#pancake griddle electric

[bestpickme]

Electric Griddles:

[beyoursledgehammer]

Despite the horrors, we stay silly

[thehunteramman]

BELLA Electric Griddle with Crumb Tray Review: Is It Worth It?

BELLA Electric Griddle with Crumb Tray Review: Is It Worth It?

[madelynraemunson]

pass the salt • e.m. smut

DAD’S BEST FRIEND!OLDER!EDDIE x FEM!READER

part two here

summary: you’re home from college and staying with your dad for the summer, spending as much time as you possibly can with him…and his hot best friend that you’ve never seen in your life.

authors note: okay have you guys ever seen those text posts like “when you say ‘daddy pass the salt please’ and your father and your man both reach for it” 💀💀 well this is inspired by that concept. also i went overboard and this is a LONG BOI

disclaimers — photo credits to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple 🫶🏼porn with plot, reader’s nickname is “sunshine”, reader has female anatomy, race unspecified, divider: @iluvpooks

NSFW — 18+ obv, porn with plot, daddy kink pls keep scrolling if it’s not ur thing, slight age gap (eddie is mid to late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), corruption kink, size kink, masturbation (m&f), p in v sex (protected), dirty talk, teasing, sexual innuendos, extreme flirting, eddie kinda being a perv, praise kink

The sound of breakfast on the griddle summons you downstairs.

Dad never cooks.

For as long as you can remember, weekends at your dad’s have always consisted of Lucky Charms cereal and powdered donuts. That tradition continued even after you started college.

Oh yeah. Someone is here, alright. Someone Dad desperately wants to impress.

Trailing after the commotion, your fuzzy pink slippers guide you down the wooden steps of your dad’s ‘bachelor pad’ and into the kitchen. And when you near the bottom of the steps, you can make out two distinct voices — one belonging to Dad, another belonging to someone who's identity is obscure.

“God, I fucking missed you, Jeff. Missed everyone so much.”

The smells of pancake batter, cigarette smoke, mint, and petroleum fuel reel you in, but not nearly as much as the sight of the man sitting on the opposite side of your dad. He's built, handsome with wavy brown hair, leather, black denim, twiddling a toothpick between his teeth as he listens to your dad speak with a smile on his face. That is, until you come into sight. It then that his intense focus circles in on you.

Funny. You don’t remember this friend. And something in your gut tells you that you won’t ever be forgetting him after this.

The stranger's grin curls into a wonder-filled smirk. You can feel your knees start to buckle.

“Uh oh. Looks like our shenanigans woke up Sleeping Beauty.”

When you get a closer look at Dad’s friend, you observe his faint brown beard — neatly kept and lightly peppered with some gray — delicious lips, shiny white teeth, and grooves along his laugh lines that would deepen with every theatrical cackle he belted out.

You can't help but freeze in your tracks as him and your dad continue on with their banter, reliving their glory days like it was yesterday. Man. What a damn dreamboat.

Your dad’s eyes light up with glee when he sees you.

“Hey, good morning, Sunshine!” Dad cheers. “Thought you’d never wake up. This is my friend Eddie. We were in that band together in high school. Come say hi.”

"Yeah, come say hi," Eddie agrees. feeding into the obvious tension in the room. "I don't bite."

The stranger laughs at his own comment as soon as he utters it.

There’s a charm — a magic — about Eddie that could only be found in Hollywood or the Big City. But of course, you didn't expect any less from Dad's supposed ‘Rockstar Friend’.

When your parents had you at 17, life went on for Dad’s band Corroded Coffin. And although he missed out on the ‘Sex, Drugs, and Rock&Roll’, Dad insists that tea parties and white picket fences were an ideal trade-off. Because — despite how things ended with Mom — it still meant a life spent with you.

You tell him your name as Eddie offers you his hand to shake. Electricity serges through you when your hand is enveloped by his firm, calloused one. Eddie smiles down at you, his presence all-consuming. It's almost as if he knows it. And as much as you were dying to, you resist the urge to fall into him.

Eddie's no better.

It takes everything in Eddie's power to keep his eyes above your collarbones, reprimanding himself with the utmost tedium. Because heaven knows he'd be TOAST if his best friend found out that Eddie thought that you were absolutely stunning — strutting around the house the way that you do, without a bra underneath that poor excuse of a sleep shirt — a sleep shirt far too tight for your own good. With tight, pajama shorts to match…

Of course, this is all an assumption…Not that he caught wind of it or anything.

“You know…” he mentions. “Your dad has told me SO much about little miss Sunshine.”

“Me, really?” is all you can say behind those fuscia cheeks.

“Really,” Eddie insists. “He never shuts up about you, darling.”

“Hopefully you’ve only heard good things,” you mutter faintly.

And instantly, your dad and Eddie share a laugh.

“Only good things,” Eddie assures you. He nudges your dad playfully.

Your dad doesn’t exactly deny the last part, basically confirming to Eddie that you’ve got a hint of spunk to you. The heat settles at your cheeks as you shy away from your father’s curious friend.

Taking note of how timid you’ve just become, Eddie furrows his brows.

“What — was that an implication that you’re not always good?”

“No comment,” your smile melts into an awkward one.

“Kept me on my toes back then,” your dad reflects with a sigh. “Keeps me on my toes now.”

“You don’t say…” Eddie smirks slightly, gaze panning back over to you.

Eventually your dad leaves you two alone, going into the garage to fetch something that he insists Eddie would like. But little did he know that such thing was already in the room, leaning…reaching into the fridge for some orange juice, not realizing its atmosphere caused your nipples to harden.

Eddie’s eyes proceed to follow you as you strut back to the griddle, flipping some hot cakes over before tending to your messy bedhead.

Eddie probably doesn’t know — or maybe he does, who knows? — that you feel him staring at you. It’s a burning gaze that practically impales you, but you’re too nervous to say anything. You’re better off pretending like it’s something you don’t notice.

You and Eddie continue to help yourselves to breakfast, enjoying the company of each other and your mutual silence. That is, until Eddie speaks up.

“Got some sausage for you if you’d like.”

“I’m sorry?” you sputter, looking up from your food.

Eddie shoots you a weird glance as he holds up some breakfast franks.

“Sausage?” he repeats. “Store was out of beef so I settled for turkey. Hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all,” you clear your throat. “I love turkey sausage.”

“Okay, good,” Eddie chuckles, seemingly relieved at how quickly the situation had diffused.

“Cool,” you chuckle with him while taking some links to cook.

The silence returns once more and is replaced by the sizzling of the grill. It’s short lived, however, because soon, the man nearly twice your age speaks again.

“What’d you think I said?” Eddie circles back.

“Nothing, why?”

“You just looked stunned.”

“I just woke up,” you shrug. “My mind’s somewhere else.”

“I can tell,” he smirks. “Get that thing out of the gutter.”

The coming days paved way for some more innocent flirting.

…Like when you make sure to wear the shortest skirt in your closet when running Eddie his afternoon beer in the garage.

“Well don’t you look absolutely darling…” he says as he peers up from his guitar.

“Hehe,” you smirk connivingly. “Thank you!”

“You are so welcome.”

Eddie downs the liquid guilt along with his pride, watching you strut around…the hem of that pleated cotton fabric just barely covering the roundness of your asscheeks. And as you blush a rosy pink when you process his little remarks, Eddie can only clear his throat in arousal, fantasizing about just how badly he wanted to turn your other cheeks that very shade.

…Or when you come downstairs the next day to help Dad manually wash his car.

While he and Eddie are harassing each other with soap and that god-forsaken hose, you decide to join in on all the fun.

“Watch out, Sunshine,” Eddie forewarns. “You’ve just entered the splash zone!”

And with the intention of cooling you off on a hot summer day like this, Eddie teasingly sprays you with said hose, your white shirt becoming transparent when lathered with water. He could see everything. Your erect nipples. Your perky tits bouncing in the sunlight as you jump around in excitement. How glazed your oil-nnuendo’ed skin looked when glimmering in the sun. All as intended.

“You got me,” you surrender yourself to him. “You got me good, Eddie.”

And when you walk away, Eddie mutters slyly to himself.

“Yes, yes I did.”

…And then there’s dessert after dinner.

Eddie watches as you lick your popsicle, his fingers curling at his thighs in arousal as you retract the wrapper before enclosing your lips around the bright pink dessert. And he swears he’s going to blow his pants when he envisions the melted sugar shooting into your mouth with the swiftest hollowing of your cheeks, the quiet suction noise you make with your pursed lips forcing him to adjust the way he’s sitting.

…The final instance takes the cake.

“What’s your major?”

You’re in the home library grazing some of Dad’s old books and vinyls, talking to Eddie while your father gets ready for the day. Meanwhile, Eddie is perched at your dad’s desk, rolling around in his expensive swivel chair and occasionally doing some spins on it to make you laugh.

“History.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You just haven’t found a topic that interests you,” you point out.

“Mm,” is all Eddie says. “Maybe I will eventually.”

Eddie watches as you waltz around in front of him, following your movements with his eyes as you get onto your tippy-toes in order to grab some books on the top shelf.

“Oh my god!” you yelp.

Your plan to entice him seemingly fails when you graze a book that’s halfway off the shelf. It’s already flying off of its platform, headed straight towards Eddie's lap before you can even stop it.

Eddie catches it before any damage can be done, saving Dad’s old campaign book with the hand furthest from you and snaking the other around your waist to prevent you from sinking any further into him.

Phew. Crisis averted.

Your eyes meet again.

“I’m so sorry, Eddie,” you gasp in embarrassment. “That book has a mind of its own.”

“You’re fine,” Eddie laughs. “Can’t defy the laws of gravity. Sometimes it betrays us.”

You feel yourself burning up a fever. Excusing yourself from the room, you leave Dad’s library and make your way over to the kitchen for a glass of water.

But you’re nearly taken aback when you feel tight, calloused hands wrap around your hips, and like a feather it’s like you’re whisked away into the air, and soon your body is pressed up against the wall.

Slam!

Breathing heavily against each other now — chest to chest, lips so unbearably close you can smell the whiskey — Eddie draws you even closer to him. You both study each other intently. It’s like you’re waiting for the other to say something. Eddie does the honors and speaks first.

“I wasn’t born last night, doll. I was also your age at one point.”

———

To his own despair, Eddie touches himself later that night. Facing your room, he strokes his rock hard cock with his lotioned-up hand, running his thumb across the slit of his head, pretending it’s your tongue giving him a little tease like you did the popsicle.

“Fuuuck,” he grunts quietly. “You like when I fuck your throat, baby? Gonna suck me dry with that pretty little mouth of yours?”

You’re playing make-believe just as much. Because at the same time, in your room, you’re a drooling, pathetic mess, riding your wall-mounted toy to oblivion in your bathroom, legs trembling when the thick, veiny piece of silicone slams into the spongy part of your heat, initiating shock-waves all across your body.

“Eddie,” you find yourself blubbering. “EddieEddieEddieEddie…”

You both know it can’t be like this, but that was the mere thrill of it all. And when you both have overcome your peak, just one mere wall apart, the floodgates of guilt outweighs both your arousals the way it comes pouring in.

So, so wrong. But oh, so right.

You’re anticipating…waiting…aching for Eddie to make the next move.

He doesn’t.

“Going to the store again,” Eddie announces. “Hopefully this time they’ll have beef sausage. Need anything?”

Need you, is what you think. But you end up shaking your head, a part of you disappointed that you and Eddie won’t be able to spend some time alone together.

“No,” there’s defeat in your voice.

“Are you sure?” Eddie questions softly.

“Mhm,” you nod.

“Okay,” he gives you a grin, one in the form of a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll be right back. You be good.”

“Ha-ha,” you roll your eyes.

——

Eddie leaves the door of his room open that night. Just a smidge. You end up following the sound of his TV that he’s placed at a low volume, making out that it’s Seinfeld just by Jerry’s voice and the laugh track.

Your heart skips a beat as Eddie laughs along with the show, shaking his head at a stupid joke. But he shifts his focus immediately onto you when he sees you at the doorway.

“Having some alone time tonight?” you ask him.

“Mmm…not by choice,” he responds. “Tuckered your dad out after dinner doing P90X.”

Eddie follows a crazy workout routine. He says that it helps with his stamina, especially when he does crowd work during his stage performances. Your mind can’t help but wonder what else he may be using it for.

You snort. “Yeah. Dad wasn’t what you’d call an athlete in high school.”

Eddie laughs at that too. Both you and him know that.

He then pats the space on his bed beside him. “Wanna come watch with me?”

Your stomach does a series of cartwheels when you process Eddie’s question. You know what’s bound to happen if you follow through. And it seems Eddie knows it too. Even if there wasn’t any sexual tension between you both already, the concept of it all would rub anyone that way.

But you still follow through with it. Just like Eddie knew you would.

“You comfortable?” Eddie asks you, eyeing you endearingly as you squirm around on the bed.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good…” he replies, voice nearly at a strained whisper now.

You two watch the show in silence for a few minutes, exchanging commentary and pleasantries regarding the show every so often. It’s not too long after Eddie pulls a laugh from you that he starts closing up the space between you both, scooting himself closer…and resting his gruff palm over the base of your knee.

You inhale sharply as he does so. And evident by your refusal to pull away, it’s enough of a green light for Eddie to hike up further.

A soft moan escapes your mouth from the back of your flustered throat, but you bite your lip in restraint.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?”

You shrug sheepishly as Eddie continues to graze your thigh. Your breathing falters even more.

“Don’t be scared,” Eddie coos.

“I’m not,” you insist.

“Then what’s stopping you from getting on top of me? Hm?”

He’s in between your legs now, the rough material of his denim jeans riding up your sex, teasing your clit with every calculated rub against it.

“And riding my rock hard cock til those pretty legs give out?” Eddie continues. “I see how you’ve been looking at me, doll. It's all over your face how bad you want it.”

“The bed is squeaky,” you answer honestly. “And that headboard is a lost cause.”

Eddie puts the dirty talk on pause, squirming around to assess the guest bed’s squeak factor. When it checks out, he gives you an understanding nod. You giggle.

Eddie wastes no more time. You watch as he grabs one of the pillows on the bed and wedges it between the wall and headboard. He issues you a sly smile.

“Oldest trick in the book.”

You're back to fooling around shortly after, your aching core burning with lust as you pine for him.

“The boys at school ever touch you this good?” Eddie quips rubbing circles around your puffy, needy folds as you hopelessly cling to him out of pleasure.

“No, Eddie.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He continues to tease, gliding his fingers along your slit before slowly inserting two large digits inside of you.

His calculated pumps into your needy pussy are steady, a pace so agonizingly beautiful that it makes you squeal sweet nothings into the crook of his neck.

"Shh, baby," Eddie hushes you. "Your dad's gonna hear us. Gotta be quiet for me, mkay?"

Your hot, messy, and muffled sounds cease as Eddie soothes your quivering lips with his tender ones.

The wet sounds that ricochet and fill the room in tandem is almost enough to send him over. And Eddie is sure to communicate that… with an abrupt curving of his three thick fingers.

Fuck.

Needing him direly now, you tug helplessly at his pants.

“God, Eddie,” you whimper. “Just fuck me already. Please.”

Eddie laughs at the desperation. He hasn’t ravaged you to his fullest extent yet, and you’re already a pooling mess beside him.

“Well since you said please, sweet girl,” Eddie obliges as he starts to undress himself. “Your wish is my command."

You watch Eddie as reaches over into the bedside drawer for a fresh box of condoms. Looks like the sausage links weren't the only things he went to the store for.

“Oh.”

Eddie chuckles at your observation before shrugging. Can you really blame him? You both knew what was coming.

You watch with absolute lust as Eddie slides the piece of rubber over his long, girthy, throbbing cock. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever had before, and the snarky, hooded-eye smile as he watches you fawn reveals to you that he knows exactly how to use it.

"On your stomach, babygirl. Will have you all nice and pounded out just like you wanted.”

You situate yourself in prone and spread your legs for Eddie to line himself up against them. He teases his wrapped cock against the entrance of your pussy, and when his soothing countdown is over, your lips part in disposition as you accommodate his ruinous stretch.

A throaty moan spills out of the both of you the moment Eddie snaps his hips in and out of you. Meanwhile, one of his hands lays tauntingly at your stomach, so the prideful man can feel himself wriggling inside you, glazing his shaft with your slick more and more with every pump into your weak cunt.

"Fuck, Eddie... yes..." you mewl. "R-right there, Eddie, please..."

And then it picks up. You can feel Eddie’s hips practically collapse right onto you, his balls slapping against you as he digs further into your body.

"God damn..." the man sighs in disbelief.

He can only beam down at you in awe. You were taking him so good, pussy swallowing him so nice and tight. And when you nestle your ankles between each other to keep him there in prone, the nearly cries out in pleasure, but refrains because he knows your dad is resting — just a thin wall over.

That still doesn’t stop him from going to town though. Practically seeing stars, the broken record of a mouth that belongs to you chants Eddie’s name like it’s all you know. Eddie attempts to keep you contained, offering you his fingers to suck on as he’s railing you dumb.

And when he fucks you through your climax, Eddie continues with his string of lust-filled praises, satisfied at himself that he was able to make you wet enough to soak the mattress.

“Did so good for me, angel,” he praises you as he sucks at your temple. “Always knew you weren’t all that innocent.”

The griddle comes out again on Eddie’s last day. But this time, for a homestyle southern dinner.

You and Eddie were on mashed potatoes and gravy duty at the stove, an ordeal that only opened doors for lots of innuendos on Eddie’s part. Meanwhile, Dad insisted on making the rest, having taken pride in continuing his Mama’s legacy.

“This is amazing, Daddy,” you rave. “I really missed this. Do you mind passing the salt, please?”

And to your horror, you watch as your father and Eddie automatically extend their arms, bumping into one another in the process en route to getting you the salt.

The gentlemen meet each other’s eyes.

“Ohp!” Eddie exclaims, letting out a slight chuckle. “Sorry.”

You try your hardest not to blush. Eddie kicks you from under the table, and softly he oh-so-seductively he mutters,

“I was just tryna help her out.”

[dear-ao3]

how to make pancakes more filling and taste better

so pancakes are actually way way easier than everyone thinks they are and they are very very easy to change up as long as you know how to

the things that you don't fuck with are the amount of flour, oil, egg, milk and baking powder/soda. as long as you stick to that on any recipe you can change pretty much anything else or substitute.

generally recipes are 1 egg to 1 cup of flour. a 1 cup flour 1 egg recipe usually serves 2 and you can double the recipe for 4, etc.

you can also substitute up to half of the four in a recipe for whole wheat flour without changing the leavening measurements. you can do the same for adding in protein powder, just adjust the sugar accordingly if its sweetened protein powder.

so, this is my favorite basic buttermilk pancake recipe, it makes about 10 pancakes:

1 1/4 cups flour 1/2 cup old fashioned oats 1-1 1/2 tbsp some kind of sweetener (brown/white sugar or maple syrup/agave syrup all work well but there's other options) 1/2 tsp baking soda 1 egg 1 1/4 cup buttermilk 1 tbsp oil of choice (butter or coconut oil generally) 1/2 tsp salt

this is the bones of the recipe. the sweetener is adjustable based on how sweet you like your pancakes but the rest of it should all stay the same. double this if you want to make pancakes to serve 4 people (about 20 pancakes)

to this, i add:

as much vanilla extract as my heart desires (within reason, i see you tumblr) some cinnamon/pumpkin pie spice/whatever you want lemon zest from 1 lemon (or orange zest) blueberries fresh or frozen (but you can use any mix in like bananas or nuts or whatever)

one very important note: you don't need buttermilk to make this recipe. you can substitute buttermilk by combining 1 teaspoon of lemon juice or white vinegar for every 1 cup of milk (its supposed to be regular milk but you can use plant or nut milk too) and letting it stand for 10 minutes.

the instructions:

zest your citrus and add it to your sugar. mush it together until you get a paste or sorts. add to that your oats, vanilla and buttermilk and stir them together. let the oats soak in the mixture for 10 minutes.

combine your flour, baking soda, salt and cinnamon or spices.

after your oats are done soaking add in the oil and the egg (make sure the egg is beaten well)

add the wet into the dry and combine. make sure that all the flour is mixed in. there will be lumps. we want the lumps. then add your mix ins.

grease a pan. this can be a regular frying pan an electric griddle or a stovetop griddle. let the oil sit on the pan on medium heat for a few minutes or until you throw a few water drops on the pan and they crackle and jump.

use a 1/3 measuring cup and scoop your batter onto the pan, space them out a little but not ridiculously. flip them with a plastic spatula (ideal) 2-3 times or until they're fully cooked. (you tell if they're cooked if there's no wet batter on the sides)

voila. pancakes.

use this recipe or use the bare bones version to make your own thing.

happy pancake making.

[v3nusplanetofluv]

camp

i; fishbowls

｡･ﾟﾟ･atsumu x fem! reader

｡･ﾟﾟ･college and 90s au

description...

atsumu miya was the bane of your existence growing up. always making it his job to tease and taunt you daily. as time went on you detached yourself from the neighborhood kids, your frequent, unwanted presence merely becoming a thing of the past. however, the summer of '98 causes you and atsumu to face the past.

content!

2.1k words

"ma, when yer son comes home from college yer supposed to keep him in not kick him out!" atsumu groaned as his head fell onto the cold kitchen counter, "especially when i'm your favorite-"

"what-"

it was finally summer vacation, and all the miyas were back in their nest. the formerly eerily quiet kitchen was once again full of life; the sweet smell of vanilla filled the air as pancakes were flipped on the electric griddle; the bright sun warmed the table cloth that covered the glass dining table; and loud hearty accents were doubled in sound as the two boys were back.

"both of y'all are gettin' kicked out," the older woman places the now finished pancakes onto a plate. "it just so happens that samu listens to what I have ta say, and chooses where he wants ta go ahead of time."

the grey haired twin smiles up at his mom with a 'thanks' as she places a stack of pancakes in front of him. "i'm goin' to grandma and grandpa's farm ta help out at their cafe," he sticks his tongue out at atsumu making him roll his eyes.

"whatever," his arms crossed over his chest, "I don't like that stinky farm anyway." atsumu flinches as he feels his mom yank upon his ear in disapproval.

"good! ya won't have ta 'cause yer workin' at a summer camp!" mrs. miya smiles as atsumu's jaw practically reaches the depths of hell. "our neighbor suggested it--"

"which neighbor so i know whose lawn koda can piss on--OW!" mr.miya strikes the faux blond with his now rolled morning paper.

"language," the older man sits beside his son, coffee now in hand. "y/n's mother came up with that great idea--the girl's been working there since high school--ya remember her right?"

"yeah, i remember fishbowls--OW!" osamu was now on the receiving end of the sunday morning paper, the boy now reaching for his battered forehead. the action instantly stifled atsumu's laughs.

the faux blond covers his head, "ya want me to go work with that freak for the whole summer?" he asks through gritted teeth, actively guarding his head.

"y/n is a beautiful young lady who is doin' great things," mama miya points her spatula at the boys, "she's actually in school studyin' biology to become a doctor now!"

"oh, who would've thought that fishbowls was gonna be in a nerdy major?" atsumu comments, sarcasm dripping in his tone, making osamu snicker.

osamu sits up straight, "'do ya wanna come over and see my new experiment?" he mocks a nerdy accent as he pushes his fake glasses up the bridge of his nose making his brother burst at the seams in laughter.

"come on! y'all haven't seen the girl since she changed schools in middle school," the older miya says as he sips his coffee.

"yea cause she was always cooped up in her room readin' or some shit," atsumu mumbles as he messes with the pancakes in front of him.

"well, i guess this summer will be the perfect time ta give her a chance!" mama miya smiles as she brushes her hands off on her apron, ignoring his groans, "and ya better get packin' 'cause ya leave next week."

insane in the membrane by cyrprus hill blares through the stereo setup of the 1989 lexus is 400. osamu's sunglass rest upon his nose as he drives through rural hyogo, fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the beat. atsumu sits in the passenger seat mumbling along to the lyrics, hand resting outside of the window.

atsumu furrows his eyebrows as he looks over at his brother, "is it too late for me ta come ta the farm with ya?"

"...ya called it stinky--"

"but a whole summer--three months with fishbowls--sounds like i'll be slittin' ma wrist with a spoon," atsumu groans as he sinks further into his seat.

osamu chuckles as he glances over at the drama queen, "think positive! what if she's like hella fine now?"

the two look between each other before bursting out in laughs.

"i'll miss yer goofy ass this summer 'samu!" he says as he wipes a fake tear from his eye.

not even thirty minutes later the sight of tall trees completely consumed the car. the smell of marukawa bubble gum was replaced with fresh water and earthy cedar trees. the road got bumpy as atsumu poked his head out of the window, finally seeing the massive sign marking the entrance of the summer camp: ' firefly valley.'

as osamu slowed the car atsumu instantly started to scratch, "i think i'm allergic ta this place."

"they're called mosquitos--now get outta my car!"

"we won't see each other for almost three months and this is how you wanna say goodbye?" atsumu fakes a pout as he unbuckled his seatbelt making his twin roll his eyes. as osamu pulled his bag out of the car, atsumu looked up at the trees that never seemed to end; and down at the dirt that somehow already got onto his white sneakers.

the feeling of his duffle bag shoved into his chest grabbed atsumu's attention as he looked up to be met with the flash of osamu's digital camera. he sighs with a smile as he pulls the camera from his face, "man, grandma is gonna love this! might even hang it on the fridge." he snickers making atsumu glare but the frustrated feeling is instantly dropped as osamu pulls him into a hug.

"ya better not come back with headgear and a new love for readin'" he teases making atsumu laugh.

"no promises!" he says as he pulls away, "call me when ya get ta the farm."

"i will," osamu waves one final time as he gets into the car, driving off leaving atsumu at the camp. dirt kicks up from the wheels making the faux blond flinch back, unfortunately bumping into someone. he swiftly apologizes as he turns around but he's quickly dismissed as the man doesn't seem phased.

"ya must be atsumu miya," the man smiles, "welcome to camp! i'm kyo," he sticks his hand out and atsumu shakes it with a tight lipped smile. "follow me and i'll show ya the leader cabins and around camp along the way."

with wide eyes, atsumu looks around the camp in awe. even though he just moved to a bigger and busier city--tokyo--he hadn't realized how much he missed this. he was instantly transported back to his earlier summers spent at his grandparents' farm. the bright blue sky created a stunning gradient into the shimmering lake. the trees looked as if they could go on forever--as if they were reaching for the sun. the oh so familiar smell of sunblock attacked his nostrils as the smaller versions of his volleyball nets made a smile creep upon his face.

atsumu looked ahead at the sound of kyo's voice, directing him to his cabin that he would share with other leaders for the next three months. the faux blond thanked him as he rested his bags on the floor beside his bed. the brown-haired man was about to leave before he remembered something.

"make sure to stop by the main office to get yer shirts and badge--someone should be in there to help ya out!" and before atsumu could ask him where exactly the main office was, he was gone.

he sighed as he hooked his sunglasses onto the collar of his t-shirt,. atsumu made his way out of the cabin, looking around intently for any resemblance, or sign that could possibly lead him to his destination.

after about ten minutes of wandering around, the dark green and white building came into his view. one could tell it was old with the way the paint was chipping--the intense weathering it endured was evident.

he opened the screened door to be met with a welcomed blast of air conditioning, a content sigh left his lips as he looked around. the sound of a voice caught his attention leading him to follow it around a corner and into what looked like a waiting area.

the back of a spinny chair was what atsumu first saw. the back of an occupied spinny chair! a finger peeked out as it twirled the cord of the phone, looping and unlooping as you talked on the phone.

"yes, ms.tanaka i will personally make sure that hiro has easy access to his inhaler..." you smiled into the phone, adjusting in your seat completely unaware of the nearly drooling simpleton behind you.

he couldn't see you but he could just tell that you were hot. maybe it was the way he could imagine your perfectly manicured nails combing through his hair as you whispered sweet nothings in his ear with your heavenly voice or maybe he was simply deluded.

"of course, you know i've never let anything happen to hiro--i figure you'd want him back in one piece at the end of the summer...yes yes of course! it is my job," you laugh softly making atsumu's heart skip a beat, "feel free to call back if you have any more questions...alright, I can't wait to see hiro!...have a nice day , bye bye."

as you hang up the phone atsumu can barely contain his excitement as dozens of scenarios run through his mind of what he would say to you--a grin kept sneaking up his lips which he quickly pushed away to keep up his cool facade.

he quickly gets into position as he rests upon the desk, instantly grabbing your attention as he knocks down a pen holder. you whip your head around only to feel the wind get stuck within your throat.

it suddenly becomes hard to breathe as you're unable to say anything let alone move, and you think that you could use hiro's inhaler right about now. your horrified expression makes atsumu's heart drop as he quickly scrambles to pick up the mess he had made.

"h-hey it's alright, i can get it cleaned up real quick!" he awkwardly laughs in nervousness and embarrassment as he realizes he had just made a fool of himself in front of one of the prettiest girls he's ever seen. he tries to fight off the blush on his cheeks, and runs through excuses in his mind--the heat!

you finally manage to catch your breath and look up at him. the boy who made your adolescence a living hell. the man who is now invading one of your safe spaces.

"what do you want?" your tone is harsh, but not harsh enough in your opinion. however, the blond doesn't take much notice as he stares down at you with a goofy look on his face.

"atsumu miya," he sighs dreamily, "name please," he grins, completely oblivious to your look of disgust and the incoherency of his sentence. your eyebrow raises and confusion coats your face. you think he must not recognize you and it's a fair assumption considering you made it a mission to avoid the miyas and the other neighborhood kids once you hit puberty to preserve your sanity...and dignity--what was left of it.

on the other hand, it was as if you had no chance to erase his face from your memory. hell, the universe never gave you a chance to.

"look at the twins! they're committing to that powerhouse school!"

"did you see that atsumu's the best high school setter in japan?"

"can you believe that atsumu's ready been offered to join msby?"

"atsumu looks amazing in his media pictures for msby don't ya think?"

you allowed your expression to soften, "so...you don't know who I am?" you cross your arms over your chest, leaning onto the desk making the blond's hands grow sweaty.

"the girl of ma dreams," he bites down on his lip to hide his smile.

you deadpan before rolling your eyes making atsumu straighten up, "o-or i'd like ta get ta know...if ya let me." he suddenly feels bashful? something the faux blond is greatly unfamiliar with...maybe you were a witch.

you look him up and down, making his cheeks heat up all over again, "i think you'll freak when i tell you." you narrow your gaze at him, unknowingly feeding his supicsions.

in one of his boldest moves of the day, he leans down towards you, "try me," he smirks.

you look up at him through your lashes, quickly thinking of all of his possible reactions. your lips begin to twitch up into an almost wicked smile, "do ya really wanna know?" he you lean up closer towards him, making his heart rate increase.

"more than anythin'," he breathes out, tuning out the sound of his beating heart.

your gaze darkens, "does fishbowls ring a bell?" your sickening smile doesn't dare to falter as you watch atsumu flinch back in confusion, his face twisting into multiple emotions as he tries to process the sound of the cruel nickname leaving your lips.

he leans forward a bit to look at your face, looking for any features that may have resembled his insanely nerdy neighbor.

"...y/n?"

"in the flesh."

notes !

☆ mr. and mrs. miya adore y/n. they have always admired her manners and academic ambition. that led to them always urging the twins to hang out with her and also partially ignited their disdain toward the girl.

☆ y/n never picked up the hyogo accent even though she lived there her whole life. immersion wasn't enough as her parents didn't speak the dialect either. this further isolated y/n from the neighborhood kids.

☆ when y/n said her name atsumu didn't buy it at first until he looked at her closer and noticed the scar that she had on her eyebrow. the same scar that he gave her after throwing a ball at her too hard while trying to be funny. the ball broke her glasses and they cut into her face.

☆ y/n honestly thought she was gonna pass out from lack of airflow to her brain when she saw atsumu again in person after all of those years.

i hope you enjoyed! this is a draft from my wattpad that i'm reworking :) if you'd like to be tagged just let me know!

dividers by @plutism

[xzerosparrowx]

The Guitar

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Day #1 - Prompt: Firsts | Word Count: 861 | Rating: T | CW: Use of homophobic language/slurs | POV: Eddie | Tags: How Eddie Munson got his first guitar, Wayne Munson is Eddie's Dad, Allen Munson, First Christmas, Christmas special.

Eddie lays awake in bed, watching the weak winter morning sun cast its light across the unfamiliar room with tired eyes. He blinks back hot tears as he feels the chill around his ears, remembering the way Allen Munson pulled at his hair, the sound of the electric razor buzzing against his skin. 

Now he was here in his Uncle's trailer, a man he barely knows aside from the few times Al complained about him over the phone. 

“... Says I should stop stealing cars and get a proper job. Wayne doesn't fucking get it, man.”

“Why does he wanna look after that little queer?”

“... Just because he's got no kids, he wants to steal mine.” 

A soft little knock startles him, the shuffle of feet near his door. “Eddie, you awake?” Wayne calls out quietly, a nervous waver in his voice.

“Yea-yes, sir,” Eddie answers, sitting up but not making a move towards the door.

“I'm not- you don't have to call me that, Eddie. You can just call me Wayne,” Eddie hears him sigh, “I'm thinking of making pancakes or waffles, not sure which one you prefer. If you like something more savory for breakfast, I bought eggs and bacon as well.” Wayne rambles, and there is something sad and warm in Eddie’s chest, an old ache that he had now long been accustomed to that Wayne had stumbled upon and brought into sharp focus.

“I-I’m happy with whatever si- Uncle Wayne,” Eddie answers finally, getting up from bed and pulling on a pair of old sweats and a baby blue threadbare sweater. It’s large on his thin frame, a hand-me-down from Wayne, warm and comfortable. 

He hears his Uncle move away from the door and Eddie gathers his courage to step out of the room. A kaleidoscope of twinkling fairy lights meet him, the trailer lit in a beautiful array of colour and tinsel.

Oh yeah, it’s Christmas.

Wayne is standing in the kitchen, pouring a ladle of pancake mix on the hot griddle. Eddie rubs his eyes, forcing the tears away before standing near Wayne and watching him cook. 

“You know how to make pancakes?” his uncle asks, expertly flipping a pancake. Eddie shakes his head, the only time he ever got breakfast was if Al left him money for groceries, which was not often.��  

Wayne pours another ladle in response, before handing the spatula to Eddie, “all you have to do is wait for the bubbles to show up. Once they pop, they’re ready to be flipped. See?” He says, pointing to the little bubbles in the pancake. 

Guided by Wayne, Eddie flips the pancake his uncle beaming down at him when it lands perfectly on it’s uncooked side, “I think we have Julia Childs in the trailer!” Wayne laughs and Eddie cannot help but join him, rolling his eyes good naturedly at his uncle. They continue like that, Wayne ladling the perfect amount of batter on to the griddle and Eddie flipping them with varying degrees of success. 

It’s the first time, since Eddie moved to the trailer a week ago, that living here feels normal. To realise that maybe Wayne is nothing like Al at all. They eat the pancakes in companionable silence, Eddie drowning his in maple syrup while Wayne sprinkles icing sugar and lemon.

“I have a present for you, go sit on the couch,” Wayne says, pushing his plate away and getting up before Eddie can think to protest. Eddie does as he’s told, feeling awkward and unsure again as he listens to Wayne move stuff around. 

“Alright, close your eyes!” Wayne calls and Eddie closes them, he fidgets with his hands, rubs his thumb over his fingers in a soothing back-and-forth. He hears Wayne place something on the coffee table and opens his eyes when Wayne gives him the ok. 

Oh.

Eddie stares at the old, black acoustic guitar in front of him, lovingly stored in its case. There are scratch marks here and there, the leather strap flaking in places, but it gleams under the lights as if it knows that it is a well-used and treasured thing. 

“I’m sorry it’s not a new guitar, but I don’t really use this old girl anymore, so I thought maybe I’ll hand her down to you,” Wayne offers sheepishly, wringing his hands nervously, thumb over his fingers. 

“How- How did you know I wanted one?”

“I remember hearing you ask Al for one,” Wayne says this like it’s natural that he would remember something so small about Eddie, and Eddie breathes through that sad and warm ache in his chest. 

“That was two years ago, Uncle Wayne,” he manages to choke out, he can feel his throat starting to thicken, tears beginning to well up and he watches his uncle trying to fight off his own emotions. 

“Well, you’re a good kid. You deserve something that’s just for you.”

His uncle's arms are strong and comforting when Eddie leaps towards him in a tight hug. Eddie does not remember the last time Al hugged him, but if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend that Wayne had always been his Dad. 

[freaky-wasatch-range]

hey, tumblrstake! I've seen several posts on here about how we wished mormons had more cultural traditions/holidays, so I want to share with y'all my family's memorial day tradition.

every year, about 300+ of my extended family gather in the podunk town of oak city, utah to take over the town hall for the weekend and then serve free breakfast to the town on monday morning. it's called the "edward partridge memorial day breakfast" or 'MDB" for short.

edward partridge immigrated to the U.S. from great britain and was the first ordained bishop of the church. he is my great-great-great-great-great grandfather. edward partridge's grandson, aesel lyman, started the breakfast, declaring that the tradition would continue until edward partridge came and got breakfast himself. today marked the 52nd annual MDB, and this year, we fed 1069 people.

the customary breakfast is: sourdough pancakes (they're really freaking good and the batter is hand-stirred by an army of little kids), fried eggs, fried ham, oak city milk, and an orange juice called Tang. that same army of little kids get the honor of "running" food from the griddles in the town hall's back courtyard to the gym where we serve the breakfast, and of course most of the adults are given a job to do as well (cooking, serving, hospitality, utensil rolling, the most recent newlyweds get to rinse the empty batter buckets with a hose... you get the gist). members of the fam bring their plates straight to the griddles when we want to eat. we all wear special aprons. the atmosphere is always kind of electric :)

the night before, we have a thing called "the program" where we watch the same grandparent-originated skits and sing the same favorites-of-our-grandparents songs that we've been performing for decades.

some other traditions that have endured at the mdb: games of P-I-G (kind of like H-O-R-S-E), a couple hundred people playing bunco at the same time, blasting louis armstrong during the breakfast, a baseball game for the kids, red velvet cake, older kids teaching younger kids to throw mountains of playground-gravel down the slides (I was little when that started and it's been going on for over a decade now lol), and, of course, visiting the oak city cemetery and telling stories about our grandparents.

I'm really blessed that on memorial day I get to spiritually honor my five generations of grandparents buried in oak city instead of just making vague allusions of thanks to the military industrial complex. most white americans have been completely isolated from any kind of ancestral culture/specific traditions (because that's what racist assimilationism demands), so I find our weird and sometimes difficult annual reunion to be really special. whatever this is is mormon culture to me.

so, idk, hopefully this was inspiring and gave you a new way to think about memorial day. I hope that wherever I am in the world, I can continue this tradition with the friends and family I have around, serve a community with free food, and do it in honor of some modern pioneers and martyrs.

here's some photos of my dinosaur, jared, wearing my keffiyeh and hanging out in oak city over the weekend:

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

An Ode to the Homoerotic Friendship

Sometimes I think she was my soulmate. Maybe soulmates are a myth, and she was just a person that I loved. But, no, she was more than that. She was the first person I ever fell in love with.

I loved her. I loved the way her knuckles bent over the bridge of her guitar when she led worship at church. I loved the way her glasses slid down her nose when we studied at the seminary library. I loved that she'd wake up at two in the morning and decide to make pancakes from a box of cake mix. Plug in her electric griddle in the hall of our dorm, sit on the floor, and flip pancakes onto paper towels. I loved that I always knew it was her, because why else would the dorm smell like pancakes in the middle of the night?

I loved that when I had panic attacks, she pulled me into her extra-long twin bed and held me until I calmed. "I'm right here, okay?" she'd say. "I love you. You're safe." She held me afterward, too. So often that three days of the week, I was sleeping in her bed, our bodies curled together. I had never been held before. Never had someone play with my hair like that before. Never woken up next to someone who was soft and warm, someone I loved, and felt her breath hot on my neck. But we were just friends. Or so we told ourselves. It was Christian college, and we were nothing if not devout. We were not allowed to be anything else.

I loved that when we watched movies, I could lay my head on her lap and she'd rest her arm on top of me. Just rest it there. I loved the weight of it, the gentle rhythm of her fingers running through my hair.

Most of all, I loved that she made me feel safe. That she didn’t take energy from me. With her, I could just be. In her senior year, when I was still a sophomore, she took a pottery class for an art credit, and she fell in love with it. She'd spend late nights in the campus studio, working on her art. She tried to teach me, but I hated the texture of clay. So every night after dinner, we'd make our way to the empty studio, and she would sit at the wheel, and I'd sit and write. We played worship music in the background, and we didn't speak for hours. It was beautiful, almost holy.

I often woke up next to her in the mornings, but one morning in particular lingers in my memory. We were alone, her roommate gone home for the weekend. The light streaming in through the sheer curtains was perfect, as beautiful as light through stained glass. It was quiet, early. I remember that she pressed her body into mine. She took my hand and placed it over her waist, so I could hold her closer. Then she buried her head under my chin, wrapping her own arm around me, and I felt lighter in spirit than I have ever felt in my life. It was unbelievable to me, unknown, unthinkable, that she wanted me touching her like that, so close, so intimate. I would never have thought to. It would not have crossed my mind. But here we were, and I could not explain why it felt so good. I could not bear to examine it. I felt the rise and fall of her chest, soft and steady as she slept. I ran my fingers through her hair, and I thought if I could wake up every morning like this, I’d start every day happy.

I never thought I was gay. I never thought that anything we were doing went beyond the bounds of friendship. And maybe it didn’t in the strictest sense. We didn’t have sex. I never even kissed her.

I thought about it just once. In her bed, a double now, at the apartment she moved into after graduating. The apartment I spent every weekend at after classes ended, where I had my own drawer in her bathroom and a quarter of her closet. She was upset about something; I don’t recall what. She’d been crying, and I held her, and I kissed her forehead. I told her that I was here and that everything was going to be okay. When she’d calmed, she apologized for getting snot on my shirt, and I said it was alright, I didn’t care. But she still looked so sad, so fragile, and it hurt everything in me. I wanted her to feel better, I wanted to do something to make her feel better. And for just a moment–just one, small moment–I imagined kissing her. I would kiss her softly, so softly. My fingers gentle against the skin of her face that I knew so well. I wanted to kiss her just to show her that I loved her. That I would take care of her. And for a just a moment I entertained it, tried to rationalize it as a “just friends” kiss. But deep down I knew there was no such thing. That it was more than that, and the thought scared me. So I banished it as quickly as it had come and settled for pulling her close.

When she started seeing the man, I was furious, inexplicably outraged. I nearly cried when she told me, voice giddy, about how he taught her to French kiss.

"What did you think would happen?" she demanded. "That we would never find husbands? That we would live together forever? Why can't you just be happy for me?"

My face was red and angry. I felt like crying. "I don't know," I admitted. Later, at home, hot, angry tears streaked down my face. I think I did know, then, why I was so angry, so hurt. But I was not willing to admit it to myself.

I was her maid of honor when they married. And after the wedding, when we all took photos, she asked for one with just me. She wrapped me in her arms and placed a kiss on my cheek. After the reception, I sat in my car in a hotel parking lot and wept. Because I knew, then. I finally knew. I thought I was scared that I would never find someone I loved enough to marry. But, no, that wasn't true. I was scared the only people I loved enough to marry were women.

I was three years into graduate school before I came out of the closet. I'd stay awake at night, wondering if I was going to hell. I'd look at myself in the mirror and practice saying it, "I'm a lesbian," and "I'm gay," as if I were reviving a dead language. She was married, had a child, and when I called to tell her, she said, "I still love you."

But it was an I love you in spite of... rather than a true I love you. "You can still honor God," she pleaded with me, when I told her I didn't really care if I went to hell. I was too relieved to be myself. "I'm not naturally attracted to men, either. But I love my husband!" I tried to explain that when I loved her in college, it hadn't been like a friend. That the things we did, we said, we felt, those were not the markers of friendship. They were markers of more. But she wasn't ready. And I was.

We don't speak anymore. Not for years now. I grew weary of the way she'd imply that I was living a life of sin. Weary of dredging up the Ancient Greek we'd spent so long learning at the library, debating the finer points of Koine translation to justify myself. Most of all, I grew weary of her indifference–when I'd get called a dyke on the street, when I'd get cornered at work by church members praying for my "freedom" from my lifestyle. She didn't care. She might even condone.

And there came a day where I knew that I could never make her be ready. And that I'd have to let her go, no matter how badly I wanted her to be ready, too.

Sometimes I see her on social media. Her and her husband and their children, at an Easter service or picnicking or throwing a birthday party. And I miss her. Or, rather, I miss who we used to be together. But there is no getting that back. And, truth be told, I am better for it.

I wonder if, twenty years from now, when her children are grown and her marriage stale and fractured, if she will finally, finally be ready. If I get a phone call, will I answer it? If she finally says, "When I loved you in college, it was not like a friend," will I want to hear? All I know is that I am not willing to wait to hear it.

I hope that when I get that call, I am old and happy and have a wife who knows the wrinkles of my face and the brand of toothpaste I like. I hope we still dance badly in the kitchen, that we laugh together, that when we go to sleep, we hold each other close, and it no longer feels illicit to me. I hope I love my wife so much that I have not thought of her in twenty years. So that when she calls, I say, "Oh, I'd forgotten." And the memory is just that: a memory.

[solarisstyles]

MS. HONEY: TEACHER APPRECIATION WEEK

Pairing: Harry Styles x F!Reader Word Count: 2.7k+ Warnings: tooth rotting fluff! Summary: It takes a village to raise a special needs child. Gemma's son is growing up and starting kindergarten in the fall. Uncle Harry is struggling with not being able to spend all day, everyday, with his nephew who he's grown quite attached to. When he accompanies Gemma and Arlo on his first day of school, he meets Ms.Honey. Harry decides Kindergarten might not be so bad after all. A/N: For the sake of the story, Gemma and Harry live in the states. I know more about the school system in America than the UK so it just made sense! This story is not meant to be a 100% depiction of what a family of this dynamic is like. Harry and Gemma Styles are very real people and are only being used for fictional purposes!

*please like and reblog to help your local fic writers*

Dear Students and Parents,

This week is Teacher Appreciation Week! Every day this week we will be celebrating our staff and teachers to let them know how much we care for them. Below is a list for what the theme will be each day this week. Help us show our teachers and staff how much we appreciate their hard work! 

-Mrs.Rina(Principal)

Monday:

We’re Muffin Without You!- Surprise a staff member or teacher with their favorite treat.

Tuesday:

Tasty Tuesday!- Volunteer to serve a sponsored breakfast.

Wednesday:

We’re WILD About Our Staff!- Thank a staff member with their favorite flower, or a gift/hand made picture of their favorite animal.

Thursday:

Thankful Thursday!- Treat a staff member with a gift card or hand made card!

Friday:

Phantasmagoric Palette!- Ask your teacher her/his favorite color and wear it!

- - - - - - - -

Sunday;

Sunday mornings are Harry’s favorite day of the week. Sitting with Gemma at her dining room table with a hot cup of tea in front of him. He watched Gemma scoot about through her kitchen to make Arlo breakfast. 

Scooby Doo was on the TV in the living room for Arlo to watch while he played with his legos. His occasional giggles would make Harry smile a little brighter.

“You’re daydreaming again.” Gemma said while flipping a pancake on the electric griddle.

Shifting his gaze from the window to his sister, he looked at her bashfully, then glanced back down to his tea, “Sorry. You know it’s hard to stop once I start.”

A plate of pancakes was sat down in front of him along with a bottle of syrup, engulfing his senses with the sweet and buttery smell.

“Eat. It’ll perk you up some.” Gemma ordered, giving him a small smile.

Rolling his eyes, Harry picked up his fork and poured some syrup on the pancakes. Using his fork to cut them up and eat them while he slowly sipped on his tea in between bites.

“So, what’s got you in such a daze?” Gemma asked, plating up more pancakes for her and Arlo.

Harry hesitated to answer, nervous about how Gemma would react. He pushed the syrup around on his plate, dragging his fork through it as a distraction while he built up the nerve. “You remember a few weeks ago when we all helped with the field day?” he asked, glancing up at his sister.

Setting the plates down on the table, Gemma leaned against the table with one hand while propping the other on her hip, “Of course I do. What about it?” she asked, arching an eyebrow suspiciously.

“When everyone left, it was just me and Honey. She noticed my face was sunburned and pulled out some aloe to rub on my face. Uh, well…I might have made a move on her and we kissed.” Harry rambled, blushing madly.

Gemma stared at him with a mixture of astoundment and unsurprised. “Well for one I’m shocked you had your first kiss in her classroom, but I’m also not shocked after that little water balloon fight you both had. The tension is thick enough for a knife to cut.”

“I’ve never had a first kiss like this Gemma.” he sighed, setting down his fork. “There were fireworks. Not sparks. Fireworks. I’m positive she felt them too.”

“Sounds like Harry is in loveee.” Gemma teased, cutting up Arlo’s pancakes for him, then calling him to the table.

Harry felt a giant knot in his stomach. Love. That was a big word to use for somebody he wasn’t officially dating. It’s not something he can confidently say he’s ever experienced to know the signs either.

“Harry?”

“What?”

“Don’t overthink it.” Gemma said, sitting next to him and starting to eat her own pancakes. “By the way! Next week is Teacher Appreciation Week. The flier is hanging on the fridge if you want to look at it.” Pointing to the fridge with his fork.

Glancing at the fridge, Harry saw the piece of paper Gemma was talking about. “Did you plan on doing anything?” Harry asked, looking back to Gemma.

“Of course.” Gemma said as if it was obvious. “There might be some days you can do too. So give it a look when you’re done.”

Quickly finishing up his breakfast, he took his plate and mug to the sink, rinsing it off before turning to the fridge to read over the theme for each day. “Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday seem the most open for me.” patting his pants to make sure he had his wallet and phone, he looked back over to Gemma, “I’m running to the store to pick up a few things. Do you need anything?” he asked, pulling his phone out to snap a picture of the paper.

Amused by Harry’s sudden urgency, she shook his head, “We’re fine. Go buy your gifts for your girl.” she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

- - - - - - - -

Monday:

We’re Muffin Without You!

As all your students entered the room, they quickly came up to you with excitement to give you the treats their parents had picked out. You assure them that you would look through each gift at the end of the day and that they’ve made you feel extremely loved today.

The day came and went with ease, not having any major hiccups to tend to with your students. Easy days like these were always cherished in your classroom.

As dismissal came around and your kids slowly left, you leaned back in your chair and sighed. The silence welcomed you in a warm embrace till it was interrupted by a soft knock on your door. Looking up to see Harry standing there with a soft smile on his face as he admired you.

“Sorry for interrupting your down time. I just wanted to personally drop this off to you.” he said, holding up a grocery bag.

Beckoning him inside, you sat up in your chair, “Well bring it here then.” you said, making grabby hands for the bag.

Harry laughed, walking over to you and handing you the bag, which you accepted with glee.

Opening the bag, you glanced at its contents and gasped, pulling out the container of banana nut muffins.  “For the sweet to my nut.” you read the writing scribbled on top of the container. Snorting with laughter, you covered your mouth in embarrassment. 

Harry looked at you amused, “You like that?” he asked, trying not to laugh himself.

“I love it.” you assured him, popping open the container to grab a muffin. “Banana nut is my favorite.” taking a bite out of the muffin you couldn’t help but moan, “Oh my God these are amazing!” you raved, looking at the brand he bought. “I’ll have to remember this next time I go grocery shopping!”

Puffing his chest out proudly, Harry smiled, brushing off his shoulder “Yeah, not to brag but I’ve got good taste.” he shrugged.

You rolled your eyes fondly, “Well I appreciate your good taste. Thank you.” setting down your muffin, and leaning over your desk to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

His green eyes looked back into your own as you pulled away, an emotion swimming in them that you couldn’t quite put a finger on identifying.

Gently caressing your cheek, he then softly spoke, “There’s more to come for you this week darling. I hope you expect to be spoiled.” giving a small smile and a playful wink, he kissed your cheek in return. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” you softly said in return, leaning into his touch.

Giving you a final kiss to your forehead, he said goodbye, smiling at your gentle gentle echo of a farewell as he walked out the classroom door.

- - - - - - - -

Wednesday:

We’re WILD About Our Staff!- Thank a staff member with their favorite flower, or a gift/hand made picture of their favorite animal.

“Oh my goodness! Thank you so much Arlo!” you gushed as he handed you the stuffed lion. Flashbacks to the zoo played through your head as you admired the small stuffed animal. 

Arlo giggled at your reaction, “Zoo!” he said, clearly having the same thoughts as you. 

You nodded enthusiastically, “Yes! That’s exactly what I thought of too. Thank you Bub.” The nickname has grown on you since hearing Harry speak it so fondly.

As you were in the middle of your reading lesson, there was a knock on the door. Pausing where you were, you walked over and opened it. Nancy stood there with a giddy smile on her face and an arm full of wildflowers, “special delivery!” she said, handing them off to you.

“Oh, wow!” you said, cradling the vase in your arms. “Who are they from?” you asked, looking from the flowers to her.

Nancy smiled at you, “Oh, just some guy. Called himself Mr.Honey.” she winked, turning to walk back to the front desk.

Sighing and shaking your head, you gently closed the door and walked the flowers back to your desk. Some of the boys making teasing remarks about you having a crush which just made you laugh.

Adjusting the vase to sit perfectly on your desk, you sniffed the flowers, humming happily at the sweet smell. Pulling the small card out of the bouquet you opened it to read the note inside.

‘A queen bee as beautiful as you deserves flowers just as stunning and radiant. When you look at these and think of how pretty they are, I want you to know that’s how I feel when I look at you. -Mr.Honey.’

“Who are they from Ms.Honey?!” Sean called out, bouncing in his chair. The other students looked up at you with wide curious eyes.

Laughing, you shook your head. Of course this had all of their attention and you couldn’t blame them. If you saw somebody get handed a beautiful vase of flowers you would be nosy too. “It’s a secret admirer.” you teased, tucking the note into your desk away from their prying eyes. “Let’s focus back on our reading okay?” you decided to redirect, going back to the front of the classroom and continuing your lesson.

Later that afternoon you called Harry to personally thank him for the flowers. You made sure they arrived home with care and now have them sitting in the window sill of your kitchen that’s right above your sink.

“I was expecting you.” he answered, causing you to giggle.

“I wanted to tell you about these beautiful flowers I got today.”

“Flowers? Somebody’s got a crush.” he teased.

You couldn’t help but play along. “Yeah, he calls himself Mr.Honey and thinks I’m beautiful.”

“He sounds extremely charming. You should give him a chance.”

“I think I will. He’s pretty cute and goofy himself.”

Harry laughed, and it was then that you decided you wanted to make him laugh till his stomach hurt. Till he was laughing so hard he was silent with tears streaming down his face. Chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Butterflies invaded your stomach and your heart skipped a beat at the thought.

“I’m glad you loved the flowers Honey. By the way, you can plant them in your garden and it’s supposed to attract honey bees.”

Placing your hand over your heart, your bottom lip pouted outward, “Harry, that’s so thoughtful. I can’t believe how much thought you put into this.”

“It’s what you do for those you l-...really like.” he caught himself. Pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his face as he cringed at the almost slip up.

Thankfully you didn’t catch it though, only smiling and shaking your head as you admired the flowers. “Well, I’m glad the feeling is mutual.” the both of you were blushing like crazy on both ends of the phone. This phase took the both of you back to your youth, being up on the phone late at night with your crush, whispering cute things to each other, and refusing to hang up.

“Oh, guess what Arlo gave me today!” you said, suddenly remembering the cute gift.

“I can only imagine.” Harry chuckled. “What did he give you?”

“A stuffed lion.” you said proudly. “It reminded him of the zoo so he wanted me to have it.” picking up the stuffed animal, you held it close against your chest. “I adore that kid.”

Harry smiled at the memory, not a doubt in his mind that Arlo saw the lion and threw a fit until Gemma would buy it for you. “I adore him too. He can be off the wall but he’s a sweet kid.”

“He really is. I don’t think I would have signed on for another two years at the school if it weren’t for him.” Thinking back on the bond you had with your students, they all had their special connection to you, but you couldn’t help but feel drawn to Arlo and favor him a little bit.

“Honey, that's great!” Harry exclaimed, happy to know Arlo will get to see you for two more years.

A soft giggle slipped past your lips, “I thought you’d be happy to hear that.” 

“I’m over the moon.” Harry softly said. “I hate to cut this call short but I had an early day and my bed is calling my name. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course. Go get your beauty sleep.”

“Hmm, Goodnight Honey.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

- - - - - - - -

Thursday:

Thankful Thursday!- Treat a staff member with a gift card or hand made card!

Overwhelmed was the only word to describe it. Walking into your classroom the next morning, you were greeted by a large basket on your desk full of gifts. Slowly setting down your bag, you stood over the basket and admired it. Spotting a gift tag, you gently opened it to see who it was from.

To: Ms.Honey

From: Your Worker Bees

All the parents had gotten together to put together this gift basket for you from the class. You didn’t know what you did in a past life to get such an amazing class.

Pulling open the ribbon, you removed the plastic wrapping to see what all was inside. Mixed with the cute gifts were a few cards as well. You couldn’t wait to read them when you got home this afternoon. One of the moms made you a custom t-shirt, another personally made you a tumbler cup, some of the dad’s even pitched in a home depot gift card to be funny.

As if you couldn’t get any more emotional, each kid came in and handed you a homemade card they did themselves. The love these kids have for you, the impact you’ve made in such a short amount of time, is why you love this job. They’ve given you a purpose in life to live and you were determined to make them feel that love right back.

So, as a thank you for being such an awesome group of kids, you made popcorn and watched movies all day. Nothing fueled your happiness like the sounds of them happily chattering to one another or laughing during the film. Work could definitely wait.

Later that evening you sat down and decided to read the cards from the parents. You’d held it together pretty well until you got to Gemma’s card.

Ms. Honey,

This week is all about you and rightfully so. Words can not describe how thankful I am to have you as Arlo’s teacher. You’ve helped ease every worry I have, answering all my emails, and even my texts. The bond you and Arlo have is something I would have never imagined. He’s learned so much from you. Things I would have never had the patience to teach him. You make him feel safe and that’s all I could ever want for my child around another adult. If it wasn’t for you(and Harry honestly) I’m sure I’d be one short mishap to a ward. Thank you for all you’ve done and continue to do. My family has become infinitely happier since you’ve buzzed into our lives. You’re an amazing teacher, and an amazing friend to us parents.

Yours sweetly, Gemma

Ps- Sorry for the bee pun Pss- Not really though

TAG LIST: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @justlemmeadoreyou @squirreljoe @end-of-the-earth @behindmygreyeyes

[bestpickme]

5 Best Electric Skillet on Sale 2023

[freeced]

Hailing Frequencies (Part 1)

[art by @pockamune]

Lylack fiddled with the controls. There wasn't really anything to do with them right then, so the fiddling was redundant. Like playing an electric fiddle that wasn't plugged in. Electric fiddle, Lylack thought. Electric griddle. Mm...

The lanky springhare stretched both legs out onto the control panel and looked to their left, where a monument of empty Zapfood boxes regarded them balefully. It had been too long since the last stop, Lylack decided. Stocking up on packaged food didn't mean stocking up on proper meals, and the sooner they got to where they were going, the better. Back home, they would have simply stopped off at whatever highway diner happened along, confident that, wherever you are in the world, a pancake is more or less flat and edible.

Only, they weren't in the world anymore. They were in space, and whatever its charms, the vastness of the interstellar universe meant it wasn't just lacking in diners, it was lacking in everything. Between the little life-preserving systems ringed around their favorite life-sustaining stars, you weren't looking for friendly rest stop billboards so much as for two full atoms to rub together. There was nothing. And...

No one.

Lylack wouldn't have told you they were an introvert. You never would have had the chance to ask. For as long as they could remember, they had been burrowed away working on their little pet projects and flights of fancy, taking in society as a snorkel takes in air: a regrettable necessity that prevents its wearer from diving even further out of sight. It wasn't a question of how often they felt the need to be around other people, but how often their presence was required. In fact, it was one of the main reasons they had taken this job as an intergalactic bar delivery driver—the solitude, they assumed, would be comforting. And as it turned out, it was.

Yet, thought Lylack, as they checked the scanners for the millionth pointless time. Yet.

There was a difference between solitude and being all alone. It didn't set in right away, and it had a habit of fading from your mind when you were back on solid ground again. But these times, these long hauls, halfway between somewhere and somewhere else, just as far from anything as anything could be—this wasn't just a quiet place to think, it was a silence so intense it laid a blanket on your brain. Dimensions lost their shape, time became confused and seemed to go on only when you looked the other way. The clear sense of identity that tended to emerge from contemplation lost its balance way out here, unsure of the borders between the fathomless recesses of your mind and the beckoning infinity of space. At least, it did without a couple decent meals to spice things up.

Lylack glanced back over at the stack of Zapfood boxes over there on the floor. The portside cabin deck, they tried to glue into their brain. Not for the first time this trip, they considered going back into the cargo area to liberate a case of what this whole workaday voyage was supposed to be about.

Any decently advanced outpost had a food substantiator capable of synthesizing anything a bar or club might need—everything, that is, except the alcohol it made its money on. It was true that some quaint little places here and there still brewed their drinks the old fashioned way, but by and large, an operation of that kind relied on too many moving parts when you considered that most planets didn't even have an atmosphere thick enough to support traditional agriculture, never mind a business-minded person who might be carrying such antiquated expertise. To synthesize alcoholic drinks, then, as was standard practice, you needed a Wine, Beer, and Spirits Substantiator (WBSS) and a license to operate it, both items prohibitively expensive for any average establishment to bear up on its own. (There were also similar machines and licenses for other controlled substances—Lylack didn't concern themselves with these because it was enough headache remembering their own employer's ones.)

In fact, there was no actual difference in hardware between a regular food substantiator and one labeled as a WBSS, but manufacturers were required to lock unauthorized features safely away from consumer use. Tampering with a food substantiator with the intent to create illegal goods was punishable by severe fines, or, if done with intent to sell, imprisonment. The law, as is typical, ended up as a matter of cost, and it was far easier for most bar owners to turn a profit ordering their stock from light years away than to invest in legal manufacture locally or risk getting caught up in the aftermath of a smuggling operation gone bad.

It was a long way of convincing themselves that this delivery job was necessary, Lylack decided. They didn't decide whether their job actually was necessary, though. Not now. That was too much to think about out here where a vague sense of purpose could be the only line towing you along. Here where navigating scattered asteroids would feel like walking happily among a crowded room. Here where you'd give anything to see the screen light up with anything you hadn't entered in yourself. Here where—

It was lighting up.

Lylack scrambled to pull their legs back off the panel, and in so doing, lost their balance completely, tumbling backwards over the captain's chair and accidentally mashing keys as their long feet bounced off the controls. A comm link opened.

Lylack bounded back up behind the chair, their black-tipped ears making the first appearance, followed by a mess of purple hair and deep brown eyes that looked inquisitively up at the viewing screen. "Hello?" they said, squinting at the fuzzy image wavering in front of them until it resolved into a fuzzy face that squinted back before opening its own eyes wide.

The face opened its mouth as the comm speaker chattered to life. "Lylack?" it asked hesitantly, in a voice that cracked like sweet milk tea poured over lots of ice.

"Lylack, is that you?"

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

I don't think pancakes are gonna fix this. I need ice cream too, for the band/whoever you want!

okay full disclosure, i'm a little bit terrified to post this. I've never done this ship before 🙈 or this trope/plot device... but. due to the typical people at fault for the fics that enter my brain... (*ahem* @narcissusbrokenmirror and unnamed party who DOESN'T DO TUMBLR) it exists. and meant I finally had something to write that fit this prompt! (and there's a little treat in here for you) I hope someone likes it 😅 a part II is also planned. just... later.

“Heeeeeey Lukey, you’re up early,” Reggie exclaims from in front of his electric griddle. He’s been busy making pancakes for their weekly band brunch. “Where’ve you been?”

Luke stares, unseeing, as he moves through the motions of removing his shoes by the door. He’d just gotten back home after running out unexpectedly a few hours earlier. Only Willie had been awake early enough to see him off.

“Luke?” Reggie calls back out from the kitchen.

Luke doesn’t answer. He just rounds the doorway into Reggie’s sightline. 

Reggie looks up from pouring the next batch of pancakes, almost dropping the bowl when he catches sight of Luke’s face. It’s very nearly expressionless and entirely unlike Luke.

He recovers quickly and sets the bowl  gently on the counter before bounding over to Luke. 

“Luke? Buddy?” Reggie asks, trying to catch Luke’s gaze. “What happened?”

Luke opens and closes his mouth, trying to speak but can’t manage to make sound.

“Alex! Willie?” Reggie calls desperately, raising his voice loudly enough to ensure they hear him.

They both appear almost instantly.

“What’s-” Alex starts to ask before catching sight of Luke and cutting himself off. 

“Something’s wrong,” Reggie cries, panic edging into his voice. 

Alex runs a hand through his hair as he gulps in a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s…” he looks around the kitchen and then back out to the living room. “Let’s get him sitting down somewhere.” 

Alex and Reggie each grab one of Luke’s arms and try to steer him toward the couch. 

Reggie suddenly drops the arm he’d been holding and turns back toward the kitchen. “Shit! The-”

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Willie assures him, picking up the flipper. They gesture back toward Luke. “You take care of Luke, I’ll finish these.”

Reggie sends them a small grateful smile and grabs back hold of Luke. He helps Alex guide Luke to the couch where they gently set him down.

Reggie kneels in front of Luke, trying again to catch his gaze. When he fails, he sets a hand on each of Luke’s knees. The contact seems to jolt Luke back to reality, at least slightly. 

Alex sits next to him on the sofa. Luke leans into his side and Alex wraps an arm around Luke’s shoulders.

“I got you. We’ve got you. You’re okay,” Alex murmurs softly. 

Luke’s eyes go glassy as he settles back into the present, soaking in the comforting presence of his best friends. 

Reggie decides to try again. “What’s going on?”

Luke raises his eyes to meet Reggie’s. “Carrie’s pregnant.”

Reggie jumps back in surprise while Alex’s brow furrows. 

“Carrie… Like Carrie Wilson,” Alex confirms. 

Luke nods. 

“Why…? Luke…” Alex pulls back slightly and turns so he can face Luke. “Luke, why would that affect you?”

Luke looks up at Alex with sad eyes. 

Reggie’s eyes widen in understanding. “Luke! When? Carrie?! How?” he stammers through his shock.

Luke takes a deep breath and pulls himself fully away from Alex. He clasps his hands together and stares at them to  avoid looking at Alex or Reggie. “The night of  the Billboards,” he explains.

“You and Carrie?” Reggie asks again, disbelief still present in his voice.

Luke nods. 

“How? I mean. It’s Carrie. And you. I just…”

“I know. It just… happened.”

“And you never told us?” Alex chimes in, betrayed.

Luke shakes his head. 

“Okay. Don’t think we won’t be revisiting that later. But. Is she okay? Does she know what she wants to do? Do you know what you want her to do?”

Another shake of Luke’s head. He collapses back into Alex. 

Reggie climbs up to wrap his arms around both of them. “You know we’ve got you, right? No matter what,” he murmurs.

Luke nods into Alex’s chest. 

Reggie’s thighs start burning from how he’s perched for their little huddle. He’s just about to pull away when they hear the apartment door open and close. 

“Julie,” Reggie whispers. As always, she’s perfectly on time for brunch.

The three of them pull apart. “Do you want her to know?” Alex asks sincerely.

Luke’s mouth opens in an attempt to answer but his efforts are stalled as they hear Willie call out from the kitchen, very obviously warning them of Julie’s arrival. “They’re in the living room.”

The guys don’t speak as they watch the doorway for Julie. 

Julie enters the room and immediately stops. She takes in their state and her face scrunches up in concern.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, slow and wary. 

Alex and Reggie both turn to Luke, waiting to follow his lead. He looks up at Reggie with wide, pleading eyes. 

Reggie furrows his brow in silent question. At Luke’s slight nod, he turns back to Julie. “Carrie’s pregnant,” he tells her, rushing through the pair of words as if it’ll make it easier to say. And hear.

“Okaaaaay,” she counters slowly. 

“It’s Luke’s,” he adds just as quickly. 

Julie turns wide, disbelieving eyes on Luke. “Really?”

He nods. 

“Shit.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment before she breaks it. “Are you okay?”

Luke’s eyes fill with tears and he shakes his head. 

Julie walks over to the couch and shoves Luke and Alex over to make room. She wedges herself between Luke and the arm of the sofa.  Julie takes Luke’s hand and gently strokes the back of it with her thumb. “Tell me about it?” she offers.

“There’s nothing to tell, really. We were both pissed at how the Billboards went, hooked up, never spoke about it again. Until…”

“Yeah,” Julie softly responds, saving him from having to finish the sentence. 

“There’s a uh… lot of details missing there, Luke,” Reggie chimes in. 

Alex swats Reggie’s shoulder with the back of his hand. 

Reggie rubs his shoulder and glares at Alex. “That are totally none of our business,” he adds hastily.

“It was so… stupid!” Luke exclaims. He pulls his hand back from Julie. He scrubs at his face before running his hands up into his hair. He leans over to rest his elbows on his knees, supporting his face in his hands.

“Hey,” Julie counters gently, pulling his hands away from his head. “Hey, I think we all did some pretty stupid shit that night.”

“We did?!” Reggie squeaks.

“We did,” Julie confirms. She averts her gaze but the blush rising up her face is unmistakable. 

Reggie narrows his eyes at her. “What stupid shit did Julie do?”

“We’re not talking about me right now.”

“Hm. Well, maybe knowing Julie’s stupid shit will make Luke feel better,” Reggie counters, looking pointedly at Luke. 

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Julie says, drawing out the ‘yeah’ to make her doubt clear.

Luke lifts his gaze up, trying to catch hers. He narrows his eyes. “What did you do, Julie?”

“I… really don’t think you want to know. Forget I said anything.”

Luke cocks his head and looks at her sideways. “You know that’s not gonna happen.”

Julie stands. She turns toward them and then back away, uncertainty lacing every movement. 

“Julie?” Alex tries. “Jules, it can’t be that bad.”

“It’s not that bad if I keep it to myself,” she murmurs.

Luke lets out a good-humoured scoff, “It’s not like you hooked up with Bobby or something.”

Julie stops in her tracks. Her eyes widen and she gapes at them. 

Luke’s expression shifts to mimic hers. “You hooked up with Bobby?!” He exclaims, disbelieving and angry.

Alex sets a calming hand on Luke’s knee. Luke brushes it off. 

Alex quickly glares at Luke before redirecting his attention to Julie, “Okay well, you’re not pregnant too, right?”

“No!” Julie assures them. “I mean, probably. I don’t think so… No. No, I can’t be. I’m not.”

“Are you and Bobby like… together?” Luke asks slowly. 

Julie shakes her head. “No. No, it was just… We got lost in the chaos of everything that night. I swear. It only happened the once,” she pauses to consider before continuing, “Well, the one night.”

Luke’s face twists up in disgust, “Ew. Gross. I do not want to know. You’re right. I don’t feel better.” He groans. “But at least I didn’t hook up with… him.” Luke’s expression contorts into a final  grimace.

Alex sighs, “Okay, can we get back to the issue at hand?”

“Pancakes?” Reggie exclaims hopefully. 

“No, Reggie. Not pancakes.”

“Pancakes fix everything,” Reggie mumbles. “Sue me for trying to help. Though… they’re probably cold by now…”

“I don't think pancakes are gonna fix this… We need ice cream too,” Luke murmurs. 

Reggie jumps up and bounds toward the kitchen. “Willie! Willie, we need to dig out the ice cream to have with our pancakes! It’s an emergency. What kinds do we have?” He trips over his feet in his enthusiasm, just barely managing to recover before face planting on the floor. 

Alex, Luke, and Julie shake their heads fondly as they watch him leave. 

Julie turns back around to Luke. She crouches in front of him and takes his hands. “We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good. Let’s just… never talk about it again please?”

Julie nods her agreement. “You bet. Are you going to be okay?”

“No, but we’ll figure it out. We always do, right?”

Julie smiles up at him. “Right.”

“And we’re all here with and for you,” Alex confirms. He puts his hand on Luke’s back. “All of it. No matter what.”

Luke directs a sad smile at Alex. “Thanks, man.”

Alex nods once in acknowledgement. “Should we go see what kind of mess those two have managed to create in the last three minutes?”

Luke and Julie cough out matching laughs. Julie stands, pulling Luke up with her. She squeezes his hands twice before letting one go and pulling him toward the kitchen.

[denvrestequip36]

Denver Restaurant Equipment

Denver Restaurant Equipment: The Essential Guide for Aspiring Restaurateurs

Introduction

Denver, Colorado, known for its vibrant culture, scenic beauty, and booming culinary scene, is an ideal city for aspiring restaurateurs. However, the journey from dream to reality involves many intricate details, one of the most crucial being the acquisition of the right restaurant equipment. Whether you're opening a cozy café, a bustling bistro, or a high-end dining establishment, understanding the landscape of Denver restaurant equipment is vital. This guide delves into the nuances of choosing, purchasing, and maintaining restaurant equipment in Denver, offering insights and tips to help you navigate this essential aspect of your culinary venture.

Understanding the Importance of Quality Restaurant Equipment

Before diving into the specifics, it's important to comprehend why quality equipment is fundamental to any restaurant's success. High-quality restaurant equipment ensures efficiency, consistency, and safety in your kitchen operations. It can significantly affect the speed of service, the quality of food, and overall customer satisfaction. Investing in reliable equipment minimizes downtime due to breakdowns and reduces long-term maintenance costs. Moreover, it adheres to health and safety regulations, which is crucial for maintaining a reputable business.

Types of Essential Restaurant Equipment

Cooking Equipment

Ovens and Ranges: The backbone of any kitchen, ovens and ranges come in various types, including convection ovens, deck ovens, and combi ovens. Each type serves different cooking needs, from baking and roasting to steaming and grilling.

Grills and Griddles: Ideal for preparing a variety of dishes, from steaks to pancakes, grills and griddles are essential for any kitchen aiming to offer a diverse menu.

Fryers: Essential for any establishment that serves fried foods, fryers come in countertop and floor models, with options for gas or electric power.

Refrigeration Equipment

Walk-in Coolers and Freezers: These provide ample storage for perishable items, ensuring they remain fresh and safe to use.

Reach-in Refrigerators and Freezers: Convenient for quick access to frequently used ingredients, these units come in various sizes and configurations.

Undercounter Refrigeration: Perfect for smaller kitchens or specific stations, undercounter units save space and provide efficient cooling right where it's needed.

Food Preparation Equipment

Mixers and Blenders: From dough mixers to high-speed blenders, these tools are vital for preparing a wide range of dishes and beverages.

Food Processors: These versatile machines can chop, slice, and puree ingredients, speeding up prep work and ensuring consistency.

Slicers: Essential for delis and sandwich shops, slicers provide uniform cuts for meats, cheeses, and vegetables.

Storage and Shelving

Dry Storage Shelving: Proper shelving is crucial for keeping dry goods organized and accessible. Stainless steel shelves are durable and easy to clean.

Pantries and Cabinets: Secure storage for utensils, cookware, and ingredients helps maintain an efficient and clutter-free kitchen.

Cleaning and Sanitation

Dishwashers: From undercounter models to large conveyor dishwashers, these machines ensure your dishes, glasses, and utensils are clean and sanitized.

Sinks and Faucets: Multiple compartment sinks and pre-rinse faucets are essential for washing produce, pots, pans, and other kitchen tools.

Sanitizing Stations: Essential for maintaining health standards, these stations include handwashing sinks and sanitizer dispensers.

Smallwares and Utensils

Pots and Pans: A variety of sizes and types, including non-stick, stainless steel, and cast iron, are necessary for different cooking methods.

Cutlery: Quality knives and cutting tools are essential for efficient and safe food preparation.

Utensils and Gadgets: From spatulas and ladles to thermometers and measuring cups, having the right tools can make a significant difference in kitchen operations.

Choosing the Right Equipment Supplier in Denver

Selecting a reliable equipment supplier is crucial for getting quality products and excellent customer service. Here are some factors to consider when choosing a supplier in Denver:

Reputation and Reviews: Look for suppliers with positive reviews and a good reputation in the industry. Word-of-mouth recommendations from fellow restaurateurs can also be valuable.

Product Range: Ensure the supplier offers a wide range of equipment from reputable brands. This variety allows you to compare and choose the best options for your needs.

Service and Support: A good supplier should provide comprehensive support, including delivery, installation, and maintenance services. Check if they offer warranties and after-sales support.

Price and Financing Options: Compare prices from different suppliers to get the best deals. Additionally, inquire about financing options if you need to manage your budget more effectively.

Local Expertise: Suppliers with local knowledge can offer insights into Denver's market trends and regulations, helping you make informed decisions.

Navigating Health and Safety Regulations

Compliance with health and safety regulations is non-negotiable in the restaurant industry. In Denver, the Department of Public Health and Environment oversees these regulations. Key areas to focus on include:

Food Handling and Storage: Ensure your equipment supports proper food handling and storage practices to prevent contamination and spoilage.

Sanitation Standards: Equip your kitchen with the necessary tools for maintaining hygiene, such as commercial dishwashers, handwashing stations, and sanitizers.

Fire Safety: Install fire suppression systems, smoke detectors, and fire extinguishers as required by local regulations. Regular maintenance of cooking equipment can also prevent fire hazards.

Ventilation and Air Quality: Proper ventilation systems are essential for maintaining air quality and preventing the buildup of smoke and grease.

Accessibility: Ensure your establishment complies with the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) by providing accessible facilities and equipment.

Sustainable and Energy-Efficient Equipment

With increasing awareness of environmental issues, many restaurateurs are opting for sustainable and energy-efficient equipment. Benefits include reduced utility bills, a smaller carbon footprint, and positive customer perception. Here are some tips for choosing eco-friendly equipment:

Energy Star Ratings: Look for equipment with Energy Star certification, which indicates high energy efficiency.

Eco-Friendly Materials: Choose equipment made from sustainable materials, such as stainless steel, which is durable and recyclable.

Water Efficiency: Opt for water-efficient dishwashers and faucets to reduce water consumption and waste.

Waste Management: Implement waste management practices, such as composting and recycling, and choose equipment that supports these efforts.

Local Sourcing: Whenever possible, source equipment and ingredients locally to reduce transportation emissions and support the local economy.

Financing Your Restaurant Equipment

Purchasing restaurant equipment can be a significant investment. Fortunately, several financing options are available to help manage costs:

Leasing: Leasing equipment allows you to conserve capital and upgrade to newer models as needed. It also includes maintenance and repair services.

Loans and Credit Lines: Business loans and lines of credit from banks or other financial institutions can provide the necessary funds for purchasing equipment.

Vendor Financing: Some suppliers offer financing options directly, which can be convenient and tailored to your purchase.

Government Grants and Programs: Explore local and federal programs that offer grants or low-interest loans for small businesses, particularly those promoting sustainability.

Maintaining and Repairing Your Equipment

Proper maintenance is key to extending the lifespan of your equipment and ensuring it operates efficiently. Here are some maintenance tips:

Regular Cleaning: Follow manufacturer guidelines for cleaning and sanitizing equipment. Regular cleaning prevents buildup and reduces wear and tear.

Scheduled Inspections: Conduct routine inspections to identify potential issues before they become major problems. This includes checking for leaks, unusual noises, and performance issues.

Professional Servicing: Hire professional technicians for regular servicing and repairs. They have the expertise to handle complex equipment and ensure it operates safely and efficiently.

Employee Training: Train your staff on the proper use and care of equipment. Misuse can lead to damage and increased maintenance costs.

Record Keeping: Maintain detailed records of maintenance and repairs. This helps track the history of each piece of equipment and plan for future replacements or upgrades.

Conclusion

Starting a restaurant in Denver is an exciting venture, filled with potential for creativity and success. However, the foundation of any successful restaurant lies in its equipment. From selecting the right ovens and refrigerators to navigating health regulations and financing options, every decision plays a critical role in your establishment's operational efficiency and customer satisfaction. By investing in quality equipment, choosing reliable suppliers, and committing to proper maintenance, you can build a robust kitchen that supports your culinary vision and stands the test of time. Denver's dynamic culinary scene offers endless opportunities, and with the right tools and knowledge, you can carve out your own niche in this vibrant market. Remember, the journey of a thousand dishes begins with a single piece of equipment. Choose wisely, maintain diligently, and watch your culinary dreams come to life in the Mile-High City.

[uniwolfcorn]

Buttermilk

(It's been a while since I've posted anything fic related, so I hope y'all enjoy this one! And thanks to @jacksonstarkiller for helping me piece this together <3🧡💛❤️💚💙)

—————————————————

It was another Saturday morning.

Jefferson woke up early & snuck down to the kitchen. He flicked on the lights & fired up the griddle. Oh the sweet scents that would dance in the air, the sizzle of the griddle, the patter of the boys' feet rushing down the stairs, & the bright, brilliant beams across their little faces as they were served the delicious delicacy.

The laughter of the boys & Lucy still rang in his mind.

It was... perfect.

—————————————————

Jefferson had been back home for a few weeks now, but it felt like a few minutes.

One moment, they were little children; - then the next, they weren't children anymore.

Alan had an accident recently. He had been put into a medical coma. The doctors said he would be laid up for a while - a few months at best.

Jefferson was in a morning rush & was running a bit behind. He was expecting a group of Tracys, already on bedside duty. But when he arrived at Alan's room, no one else was there. Perhaps he left earlier than he thought. Seems like he was always losing tracks of time.

The family had been leaving gifts of recovery for the baby of their pack. Jefferson observed the various trinkets.

A mini rocket model from Scott, astronomy books from John, hand-crafted cards by Virgil, starfish stuffies from Gordon, fresh roses from Penelope, a chaperone cap from Parker, a holographic star projector built by Mike & Brains, his favorite socks & blanket from Grandma, even some balloons blown by MAX.

Jefferson sighed as he rubbed his boy's hand. He had to catch himself from flinching whenever his thumb rolled over the IV needle.

What could he give?

Once he arrived home, he entered the kitchen. His shoes squeaked from the glossy flooring - he remembered how the floor once creaked with wood. But surely, baking pancakes wouldn't be so bad.

Right?

"Uh boys," echoed through the kitchen as he was searching through the cabinets. "Where's the griddle?"

"We, um..." Scott replied with a clear wince of regret. "We got rid of it when you left..."

A comforting hand lay on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze.

"Son, it's okay." They shared a soft embrace.

"You at least wrote down your recipe somewhere, right?"

You could just hear a glass shattering as Jefferson's eyes shot open.

Turns out that being lost in space for 8 years had made his cooking skills a bit... rusty.

The pan's too hot, too cold; not enough oil - too much oil; the batter's too thin, too thick; use the first pancake, too many of them at once!

Every single attempt to recreate the fluffy buttery goodness only resulted in sticky, crumbly, & sometimes scorched messes. Week after week was met with failure.

On one particular morning, things seemed to finally piece together.

"Hey, dad. How's it going?" Virgil's hologram hovered over his father's shoulder.

"So far, so good!" He listed with admittedly an amusing beam of pride. "I pre-heated the pan, I didn't over-mix the batter, I didn't use a spoon or an electric mixer, I used the right amount of ingredients & the right ingredients, & I set the stove on medium - high."

"That's great, dad. But..."

Virgil noticed one, little, little problem.

"You did grease the pan, right?"

"..."

"SHIET!"

"Wait wait wait dad, don't do -"

He frantically scrapped at the pan - rolling lumps & scraps of pancakes. Smoke bellowed & nearly triggered the alarm. Brittle & burnt bundles of burnt batter & bread went flying into the trash. The pan clattered in the sink as steam sizzles from the rushing water.

"That."

Tears rolled down his face.

"Dad?"

The only answer was a shaky sigh. He tossed down his apron, sulked away to his room, and shut the door.

There was a soft knock.

"Jefferson?" Sally entered.

He was curled up into a ball of regret. His knees were tucked in tight, & his hands covered his soaked face.

"Honey, it's just a couple of mistakes."

"It feels like that's the only thing I've been making."

"Jefferson -"

"Who was the one that left them for 8 years? Who was the one that couldn't keep them safe from the Hood? Who was the person who flew in that blizzard? Who was the person who couldn't save her? I am. It was all my fault."

There was a stilted silence.

"I just want this to be perfect."

"Son, remember when Scotty made his first cake for Father's Day? He dropped it on the ground & made a huge mess. He cried his little eyes out & thought he ruined Father's Day. But do you remember what you told him?"

"Son, it's okay. Sometimes this stuff happens and nothing is ever perfect in life. But you didn't ruin anything for me, because I know that you're doing the best you can."

"There was a reason why Lucy married you. She didn't see you as someone who needed to be fixed. But as someone who loved her & would be the best person for not just her, not just for the boys, but for himself."

Sally gripped his shoulder with a strong but gentle & firm hold.

"Alan doesn't care if it's perfect. He'll love it because it's from you."

"Maybe... maybe you're right."

"Kiddo, I'm always right." They shared laughter & a warm embrace.

"Thanks, mom."

"No problem. Get some rest, dear."

Night had fallen. Everyone had gone to bed, except Jefferson. The island was in a set of melancholy calm, but his mind was still whirling. He tried to fight against his workaholic-engined brain; he tossed & turned in bed, but his efforts of rest weren't working. He stared at his ceiling in fatigued defeat.

Another memory wandered into his mind.

He remembered that Lucy had a knack for photography. She was always behind the camera, capturing every precious little moment to treasure forever.

Maybe she could help.

He dug under his bed through various boxes & other little nick-nacks. Soon, he found his treasure. Within a large crate laid a trove of photo albums & frames; what lay in the center was an old camera.

He dawned his apron & began to cook again.

—————————————————

The next morning, Jefferson returned to the hospital. He delicately carried a gift box in his hands. He asked the front desk if he could see Alan. The receptionist thoroughly checked the contents. Jefferson got a few passing eyebrows, but was allowed to visit nonetheless.

He strolled down the hall, his heart was racing in his chest. The next door was his son's room. There was a hint of hesitation, but the words of his mother ringed in his mind.

He took a deep breath, & entered inside.

"Alan?" His voice was an audible whisper.

The said blonde stirred from his slumber, as his little eyes fluttered open.

"Hey, dad."

"How are you feeling, Sprout?"

"Still feeling sucky, but a little less sucky today." His gaze gradually rolled to the box in his father's hands. "Is that for me?"

"Just for you, Sprout."

Jefferson carefully perched the gift in his son's arms. Alan opened the lid & peered inside.

Pancakes; slightly crude in shape - definitely were supposed to be stars. Burnt browns & blacks rigidly lined the crust.

Alan took a meek little nibble.

Immediately his taste-buds were overwhelmed with flavors of crude variety & the ashy texture of the scorched crust didn't quite help either.

"Tastes... great..." He sheepishly squeaked with a thumbs-up.

"They can't taste that bad."

The clear gag makes him regret that statement.

"It tastes like burnt cardboard!"

"More like burnt rubber that was run over by the Mole."

The hospital had never heard more humble laughter than now.

[kelyon]

Live Wire 4: Living Together

Belle is a ghost haunting the electricity in Gold's house.

Belle and Gold share a life together

Read on AO3

Being a ghost was so much better when someone knew you were alive. For the first time in decades, Belle’s existence had meaning again. Gold and Bae lived in her house and Gold knew about her! She knew their names because he had told her! Gold had understood that the flashing lights and unusually active electronics meant that something was there. He had seen her reaching out--the first person in over a hundred years who had noticed her. He had made an effort to communicate with her. He had called her by her name! 

For so long, Belle had been lonely, lonelier than a living person ever could be. She’d watched a family live their lives--grow up and grow old around her--and none of them had ever known she was there. But Gold knew. He had figured it out. Until the end of time, or whenever she stopped existing, Belle would be grateful to him. Him acknowledging her gave her a purpose. Now, all she wanted to do was help her Gold and his son. 

****

It was difficult at first. Electronics had changed since the days of the family. Bae and Gold both spent most of their time staring at devices. Not only the television and Bae’s video games, but portable computing machines and strange, flat telephones that apparently served as windows to the entire world. A world that she was still locked out of. Belle’s abilities were connected to the house, to the wires and outlets in the walls where she’d died. These new marvels only had to be plugged into the wall some of the time--usually when they weren’t being used. There was no way for her to enter a battery and spend the day in Gold’s pocket. 

Often, Bae forgot to set the alarm on his cell phone. Belle could only make it ring if he had plugged it in to charge--which he didn’t always do. When this happened, she would try to wake him up some other way, by flashing the lights or turning the filter on his aquarium on and off. Sometimes he would sleep through those, which meant Gold would have to walk up three flights of stairs on his bad leg just to tell his son that breakfast was ready. 

This infuriated Belle. There was nothing worse than having no effect on circumstances around her. It defeated the whole purpose of existing! These occasions were when she truly felt like a ghost--unable to do anything but watch people she loved suffer.

Quickly, Gold learned Belle’s limitations, and even more quickly understood how much she hated them. To accommodate her, he brought a pair of clock radios from his pawn shop into his and Bae’s bedrooms. Gold told Bae that it would be better to keep their phones downstairs, to limit screen time for both of them. Bae complained, but eventually conceded that the clocks were “retro,” which was apparently satisfactory.

Now Belle could wake them up in the mornings without any problems. She tuned the radios to music they would like, woke them in ways that suited them best. Gold liked classical music played at a slowly-increasing volume. He could ease into a morning like a sunrise. Bae, on the other hand, would sleep through anything less subtle than a Klaxon Company automobile horn. Over time, Belle found that if she blasted classic rock and roll music at a high enough volume, Bae would be out of bed and halfway through brushing his teeth before he’d even opened his eyes. She made his bedroom lights a little dim on dark Maine mornings, so it would be easier for the boy to blink himself awake.

Belle loved the hustle and bustle of their morning routines, especially in the kitchen. She was there in the grinder for Gold’s coffee beans, and heating up the coffee itself. Bae’s Pop-Tarts never burned and were never too hot in the middle. If they made oatmeal on the stove, Belle balanced the heating element to make sure the milk never scalded the pot. On weekends, Gold would fry bacon and eggs or pancakes on the electric griddle, squeeze oranges in an electric juicer. Everything came out perfect. Belle made sure of that. 

These were, mostly, the same services she used to do for the family. The appliances were more advanced, but she figured them out. It was nice to have a challenge again, something to occupy her mind. 

Gold made all the difference. He didn’t talk to her in front of his son, but he let her know he knew she was there. He would mutter words of thanks under his breath, knowing she was always listening. The way he touched his appliances was almost a caress, and she was sure he only did it because of her. He would wipe the machines down after each use, keeping them clean on the outside, while Belle maintained them on the inside.      

He never officially told Bae that Belle existed. He did speak openly about the “spiritual essence” of the house and how “benevolent forces” were watching over them. Bae seemed to take such statements in stride, believing Gold as much as any teen-ager believed anything their parents said. 

Belle didn’t blame the boy for not believing in ghosts. Nor did she blame Gold for being cagey about her existence. Even with proof, the idea that the soul of a woman from a hundred years ago was haunting the electricity of one’s house was a lot to ask someone to accept. She had hardly believed it when Gold had first spoken her name.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe he had kept talking to her once she had made her presence known. 

****

Through a lengthy process of trial and error, they developed a way of communicating together. At first, everything had been very one-way. Gold would speak and Belle would flash the lights to answer yes or no questions. Attempts to utilize Mr. Morse’s telegraph code ended up being too cumbersome for a regular conversation. Gold would lose count of the dashes and dots, or Belle would be so excited to say something she would hurry through her flickers. She’d make a long blink of the lights too short and a short blink barely visible at all. Gold would get confused and they’d have to start all over again. 

The breakthrough came when Gold brought home a magnetic tape recorder. He kept it in the office he shared with Bae, telling his son that he was recording a daily journal. That was just a cover. The real purpose of the tape recorder was something he could pretend to be talking into, while he was giving Belle a long monologue of his thoughts.

He told her about his day, about Storybrooke and the world outside the house, the daily hassles and minor celebrations of a small town. He told her about history, what had changed since she had been alive. He told her about himself. About Bae. About the wife he was now divorced from and the journey of self-actualization he had undertaken that had led him to where he was now. 

Belle took in every word. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was for new information--for stories as well as facts. Gold had so much to speak about, including things he had never told anyone before. 

If only she could reciprocate! Belle had as much to tell Gold as he had to tell her. She wanted to give him knowledge from her time, little details that didn’t get written about in history books. She would tell him more about the house, of the family that had lived their lives here. She would tell him of herself--all the thoughts and feelings, joys and sorrows, that she had never been able to express to a living soul.

She would tell him how much it meant to her that he treated her like a person.

****

For a few weeks, Gold made his “recordings” at night, after Bae had gone to sleep. One night, the boy suffered from a bout of biliousness and sought his father out. Gold directed his son to the stomach medications, then sent him back to bed. On his way out of the office, Bae had pointed out that the plug for the tape recorder was dangling from the table, well away from the outlet. To save face, Gold hastily plugged in the cord, then went to bed himself.

Leaving Belle alone with a tape recorder that was--for the first time--connected to her. 

She settled in, exploring the machine as she did every new device. She manipulated the buttons, made the spools of tape spin around at varying speeds, played back the ancient recording that was on the tape. She even went into the microphone Gold spoke into. For a lark, Belle swooped around the wiring, finding it particularly sensitive to vibrations. She jumped back and forth along a thin ribbon of metal between two magnets.

She did this for a while, until the tape ran out and the Record button snapped back into place. The sudden change got her attention. Had that button been pushed down the whole time? Had she been recording something?

Carefully, Belle rotated the spindles that were in the center of the circular reels of tape. That wound the tape backwards from one spool to the other, so it was starting at the beginning again. From inside the machine, she pushed down the button marked Play. 

She tried not to get her hopes up that the recorder had actually captured any sound. She was merely experimenting. She just had to make sure that her hypothesis was correct. Besides, what else did she have to do with her time?

For forty-five minutes, Belle listened to the crackles and whirs of the recorder playing back the silence of an empty room. Then, towards the end, there came a barrage of strange sounds of varying pitch. It was so loud, Belle had to turn down the volume for fear of waking up Gold or Bae. As she listened more, she understood what she was hearing. 

If she breathed, her breath would have stopped.

Belle was hearing the effects of her presence in the microphone. Playing back and forth with the ribbon of wire, doing that had made noise.  

Noise.

It wasn’t sound yet. 

But it was a start. 

****

She spent the rest of the night refining her understanding of the microphone. She recorded her efforts, rewound the tape again and again, and listened to the results. Through this process, the noises turned into sounds. Then the sounds became a voice. 

Her voice.

For the first time in over a hundred years, Belle heard her own voice.

“Hello?”

Her voice sounded on the edge of tears--though she had no eyes to cry with, no throat to close up with emotion. 

“Gold? Gold, I’m aware of the incomprehensibility of these circumstances, but you have my absolute assurance of reality. This is me.” The voice from the recorder was almost sobbing. “This is Belle French, speaking to you.”

Her words began to speed up, as the gravity of the situation lifted and all that was left was the euphoria.

“As I speak, it is twenty-seven minutes past four in the morning. There is nothing in the world I want more than to wake you this minute and bring you into your office to hear me. I--I’m so… overcome, to share this news with you. To share myself with you.” She gave out a chuckle, a breath that she didn’t have. “I hope you can appreciate the twofold blessing of this event: That at last I have the ability to speak to you, and that I can share this accomplishment with you. There is the joyous discovery itself, and then the… the communion of joy, I suppose would be the way to put it, though that has a ring of religiosity that may not be appropriate given my supernatural circumstances. I never gave much credence to spiritualism, but…”

She babbled on until the tape ran out. It was tempting to rewind the reels and record over her first message in the hopes that now she might be more coherent, but there was such sincerity in her first attempt. Belle had no desire to deny the depth of feeling that had gripped her at the first thought of sharing her voice with another person.

And the thought of sharing her voice with Gold, specifically. 

Nervous and excited, Belle burned off a little power by zooming through the house and revving up every device one by one. From outside Bae’s room in the attic, down to the basement chest freezer, she gave a boost to everything she touched. 

It wasn’t enough. Her happiness burned so brightly, there was no bulb that could contain it. She could power a spotlight, a searchlight, she could rival the sun.

She couldn’t wait anymore. It was close enough to Gold’s regular alarm time. Waking him now wouldn’t spoil his day.

Belle burst into the radio at full volume, turned on every light in his bedroom at once. Gold groaned and cursed and covered his eyes. At least he had been aware of her for long enough to instantly understand that she was trying to get his attention. 

“What?” he croaked. His voice was always rough and deep when he first woke up. “What is it, Belle?”

She blinked the lights in a path leading to his bathroom, signaling that she wanted him to get up and get ready.

Still in bed, Gold looked at the clock. “It’s early.” He complained as badly as Bae did. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Belle retraced the pattern of light bulbs leading from Gold’s bed to the bathroom--one by one, deliberately, to signal that she was being very patient and repeating herself for his benefit. 

Groggily, infuriatingly slowly, Gold got out of bed and began to dress. 

Over the years, Belle had made a habit of turning away from her inhabitants during private moments. Curious as she might be about Gold’s body, she was no peeping tom. Today, however, she was sorely tempted to make an exception--just to make sure he hadn’t gone back to sleep. 

Finally, Gold  appeared in front of his bedroom, fully appareled in one of his modern suits. Belle lit a path of lights down the hall to his office. She had to blink the desk lamp several times before he understood that she wanted him to sit down. By no means could she begin the recording while he was still standing.

As soon as her voice came out of the speaker, Gold’s lingering irritation melted away. The hard lines of his face went soft, and he put his hand over his mouth. His other hand shook as he reached to stop the tape.

“Belle?” he whispered. He directed his question to the tape recorder. There were tears in his eyes. “Belle is that really you?”

She started to blink the lamp, then thought of something better. She re-wound the tape, and went into the microphone. It only took her a second to record her answer, then she pressed Play.

“Yes, Gold. It’s really me.”

****

After that, everything changed. Gold found more recording devices and placed them all around the house. The kitchen, the living room, his bedroom--anywhere where they might want to talk to each other. He even acquired a portable ‘boom box’ that he could plug into an outlet on the front porch.  Bae was out of the house more often nowadays, spending time with his friends or at extracurricular activities. More evenings than not, the two of them were alone together.

“If it weren’t for you, I might lose myself in work again,” Gold told her one evening. He was alone in the dining room, savoring the supper he had made for himself. “I’m so glad I have you.” 

Belle knew what he was going to say, so she had her recorded answer ready: “I’m glad I have you, too.”

Now that they could really talk to each other, the closeness that had begun to grow between them blossomed into a deeper intimacy. Belle could ask questions of her Gold, she could offer her opinions. Gold would invite people from town into the house for dinner or a party, and then spend the rest of the night talking to Belle about them. When Bae’s friends and girl-friends came over, she would tell Gold who she thought was a good influence on him. He wanted to know what she thought, about everything that happened and everyone she met.

“I always wanted a man who would listen to me,” Belle told him once. “Back when I thought marriage was inevitable. There weren’t many men who would, in my day.”

Gold was in the process of taking off his shoes and putting his feet up at the end of a long day. The cold of a Maine winter played hell on his bad ankle, so he plugged in a heating pad and propped up his leg before he went to bed. Belle touched him through the insulated wires, rubbing and warming him, easing his pain. 

“I’ve always thought of love as being a home,” he sighed. “When you love someone, you should feel comfortable, and safe--” A yawn broke through his sentence. “--and warm.”

Belle couldn’t devote her attention to the heating pad and the tape recorder at the same time. It took her a moment to make a reply:

“You almost sound like you’re saying you love me.”

Gold smiled. That soft, sweet, almost-silly smile that he only wore when they were alone together. “I think I do, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Yes, Belle, I’m sure of it. I love you.”

****

The power surge blew every fuse in the house’s breaker box. Once Gold replaced them all and the electricity was restored, Belle was able to tell him that she loved him too.

****

Now that they had declared their love, Belle no longer felt compelled to look away when Gold dressed or bathed. Instead, she drank in the sight of him--though he was always a little embarrassed to be seen naked under  full lights. She told him how handsome she thought he was, the little details she found charming, how curious she was about the male body. Man of the world though he was, it made him blush to hear such sentiments played on a recording at full volume. 

It was much more comfortable for Gold when he could lay on his bed underneath an electric blanket. Darkness and closeness were more what he was used to in lovemaking. Through heated wires, Belle felt the shape of his form--the width of his shoulders, the grip of his large hands, the bulge of his sex. 

Both of them hesitated for her to get too close to his flesh. He said that there were ways--that there was equipment he could purchase for ‘electronic stimulation.’ Apparently some people sought out the sensation and accepted any potential risks. Belle said it wasn’t necessary. She couldn’t bear the possibility of hurting her Gold. And who could say if she’d be able to control herself in the midst of an erotic frenzy?

Safer by far to stick with the blanket. If he drew it up over his face, she could trace the shape of his lips, press into him like a kiss. Without any risk of injury, she could seek out all the parts of him that were sensitive. His nipples, his throat, the insides of his arms--she pulsed flutters of heat over his body. She touched him, while he touched himself. He whispered his fantasies of how beautiful he imagined her body was, of what he would do to her if she was with him, what they would do together.

There was, Belle could not deny, a little pang of loss every time he spoke about her body. At this point, she knew Gold in every way that mattered, and he knew her in every way but one. Was that enough?  Would their bond be stronger if she had skin for him to touch? Would they be any more intimate if she had a pulse that would quicken at his bold words? Would his passion increase if he could feel her labored breath against his ear? Would her existence matter more if she could physically experience the joys of the flesh? 

She could convince herself that the answer to these questions would always be a resounding no, but there were other matters that tore at her heart. Might they love each other more if they could have a child together? If they could have a life together? Was it wrong for the dead to love the living? Was Belle hurting Gold by keeping him a homebody, keeping him from seeking out a living companion? She had always wanted to see the world, to travel and explore. Just because she was trapped in these wires, there was no need for him to be bound to her.

He told her how he loved her, how happy she made him. He whispered nothings to her as he drifted off to sleep. Belle rested in the wires of his blanket, pressing herself against him like a spooning lover. If he rolled onto his back, she would form herself on top of him, the shape of the girl who had last drawn breath before Gold’s parents and grandparents were born. 

Her dearest love had so little time, all living people did. How could she ask him to waste it with her?

“Because I love you,” he told her once when she brought up her concerns. “Because I’ve already lived a life full of events but empty of meaning. The only things I’ve ever done that were truly worthwhile were to raise Bae and to find you.”

“But--” She had a reply recorded, but Gold stopped the tape.

“I was already resolved to spend the rest of my life in this house.” His voice was unemotional, but certain. “The only difference that meeting you makes is that now I don’t have to do it alone. And neither do you, sweetheart.” He stretched his hand wide over the recorder. “I don’t want you to be alone anymore. I’m never going to leave you, for as long as I can help it.”

****

As Bae grew older, Belle met Gold’s desire for companionship more and more. Their boy moved out of the house to go to college. On summers and school holidays, he came back with bags of dirty laundry and complaints about the school’s facilities being on the other side of campus from his dormitory. Belle took special care with his clothes when they were in the washer and dryer. She wanted her efforts to last until the next break. She wanted to take care of him, even while he was away from home.  

One break, Bae arrived with a girl he wanted his father to meet. Belle watched with envy as the couple sat beside each other on the sofa, as they held hands and shared secret smiles. Gold wasn’t sure about this girl, who had come from what he called “a rough background,” but Belle convinced him that this stranger was good enough for their Bae. Emma Swan made him happy, that was what mattered most.

It was a small wedding, small enough for them to host the ceremony in the house. Belle shone in the soft lights. She trilled in the lilting music from a portable keyboard. Gold typed out a speech on the old electric typewriter, and Belle pressed her agreement into every word. Night after night, she told Gold about the love she had for these children, the hope she had for their future, the determination that she would do everything in her limited power to make their lives easier. He knew, and he loved her more than ever for it.

After the ceremony, there was a party in the backyard, and the DJ hooked his amplifiers up to the house. In her own way, Belle danced the night away with everyone else.

Once he was a married man, Bae moved out all of his possessions that hadn’t already made their way to his and Emma’s apartment in Boston. It seemed so little time since he had first moved into his room in the attic, since Belle had first felt the glug of his aquarium filter.

“There will always be a place for you here.” Gold told his son what they both felt. “For you and Emma--and your family.”

In the empty room, Bae scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, that family might be coming a little sooner than we expected.”

“I know,” Gold smiled. 

Several times the night before, Emma had woken up to vomit in the bathroom. Belle had turned on the plug-in deodorizer, kept the lights from blinding the girl, then rushed off to tell Gold. 

After Henry was born, they came up to visit at least once a month. Often enough, Gold told them, to justify having a nursery fully-equipped with every conceivable electric convenience. Bae and Emma thought that this was just Gold spoiling his grandson--which it was--but it was also a way for Belle to take a turn caring for the baby. She warmed his bottles and his wet wipes. She worked a singing light-up automaton to soothe him and make him laugh and give his parents some much-needed sleep. Bae and Emma both said he never cried when he was in Storybrooke. Belle watched over Henry through his nightlights, as she had the children and grandchildren of the first couple who lived in her house. 

****

She watched over Gold too. She watched as his hair grew gray and thin. She watched as he leaned on his cane more and more. She watched when he coughed and couldn’t catch his breath. She watched him age and decline, the only man she had ever loved. 

She tried to help. He told her the schedule of when he had to take which medications, and she always reminded him. She also stopped him from taking too many, if he became forgetful and tried to make up for a dose he didn’t remember taking. When his hearing began to go, Belle looked after his rechargeable hearing aids. She made the house lights brighter, to help him see. As she had with the old woman in her last days, Belle kept Gold’s food fresh in the refrigerator, kept it from burning on the stove. In a normal house, the amount of electronic devices he kept plugged in might have proven a fire hazard, but not here. In this house, the machines were Belle’s tie to him. They were everything she could offer to him.

He met with his lawyer in the dining room, to hammer out a living will, along with everything else he would need, for the end.

“I want to stay in this house,” he told Bae once. “I don’t care if going to some facility would give me another six months, I want to be here. For as long as possible.”

“I know, Pop,” Bae said, patting the old man on the knee. “You’ve always been obsessed with this place.” 

“This is home,” Gold closed his eyes and leaned back to doze in his easy chair. The lights dimmed around him, too subtle for Bae to notice, but Gold did. He smiled. “Love is home.”

True to his wishes, the house became a hospital. Home-health nurses came and went, to monitor Gold’s condition when he became too frail to manage doctor visits. At first it was only visits during the day, but soon someone needed to be there overnight as well. New machines were plugged in--oxygen tanks, heart monitors, a newfangled hospital bed. Belle made sure all of them worked perfectly. The bed had an engine that moved the inside of the mattress and prevented a patient from getting bedsores. Belle was able to ease Gold’s muscles, keep him from aching. She touched him and soothed him as best she could.   

The tape recorder was still in his bedroom, shoved away into a corner but still plugged in. Belle could speak to him only briefly, when the nurses were far enough away that they wouldn’t hear her. Gold spoke to her as much as he ever had, muttering under his breath so the nurses wouldn’t think he had dementia. That was the one great gift of her Gold’s decline--as frail as his body had become, his mind was as sharp as ever. 

“My will is very clear,” he told her one night when he couldn’t sleep. “No one can change it, not even Bae--though Bae knows my wishes and he’s promised to abide by them.” He took a shaking breath. “I’ve set up a trust for you, sweetheart, a trust to preserve this house in perpetuity.” 

Another breath, labored. She shouldn’t let him talk so much. Everything he said were things that Belle already knew, that she had helped him plan. Telling her again was just him reassuring himself that she’d be taken care of.

“I’ve already had the house put on the National Register of Historic Places. It will never be torn down.” A wheeze. “I’ve bequeathed it to the town, instructed them to turn this residence into a museum. You’ll like that, won’t you, sweetheart? Always meeting new people--always learning new things--”

His speech was interrupted by one of his horrible, hacking coughs. Belle would have given anything to help him, even just to put a hand on his back or offer him a tissue. It was cold comfort to think that anyone would be helpless in this situation. That Bae or the nurses could do no more for Gold than she could. The fact that she was dead didn’t change how hard it was to see the death of someone she loved. 

“It will be alright,” she murmured  through the tape recorder. “You’ll be alright, my love. I’ll be alright. A-a museum will be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Belle,” he whispered. He was drifting off again. “The Belle French Museum. Just for you, sweetheart. Forever.”

Forever.

He meant it as a promise, but Belle could only see it as damnation. To exist forever--aware but not alive--alone--unloved--again. She could not bear it. She couldn’t bear the thought of it. 

****

When Gold faded into final unconsciousness, Belle hunkered down in the heart monitor. Every beat of his pulse went through her. The steady beeping was the only thing that tethered her to reality.

She would not be without him. She couldn’t go back to being alone, unseen, helpless. Gold was her world. Gold was her life. When he died…

The machine she was in could monitor his heart rate, but couldn’t control it. All of the devices meant to preserve his life were powerless when it mattered most. The beepings became erratic, infrequent. Belle felt the end happening--felt it with the whole of her being--and she couldn’t stop it.

Heartbeat by heartbeat, her Gold’s life drained out of him. Beep by beep, the hope drained out of Belle’s soul.

Please, she begged him silently. Please don’t leave me.

But no matter how she pleaded, the line still went flat. 

The time of death was called. The nurses pulled the plug. Belle was disconnected from Gold. He was gone. Forever. 

No.

No, it couldn’t happen. 

She couldn’t let it happen.

Belle didn’t think. She couldn’t think. Her despair and her rage and her love were so great, all she could do was feel.

And act.

Gathering all the electricity in the house--every wire, every bulb, every charging port and circuit--Belle pulled herself together and let her power overload everything.

****

The world was light. Brighter than any bulb Belle knew, with no place for shadows. At first, all she could see was the brightness. Then, suddenly, he was there, and he had always been there. 

“Gold!”

He was alive! He was young again! He was healthy and beautiful and he looked completely stunned as he looked at her.

He looked at her.

Belle blinked. Her eyelids lowered to cover her eyeballs and her vision went black for a moment. Her breathing was heavy and--

She was breathing!

Gold was staring at her. For the first time in all their years together, he could see her.

Belle couldn’t  believe it. She had to make sure. She looked down.

She looked down. The muscles of her neck stretched to move her head so her eyes could see her hands. 

She hadn’t had hands since she’d died.

“Belle,” Gold whispered. “Sweetheart, is that really you?”

She looked up to see him, see him with her eyes instead of through a light bulb. Heat gathered at her face as her emotions flowed out from her brain. Her lips parted, her throat contracted. Air passed through her esophagus over her larynx and she spoke.

“Gold.”

He ran to her. He didn’t limp, he had no cane. He ran to her and he threw his arms around her and she felt his touch. He pulled her close.

“I knew you’d find a way to me, sweetheart.”

He kissed her. For the first time. She kissed him back. And all they knew was their love. 

Love and light held their souls together in perfect bliss. 

Forever.