#reaching out to put peeled pistachios in hand because like. of course. of course.

[lvllns]

that pistachio post won’t get out of my head and i am going through it

[mskinkyafro]

Cooking For Two (Aurora & MC)

A/N: Hey everyone, I’m back with a new open heart fic! I’m excited and nervous to share this because it’s my first Aurora x mc fic. I haven’t wrote for her much so I tried to capture her as best I could. I just adore Aurora as a character and I wanted to showcase her friendship with Katrina more and how I envision it in between chapters. Which is more comfortable and friendly than what canon pushes. This is a super cute and fluffy piece that I hope you all enjoy!

*Platonic Pairing*: Aurora & MC 

Summary: Katrina & Aurora spend some time in the kitchen.

Side Note: This takes place some time after chapter 6 but before chapter 8. I plan to make more fics around these two and their friendship so if anyone enjoys reading about these two, I’ll make sure to add you to a tag list for any Aurora x MC fic I write.

After an extremely tiring day, Katrina was gratified to finally enter her apartment. Dropping her bag to the ground and kicking off her heels, she reclines back onto the closed door. Running her hand languidly through her hair eases some tension from her body.

“Home at last.” she sighs.

Only a minute passes before she adjusts to get up from her spot to make her way toward the stairs. Right as she takes a step, she feels a graze from a leather-like texture. Looking down, she sees a scowling tortoise greet her.

“Pistachio! I didn’t see you there, buddy. I’m sorry.”

Katrina bends down and picks up the tortoise and presses a small kiss to his head. His scowl leaves and a smile replaces it. Shaking her head in amusement, she puts him down and laughs. As she stands up straight and turns to head to her room, a loud crash followed by a stream of expletives stops her in her track. Spinning in the direction of the kitchen, Katrina rushes over to the next room only to find pans and silverware scattered on the floor, knocked over spices, and a panicked Aurora Emery wiping vigorously at spilled water.

“Fuck! Damn it!”

Katrina cautiously treads into the disarray room, unsure where she should lend a hand at first.

“Aurora? Are you okay?”

“Does it look like it?!”

Katrina shoots her a pointed look. Aurora sighs dejectedly as she gets up from her knees with a drenched rag in hand and carefully moves to ring it out over the sink.

“Sorry to snap on you-- I’m pissed.”

Katrina waves her hand freely.

“It’s fine. So you want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

Katrina reached to push a pile of vegetables to the center of the counter and picked up the topple vials of spices.

“I figured after a few rounds of cooking with Sienna that I could manage a simple dinner for you all. Clearly, I should’ve known better,” she says flinging the wet towel aggressively in the sink.

Aurora leans her back against the cool surface with her shoulders low. Her hand pressed firmly against her forehead. Katrina moves delicately across the damp wooden floor and stands next to the shorter woman and lays a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it in a gentle circular motion.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s not all a bust. This is salvageable.”

Aurora looks to meet Katrina’s gaze, her eyes full of sadness.

“How? Everyone else should be home soon. I’d have thirty minutes, max and the recipe takes at least an hour and a half. Besides, I made a mess.”

Katrina looks around them again and notices things she missed when she reached the kitchen; half-peeled potatoes, vegetable oil tipped over the stovetop, opened ground meat hanging dangerously close to the edge of another counter. She walks away from Aurora and starts to gather everything up and organize them in a fashionable order.

“First thing, depending on how you see it, I have good or bad news for you.”

“And that is?”

“Jackie and Sienna are working late on-call shifts tonight and Elijah said he was gonna get drinks with Sothy.”

“That sounds like good news to you? You can just say I did all this for nothing.”

“Wrong! Look at it this way. This can be practice for next time you make dinner for us. Which will be mishap-free and everyone will be home to enjoy it. Bonus, you get a culinary lesson from yours truly.” Katrina tells her as she wipes up some spilled oil with a paper towel.

“You’re willing to help me cook?” Aurora asks shyly.

“Of course! Sienna isn’t the only chef living here. Plus I love you girl, but I don’t think it's wise to leave you alone in the kitchen too long or you’ll burn the place down.” Katrina teases.

“Shut up,” she scoffs. Rolling her eyes playfully.

“Hey, I’m not a person who frequently burns breakfast.”

“Kat, that was one time.”

Katrina looks at Aurora incredulously. The shorter woman avoids eye contact and folds her arms to her chest as she mumbles.

“Fine, only one time in this household."

“Exactly. Look I’m gonna go change real quick. You gather all the vegetables in one pile and everything else and I’ll be back in a few.”

Katrina turns to leave the kitchen and heads to her room. Not much time passed before she returns in baggy red sweatpants and old white wife-beater pulling her hair back in a high puff. Looking around the kitchen and no longer seeing a chaotic scene before her, she stands next to Aurora in front of the stove. She clasps her hands together.

“You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Don’t worry, this is gonna be fun and really easy once you do it more often. I promise.”

“If you say so.” Aurora deadpans. Katrina grins at the woman.

“First, before we begin we have to do the most important step when you begin cooking.”

“Wash our hands?”

Katrina pauses for a moment.

“Okay, the second most important thing?”

Aurora stares at her with a blank stare. With a sly smile, Katrina darts out the kitchen briefly before returning with a beat pill and her cell phone.

“Music, duh. You’re black. You should’ve known that.”

“Whatever,” she says with a bemused smile as she pushes a strand of her jet black hair behind her ear.

Katrina sets the speaker down and turns it on. In her other hand, she scrolls down her music library until her finger pauses and presses on the screen. A blast of soulful noise fills the air as Katrina grabs a large pot and fills it with water and sets it on the stovetop to boil. She shimmies pass Aurora and tosses a potato in her hands and holds out the vegetable peeler.

“Hey sister, go, sister, soul sister. Time to peel these po-tat-toes, po-tat-toes.”

Aurora reaches to grab the peeler and begins peeling the skin off into their trash can as she watches Katrina swing her hips in time with the music.

“Patti Labelle? Really, how old are you?”

“Hey, these are classics. The designated genre to listen to when you are about to throw down in the kitchen. Besides, that’s what makes the food taste even better.”

“Ah-huh, sure.”

Katrina sticks her tongue out playfully at Aurora who giggles at her antics. Katrina smiles to herself noticing that since attending her class reunion, Aurora has opened up more to everyone, finally finding her place. She continues her dancing while cutting up bell peppers and onions. Once she got them finely chopped, she bends down into the lower cabinets to pull out a large skillet and a large loaf pan and sets both on two inactive eyes on the stove. Peering over into the steaming pot and seeing the water bubble she calls out to Aurora.

“How’s it coming, my sous chef?”

Aurora moves to stand beside Katrina and brings the potatoes over, spilling the skinless starch over the counter.

“Finished. What’s next?”

“Okay. Chop them a quarter inch and then I’ll have you drop them into the boiling water and we’ll let them cook. Then you can season the meat.”

Aurora follows Katrina’s instructions as the taller woman lightly sautéed the previously chopped veggies in an oiled saucepan. The strong aroma filters through the air and in her peripheral view, Katrina notices Aurora inhales the scent. Kat takes note of the serene and warm smile that frequents Aurora's face lately. Spooning through the cooked veggies one last time, Katrina turns off the burner and sets the skillet aside to rest. She then reaches to set the ground beef next to Aurora as she prepares the wet ingredients for the recipe. Playfully, she bumps her hips into Aurora prompting the quiet woman to retaliate the same. To her surprise, Aurora dances along with the music, dropping it low before picking it back up.

“Umm, excuse me, Ms. Emery?! You’ve been holding out, girl! Since when have you had moves like that?!”

Throwing her words earlier back at her, Aurora replies with a smirk.

“I’m black, duh.”

“Okay, Ms. Smarty-Pants. How come you can’t cook, then?”

“The same reason why you can’t braid.”

“Damn, you didn’t have to come at me so hard.”

The two women laugh and continue ribbing the other as they continue the tasks at hand. Still chuckling, Katrina grabs the stalk of asparagus and drench them with olive oil and light salt before tossing them into an oven. Once she closes the oven door, she then turns back to Aurora who is now finishing up combining the last of the previously cooked veggies with the wet ingredients and seasoned beef. In her eyes, she looks up at Katrina, questioning that she’s doing things right. With a nod, the two women press the mixture into a loaf pan and place it alongside the rest of the food cooking.

“Okay, the meatloaf and asparagus are gonna take about 35min at least and we got a good 15 before we need to check the pot--”

Katrina freezes in place as she stops talking. Right as Aurora opens her mouth to question what’s wrong, Katrina reaches for her phone and clicks repeatedly on the button on the side, increasing the volume of the music as she begins to rap along obnoxiously loud.

“It's going down, fade to blackstreet

The homies got rb, collab' creations

Bump like acne,  no doubt I put it down,

Never slouch As long as my credit can vouch

A dog couldn't catch me ass out

Tell me who can stop when dre makin' moves

Attracting honeys like a magnet

Giving 'em eargasms with my mellow accent

Still moving this flavor,With the homies blackstreet and teddy

The original rump shakers”

She bounces along with the beat, swinging her arm around Aurora. Katrina was going to continue but is cut off by Aurora's own silky voice.

“Shorty get down, good lord, baby got 'em up open all over town

Strictly biz, she don't play around, cover much ground,

Got game by the pound Getting paid is her forte, Each and every day,

True player way I can't get her out of my mind, East side to the west side 

Pushin' phat rides, it's No surprise, She got tricks in the stash

Stacking up the cash, Fast when it comes to the gas

By no means average, She's on when she's gotta have it

Baby, you're a perfect ten, I wanna get in, Can I get down,

So I can win I like the way you work it, No diggity, I got to bag it up, bag it up”

Joy lights up in Katrina’s eyes as she urges Aurora to keep going. Together, the two both belt out the song and dance with each other. They shimmy and swing their hips to the next songs in the queue being as carefree as they can be. Time seems to have barely passed before, a timer goes off. Pausing to catch their breaths and control the giggles that escape their lips, Kat reaches to silent the alarm, while Aurora pulls out the food from the oven. Not too long after, the two set down the finished meatloaf, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a platter of baked asparagus for the table. Aurora sets down two plate sets while Katrina grabs two wine glasses in one hand and carries an opened bottle of wine to the table and sits.

“Wine?”

“Oh yes, please. Definitely needed this.”

“Even more than this feast you prepared? Because it looks and smells amazing.”

As Aurora accepts a glass of wine, Katrina pinpoints a slight blush on her cheeks as she sips.

“Please, I hardly put this together.”

“Ah ah nope. Aurora, you did the grunt work. I just did little things. You totally did this. Enjoy it-- a matter of fact, relish in your success by taking the first bites.”

Nodding, Aurora gathers a healthy serving of everything onto her plate and takes a bite. A moan of satisfaction escapes.

“Damn, you make it sound really good. Let me test it out.” Katrina fixes her plate and once she places her fork into her mouth, it immediately goes back for more.

The two ate in silence minus the music from earlier playing softly in the background. Both preoccupied with the food in front of them. After a few minutes, Aurora speaks.

“I-- I really couldn’t have done this without your help Katrina. For taking the time to spend to teach me. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”

Katrina sets her fork down and takes a few sips of her wine.

“It’s nothing. I’m happy you had fun tonight because I did too. I’m more than happy to make a repeat of it if you’re up to it.”

 “I’d like that,” Aurora says with a bright smile. 

The two talk as they ate, enjoying the rest of their evening.

[georgiabread]

sometimes this has a hot, sweet taste

summary: Then, the inevitable declaration, murmured into the skin just below his ear: “I really, really love you, Phil. Like, so much.”

word count: 2.4k

trigger warnings: none

a/n: this is slightly trashy and they're uncharacteristically sappy, but maybe i got it spot on. if you can't tell, dan and phil at the beach is my favourite thing.

Santorini is sleep, sun cream and fruity cocktails all folded between a few days of calm, and Dan realises he needs it.

This revelation arrives with half-lidded eyes, his body curled into the rubber of an inflated doughnut, floating in the pool of one of those Greek villas he used to see all over holiday sites and Pinterest. The water is blue and blinding and smells like bliss, and he has never appreciated Bryony’s spontaneity more.

The trip was planned and booked before he and Phil ever got the chance to say yes, but there were no regrets involved. Excluding the ungodly hour they arrived and the frail tax-driver of which they were at the mercy, of course. The man had grappled with their lives, scurrying around cliff roads to reach their hotel, and Dan remembers watching his heart tumble across the floor of the minibus.

But no – this idea was a tremendous one. A weekend spent with the people he’s known the longest, without prying cameras and anxiety-inducing social events. It’s a weight off Dan’s back. Because he can rest, unadulterated, no what if’s and but’s attached. Because no one will recognize him and Phil in a sheltered cove off some island in the Mediterranean.

If only it was that simple back in London.

The doughnut grazes the edge of the pool, twists and pushes Dan in another direction. It’s enough to knock him from slumber. Eyelids peel open, toes curl and crack. Dan whimpers in his throat when the sun burns his eyes. Where are his sunglasses? Didn’t Phil borrow them? Damnit Phil. Half-submerged in water and sleep, he decides to blame Phil for any possible blindness.

“Ah. The beast awakens.” Bryony’s voice rises and falls over the pool’s ripples.

Dan glances around, slightly disoriented, until he finds his friend reclined on a deck chair, pineapple juice in hand. “Did Phil steal my sunglasses?” he slurs.

“Probably. He went to get ice cream with Wirrow.”

“If that bitch doesn’t get me chocolate…”

“Don’t worry. He mentioned something about you and choc ice cream.”

“Good.”

“By the way, you should get out of that pool sometime soon. Don’t want another run-in with heat stroke.”

“Fuck, why didn’t anyone wake me up?” Dan flounders in the doughnut for a moment, sinking down the hole in the centre. He eventually makes it to the steps and clambers out. He touches his arm. Definitely freckled. And definitely hot.

Bryony chuckles and sips her juice. “You were too peaceful. Here, I took a photo.”

She finds her phone and her nails patter over the screen, before a picture of Dan’s almost-naked sleeping body is shoved in Dan’s face.

Dan narrows his eyes. “Send that to me. I look mildly cute enough to post it.”

*

A thick blob of gelato drips from Dan’s cup, landing with a dollop on his thigh. It’s chocolate, bittersweet with a dash of coffee. He wipes it away with his thumb and licks it, hears Phil snigger beside him about gross boyfriends or something like that. Their ankles are hooked together underwater, the two of them perched on the side of the pool with expensive ice cream cooling their lips. There is warmth where their arms meet. Freckles are drawn together like constellations, connecting their bodies.

Dan side-eyes Phil after his muttered comment, mouth twitching. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing! I just said it’s yucky when you eat off your thigh,” Phil says, slurping on his spoon to conceal a grin.

“I thought certain people rather enjoyed eating off my skin.”

“Hey, don’t be so vulgar.” Phil shoves Dan’s shoulder, letting his cheeks accumulate a satisfying redness.

Giggling, Dan falls to the side a little more than necessary, and when he straightens up, paints Phil’s blush with his own ice cream-smothered spoon. “There. Eat that.”

“You do it.”

Eyebrows quirk up. Dan tips towards him without hesitation and drags his tongue over Phil’s skin, licking up the cream. Phil gags and scrubs his cheek, his nose crinkling in mock-disgust. “Urgh. You’re horrible. That was hardly sexual.”

Dan pouts. “Is my tongue no longer appealing?”

“Not when you get your saliva all over my face.”

“I’m disappointed in you.” Dan scoops at his gelato, watching his partner carefully. There’s a glint leftover in his eyes. Phil definitely loved it. Dan looks away to hide a smile, rubbing Phil’s foot with his own.

There is a silence. It takes a long, soothing breath, settles around them like a blanket. Dan focuses on the ocean before them. It’s a vast and glossy thing that oddly comforts him. There’s something about the enormity of it, knowing he’s so far away from the responsibilities and hassle of their London life, that puts him at ease.

“We should do this more often.”

“Do what? Lick each other’s faces?”

“No, idiot. Go on holiday. It’s…nice.” Dan’s voice grows soft. “Just being here with you, that’s nice. And – I can hold your hand when we’re in public and stuff, without worrying who’s gonna see and question us or…or expose us online. Of course it’s great hanging with Bryony and Wirrow, but. We never get enough time like this, you know? Time alone, I mean.”

Phil had reached up and brushed his fingers through Dan’s matted curls while he was talking. Now his fingertips land on his jaw, and Dan turns his head. He watches the smaller sea swirling in Phil’s eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” Phil whispers. Their ice cream is a distant memory. “What if we went to Japan again? I can propose under the cherry blossoms.”

“If you do that, I’ll actually say no simply because it’s too cheesy.”

“Rude.”

Phil kisses him then – delicate, a reassurance. He tugs on his bottom lip, leaves a taste of lime and pistachio behind. Dan chases the kiss, hands landing on Phil’s arm and neck, then face, cupping his cheeks, their mouths coalescing. The water ripples around their legs. Something painfully fond fills Dan’s chest. When he pulls back, a thumb brushing over Phil’s cheekbone, he – and it’s stupid, it’s so stupid – he suddenly wants to cry.

*

The four of them go snorkelling in the bay. Fish are abundant in all sizes and colours, and Phil confirms this by calling out, “Guys, come look at this!” whenever he lays eyes on one.

Wirrow is mildly interested. Bryony pretends to go deaf. Dan humours him for about the first four. Then shoves his face underwater and keeps it there, preferring to quietly observe the sea life going about their day. His skin feels slick from all the sun cream Phil lathered on him, going on about UV rays despite his own ghostly exterior.

Afterward, while removing their snorkels and diving fins, Phil crosses his arms like a five-year-old and whines about being snubbed.

“We loved your fish, dear,” Dan sighs, eyes soft. “But they weren’t all that remarkable.”

He leaves a kiss on Phil’s cheek as he stands.

It’s ridiculous, how easy it is.

*

By 7 pm, the sun shies away behind the horizon. The ocean purples. They end up at a bar called the Chrysós Brewery; it has a roofless balcony overlooking the cove, and tall torches are scattered between mingling patrons. Bryony and Wirrow disappear quite suspiciously, probably wanting Dan and Phil to have the evening to themselves.

They make the most of it. A petite table for two near the glass balustrades is pinched, and they order the most zany-sounding cocktails on the menu. When the waitress hands over their drinks, Dan studies his warily. It’s blood red, with an odd-looking bunch of fruit and lavender petals sprinkled over the foam.

“Maybe you should drink it instead of having a staring contest with it,” Phil teases after a minute. He takes a sip of his own cocktail, transparent turquoise and decorated with strawberries.

Dan gives him a withering look. “Alright, McSass. I don’t need your comments, thank you.” He takes a large gulp, and the cocktail explodes against his taste buds and eats away at his tongue. He’s left with wide eyes and a tangy aftertaste that actually…isn’t that bad. “You know, I think I’ll order another,” he says.

*

By nine o’clock they’re near-drunk.

At one point, Dan fumbles for Phil’s hand and hauls him away from the table, swerving to a stop somewhere along the railing. “I can’t believe we’re drunk and it’s only nine o’clock.”

Phil blames it on him. Dan frowns and says they’re in Greece, there’s no rules here. But having downed a variety of bizarre brews and beverages, he doesn’t even trust his own judgement.

“Well, we’re not actually drunk,” Phil points out. “We’re just tipsy, or maybe slightly above, I dunno.”

Dan blows a raspberry when he sighs, winding his arms around Phil’s waist and making his head comfy on Phil’s shoulder. “Whatever. We’re doing this ancient ruins-tour-thing tomorrow, so don’t be hungover.”

“Oh, I’m not that drunk, you bum.”

“I guess time will tell.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Phil pretends to vomit. “We can wait till we get back to the villa for that.”

“I can’t believe I’m dating a party pooper,” Dan grumbles.

“I can’t believe I’m dating a child.”

“We should just agree to split up if that’s how we really feel.”

Phil draws Dan closer and nudges his nose into his neck. “Definitely.”

Live music fills the silence that passes, drifting from a corner of the bar. Unconsciously, they begin to sway. Dan traces his fingers over Phil’s back, and Phil tucks one or two kisses inside Dan’s collarbone.

The moment is blissful. Dan’s brain is a little clouded, and he has to blink away the urge to sleep, but he loves this. He loves slow-dancing with Phil, blind to everyone else in the room. All he can see is the dark-haired man nestled against him, his best friend and assigned ‘grow old with me’ person. And Dan realises that maybe the places he tried to find solace in had never mattered from the beginning.

Then, the inevitable declaration, murmured into the skin just below his ear: “I really, really love you, Phil. Like, so much.”

After that, Phil chuckles, his whole body shifting against Dan’s. Then he shuffles back and takes two dimpled cheeks in his palms and kisses him, drunk and sloppy and smitten. “Love you too, you nong.”

*

“Your heart line’s kind of long and curvy…I think that means you express all your emotions freely. Or is that content with love life? I’m not sure.”

Phil’s voice is soft and matted with sleep, matching the muted light in their villa bedroom. He studies the creases carved into Dan’s left palm with a thoughtful frown, fingers ghosting over the smooth skin. The sheets are still sticky and twisted around their tangled legs. Sweat is stranded in Dan’s hairline. His eyelids flutter closed every now and then but he rebels against the drowsiness, much preferring to stare at the quiet concentration on Phil’s face as his palm is read.

Dan huffs a low laugh through his nose. He can’t tell if this is legitimate or not, no matter what Phil says about his psychic ancestors. But he doesn’t dwell on that for too long. Phil’s right about his love life, at least.

“What about this one?” Dan murmurs, pointing to the groove arching away from his thumb.

Phil traces it gently. “That’s your life line. All about general health and life changes. Yours is quite deep and round, which I think means you have a lot of enthusiasm and stuff.”

“Bullshit.”

“I think that’s actually quite true. You’re sweet and energetic when you’re in a happy mood.”

Dan snorts but hides half his face in his pillow. He won’t voice the embarrassing thought in his head, something to do with the knight of wands. “I hate you.”

Dan can’t remember the time they got back from the bar. He was too busy pulling Phil’s shirt off, crumbling when Phil ran his hands over his bare chest. But now, it’s late, and they need rest. Tomorrow is dedicated to exploration. They still have another three days of Santorini, before it’s home again on a flight to audience expectations and boundaries they know not to cross. But Dan wants to be stuck in this moment forever, love in his chest and Phil’s delicate fingers on his skin, their naked bodies woven together with warmth in the most innocent and most passionate way.

Phil’s lips brush over Dan’s fingertips, bringing his focus back to the palmistry at hand. “Now this is your head line,” Phil murmurs. “Yours is quite straight, which is like, you think realistically. But you also have a little doughnut there and that means…you, um, love food.”

Dan’s laughter is like wind chimes. “That’s the fakest thing I’ve ever heard,” he whinges. “You’re just being stupid now.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a phoney palm-reader.”

“Hey! These are great services. You should be paying double.”

“Okay, tell me about this one, then.” Dan taps the crease that runs through his heart line.

“Your fate line is broken in two,” Phil observes. “Right. That means one day, some guy is destined to chop you in half and that’s how you die.”

“Fucking shut up.” Cosy giggles burst from Dan’s lips, and he leans closer, bumping their noses together. “I want a refund.”

“Nope. No refunds,” Phil says, linking their fingers. He lifts Dan’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, one by one.

“Well, you can expect a strongly-worded review on your website, then.” Dan’s voice takes on a mock-angry tone. “Phil Lester is the worst palm reader I know. He never knows what he’s talking about and his face is too pretty and distracting. Zero stars.”

“What?” Phil laughs softly. His eyes dip down to Dan’s mouth, before meeting his gaze again. His next words squeeze through half-parted lips. “You should be thanking me for my good looks. They’re obviously a bonus.”

Dan tilts his head. “Obviously,” he murmurs, before pressing his mouth deep and tender against Phil’s. He can taste the bite of vodka and lemon, but everything feels saccharine, his own tendrils of drunkenness blurring his thoughts, lulling his heart. Phil squeezes his hand, nibbles gently on his bottom lip, making sure to leave it chapped in the morning. And Dan just breathes him in until he fills his lungs and with every kiss, he says;

You are where I want to be, always.

phanfics

[decent-articulation]

if i did it: confessions of the killer

Desperately clinging to that good feeling, as usual. I feel myself being pulled to the sweets and snacks available in this kitchen. I hear my mind trying to justify an episode of overeating. My brain tingles with the promise of the familiar rush of glucose, I am fiending. If the rest of my family, who just witnessed me eating a meal a few moments ago, weren’t currently occupying this space, I’d already be ravishing the cupboards. Momentarily inconvenienced, but facing the kitchen keeps the craving aroused so perched atop the island counter is my MacBook. Like a nympho caught horny in public, inwardly indulging into my fantasies is the only available outlet.

Some background information: an eating disorder was my primary coping mechanism from ages thirteen to twenty. Although I’ve ‘recovered’ emotionally and don’t have the devastating binges/purges, or bouts of starvation, there are still habits and compulsions surrounding food that remain. ‘Binge’ should be taken lightly, because I generally just compulsively overeat now-a-days.

I’d start by eating more of that pistachio and almond mix, maybe a spoonful of almond butter and a Medjool date or two. The episode would begin healthy, because one side of me knows I don’t want to binge but the pull is too strong to resist. So I abuse the whole foods. The fridge would be opened and scanned for healthy but palatable pickings. Guacamole and celery sticks, blueberries and raspberries… oh! That creamy cashew cheese. That’d be slowly, methodically dispersed onto a carrot, making sure the spread stays even and level in the container. Maybe I’d discard the carrots, which slow down the process, in favor of my finger. Once this casual grazing has turned sinister and my control begins to lessen, the fresh foods will be abandoned. Those chips on the counter seem lonely. Greasy, maltodextrin and salt covered fingers will keep them company and introduce their irresistible crunch to my teeth. Staring blankly ahead, disconnected, my hands continue to repeat the motions. Obsessive thoughts begin, keeping me distant from my physical actions and allowing the cycle to continue. Tomorrow we’ll cut out this and that, tomorrow we’ll exercise, tomorrow we’ll fast. The thoughts aren’t a dialogue as much as it is a movie reel of fantasies about eating, health, weight, myself, and control. It’s an avoidance of taking responsibility for my current actions. I readily give up control to give myself permission to cry about being powerless, of being the victim of my own dirty tricks.

Back to the pistachios. Cabinet to the left, overtop the microwave has been hoarding all the crackers, cookies, and cereals. Most contain milk and therefore I disregard them without any lingering longing - ironic isn’t it? Even in the most desperate state of binging, I’d keep my veganism in tact. A jar full of homemade granola is fair game, though. The clusters are my favorite, I’ll seek them out like a pig hunting for truffles. Oats, dried cranberries, and slightly burnt cashews binded with maple syrup. Someone forgot to toss the granola around the pan with a spatula while it was cooking, I can tell by the overdone, smoky flavor of burnt sugar and oil. It’s unpleasant, I’m turned off. Abandoning these shelves, I pull out the drawer with the candy. Caramels, peppermints, sugar-free bullshit, nothing of interest or appeal. A bowl of Larabars sits closeby, as well as a chocolate fudge protein bar. If I commit to unwrapping and eating one of these, I ponder, it’ll bring more guilt than necessary. There in plain view is the nutritional information; the bar is pre-portioned, which ruins the ambiguity I require to continue this run. The decision has been made, they’re off limits.

Remembering the last time I was here, I rush to the freezer to check for vegan chocolate chip cookies my dad made - uh, I’m hesitant to say this - nearly two years ago. He sent me some while I lived in Philly, but I moved from there in Spring of 2015. Of course, they’ve been frozen so I consider them fair game. Foil is peeled back, then parchment paper to reveal a stack of 15 thin cookies. It’s hard to break off an individual one because of how long they’ve been frozen. Impatience claws at the edges of the treats, breaking off bits and pieces in a mildly infuriating fashion. Bigger pieces go straight to my mouth but crumbs fall. Eventually two cookies break off the stack and I am able to pry those two apart for immediate consumption. Even after all this time they still taste fresh, they still melt in my mouth and crunch. In between bites I wonder if my dad used coconut oil in this recipe. Again, the thousand yard stare disassociates mind from body to allow the worst behavior to be excused. Should I go for the entire stack? Tempting. Should I put almond butter on these? That’d absolutely be appetizing. How about that cashew milk ice cream, scooped between two cookies to make a sandwich? No, too intentional. Plus I’m not particularly fond of ice cream, especially what promises to be extremely freezer burnt.

I wrap up what’s left and put it back. Am I done? Lingering keeps the buzz alive, so I scan the countertops for anything other edible impulses. Almonds. Pistachios. A brazil nut. At this point, guilt and shame that even the sugar induced euphoria can’t stifle creeps up. The binge is over but the war has just begun. Now is when I pay for that disassociation through exhausting mental bickering and a distended stomach. Future headaches from sugar withdrawal and insulin resistance from the countless times I’ve purposefully flooded glucose into my bloodstream. Poor digestion due to the massive amount of food I guzzled until reaching an uncomfortable fullness. What is truly unbearable is the internal abuse that simultaneously laments about lack of control while berating about should haves. Crawl into bed, struggle to sleep with a doped up brain. Tossing and turning is all that is manageable for a while.

Quite a discouraging series of events, right? Events that have repeated for the past nine years of my life, albeit in irregular intervals, dormant at times but ever-present. Writing down this process has provided new insight; a rebirth of sorts. Usually it’s impossible to see past the desire for immediate gratification. Sure, I’m well aware of the consequences of my actions but they’re abstract concepts until they’re concrete actions. Including them in my fantasies kills the fantasy, hence why consequences aren’t forethoughts when the goal is satisfaction. Still facing the kitchen, enough time has passed that the lingering desire is gone. I guess writing provided a way to distract myself while still indulging. I’ll have to keep that in mind.