 2 minute interaction. Said interaction blowing out to 20 minutes, with far too many questions asked. No. He wasn’t there on a get away for Easter. No. He didn’t have kids. No. He didn’t have a wife. Yes. His eyes were an unusual shade of purple. He didn’t know what the old man behind the check in counter got from his interrogation, but he was lucky Keith didn’t snap with how tired he was. He didn’t blame Lance for the numerous stops they’d made, but he did think that maybe they should have split the drive and found somewhere to camp overnight, with less fucking people around.

  Coming waddling out the bathroom, Keith noted Lance had packed his own robe. His stomach on display, with the looped belt sitting just below his breasts. Their room was so “Lance-esque” that his boyfriend blended right in with brown shag pile carpet, khaki bedspread and orange flowered wallpaper. Being Lance, his boyfriend had fixed the dripping shower, instead of simply complaining to management. Keith annoyed his boyfriend didn’t care that the hotel wasn’t great. He was certain he’d heard more than one couple doing the do well into the hours of the morning when normal people should be sleeping. Hell. He should be sleeping. All the scents and sounds, coupled with a boyfriend hogging the blankets had made for a long night.

  Seeing him watching, Lance shot him a smile. Opening his arms, Keith made straight for Lance. The vampire chuckled as he kissed Keith’s hair

“Come on, it’s not all bad”

“It’s not all that good either”

“I know. It’s only for a few days”

“This place is awful”

“It’s not getting a good Yelp review, but it’s not completely horrendous”

This was no place for his pregnant mate. A budget hotel room with a TV smaller than Lance’s laptop, and way too many people

“How do you think this isn’t horrendous?!”

“Because you’re here”

   Lance’s sincere answer made him splutter, Lance chuckling at him as he kissed his hair

“I know it’s not what you expected, but it’s not forever”

“There’s so many people...”

“I know. It’s a lot for your senses. Why don’t you take a shower? We were both too tired last night, and I want to go get something decent to eat. Maybe find you some coffee?”

Coffee sounded good. Showering sounded like too much effort, but after tossing and turning all night, it’d feel good to feel clean of their bedding

“Okay...”

“Don’t take too long though. Your kids are seriously craving pancakes and I might have to stab someone if I don’t get them soon”

Keith gave a weak chuckle, not at all looking forward to the outside world

“We can’t have that. Get dressed and I’ll be out in a bit”

   The shower ran out of hot water halfway through. Keith kicking the wall tiles hard enough that he cracked the tile that took the main impact. Not that he felt bad about in the slightest. When he’d been on the streets, even a place like this would have been heavenly. Now he’d gotten used to being pampered by Lance and the niceness of Platt. He’d been spoiled. He shouldn’t be expecting city niceties in a backwards town like this.

  With a towel barely bigger than a hand towel around his waist, Keith walked back into the bedroom to find Lance had gotten dressed. He’d stumbled to a stop as he stared at his boyfriend. Lance was in a dress. An actual flowy white dress. A wig of long brown hair flowed down past his shoulders. Catching him staring, Lance sighed at him

“Don’t look at me like that”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re confused. Our friends might be okay with me being pregnant, but I don’t want people making assumptions and being rude as fuck”

  They could go fuck themselves sideways as far as Keith was concerned. Lance was Lance. Lance didn’t love wearing dresses and hiding himself... He shouldn’t have to, either

“You dressed like that for me? You didn’t have to...”

“It’s fine, babe”

“But you’re a man...”

“Who’s currently pregnant and just wants his pancakes in peace. Besides, I like to think I look cute”

He did... but it was so freaking weird. Lance was Lance... and now he suddenly had a girlfriend in place of the man he loved

“You always look cute, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I don’t want you to feel you have to hide away”

“I know. Look, I figured it’d be easier for these poor country folks. Or don’t you like it? I mean, I can change, but I’m okay for now... more importantly, you know that’s the bath mat you’ve got around your waist, right?”

  No. Why hang it up if it was meant for the floor?! Keith’s cheeks flamed, scrambling for an excuse he pathetically replied

“It does the job”

Lance could only shake his head at him. Keith feeling that was fair

“I did pack our towels. I thought you’d like something more familiar from home. I just didn’t think to grab them”

Lance meant he hadn’t thought to grab them as he rushed off to vomit. Keith copping both the wet noises and the scent. Neither making him feel all that good about their “holiday”

“I’m going to get dressed. Please tell me you’ve found where we can get coffee?”

“As if I’d make you wait for coffee. There’s a restaurant not far from here”

  Thank god for that. He had no idea how this was all going to work, or when they’d be finding his dad’s grave. Now that they were here, he didn’t know how he felt. Yes, he was glad to be there with Lance. But at the same time, everything outside the confines of their crappy room scared him. Logically no one would recognise him. Not when anyone who’d last seen him had seen him as a little kid, but he still feared it. He feared someone from the past coming up to him to say “Oh my god! Are you Keith? I remember when your father died...”. He didn’t want to be remembered. He didn’t want the awkwardness or pity from some stranger. He didn’t even know if he wanted to stay in town long enough for Curtis and Shiro to join them. He did know he wanted to find the shack he’d called home... but even then, he didn’t know what he’d do when he did. All of it felt too much, but all of it would bring some kind of closure. That was if he listened to Lance... Lance who was annoyingly right more times than not. All he could do was hope that he was strong enough to see this through, and that Lance would remain by his side, no matter how he might react.

[timexistsnow]

my baby (oh my pup)

Chapter 2: i lie to myself (it's better for you)

Techno takes care of the pup. Complications arise.

Techno woke better than he had in weeks. That wasn’t to say his back was sore, he never slept curled on his side, used to passing out in a chair by his books. But, still, for once, he woke up naturally and not out of fear. Not out of necessity. The window behind him showed the sun nearly halfway up, oh, wow, he had slept for nearly ten hours. Techno stretched out, his hooves poking out of the woolen blanket.

A grumble escaped from under the blankets. Techno screeched internally, he forgot about the pup. She must be annoyed at the loss of warmth… Too bad, Techno had things to do. Poking her to make her move was a bad idea as it turned out: she bit at his fingers, or at least Techno found out once he threw the blanket away at the sharp pain in his poking hand. Once exposed, she glared at him and… didn’t let go. Ummm. Techno blinked and looked away. Sighing, he lifted his hand up until she was forced to release him.

“We’ve got things to do, sorry, kiddo,” Uh, kiddo, yeah, he definitely meant to say that. Shaking that off along with the blanket, he waited for the pup to scooch out of the bed before he followed. His cloak slithered out of the bed, falling to the floor. Letting out a squeal, the pup picked it up and fastened it around themselves, trailing like a wedding dress. Techno let her and got out a spare cloak of his own. The ladder was beginning to become a nuisance, being forced to carry her everywhere. But Techno still scooped the pup up once more and brought her back to the table.

Her snout was looking much better, but he still felt it necessary to top it off with one more potion. With this much time in between, she wouldn't get sick. He unscrewed the cork and handed it over. A hooved hand reached in- “Wait, no just drink it-” and it was too late, her chunky fingers were doused. Why? Why was she like this?

She grimaced at the taste this time- healing was supposed to be good, it’s glistering melon flavored, literally made of gold-, but her hand was licked clean and the bottle was replaced with a baked potato. She made a grabby hand at Techno, though, looking rather cross at him. Techno paused, a golden carrot halfway to his mouth. Techno rolled his eyes, “Come on, you had one yesterday!”

Grabby hands once more, Techno couldn’t resist it: he placed a carrot on the table, just out of her reach. That didn’t stop her as he had hoped, she scrambled out of her seat and onto the tabletop. Techno grabbed back the carrot, not amused.

“No,” he ground out.

Standing on the table, the pup squealed. He shook his head, it was his house, she needed to learn some manners.

The man held the potato just out of his reach. The rope snapped taut when he lunged forward desperately, wrenching his snout back. Now collapsed on the cobbled floor, Techno squealed, he was so hungry.

“You’ll get it after… I promise,” that seemed to calm her down, sliding off of the table and back into her seat. Techno was getting tired of standing. Well, it didn’t matter that much, she would be leaving… today, actually. As long as Techno got her real clothes- which meant going into the village- and didn’t dawdle.

They finished their breakfast and the pup got her carrot. Tragically, the taste of this gold didn’t seem to bother her. Fine, it was clothing time.

Getting her loaded onto Carl wasn’t as hard as Techno had imagined it to be, the pup whispered something like, “Skinny. Hoglin,” and grasped onto his mane. At the clank of Carl’s armor, she startled, one of her hands knocking against the diamond, “Bad.”

“It’s diamond?”

She nodded, “Bad.” Offering no more context, she went back to playing with Carl’s mane.

Techno wrapped one arm around her, securing her in place as he snapped Carl’s reins. He stayed under a trot, not wanting to risk the pup. Breathing in and out, in and out, Techno closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t really have a personal vendetta against villagers, they just unsettled him, that’s all. No other reason to not have done many efforts in establishing trades.

“We’ll pay you back! Just give us the loan, man. It’s like any other trade. So what if it's a piglet, they all die in the end either way, natural or not!”

No. Not now.

Unmounting and helping the pup down to the snowy ground, Techno scanned for a family nearby. Villagers were usually nice, but it helped to find the right kind of villager first. There, an adult talking to a child, both wearing new winter gear. That would mean they had some spare, old clothing.

Techno set his shoulders and approached the pair. “Um… Hellooo,” wow, this was awkward, “Would you like to trade?”

The villager took it in stride, even as their child ran off, “Oh, don’t mind him, he just wanted to play, heh heh herm,” They laughed, paling at the sight of Techno’s axe. Techno’s lip curled, his cloak was blowing in the wind and he nudged it to show his sword as well. “What would you like to trade?”

“I need clothes for a child, her size,” He gestured to the pup clinging to his leg.

The villager showed his teeth, more of a grimace than a smile. Techno swore he heard something, “Oh, heavens, he has offspring,” but was waved forward before he could contemplate it. They were led to a chapel, close to where Techno had entered the village. Inside, there was a chest, similar to the one Techno had in his attic by his bed. “This is where we store our spear clothes, I’m sure something will fit. It is tradition to donate-,” The villager looked Techno up and down, “Actually, you shouldn’t worry about it. Please, help yourself. And leave.”

The pup stepped forward and leaned into the chest, pulling out different garments. She found a hat brimmed with wool and tugged it over her ears. It fit alright, a little tight. Her ears might be a little too squished, Techno thought, he would have to make a new one or adjust that one.

Peering over the piglin, he studied each garment that the pup discarded. Two coats, one pair of trousers, a dress, and a single mitten. All of those would fit decently. The dress was the only thing suitable for the Nether as it was the thinnest, but it wouldn’t be too bad of an idea to have spare. Techno nodded at his bounty, yeah, that seemed reasonable.

Right as they were about to leave, Techno spotted something. It was a little dropbox that read “Donations welcomed and expected,” oh, that was what the villager was going to tell him to do. He wasn’t required to give them anything, they should be thankful that he didn’t take the clothes right off of a child’s back. They did not deserve anything from him.

Techno stalked over to the box and wrenched it open. He stumbled back with the force, causing the pup to oink. She was looking over at him, nearly swamped by the pile of clothes she was carrying. “Gold?”

Techno sighed and looked down into the box, nope just a few emeralds and some iron nuggets. This was pitiful.

“No. I was just… looking.”

The piglin tried to peek in but wasn’t tall enough, “No. Take?”

Techno shook his head, he had more than enough at home and there wasn’t a reason to do this. Not a good one. “Let’s just go home. Get you dressed.”

Techno didn’t bother to wash the clothes, they smelled good enough. The newness of them seemed to satisfy the pup, not a single complaint about them being second hand. Then again, she loved the cloak and that wasn’t even hers.

Thankfully, the dress was close to her size. The light cyan of it didn’t exactly match the red cloak which bothered Techno a bit. He had cared about his clothes ever since he had started to wear them. And, style, duh.

Once she wiggled her way into the dress and the cloak was fastened around her shoulders- okay this was ridiculous, he needed to make the thing shorter. He… might do that. Only if he had time.

The clothes were packed into his chest of clothes and they went down the ladder into the common room. Edward the enderman vwooped from his boat by the fire, maybe he liked her outfit. That made one of them.

The pup tilted her head and jiggled the boat, making Edward gargle. Techno grabbed her hand, “Hey, leave him alone.”

“Why?” She reached back for the boat, “Bad.” He tugged her back.

“Edward did nothing, he’s a good guy.”

“Good?” she looked baffled.

“Yeah, not all hostile mobs are inherently bad.” And not all peaceful mobs are inherently good. “Edwards vibin’, let him be.”

“V- Vibin’? What?”

Techno shrugged, leaning back against the wall door. “Vibing is like relaxing. Or feeling good. Vibin’s a good thing.”

She hummed back and waved at Edward, not making eye contact, “Edward. Vibin’. Good.” Edward vwooped at her, happy purple particles seeping from his being. His block was still with him, grasped in spindly fingers.

Thinking about it, “If Ranboo is half enderman, does he do the block thing as well?” The pup blinked at him, but Edward vwooped twice, maybe he was a cousin?

“Who. Rambo?”

“Ranboo, and he’s a guy who lives far away. Looks a little like Edward.”

The pup squealed, startling Techno and the enderman, something in piglish. It was the same thing that he had been called by the piglins before they were killed by his sword. She repeated it and added, “Ranboo. Me.” Did she know him?

“What?” Techno didn’t get it. The word was always said in anger when piglins charged. But it was also only said to people and not hoglins. They had called her it when they were hunting her. “Ohhh, you mean Ranboo and you are that?” Whatever that was.

She shook her head, “Say. Not. Understand.”

Techno’s brain hurted. He took a wild guess “They call you it but they aren’t correct?”

She did a little happy dance, hopping from hoof to hoof, “Ranboo. Enderman... First! Me,” she pulled at her ears and tusks, “First.”

She was a hybrid, of course! “You’re a half piglin, half human, aren't you?” He was getting it, finally. The word must be some kind of insult or slur for humans.

“No.”

Or not.

“Most. Piglin.”

“And the piglins didn’t like the other part.” He got it. Mostly. Probably.

She didn’t offer anything else. Just toddled around the room and climbed into her chair. Food time. Techno didn’t fight her on the carrot thing. He had other priorities.

According to her, she wasn’t a normal hybrid- half and half- like Fundy or Schlatt, more like Ranboo (who she somehow knew?), who was an Enderman primarily and something second. Hybrids like Ranboo and the pup were rare, as most intelligent people were somewhat human, why: he didn’t know. When looking at the server as a whole, that held true, only Ranboo, the pup, and Techno himself being the exceptions- as far as he knew. Techno was not a hybrid.

“We’ll make it into something cool, this time won’t we? That, or we’ll kill you on accident, but ‘tis the consequence of science!”

The pup interrupted his thoughts by poking him with her carrot. “You. Word. Like. Ranboo?” Did he have a word like Ranboo? A name?

He… never told her his name. Why was he like this… “Techno… just Techno.”

She mouthed it out and gave it a shot, “T- Teh, Teh-chno. Techno?”

“That’s it!” he smiled, “What’s your word?”

She quirked her head, “No,” and munched on her carrot. Techno blanched, he never asked her name and all this time she never even had a name. What? Who raised this kid… no one. Ah. “Is. Bad?”

“That you don’t have one: bad. But not you, you’re good.” His voice garbled at the end, making him wheeze and gasp. It’d been a while since he’s spoken with the voices.

She wasn’t fazed by it, finishing her carrot. “Give,” her hands went grabby at Techno, “Word.”

Oh, no, Techno wasn’t prepared to name her. Everyone knew that curse: name it and you can’t let it go. It would be- no he could get away with this. Just name her and put her straight through the portal, simple. He couldn’t leave her nameless, though, that would be pathetic.

Decision made, he pushed himself off of the wall and waved at her to follow him outside. In his haste, he forgot her size, so when she started down the front steps one at a time, he scooped her up. She patted his face in thanks.

“We’ll give you a name on the way back to the Nether, how’s that?” He didn’t bother getting Carl, he needed the extra time.

She pushed against his chest, getting a full view of his face. Her lip curled and she squealed, “No!”

“Did you not want a name? I thought you asked for one.” Yeah, he remembered correctly, she did ask.

“No. Nether,” she insisted. Oh. Well, they’d get there either way, so:

“How about we focus on the name,” that succeeded in distracting her, the pushing ceased. Her little legs wrapped around his torso and her tusks dug into his chest. “Meridith, uh, Lucy, Willow. Maybe… Harriet or Kim?” At each suggestion, the tusks dug harder and harder into his shirt. Soon it would rip, if he didn’t hurry up. “Come on, give a guy some help.”

“Like. Techno.” Okay, that narrowed it down. Six letters? Ending in no? Starting with T… that was probably it.

“How about… Tasha? That’s a nice name, it ends with a vowel like mine, has a T, is short for a longer name…”

During his rambling, the pup had been mouthing out the word, tusks pushing less and less as she leaned back against his arms. Now in his face, she oinked, looking rather happy. “You wanna be Tasha?”

“Me. Word. Tasha!”

It was my, but still, “That’s good, little pup. Little Tasha.” Great. Now he was getting soft.

And now he had to be tough, as the portal was only a chunk away. Poor kid. This was going to be rough. “Tasha, it’s time to go home now.”

“No!”

Techno closed his eyes, “Tasha, please-”

“No! Bad. Place. Me,” she squealed out the piglish insult, “In. Nether!” Tasha smashed her spindly limbs against Techno, her eyes starting to water. “Me. Tasha. With. Techno!” She was full sobbing now.

And.

Techno was tearing up. No. No. he should be The Blade: ruthless and a killer. A piglin had no sway over him. But Tasha… He should never have named her! He was so stupid, crying over a stupid baby with a stupid name that he was stupid enough to give.

He blamed the voices. He blamed them for making him turn around. He blamed them for leaving the portal, piglin in hand. He blamed them for making him care so very much.

Techno- he couldn’t do this to the pup. Tasha would get mauled the moment he left her alone, the piglins would have no mercy. And her knowing that she could be free of the piglins, that she was once free of the piglins would make it so much worse. Techno was too far in, he couldn’t take it back, not after this.

But… still. He was a killer of orphans, Tasha didn’t exactly fit in his routine.

So as he walked them back home, to their home, he promised himself that he wouldn't be controlled over the voices. He promised himself, he promised Tasha that she was just staying a little longer, until someone else came that could care for her better.

He promised as he sat down in his library chair all tucked away in the attic. As Tasha snuggled down, her crying still not stopped. And as he shushed her and gave her a carrot to chew on: he won’t get any more attached. He can’t let himself get any more attached, not if he wants Tasha to live any better than she did in the Nether. No matter how good it was now, it could always get worse.

Techno rubbed her back, the sobs turning into soft whimpers. He slipped a book out from the shelf and opened it to a random page. It was the Art of War, something he’d read a thousand times cover to cover. Tasha didn’t turn around to read with him, but she listened and felt his voice rumble through his chest.

“You’ll be alright, Tasha,” he whispered, the pup already drifting off. Techno let his head fall back, making a clunk on the wooden chair. They’d be alright. As long as Techno kept his promise.

Simple.

[searchingforenadi]

please stop bleeding on the floor

well, this is it, guys - this fic is here to stay, so join me on this disastrous ride!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

the brief summary: Your customers won’t stop bleeding in your shop. You realize this might be a problem. (second person!OC, TYL).

xiii.

You spend the next few days finding as many creative ways as you can to use up the fruit: fruit smoothies, fruit jam, candied fruit, fruit cake.

You are now sick of seeing fruit wherever you go.

A pair of customers walk through the front door. It’s Tsuna, you notice, and a young teenage boy with a riot of dark curls. 

“Hi,” you greet, giving a polite nod. The teenage boy saunters ahead to check out your display of sweets. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Tsuna smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, nice to see you too.”

“Hey, Tsuna!” the teenage boy calls, pointing eagerly to one of your cakes. “I want this one!”

Tsuna rolls his eyes and says, a little fondly, “Sure, that’s fine.”

You walk over to the display. He’s pointing to your raspberry cake - a new addition from your surplus of fruit. 

“Slice or whole?” you ask, and it’s a good business choice because suddenly, the teenage boy whips his head to Tsuna. 

“Tsuna - “ he begins pleadingly. 

“Slice,” Tsuna says firmly, ignoring how the teenage boy wilts in response. 

You give a sympathetic look. It’s not easy being young and fifteen. 

Feeling a little more generous (and petty, you are definitely feeling a little petty), you add an extra slice in the to-go box. 

“It’s on the house,” you say, handing the box over. The teenage boy accepts it with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to - ” Tsuna begins to say, only for his young companion to cry out -

“Yes! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” you say, because teenagers are some of your best customers, and you're banking on this one coming back sometime soon. 

You turn to Tsuna, as if the past few minutes never happened, and ask, “And for you?”

He smiles resignedly, waving a hand back and forth. “I’m okay, thank you.”

“What?” the teenage boy asks, aghast. You take the offered cash and hand back some change. “You’re not getting anything?”

“I already told you, Lambo,” Tsuna says, huffing. “Dessert here is too heavy for me.”

Heavy? 

“Heavy?” you repeat aloud, unable to stop yourself. 

Tsuna pauses.

“That,” he says slowly, eyes moving to the side. “Is not what I meant to say.”

Lambo snickers behind his box of cake. 

You don’t question any comments made over your products, you remember, and the violation of your rule has you scowling. 

“I mean,” Tsuna continues, a hand moving to tug at the tie around his neck. “I”m used to lighter snacks, since I’m from Japan, and the food there is really different - ”

“Not to say that it’s bad here,” he adds on. “I’m sure everything is really delicious and - ”

“Tsuna,” Lambo says, a gleeful look in his eyes. “You’re rambling.”

“Right,” Tsuna says, somehow a meter farther away than before. He inches closer to the door. “I’ll be outside, Lambo.”

And then he’s gone.

In that silent pause, you decide that today, you have obviously failed as a business owner.

(But you know exactly what he’s talking about. You’ve grown up on tiramisu and red bean mochi because your parents used to haphazardly stuff everything into your mouth.

The reminder makes your chest ache and your stomach growl. You haven’t had taiyaki in years.) 

“Ugh,” Lambo says, rolling his eyes. “Why is he always like that?”

You very pointedly do not comment on this conversational trap.

“Stop by sometime,” you tell him instead. “We have specials every day.”

Lambo beams, clutching the box of cake like it’s a lifeline, and that’s when you know you’ll be seeing him soon. “Got it!”

He waves goodbye and you wave back. When the door closes shut, you sigh, viciously mussing up your hair. 

There is a lull of quiet. You glance down at the counter, then to your display of desserts, full of decorated cake and bread. 

“Heavy, huh,” you breathe out. 

You’ve spent years learning how to bake but you’ve never once learned how to make anything from your mom’s home country. 

You stare at the counter.

I don’t need to do anything, you think, tapping your fingers on the counter top. It was a harmless comment. 

You continue to stare.

Then, with a mutter of defeat, you grab a nearby notebook and pen.

This is probably a sign you should call your mom.

xiv.

You mom is, of course, delighted by your call.

“And what’s the occasion,” she says, in English, very pleasantly. “Are you getting married?”

“Mom, please,” you say. “I’m still in my twenties.”

“And those years will pass by as soon as you blink!” your mom insists. Suddenly, you feel eighteen again, standing against your parents to go to culinary school instead of university.

“I’m surrounded by old people, Mom,” you say instead, because ten more years have taught you the tactic of evade and conquer. “And little kids.”

For the briefest moments, your mind unhelpfully provides several examples of people your age, but you wave it away. The idea of seducing your regulars is so absurd, you hold back a snort.

“Sure, if that’s what you say,” your mom says airily. “Just keep your eyes peeled.”

Safe behind a phone, you roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Anyway, I’m thinking about - ” you pause to consider your next words. It doesn’t seem wise to mention that you feel challenged by a possible member of the local gang and his opinions on your products. 

“About expanding my horizons,” you finish, appropriately vague.

“Uh-huh,” your mom says. “Like?”

You shrug. “I realized I haven’t made a lot of the snacks we used to eat years ago. You know, like anmitsu, or dango, or - ”

“Or taiyaki,” she says wryly. “Yes, I know.”

It suddenly hits you that, just like these snacks, you haven’t really thought about the country your mom used to call home. 

Does your mom miss it? Does she miss Japan like you miss the States, a dull, aching feeling that you only remember in the early mornings? 

Is she upset that you’re here, in Italy, rather than there, in Japan? Has she ever mourned over how you can’t speak Japanese, but chased after Italian instead?

Does she feel like a part of her has forever been left behind?

“Right,” you say, swallowing. “I, uh, I want to try it out. Making them, I mean. I think it’d be fun.”

Your mom laughs, bright and clear.

“Why not?” she asks, and you can hear the approval in her voice. “I could ask your grandma for her recipe on mochi.”

Your nose scrunches. “Mochi? Mochi is so… difficult. I was thinking something easier, like, dango.”

“Sure, you can start there,” you mom says. “I’ll still ask her for the recipe. For dango, just look one up online.”

“Okay,” you say, flipping to a new page in your notebook and sketching out ideas. “I’ll send you pictures when I finish.”

“You should!” your mom says, another laugh bubbling through the speaker. “It’s good that you’re trying.”

You know she doesn’t mean anything by those words. Still, the sting in your chest is unexpected.

“Yeah,” you say, a little hoarsely. “I think it’s time I try a little more now.”

xv.

The recipe for dango calls for rice flour, and that’s a problem, because you don’t have any on you in the shop. 

You close for the day and rush to the closest food market - your hours don’t give you much leeway on weekdays.

By the time you return home, the sky is dark and your stomach is ready to riot. You scarf down a quick meal and, rolling up your sleeves, you march into the kitchen, ready to make some dango even if it kills you.

The first time goes terribly. You boil the dango for a little too long and, taking a bite, you make a noise of disgust. The consistency is too tough and you can still taste some flour.

You try again, mixing the ingredients, and remember when you used to eat dango on Saturday afternoons with your mom, when you went to the local Japanese market. 

When you try it again, the consistency is better but the dough is too bland. 

Your mind turns blank as you chase after the flavor from your childhood memories. By the time you're satisfied, you glance at the time and wince. You should have been in bed two hours ago.

You pack up the remaining dango and shuffle into bed - you can reassess the taste in the morning.

The next day, after setting up the shop and helping out several customers, you try out the latest batch of dango with a fresh palette.

It’s… decent. You pop in another one and realize the texture isn’t always consistent.

The realization that you are now a novice in a field of baking is grating. 

“I’ll get it right,” you mutter, to the absolute silence of your shop. “I’ll get it right and then they’ll all be sorry.”

xvi.

A few days later, after you’ve made more dango than you can count, a young teenage boy saunters through the door.

“Hi again,” you say, recognizing the wild set of dark curls. “You were here before, right?”

He grins. “That’s right. I’m Lambo, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say with a smile. 

“We have fresh crepes today, with different fruits, if you’re interested,” you continue, pointing to the special today, written on the board above you. You’re nearly done with the fruit basket and you are determined to get rid of it all today. “There’s raspberry, strawberry, grape - ”

“Grape,” Lambo blurts out, hands gripping a backpack. “I’ll have the grape one.”

He pauses, then adds, a little sheepishly. “Please.”

Your smile widens.

“Crepe with cream and crushed grapes,” you say, accepting his crumpled cash. “You want that to-go?”

“Yeah,” Lambo answers, eyes already drawn to your counter of displayed pastries.

You hold in a laugh and get started on the crepe. A few minutes later, you wrap it up in plastic foil and pass it over. 

Lambo accepts it with gleeful eyes.

“Thank you!” he calls, already biting into the crepe. 

“No problem,” you say, wiping down your pan. “Stop by again sometime.”

“I will,” Lambo says, like it’s a promise, already halfway down with his crepe. “See you!”

You watch as he leaves the store, his gangly limbs walking past the windows. 

Out of nowhere, a terrible idea hits you.

You look down at your tupperware full of dango.

Provoking local criminal authorities, you remind yourself, is a one-way ticket to trouble.

You still can’t stop staring at your dango.

xvii.

That weekend, late in the afternoon, as you’re beginning to close, Yamamoto peeks his head through the front door.

“Sorry!” he says with a grin, a hand on the back of his head. “I’ll come back next time.”

You wave him inside.

“It’s okay,” you say, because you’re not going to turn away one of your pillars of revenue. Yamamoto enters the shop with a smile. “The usual?”

You pause when you get an actual good look at him.

“That would be great,” he says, as if completely ignorant of the tears in his suit and the dirt on his face. A nasty bruise is growing along his jaw, and his arms are carefully wrapped around his side.

Like every other time, you very quickly pull out the tiramisu cake. There’s enough for two more slices and, after a moment, you slide the entire thing into a larger box.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Yamamoto says, blinking, as he pauses from pulling out some cash. “I don’t think I have enough to cover all of that.”

“It’s on the house,” you tell him firmly, although you would rather ask him to go see a doctor rather than stroll by for some cake. 

Yamamoto tilts his head, eyes studying you, before he gives a bright smile.

“Thanks!” he says, taking the box and passing over the money. “I’ll try not to eat them all at - “

He abruptly turns to the side, a hand over his mouth, and lets out a cough. Something red hits skin, and onto your counter as well.

Yamamoto lowers his hand, and you both stare at the blood in silence.

You have several choice words. They begin with - again? - and end somewhere along - I am very tired of cleaning up after you and your suspicious friends. 

Instead, because you are very aware of the sword on Yamamoto’s back, you snatch several napkins and silently pass them over.

Yamamoto accepts them, a little bemused. 

“Thanks,” he says again, his voice slightly hoarse. His eyes glance down at the droplets of blood on your counter. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, when, in fact, it probably isn’t okay because you’re fairly sure this is a sign of internal bleeding. “It happens.”

Yamamoto laughs, before quickly covering his mouth with the napkins. 

“I guess it does,” he says, readjusting the box in his hands. There are little specks of red on the case, and you can only hope Yamamoto won’t just leave them there. 

Yamamoto remains silent, for the briefest of moments, eyes trained on you, and smiles again. This time, it’s smaller - quieter. 

“I’ll see you later then,” he says, waving his free hand, before exiting the shop. 

You wave goodbye again and, as soon as the door closes shut, you release a heavy sigh.

Crouching down, you open the cabinet under the counter and pull out some rags and bleach. You shake the bottle and find, to your dismay, it’s nearly empty. You’re getting good at cleaning up blood. 

Minutes later, you stare blankly at your spotless counter.

You… are getting very good at cleaning up blood.

-o-o-o-o-o-

we were so close to having a chapter without any blood D:

this time, no Gokudera, but he’ll have his time soon enough. instead, we now have teenager!Lambo! 

our scenes today are a little more tame, but i wanted to expand on MC, to show that they’re their own person, with their own agendas/feelings. (who, also, is often motivated by pettiness and spite.)

[heartwoodventures]

Primary Access Required: Whiskey to Numb Thy Thoughts

From the front door, there's a steady report of three knocks, slightly metallic in nature (as though whoever was knocking wore gauntlets). They came in a succession of triple bursts, though there was enough time to get to the door between them--it wasn't annoying, but it was insistent.

Tynervial was already halfway up the steps as the third knock hit, by the end of the next rapport of knocks the Elezen opened the door, already sensing both of them, His eyes moved to Crific who he did not know, Nor had met, " What did Yami do now..? She didn't get arrested again did she..? I'll pay for damages.." He said in his usual calm but tired tone, he had slight creases on his forehead and a book under his left arm.

"Excuse you that time I was arrested was complete chocoshit and we all know it, and I haven't broken anything so you should be proud of me." Well Yami didn't break anything yet. "Have more faith, old man."

"You'll get faith when it is owed and in cases an armored fellow who at least has some decent manners approaches.. " Ty shook his head as he turned his head back towards the man.

Crific clears his throat, having glanced at Yami when Tynos's first assumption was that she'd broken something, ...or broken the law. He settles Tynos with an even stare, though there was an element of wariness in his eyes and his posture that seemed otherwise uncalled for. "May we come in? I am the--" His lips twitch into a frown, "--acting leader of Heartwood, Crific Storm. We've some news."

"Twelve.. you’re the poor sap that Nys left in charge.. Well as a former leader to current, You want the Whiskey or Rum?" He shook his head as he ushered them in, Inside was near the same as what Yami had seen plenty of times, a little tidier maybe, and the smells of some sort of citrus baked good were throughout the air.

That gets a faint smirk from him, at least. "Whiskey." Crific glances down to Yami, allowing her to follow first, however.

N'yami grumbled as she went in, first getting accused of being arrested and then not getting offered whiskey? Rude. "Ya want us in the livin' room?" She didn't exactly wait and went to go plop down on the couch with a thud. "Livin' room it is."

Tynervial poured a glass of whiskey for each of them, Uldnian too, Pricy bottle. He threw in two huge cubes of ice into each of the tumblers, and joined them shortly, in his hand was a small plate of just candied orange slices, "So what enemy of heartwood has started causin trouble, If the leader and Yami are here, Likely it means.. Hm.. Q tribe start a civil war? Or mayhaps the high dragon.. Mm.. Did the voidal rift start opening..? Or Maybe Rina..? If It's Nox, I swear to the seven hells I'll start another inquisition for that rat of a black mage." The mage asked while offering the two their drinks.

The Seeker stood up for just a moment to grab her drink and then sat back down. "Uhhh, none of that actually." Yami side glanced Crific before looking at Ty again. "Ya might want to sit down if I'm bein' honest."

Crific offers a glance after Yami, though he allows Tynos to trail back into the living room before he follows; before he takes the drink, he unstraps the massive blade from his back and props it up nearby. "...Sit, please." He says, and decides he'll have plenty of questions for Nyscera when she returns about all their *previous* escapades--but for now…

Tynervial paused and a hint of worry in the elezen's brow, As he opened his mouth and his mind started to move through possibilities.."Hm.. So.. It's either Nev, Nys, or Lewra.. And Considering Yami isn't raged up and I don't see massive wounds of her losing her mind.. I'm going to guess Lewra oriented because Yami is beating around the bush." He did sit at least at that.

Crific untucks an envelope from beneath his arm, and offers it to Tynos on his way into his own seat, sipping the whiskey as he goes.

N'yami took a sip of her drink while averting the elezens gaze, she wasn't about to tell him about how Nev would've had to calm her down from the outburst she had the night after finding out. The only reason she didn't go out was she didn't want to get chewed out by Crific.

Tynervial took such and he creased it and opened up the letter, A more worried brow, Ty had made a lot of enemies.. And even Garlemond was not too happy with his antics, As he opened it up fully.

"Case reports. Yami suggested you'd prefer to be keen on all the details, and I see no reason to conceal them, though I imagine Haila and Aislinn possess more details of the scientific variety," he starts, glancing aside at Yami. "...G'lewra is among three members thought to have been taken by hybridized allagan ah, spiders." Crific takes another sip of his whiskey; he's surprised at the quality, and isn't about to let the pour go to waste, despite the delicate subject matter.

"Mm.. Don't call them Allagan fully. Such things barely are at this point with the amount of work done upon them.. Still allagan overall.. but their main cortexes are altered.. Allagan created.. Ishgardian modified.. I digress.. This is.. An odd turn.. Considering the fact we already had eyes upon their names. Hostages are most likely.. Any Demands yet?" Tynervial seemed to be in full war mode now, Yami had seen it when stress overtook him or, He had to deal with a lot of people, Facts mattered and he had an ugly half scowl on his face with focused glass eyes.

"We haven't heard anythin' yet, I don't see what Heartwood would have to offer since we haven't really done anythin', besides break a few of those spider things. Which, I wanna get my hands on one of them."

"No demands, no contact. All previous victims have been found dead, drained of aether," Crific supplies matter-of-factly, gesturing to the reports where the rest of the information would be. "Heartwood has two, I'm certain you ought to be able to take a look, N'yami."

"I helped find one of them." Tynervia shook his head, "No this was targeted at us.. I haven't been kept abreast of everything did the brother appear yet for his appointment? Sorry.. Heartwood."

"According to one of their creators, these--manufactured spiders were created for the purpose of healing the wounded on the battlefield. Now, however, they appear to have been modified, fitted with biomechanical components, and reformatted for some purpose unknown." He nodded. "He's been by once, and is currently recuperating in Adder custody." Crific gestures with the whiskey tumbler, "Vanriri was taken while escorting him back from that appointment. G'lewra and M'shara were taken when they went searching for her." The man’s jaw clenches faintly, and the disapproval in his expression is obvious, though he's hardly going to beat that dead horse again. What's done was done.

Tynervial Rillveroix paused and shook his head, "Mm... That’s.. Mm.. That won't be helpful... He didn't give up any info on his brother..? Wherever they took them.. it is likely a recharging station of sorts.. likely also the main lab if it was multiple spiders.. and even more so.. Shocked Lewra was captured as such.. she knew exactly how to command such to stop.. and her commands should of at least confused it ..Ah twelve.." He rubbed the bridge of his nose then turned his head to Yami. "She got herself caught on purpose didn't she."

N'yami offered a soft shrug. "Doesn't sound like somethin' Ma would do, Vanriri is her student though so might've been the whole teacher’s guilt."

"If she knows I can track her using her own aetherical gift to me.. What do you think about such then?" Tynervial tapped the charm the woman had given him that was resting on his neck.

"They don't appear to react to any external commands, either, but instead are guided by--" Crific pauses, narrowing his gaze on the pendant Tynos indicated. "You can track them?"

Tynervial nodded his head," Two ways actually, the earrings I had given her and the aetherical linking necklace she had given me.. both ways I can do such. Earrings would require a bit more sleuthing.. I'd need to actually be near where she was taken.. but.. The other bit.. Yes.. As long as she is still connected.. and I had not sensed she wasn't.. I can track her."

N'yami gave a tilt of her head at the mention of earrings and the necklace. "I'm not sure where the spot was but I'm sure the report says where it happened."

Crificdrums his fingers slightly on the glass at this revelation. "Florentel's Spire," he supplies, fingers still drumming. "Coerthas is vast, and these things are drawn in when they detect fonts of aether," he frowns, "we haven't made any progress locating them due to their scanners. Aislinn was working on something to dampen aetherial presence, as I understand, but..." He shrugs. That wasn't his expertise--though he certainly seemed capable of pronouncing everything and understanding the theories.

"That should not be a problem.. I should be able to track from there.. I'm familiar with the area.. And not only that but.. with the link, it will be very simple.. I need a decent-sized group, however. That or.. I need your trust. I either go alone.. and risk such to break them free quietly.. or I need a full group."

Crific holds up his hand. "I am unwilling to risk either, yet. A scouting party to narrow down and confirm the location. Once we are more familiar with their defenses, we can determine if infiltration or frontal assault would work better in our favor." He can't hide that he's distinctly disinclined to offer Tynos his trust... but he doesn't sound completely against the idea, preferring to err on the side of caution.

"You are taking such to literally.. You are against a mad man.. Scouting will do you no good.. this is someone who managed to avoid Ishgard."

N'yami groaned as she just chugged about half her drink then ran a hand over her face. "I have a feelin' if we say don't go you'll still go, and with Heartwood workin' on stuff to help out Ty could take someone that's good at scoutin' or someone to trust watchin' his back."

"I say this out of my experience as a member of the allied forces, Either of the choices I put forward are likely the only bet you have.. As for the latter, you'd need to pick combat-oriented folks who can move on to objectives quickly.. the former. Yami is correct."

Crific scowls indignantly between the two of them. "By all means, go in blind." He stands. "You have your information, and the only means of locating them." He scoffs derisively, "but I will not offer up Heartwood's aid without their consent for such an asinine "plan"." Crific collects his sword, replacing it across his back.

"Have you ventured into an Allag workshop or space before..? Have you dealt with an ADS before..? Have you seen the horrors Allag have created from the flesh of children? Logic only has so much meaning when one is confronted by a race who rejected all logic for the sake of progression, and you have a mad-man using such as main force hideout and has the ability to manipulate their behavioral matrixes.. So tell me.. What scouts does heartwood have now that are versed in the aetherical wards of an Allagan madman.. or the drones that likely hide within the environment."

N'yami finished her drink to try and ignore the tension, they both had decent points in the issue but she wasn't about to be the one to say one was right and the other was not. That wasn't her place, she was just a blacksmith.

Crific exhales slowly, shaking his head. "Do as you will. We have differing opinions of strategy, which surprises me little, coming from a dog of the Alliance." A chill enters his tone, and he glances at Yami. "You know who can help him in Heartwood, field his requests, but he will be accountable for any further losses." He storms towards the door and sees himself out, setting the half-finished tumbler on the platform ahead of the stairs as he goes.

Tynervial sighed as he took a sip himself letting his own mine even out," That poor lad is going to lose his mind if he thinks this is the worst Heartwood gets.. Wait till an unhinged elemental starts knocking on the door with her arch nemesis a demi-ascian..Or have to sit through one of Arch's Sex stories.. both enough to make one lose their mind.."He shakes his head," Should have offered him the bottle.." He mused.

"You got anyone ya trust to tag along with ya?" The Seeker was looking at her empty glass, happy that the tension died down a little.

Tynervial took a breath," Your too dangerous if something bad happens.. Nev is.. okay..  But I'm not sure I want him to be there if he gets hurt you'll blow up..Arch.. Maybe.. but he's horrible at stealth... Kaiya.. And Islin would be my first two choices.Islin knows the area, and Kaiya can deal with wards I can't." Tynervial paused and closed his eyes sending a pulse of aether however small into the link around his neck, just a quick double-tap like the woman would do when she knocked.

N'yami opened her mouth about to argue with Ty how she wasn't dangerous but then she thought about it....and all the fights she got in....so many explosions. "I'm slightly offended but I see yer point."

"Nys of course would be my first close side note.. She has more stealth skills than I. But she is busy.."

"If ya mean busy as in hidin' in her office then ya, she's busy." She shrugged, the Seeker never bothered the Xaela cause she just knew not to. "Saw her comin' in late at night when I was...." Yami wasn't about to mention how the poor training grounds on the bottom floor needed repairs. "Blacksmithing....that's what I was doin'."

"Mm, she did not let me know she was back.." Ty mused, and, attempted another knock to the aetherical link.

"Happened last night, I'm sure she's just catchin' up on everythin' while she was gone." The crystal around Ty's neck would offer a soft glow and blink twice to mimic his pattern, the presence of the aether however was weak and felt as if the person on the other side was struggling to even send that signal.

Tynervial nodded his head," Lewra is.. at least awake.. her signal is weak.. but she is there.." He let out a breath, and opened the necklace to her, to allow the woman to borrow any aether needed, As he let out a breath, doing so was tricky as he had normally only received such from the woman," I'll have to check in soon.. Now.. I need to send some messages out and do some preparing.. I'll likely need to move quickly.. or as quickly as safe. When I narrow down the location, I'll send Verothraw your way, with such and all info I have."

As Ty pushed aether through the necklace he would feel a force that was pushing it back to him, the Seeker was rejecting his aether from the other side but even then Lewra struggled to do just that, and a few seconds the feeling of her aether vanished and then the crystal went dark. "You got it, old man, if ya need anythin' stop by the shop and help yerself to whatever ya need." With a groan, the Yami pushed herself up. "Just be careful is all I ask can't be losin' ya as well." Going to the kitchen to drop her glass off in the sink before heading to the door and offered a small wave before leaving. "Take care."

[tsarisfanfiction]

Melt III

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Scott Tracy, Gordon Tracy, Virgil Tracy

Part 3 of my entry for @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday: Smell. Part 1 | Part 2

So I decided I was not going to do more than basic research for these SensorySunday fics because they’re supposed to be quick little things.  Ended up in a two hour Q&A with a paramedic-in-training I know about how he/his team would handle this scenario and dumbed it down/handwaved half of it after all that.  Oops.  Very interesting discussion, though!

When he was thirteen, Scott had burnt his hand on the stove.  Dad had been at work, and Mom had been busy with a fussy Alan, so he’d taken it upon himself to get started on dinner.  It hadn’t been his first time in the kitchen – far from it, with his mother determined that he would not inherit the Tracy line’s lack of cooking ability (their Dad might cringe from his mother’s cooking, but with the exception of pancakes he was no better), Scott and his brothers had been subjected to many a cooking lesson.  Even little Alan was learning to throw flour around when they baked cakes.

It had, however, been his first time in the kitchen unsupervised, and with a five year old brother running into the room and pretending to be an octopus – got your legs, Scotty! – the young teenager had stumbled and made the dangerous mistake of not looking at where he’d put his hand to brace himself.

That had been the last time he’d screamed, summoning a frantic mother and several brothers to where he was being assaulted by a tearfully apologetic younger brother – I didn’t mean to hurt you, Scotty!  I’m sorry!  Gordon had learnt a lesson about playing in the kitchen, and Scott had learnt to watch where he was putting his hands.

The urge to scream now was strong.  Scott had suffered many injuries, some serious, in his life, mostly through his work for International Rescue, but there was nothing that could quite compare to the all-encompassing, overpowering burn of hot metal.  It seared through his suit, pressing the neoprene against his skin and channelling agony all the way across his chest and abdomen, where the metal sat, immovable against both his and Gordon’s best efforts to move it.

Through the haze of pain, he heard Gordon shout for help, almost a scream in its own right.  He sounded hurt himself, but Scott couldn’t focus through the excruciating pain of his flight suit – designed to protect him, but not from this – enough to see what had happened to his brother, how badly he was hurt.  He couldn’t even ask, reduced to rasping his brother’s name over and over again with a throat restricted by pain.

And then the rumbling began. Scott knew that rumble, heard it in his nightmares, sometimes imagined a phantom of it on snow rescues.

This wasn’t a phantom. This was real.  This was the same monster that had torn their mother from them, and it was no doubt coming straight for him.

“Run,” he rasped, begging Gordon to go, to find some escape or at least better shelter than the burning remains of a HeliPod.  If Gordon replied, he didn’t hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears and the ever-increasing thunder approaching.

He felt a grip on his wrist, a desperate tug that yanked him partway from under the metal and elicited a cry of pain, and then everything went black as the snow hit.

While he knew what an avalanche sounded like, what it looked like, he’d never been caught in one himself. The one that had stolen his mother and made a good go at his younger brothers had passed him by, travelling a different slope to the one he’d been naively snowboarding on.

There was a lot less being tossed around than he’d thought, the snow slamming into him with less ferocity than expected.  It didn’t even free him from the metal, although the frigid cold doused him, leaving part of his body numb.  Numb was, for the moment, better than pain.  It let him think.

“Gordon?” he croaked. There was no response and terror gripped him.  “Gordon!” The grip on his wrist had gone, and snow encompassed his vision.  He pushed at the metal again, breaking the numbness on his hands as searing hot metal once again came to contact with his already burnt and blistered fingers.  Around him the snow was melting, giving him a greater hollow to manoeuvre in and finally letting him slide from underneath the metal.

Almost immediately he slammed into something else hard and unmoving, gasping as the movement and subsequent sudden stop jarred the snow-numbed area.  It didn’t seem hot, as best as he could tell, and Scott awkwardly pushed against it, trying to get past it.  He needed to find Gordon, and this lump of-

He got a good look at it and another gasp that had nothing to do with pain tore itself from his lips. It was metal, a silver that was as familiar to him as his own hand, but-  That couldn’t be possible.  He followed the metal, pushing and pulling his way through the snow until he reached something big.  Something that shouldn’t be there.

Buried in the snow, immediately up the slope from them and clearly the reason Scott hadn’t been jumbled halfway down the slope, was his precious Thunderbird.

The how and why could wait.  His Thunderbird had – somehow – shielded him from the worst of the avalanche but he was still buried, if in a decent-sized air pocket beneath her extended wing, and Gordon was still missing.

In an avalanche.

It was as though he was fourteen again.  The snow-numb parts of his body meant nothing as he turned away from the silver hull of Thunderbird One and dug his way through the snow downslope, ignoring the red streaks from where his damaged hands swiped the wet stuff out of his way.

Gordon.  He had to find Gordon.

“Gordon!” he shouted. They’d both been wearing their helmets when they’d crashed.  Gordon had a better knee-jerk reaction to keeping his helmet on than Scott did, and as Scott was still wearing his that meant Gordon probably hadn’t removed his, either.  There was no response and he scrabbled harder, following his ‘bird’s wing and praying the Thunderbird’s protection had extended to Gordon as well.

The wing was slanted down, at an angle it would never be if landed properly with landing struts extended. Scott could even see the strut, still in its housing inside the wing.  In the back of his mind, the section not occupied with thoughts of Gordon, must find Gordon, he realised that however Thunderbird One had ended up buried with him, there was a high chance that she wasn’t going to be flying out of there again.

Red-stained snow parted in front of him to reveal blue, and he dug all the more ferociously, ignoring the pain starting to make itself known through the numb again as he uncovered the crumpled form of his younger brother.  Gordon had been caught rather more literally than he had by Thunderbird One, with his back cushioned by the wingtip.  It was obvious immediately that Gordon’s left leg was broken, although Scott had no idea if that was from the crash or the avalanche.

More pressingly, despite wearing his helmet, complete with rebreather in place, Gordon’s eyes were closed and the aquanaut was clearly unconscious.

“Gordon!” he called, fumbling for his shoulder but unable to get a hold on the neoprene.  Red streaks marred the blue from his attempt.  There was no response and he tried to dig further, to completely expose his brother, but the pain in his chest and abdomen flared up with a sudden intensity that drew another sharp cry of pain from him and had him collapsing in a heap over Gordon’s unmoving form.

He heaved for breath, but each inhalation hurt as it pulled on the parts of his body subjected to the burning metal.  Attempts to push himself up failed, the adrenaline that had pushed him to find Gordon ebbing away now that he had, in fact, found Gordon.  Apparently his brother’s unconscious state wasn’t enough to give him that additional kick to get him moving again, or maybe being under the protective wing of his Thunderbird was making him feel safe, despite still being buried.

Alternatively, his body had decided it’d been ignored enough and was collecting its dues.  He hadn’t looked at his uniform to see the damage, was now in a position where he couldn’t.  Slumped over the top of his brother, he just couldn’t get his breathing under control from where it kept hitching in pain.

They had to get out. Survival rates dropped dramatically after fifteen minutes, and even with a Thunderbird buried alongside them, Scott wasn’t naïve enough to think that that rule wouldn’t apply to them, either. Not Gordon, unconscious as he was, and not himself, with blood staining everything he touched and undetermined damage from the crash.

They had to get out, but his body wasn’t responding, his strength sapped by the cold, cold snow and before that the flaming hot metal.  He could still feel the heat, getting closer and closer…

Wait, what?

A white-hot tip burst through the snow near him, quickly followed by the familiar dark green of a Sherpa Pod.

“Scott!  Gordon!”  Virgil leapt out of the pod and hurried over to them.

“Virgil,” he replied, voice still a shaky rasp.  “I’m- I’m okay.  Gordon’s… unconscious… broken leg.”  He tried to push himself back up, off of Gordon so Virgil could get to their younger brother, but his body refused to co-operate.

“Like hell are you okay,” Virgil responded, crouching down beside him.  “Come on, let’s get you-” he stuttered to a stop, and Scott could see just enough of his face to see that he’d paled.  “Shit,” he hissed.  “Have you seen yourself?”

“No?” Scott offered, his attention still on Gordon even as warm hands gripped him and guided him off of Gordon, laying him down on his back.

“That’s probably for the best,” Virgil muttered.  Scott was relieved to see him assessing Gordon, splinting his leg before moving him into the cargo bay attached to the back of the pod.  “Gordon’s okay.  Broken leg and wrist, but nothing else.  You, on the other hand.  How the hell are you still conscious?”

“It’s not that bad,” Scott protested, once again trying to move.  It hurt, but he was conscious.  “Gordon-”

“Will be fine,” Virgil repeated, and Scott let out a pained gasp as he found himself being lifted. His vision fuzzed around the edges and threatened to grey out entirely.  “I’m more worried about you.”

Scott made to protest again, but just as he opened his mouth his vision cleared again.  From his new position in his brother’s arms, he could see his body for the first time and bile surged.  The entire right side of his uniform, from shoulder to leg, was blackened and looked almost as though it had been melted.

He shut his mouth again, fighting back the nausea at the realisation that a large part of his uniform had been fused to him.

“We’re getting out of here,” Virgil said.  “John’s keeping an eye on the snow stability but the less time we spend here the better.” Scott wasn’t complaining, hissing as the pod started to move and the harness knocked against his right shoulder.

“What about Thunderbird One?” he asked, realising they were leaving his ‘bird behind.

“Lives first, machines second,” John butted in, hologram appearing in front of him and looking concerned.  “I’ve still got her location signal, and no-one else knows where she is.  Thunderbird One will be fine until we retrieve her.” That made sense, as much as part of Scott protested at leaving his damaged ‘bird buried under snow.

Sunlight streamed in through the glass as they broke the surface, showing a beautiful white vista of snow.  Scott couldn’t appreciate it, though.  Not now.

Thunderbird Two was ready and waiting for them, three climbers in a vibrant orange that Scott had almost entirely forgotten about despite them being the reason they were out there in the first place hovering inside the module.  They were saying things, babbling apologies, but Scott couldn’t respond as he was lifted back out of the pod and placed on a stretcher to more temporarily-greying vision.

“Gordon,” he insisted as engines hummed into life and the green behemoth took off.  Virgil sighed.

“He’s secure in there. John’s keeping an eye on him.  Now let me have a look at you.”  Scott didn’t have the energy left to fight as Virgil cut off his uniform as best he could, trying not to think too hard about the fact that a large part of it still remained where it was firmly stuck to the skin. Virgil’s face did not look reassuring, and to Scott’s internal horror he was approached with a needle.

“Is that really necessary?” he asked.  Virgil rolled his eyes and pawed at his left arm.

“You know it is,” he said as the needle went in, and Scott scowled.  “Let’s get you warming up and hydrated, then I’ll see to Gordon.”

The unsaid message was clear.  The less fuss you make, the faster I can look at Gordon.

Scott swallowed any and all urges to make a fuss.  Despite Virgil’s reassurance that the aquanaut would be fine, he was still worried, but he knew when he was facing a losing battle.  With his compliance, Scott found himself soon warming up and relatively pain-free, despite the cool water running over his burns.

“Stay right there,” Virgil warned, John’s hologram now appearing by the stretcher.  “John is here if you need me-”  Scott had no intentions of needing anyone until Gordon was awake “-and I have three volunteers here to make sure you don’t move.  I’ll be back to deal with those burns of yours in a minute.”

With that, Virgil headed for the pod, leaving Scott with his immediate brother in holographic form, and three nervous climbers for company.

Part 4

[dailybaking]

11/12/2020-- CAKE

Hello! Today I made a Rustic Lemon Cake

Trouble again waking up on time. I was tricked by a dream where I woke up and baked cookies with my mom? I don’t know why but I very much bought into it. Woke up at nine, ended up baking at ten... but hey, I still baked, a second day in a row! That’s more than I thought I could do ^^,

And the cake turned out... well, uh, it definitely turned out!

Today’s recipe came from a youtube channel called Savor Easy (https://youtu.be/FkSdxohyeRc) It’s a basic lemon cake with a condensed milk frosting. 

Going into this, the thing I was most concerned about was the frosting, honestly. I don’t like many home-made frosting recipes, but I hadn’t heard of using condensed milk, so I was actually pretty excited, but very worried about how it would taste. I mean, I don’t even think I’ve used condensed milk before today at all, so it was definitely an experience!

Like yesterday I halved the recipe. Usually it’s just me eating these things and if I’m baking something everyday then it would be hard to eat full sized cakes and breads ^^, (Speaking of, the bread I made yesterday is completely gone! My little brother really liked it, so it went fast XD)

No kneading in this one, but I can’t use the family’s Kitchenaid until Christmas and our handmixer is broken af so I had to whip the eggs myself DX I thought that I would be able to handle it, having done whipping in the past, but these last few months of inactivity have made me lazy and I haven’t kept up with excersize like I should have. My arms were weak, and I had to take frequent breaks. 

But, looking at it from a positive angle, when I switched to my other hand I got a lot of practice for my ongoing training to become ambidextrous! So I didn’t mind too much. All of this kneading and beating is going to make my arms very sore though, haha. 

Something I struggle with in baking is folding the whipped eggs into the batter. You’re supposed to be careful so that you don’t loose the air, but also you have to make sure it is fully incorporated. And I’m still amazed it worked out for me!

Also! I remembered to get progress shots! (Only halfway through, but I did get them!) Here is what the batter looked like

I ended up using this glass dish that my family never uses. I’m not sure if it’s a bread dish or something? We have two other sizes (Medium and Large I assume) and we just use them to cook chicken breasts so I’ve never actually used them to make any kind of baked good. 

It looked goo to me though! But, something I learned today... you actually have to preheat the oven while you mix the ingrediants! XD When I cook in the oven I never really preheat, I usually just stick it in when I turn the oven on. And baking cookies with mom we tend to do the same thing, and then just write off the first batch ^^, 

So the batter just sat there while I waited for the oven to heat, and I’m a little worried about the effect that might have had on the cake. It came out looking nice, but after I took it out of the oven it sorta shrank in on itself... that might have also been because it was colder, maybe I was supposed to let it sit in the oven after I turned it off? I’m not really sure if there was a way to keep it from doing that. 

Still, despite how it looks in this photo, the cake is still very soft and springy so maybe it was totally normal. Guess I’ll only know by baking some more.

Then it was time to do the Condensed Milk Frosting. The recipe was really simple- just a can of condensed milk and a fourth cup of lemon juice (though obviously I halved it) I had to whip it again, but by that point my arm was too tired to function well enough... so I brought out the old hand mixer!

The thing about the old hand mixer is that we’ve had it at least since I was five, and I’m turning twenty one in a few months. All of the attachments have rusted except for the square mixers- we had to toss the old whisk at the beginning of quarantine, actually. 

So I’m extremely confident that I didn’t whip the milk enough, but it tasted about right so I cut my losses and slathered it on the cake, like it said to

The last step I added myself, something to make it look just a little prettier; leftover Lemon Zest!

So yeah, it looks good!

How does it taste? ...uh,,,,,,

Haha, no it’s not that bad. Actually it’s pretty decent- I’ll be having it for dessert tonight, in fact! But the cake is a little bland, and the condensed milk is too sweet and completely overpowering. But still, for a first cake it’s not awful- and it looks so cute!

LESSONS LEARNED; 

1. Preheat the oven while you are putting the ingredients together, so you don’t have to wait for it. 

2. Invest in a nice hand mixer. We seriously went 15 years minimum on that hand mixer and so long as I toggle the off switch it still works. A solid hand mixer will go the mile with you. 

3. Clean up while you’re waiting for the cake to bake. Seriously, I had a whole thirty minutes to goof around and look at the homework I wasn’t doing grow in number; if you’re not going to do anything wash some dishes and clean the counter, otherwise you’re going to come back to a kitchen that looks like this;

Thinking tomorrow I’m going to be making some cookies ^^