#starters or entree

[hebbarskitchen]

falafel recipe | easy falafel balls | how to make chickpea falafel with step by step photo and video recipe. it is one of the popular deep fried snack from the middle east or arab cuisine and is served with hummus or tahini sauce. typically falafel is eaten as patty with breads or wraps, however it can also be eaten by itself as a snack. in this recipe post lets learn how to make easy falafel balls or fritter as a snack.

[skippingdown16]

just had one of the best restaurant meals I've ever tried and it was under $50

[notahorseindisguise]

apparently in north america they call mains "entrees" and entrees "appetizers" or "starters" . what the fuck. im going crazy. its a french word and in france they call the first course entrees. as in entry. as in the very first thjng you eat. ALSO . very confusingly.

THIS is the google definition HOWEVER this is misleading because its literally only north americans who call the main course the entree. this is a misleading definition and should be changed. the "british" definition should have the "british" taken away, and be made the top definition, and the top definition should have a little "north america" added to it . they are the only ones in the english speaking world to do it that way. you guys understand ??

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I have actual fucking brain rot.

I can not stop thinking about how soft Bucky is looking in Thunderbolts trailer, particularly this moment with the dishwasher, like... his sides. That little bit of delicious muffin top. His waistband. That little tummy. His pecs. The soft point of his nipple up against the stark black arm. His nonprosthetic arm, too! He looks thick.

Now, all I can picture is Steve waking up earlier than his boyfriend, barely managing to crawl out of bed away from the sleepy, soft shape of Bucky in their bed, hogging all the blankets and heating up faster than an oven. He looks good enough to eat, though, so his bed-hogging is acceptable. He really does look edible - his boxers are slung low on his pinchable, wide hips and his wife beater has rolled up in his sleep to fully expose the morning-soft, empty slope of his tummy. Probably the only reason he hasn't stripped his beater off is because the stretched fabric has caught around his puffy pecs. His nipples - seemingly pinker and softer by the day - jut through the white fabric. But, they can't just stay in bed all day, so Steve wanders out of the bedroom into the kitchen to get his morning routine going (including making something to eat that isn't his mouthwatering boyfriend).

After a bathroom break, Steve starts on his routine, and they ran the dishwasher overnight, so he starts there.

But, the usually simple morning task has become increasingly more complex and time-consuming, illustrated by how Bucky's arm is far from the only thing in the dishwasher this morning. Thanks to his boyfriend's expanding appetite (and expanding waistline) they're running the washer more often all the time. Plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery fly off their shelves and drawers. Their tableware is getting used. Because, as Steve is rapidly learning, with a bigger appetite comes the need for more types of food with every meal. No longer when they get takeout can they have just two mains to share between themselves, rather they get appetizers, entrees, sides, and desserts. Plus, between meals, Bucky's snacks grow and grow. He's using extra plates, bowls, and cutlery just for a little something-something to keep him going. And that isn't even to mention how when they're cooking from scratch, Bucky will prepare so much food that he needs way more crockery than he used to. He can't store the pile of stirfry he plans to devour in one sitting on a single dinner plate! Don't be ridiculous!

So, more kinds of dishes, frequent snacks, and bigger portions make Stevie a boy with a heavily loaded dishwasher. But... Ultimately, Steve can't complain about how his morning chore is evolving.

He's just finished touring around their kitchen, putting everything back in its place, when Bucky finally comes stumbling out to the land of the living. With every step, his little starter belly jiggles enough to make a growl of hunger rise inside of Steve - the growl isn't from the kind of hunger that has Bucky pressing his organic hand to his butter-soft belly, sinking his hand in with a frown etched into his handsome face, finding just how deep his pit of hunger is. It's been a whole 8 hours since he's had something to eat, after all, and that just won't do.

Steve hand delivers (ha) his freshly washed prosthetic to his grumpy, rumbled morning boyfriend, kissing the red, pillow-lines on his cheek. As Bucky mumbles something of a "thank you" Steve can't stop himself from doing more than just kissing his cheek, his lips slide down his face to nip and bite at the hinge of his softening jaw. He is counting down the days until Bucky develops an honest to God double chin. There's just something about the way that Bucky's face is built that Steve knows will compliment a pudgy chin so perfectly. He'll be rounder and softer and look so... healthy.

Steve just wants to see him put some meat on his bones. He deserves to be well-rested and well-fed.

His arm clicks into place, Bucky shivers with the adjustment, and his belly rumbles again. Steve bites at him a little harder, debating if it's worth the faux grief he'll get from Bucky from trying something so early in the morning (yeah, 10:00 AM, Buck, soooo early) if he sucks a love bite into that bit of softness under his jaw. It probably wouldn't last through breakfast anyway, so what's the harm?

Just as Steve starts to mark his husky boyfriend up, his plans are foiled by the wonderful fucking distraction of said chunky, chubby, grumpy cat boyfriend trying to button the pants he somehow slid his thick thighs and bubble-butt into (they are painted on, Steve swears). Steve's mouth falls away from his jaw with a breathy moan, looking down with the best seat in the house to see Bucky struggle with both arms, trying to make the loop and button of his jeans meet in the middle. The only slight problem? This soft cushion of fat over his once rock-hard abs is so in the way.

He isn't even close to making his pants button, struggling literally around his belly and hips that are pooching out over his waistband. Steve hasn't had a muffin in a long time but, suddenly, he could go for a muffin. Although, no baked good would hit the spot like Bucky can. Bucky and his muffin top giving Steve the worst kind of craving.

Eagerly, Steve plasters himself to his chunky boyfriend's side, staring down, entranced, by how Bucky tries to suck in, not to make it easier to button his pants, Steve realizes quickly, but to try and see what he's working with. He's too fat for his pants, scratch that, he's too fat to see the button on his pants. That's different. There's a fucking difference between outgrowing your pants, gaining enough that you can't make them button anymore, and outgrowing your pants to the point that you can't find the button. That's -

Steve doesn't know how to react other than stifle back a hearty groan and instead, hoarsely comment, "I think you need new pants, Buck."

Bucky lets his head hang against his chest, making his chin double for real.

Steve bites his tongue hard to keep himself from making an embarrassing sound. He looks so soft.

"I think I'm gonna need another arm, too," Bucky murmurs after a beat of silence, talking almost to himself - maybe talking to his belly, looking down the way he is.

Steve can't help but shiver. He's not cool, but he tries to play it cool, shrugging, "eh, I think you should hold off, big boy," Steve can't help the endearment, it just slips out. Big. He is. He's big. Steve wants him bigger so bad that he wants to crawl out of his skin. Steve has a super metabolism, he wakes up voraciously hungry, but right now he could feed purely off of cooking for Bucky and watching him crush a full-course breakfast in his too-tight pants and rolling-up wife beater. "Because there are enough dishes in the dishwasher to tell me you're not done with your growth spurt yet. And you wouldn't wanna bother Shuri too much, making her re-size you twice." Steve is compelled to pat his tummy when it growls again, so he does. There is no stopping him.

He's exactly as soft and jiggly as he looks.

Surprisingly, though, for this being the first time they're talking about this out in the open, Bucky leans into his daring comment. Literally. He rocks back on his heels, pressing his belly into Steve's hand, "fine," he sighs, chuckling to himself, "guess you're right, Rogers. For once."

Steve doesn't take the bait, he just... squeezes Bucky's belly. He's obsessed with this.

[caffeinated-thicc]

I just want to go out on a date with a feeder.

Go for dinner somewhere nice. Pretend we're going to share a few starters, but you keep pushing things towards me while we're chatting. I don't even notice until the waiter comes to take our order for entrees. You order for me confidently. I can't help but gulp at the amount you're ordering. I know you'll wait for me to finish everything on my plate.

A casual walk after dinner to "help me digest." You don't ask questions when I need to sit a few times along the way, and you match your pace to mine. Maybe we hold hands, kiss a bit.

Your hands gently brush against my soft underbelly through stretched tight clothing. I'm not sure if you're hesitant to touch me or teasing.

You ask if you can drive me home. I say I would love that. You stop past a drive-through on the way. Another 2 burgers, large fries, nuggets, and a large milkshake are headed into my lap while you drive. You tell me that you'd like it all finished before you pull into my driveway. You drive 5 over the speed limit the whole way.

Maybe I'll invite you in.

Maybe I'll pull out the cupcakes I have in my fridge and gingerly ask you to help me eat them.

Maybe I'll place your hands on my belly, pushing them into all the right places - guiding your hands until you do it without my help.

Maybe.

[violetmina]

Chokehold - Ch. 5

Chokehold Masterlist

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Taglist: @roundroald @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @sexytholland @scraftsku35 @avastrasposts @missihart23 @ladyvillainous @elementress44 @haibara-ai-tsii

Pairing: Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,895

Warning: Swearing, mild violence and injury, threats of bodily harm, alcohol, pervy assholes being pervy, sexual tension. And probably the biggest warning of all - Butcher.

A/N: I honestly don't know if I love or hate this chapter. But we're gonna blame a certain song by Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs for how this ended. Got stuck in my head, gave me ideas and wouldn't fucking let go. I'm praying it's not too cheesy. Enjoy.

By the time Butcher had returned with a bounty of greasy Chinese takeout, you had managed to put your epiphanies in the back of your mind and recomposed your face. You had work to do and admittedly you were feeling a little famished. A desk with a simple chair was crammed against the wall opposite the beds, a TV perched haphazardly above it. Butcher had swung one of the ends out so you could sit on your bed to eat while he took residency of the chair. Under his bulk it looked almost child-sized and creaked frequently.

After he had worked through half of his entree you decide to finally breach the previous topic. "What do you think? Are we following Frank, getting him to talk or…?"

Butcher finishes a thick bite of lo mein before he answers. "Find him first. Lucky for us, the delivery guy was a chatty type. Got him to talking and he mentioned that the science guys from the big city usually start clocking out and hitting the nightlife around seven. Gives us about six hours before we head to the bar."

"So we start tonight. That helps with our time crunch. But again, if he shows up, what are we doing?"

"That depends," Butcher shrugs and sneaks another bite. "Ideally we'll be able to watch him for a bit then follow him home. Much easier for me to get him to talk without witnesses."

"What if we can get him to do both?," you ask. "We let some liquor loosen his lips. And when he staggers out, he leads us home."

"Can't rely on him getting drunk," Butcher shakes his head. "Even arseholed, he's gonna be real skittish about two randoms asking him questions. And if he's gambling, which he's there to do, he'll be uptight from the word go."

"Would splitting up be the better option?," you inquire after a bite of rice. "Especially if he might have friends from the lab there. One of us could take Frank, the other another scientist, and when he leaves we follow him."

Butcher wipes some sauce from his lip, shaking his head. "I told you, best chance getting him to spill his guts is outta sight. Not in the bar, and not if he's got friends."

"Who says you have to talk to him in the bar?" He pins you with a confused look. You shrug. "You could try to work the locals or the other scientists for information. And it's not how I usually handle things, but maybe Frank will be less receptive to you, and a little more open to…feminine wiles?"

He stabs his chopsticks into his food, a brow shooting to his hairline. "You're suggesting we go in there, have you try to hustle Frank for intel while I distract his buddies somewhere in the bar?" He shakes his head. "Nah. Not liking it."

"Why not? What else are we going to do?"

"For starters," Butcher says as he begins to tick off on his fingers, "It's risky splitting up. Secondly, who says Frank is into 'feminine wiles'? And lastly, if you don't wanna be treated like a kid, don't ask me to play babysitter."

"I didn't ask you to!," you snap. "I can handle this! We're not really splitting up, we'll be in the same bar. And who says Frank doesn't swing both ways, hm?"

He waves a hand at you dismissively, stuffing his mouth with more lo mein. You start for another bite of food yourself but stop and sigh instead. "I've told this to Hughie," you say softly. "I shouldn't have to tell you of all people. Don't treat me with kid gloves. If you throw me in the deep end and I start to drown…well then, I learn to swim. Or I drown."

"Not on my fucking watch, you won't," Butcher replies in a low voice, steely eyes flashing.

You meet his gaze, refraining from fidgeting. "Then trust me to swim, Butcher." He stares at you for a moment before he sighs and looks down. "I know you don't like it. But what other options do we really have?"

He doesn't answer for a long moment, slowly twisting his chopsticks. Finally, just as you try to think of how to argue, he looks back up at you. "I'm gonna need to scope out the bar within the next hour or two. When I come back, we'll devise a way to communicate when we divide and conquer. Savvy?"

^^^

After the takeout has been devoured, Butcher quickly heads out the door to look over Danny-Boy's. You suspect he's also brooding over having you there but you figure he'll just have to deal with it. You glance over at his open bag, spotting a couple sidearms, and some bugs and tracking devices you've seen the Boys use before. An idea sprouts in your mind when your phone buzzes, diverting you from snooping further with a text. It's Hughie.

Missed seeing you in the office today. I'm sorry. I really hope you're ok.

A little wave of petty, bitterness washes over you. But you take a deep breath before you let your fingers lash out a response. You consider calling him to chew him out for yesterday, but you're supposed to be ill and you don't dare risk the possibility of him realizing what you're really up to. That and the risk of Neuman suddenly tapping your phones loomed at the back of your mind.

I'm ok, you reply. Nothing I can't handle. I didn't want to bring crap to work. Hope to see you soon.

Satisfied for the moment, you turned your attention to the upcoming recon. You had packed with other scenarios in mind, like, say, running for your life, or swinging your FBSA credentials if need be. Not that you were high ranking but people didn't need to know that little detail. You looked over the few clothing options you had with a frown. None of these screamed seductress to you but you settled on dark pants and a silky black blouse. Practicality had made you ditch the stilettos at home, but you had brought a pair of wedge pumps that were neither too high or low that you favored at work. Maybe, just maybe, you could swing for a subtle, sexy secretary look.

That thought alone made you cringe as you left the ensemble out on the bed and put away the rest of your clothes. Why did I suggest going this route, again? Did I really just volunteer to be a cliche?

You shrug off the distaste of the idea and head into the shower. You're not into the lingering scent of Chinese food and sweat, and you doubt Frank will be either. The motel water pressure is subpar but the temp is to your liking, and you make quick work of scrubbing clean. When you step out and begin to dry, you wonder if Butcher has returned.

The instant your mind starts to idle over the idea of him just a few feet and a door away while you're undressed, you squash it. It reminds you of the night ahead of you and you bite back a groan of frustration. Don't make this night any longer than it has to be, you admonish your lurid mind. Stick to the plan, deal with Frank, get back here safely. One hurdle at a time.

You speed through drying your hair and applying the minimal makeup you had brought, sticking to subtlety over flashy. You sneak one more look over Butcher's bag, and about the time you're stepping into your shoes, he comes breezing through the door. "Not a bad little place. If we stick close to the bar, we might actually be able to signal each other without a fuss."

"So what are our signals? We doing it by phone? Body language?" When he doesn't reply, you look up from finishing your shoes. You're not sure if he's looking at you or through you. You wave a hand at his zoned out expression. "Hey Butcher! How's Binky the spaceman doing?"

He blinks, snapping out of whatever weird daze he's in to give you a rueful smile. "I do hate to bring it up but uh…" He makes a wave in your general direction. "Is this how you intend to lure Mr. Lazzell?"

Your eyes widen and you give him an indignant scoff, standing up as you cross your arms. "I wasn't exactly planning on going clubbing when 'recon' came up. Am I seriously about to get wardrobe advice from Billy Butcher? Mister 'my shirts make the blind weep'?"

"Only 'cause I make this shit look good," he smirks, holding out his arms wide. He ignores your eyeroll and strides towards you as he continues, "Not so much fashion advice, love. More like…friendly advice as a man. If you're gonna play the bait, this needs just a bit of fine tuning."

He scratches his chin in a dramatic pose of musing and motions with a finger to give a twirl. You give him an incredulous look but he does it again. You heave a sigh and do a quick turn. A snide remark is on the tip of your tongue but suddenly disappears when his fingers slip into your hair and musses it ever so slightly. Then they drop down, fiddle with your collar for the briefest moment, thumbing the smooth fabric.

"Nice shirt on you," he mumbles with a faint nod. Next thing you know, you feel his knuckles brush against your skin as he swiftly pops open the first two buttons of your blouse. You blanch back out of his reach, too startled to manage more than a breathy curse and wide eyes.

"There. Can't go wrong with a touch of bedhead and a little skin," he says with a devilish grin, wagging his brows.

"How about a little warning, asshole!?," you snap, finally finding your voice. You can feel just a tinge of color in your face that you can't repress, so you focus on remaining indignant. "I could have done that myself! And just because you hate buttons, doesn't mean the rest of us do! Jesus!"

You look down, grateful that you're not as exposed as you feel. But there's definitely a peek of sternum and the v-neck highlights your collarbone now. "The things I do for this job," you mutter as you smooth out the blouse. 

He turns away and calls your attention to start devising a code. And you try to focus. But in the hours before leaving the motel, you question if you imagined his gaze lingering just a second too long where his fingers had been.

^^^

As it turns out, Butcher was right; Danny-Boy's wasn't too bad for a little sports bar and club. The outside was unassuming white brick with a crimson stripe around the top. Inside, however, was rather clean and sleek. The bar itself stretched out like a long island in the middle of the floor, well-polished dark wood highlighted in cool-toned led strips. Above it TVs followed its length, all flashing one game or another, their light just barely reaching into the dark ceiling. Along the right wall clung several booths, one of which you currently occupied in the corner. 

From here you had a good vantage point of overlooking the entire bar, as well a decent view of the dance floor stretching from half the left side to the back left corner, guarding the restrooms. It's also from here you can just see the billiards tables through the growing evening crowd, comprising the front half of the club. At one of them is Butcher, already engaged in a game with two younger men. You're not certain if they're locals or from the lab. But even you pick up the air of inexperience about them from across the room, and you suspect the poor duo are being hustled out of money as much as they are information.

You poor suckers, you think, recognizing that look of Butcher when he's calculating and adapting three or four steps ahead. No rush, throwing out jovial bits of false hope, biding his time like a shark slowly circling in. Hope you're betting low.

As rivulets of people begin to come through the door again, you check the time on your phone. It's almost nine-thirty and doubt begins to gnaw at you. If Frank was planning to come after work for his gambling fix, he should have been there by now. A few patrons have already gathered in small groups under the TVs, placing bets on their phones and amongst themselves.

Just as you begin to wonder if this was going to be in vain, you spot him. You recognize the pug-like face, eyes too big in a gaunt mask. Besides his face, he is the most vague human being you've seen. Average height, build, maybe hint of pudge at the middle, brunette hair cropped a little too close to the scalp. If you weren't deliberately looking for him, he'd probably just be a body in the crowd. He's perched near the end of the bar, barely on the fringes of a group taking bets.

You waste no time and calmly remove yourself from the booth to head for Frank. When you're halfway up the bar, you glance in Butcher's direction. He's lining up a shot in a corner pocket and when he looks down the cue stick in your direction, you make a motion of scratching the outer corner of your right eye; Target spotted. To your relief, Butcher pauses in his shot to mimic the motion, then sinks a striped ball; Copy that.

You quickly slink up onto the stool on Frank's right, wedging your way past a disgruntled frat boy type who takes the seat next to you. As you settle in the crowded space at the bar, you place your hand on Frank's shoulder with a little squeeze, pretending to crane over him to peer at the alcohol selection.

He scowls at the hand on his shoulder, but out of the corner of your eye you watch his gaze trail up your arm, the hint of collarbone and…start to smile. There's the hook, you think, suppressing the instant repulsion you feel at not so subtly being ogled.

"Sorry," you chirp over the noise, withdrawing your hand and plopping back down on the stool to turn to face him. "Couldn't see. Been a long day and I need a stiff drink. And a little luck."

"Luck hasn't been much of a lady for me. But maybe you can," he leers. "I'm Frank. Are you a betting gal, Miss…?"

There's his line. "My friends call me Red," you give him your alias with a smile. "And tonight I am. But I'm embarrassed." You wave your phone in your hand with a shrug. "I'm new to this mobile thing."

"How about you let me buy you a drink and I'll teach you?"

Your smile turns to a grin, more from surprise at how stupid easy Frank is making this than part of your act. "I think you just saved my day, Frank."

He turns all too eagerly to track down the bartender. You seize the moment to pretend to look around the bar and find Butcher again. The two young men seem to be arguing about risking another game with him, and he casts his eyes just over their shoulders in time to catch you hooking your thumb in your pocket and tap two fingers on your leg; Engaging, standby. Butcher shifts his eyes back to the duo like he's bored, rocks on his heels and mimics you again.

You fight back a laugh, absently fidgeting with the gadget in your pocket. God this is way easier than I thought.

^^^

Two hours in, however, you wonder if you had unintentionally jinxed you both. When the first Long Island Iced Tea showed up -not a small one either - and Frank had insisted, you knew then his goal; get you drunk as soon as possible. It was to be expected, but you still had to bite back the anger at the creep. You had tried to pace yourself, sipping as you picked at him for tidbits of info in the name of flirtatious small talk. He had not been as cooperative as you hoped, and the less you chugged, the more bored he seemed to become.

That wouldn't do. So you changed tactics, you drank a little faster but amped up the theatrics. To a degree it was successful. The more you started to slur, the more you would begin to sway, the more Frank would drink himself. Even at one point you'd given a drunken giggle loud enough to catch Butcher's attention, and you caught the hard, annoyed look he'd shot your target. Getting intel outta him around the bad flirting and god-awful innuendo was like pulling teeth, but you managed.

The first drink was long gone by that point. You're just starting to work on another when Frank's phone starts to buzz impatiently. At first, you thought it was gambling results. He's clearly not on a winning streak. But his growing agitation tells you something's off. Out of the blurring corner of your eye you spot Butcher again. The duo are growing suspicious, or just tired of losing money. He's losing their attention, too, and Butcher taps the face of his watch as he leans against the pool table. That one is pretty clear; Hurry the fuck up.

"Y'know, sweetheart," Frank snaps your attention back, glancing at his phone. "You seem like a lot of fun. Really, but -" His screen glares again and he curses. You realize that you're losing him and very precious time.

"Aww, c'mon, Frankie. Don't be like that," you croon, slipping a hand out of your pocket. You flash a fifty dollar bill before dropping it on the bar before him. "Let's make a bet. You like bets, don'tcha?"

Frank greedily eyes both the cash and your hand fiddling with your blouse buttons. "You know I love a good bet. But I don't know…" He starts to rub the back of his neck and you feel it in your gut that he's rapidly slipping. At that same moment, you realize that the duo are slamming down the last of their losses on the pool table and shuffling out with their tails between their legs. You have to act. Now.

You tug on Frank's sleeve to pull his hand from his neck and slip one hand in the collar of his coat, deep like Butcher had shown you. But you don't go for a choke. Instead, making sure your fingers are tight in the collar, you pull him towards you. "I bet," you slur in his ear, "you can't figure out the color of my bra before you get me home."

When you slowly release your grip and he leans back, you have to fight the urge to slap the lecherous look off his face. The sound of a ringtone amongst the music and chatter however spares you, and you both glance at the interrupting device. You catch a glimpse of a name before he groans, and looks at you like a kid that's been denied a toy at the store.

"I gotta go," he grumbles. "You have no idea how sorry-! Shit!" And he's sliding away from the bar and answering the call before you can say anything. You catch Butcher's eye as he puts away his cue stick and there's no need for a signal. He slinks against the wall and through the crowd, eyes on Frank's receding form.

You sigh and turn back to the bar with a bit of relief. Not quite what you planned, but thank God you didn't have him call you on your bluff. You shudder at the idea. Now you just needed to head back to the motel and wait for Butcher to follow him wherever and -.

And a hiccup slips past your lips. You blink at the bar, slowly slipping the fifty back in your pocket as you feel a slight tilt in the room. It suddenly hits you that maybe it wasn't all theatrics. You might actually be a little more inebriated than you realized. When you go to slip off the stool, your ankle almost rolls under you and confirms your suspicion.

Oh, you think as a giggle bubbles out of your throat. Well shit. Oops.

As you start to look about to find the front door a hand wraps around your wrist. You turn in confusion. It's the frat boy, the one that's been sitting next to you. "Hey, sugar. Where are you going?"

Oh shit. You gotta be kidding.

"I'm heading out," you say as dryly as you can manage. "I've got friends waiting for me -."

"Kinda overheard you and whats-his-face." His grip tightens on your wrist and in that moment you realize that you can't remember any of the escapes Butcher taught you. You're too foggy. "His loss," frat boy leers. "But I'm game, sugar. I'll take that bet."

"Not betting with you, asshole!" You try to wrestle out of his grip but you stumble instead. Alarm bells start to go off in your head.

"As a matter of fact, I bet I'll figure out the color before we get outside to-"

"There you are!"

Both you and the frat boy jump when an arm wraps around your shoulders. Butcher smiles down at you and you blink to make sure you're not seeing things. But the weight and warmth around your shoulders feels real enough. "I've been looking for you, Red. Bachelorette party starts in fifteen minutes, the brides gonna have both our heads if her maid of honor's late!"

Even in your fog, you jump on the lifeline. "Shit, fifteen?! I thought I still had an hour," you whine. "I'm sorry. I was just leaving, I swear."

"It's alright. Thanks for holding this one down for me, mate," Butcher says to the frat boy, giving him a firm slap on the back before reaching for your ensnared wrist. "She's a little wild. I'll take her from here."

"I don't give a shit, dude!" You wince when the grip on you tightens. "She’s not go-!" 

Your captor's words cut off into a little squeal when Butcher's grip locks on his wrist and cranks. You think you hear a slight crackling sound over the din of the bar as Butcher's eyes grow wide and far too bright. It's almost manic. "You wanna play odds with me, son? How much you wanna wager I'll scatter all your fucking teeth across this bar in thirty seconds or less?"

When the frat boy only whines a mantra of "sorry" in response, cradling his arm and leaning far from you, Butcher scoffs and releases him. The manic look fades as quickly as it came. He nearly seems disappointed. His arm slips down your back and around your waist, pulling you in to lean on him. Your arm closest snakes around him the same, your other hand splaying blindly across his shirt. "C'mon, Red. Don't wanna be late."

You have some balance but it's far from graceful as he guides you across the floor, towards the front door. You try to glance up to look at him but nearly trip over air. "Butcher, about Fra-"

"Not a fucking word," he snaps just loud enough for you to hear. "Not here."

You purse your lips and focus on walking. When you stagger out through the entrance, leaving the hot, cramped atmosphere of the bar, the outside air crashes over you in cool relief. For a split second, your mind clears…and it quickly registers what just happened, and Butcher's fingers digging sharply into your waist. You swallow thickly, wincing at the aftertaste of the alcohol in your gullet.

Crossing the gravel parking lot is much slower going, Butcher having to catch you from nearly collapsing once or twice when your ankles would falter. But it's a bit of smoother sailing once you reach the sidewalk, and you glimpse the motel waiting up the way. You suffer the thick silence until you're about two-thirds of the way back, and finally dare to speak.

"This wasn't part of the plan-"

"Oh! Really?!"

"I tried not to get drunk!," you mirror his snippy attitude, grimacing when you stumble again.

"Well fuck me sideways if I could tell!," he sneers. "What with all that coquette, eyelash batting, giggling what-the-fuck you were doing, a couple free drinks didn't seem to bother you none."

"Oh fuck off with that," you groan. "He wouldn't play along unless he thought…Well, you know. I tried damn it."

"And look where that got us. I manage to line my pocket with a few more bills, but learned nearly fuck all on Vought or the lab. Our main lead is gone in the bloody wind, and you three sheets to it."

"He's not gone in the wind."

"I don't know if you noticed, darlin', but I didn't tail him long enough to catch his cab! Had to come in and play your goddamn babysitter-!"

"Butcher!"

"WHAT?!"

He brings you to an abrupt stop at the curb. The motel sits just across the intersection now. You take a deep breath, making sure your footing is steady before slowly looking up at him and the snarl twisting his lip. "Please listen to me. Just fucking humor me. Lazzell is not in the wind. Look at your phone."

"What does my-!?"

"Oh my god! Pleeeease!," you groan. "Just check your goddamn phone."

He glares for a second, the snarl twisting further before he dives into his pocket and yanks out his phone. The light from his screen illuminates his face and how his brows slowly crease. "The fuck is this?"

"Did you really think I'd go in without some kinda insurance?" You can't help the corners of your lip twitch into a sly smile.

He turns from his phone to peer down at you. "You went through my stuff? You nicked one of my bugs! You-!"

You can't help the smile from growing wider when he stops. You can practically see the lightbulb go on over his head as the scowl drops. "Turns out that, uh, that collar grip you taught me isn't just good for chokes," you say gleefully. 

"You planted one of my bugs on him." It's hard to tell if it's a statement or a question. Either way, a smile of his own starts to form as he puts away his phone.

"Aaand before he dashed out the door I saw he was getting a phone call from somebody. A contact listed under 'Walsh'. Now who do you think that might be?" An uncontrollable giggle slips out of you and dances in your next words. "Ended up drunk and I still planted the bug without getting caught. On a moving target! Suck on that, Hughie!"

He stares at you for a moment before breaking into a grin. His arm tightens around you, squeezing you hard enough to cut off your giggle, and placing his other hand on the side of your face. "You fucking, cheeky beauty!," he says with a laugh of his own and plants a quick kiss on your brow. It's less than half a second. But if the alcohol didn't make you feel all warm and tingly, that certainly did, and you grin as big as him.

He pulls back, holding up a stern finger between you. "Nice one. But don't you ever go through my shit again."

"Don't go through my buttons," you hiccup.

He quirks a brow. "How many drinks did he ply you with?"

"Pretty sure that was, uh, the third?" You nod slowly. "Yeah, left the third Long Island on the bar. With the douchebag."

"C'mon, you fucking lightweight," he shrugs you back into position. "You should start sleeping that off. We gonna be busy tomorrow."

"Fuck you. You…yer a lightweight," you grumble. Butcher only smirks as he guides you across the street and over the parking lot. When you just about reach the trunk of the car you speak again.

"Hey Billy? 'Bout back there…with the douche. I really didn't mean for you to have to save me. I hate that, you're not a babysitter."

"Don't worry bout it, love," he grunts as he swings you up the short step and lets you lean against the doorframe as he digs one handed for his keycard. His other hand rests on the small of your back.

"No, really," you press, now in more hushed tones as there's a slight shift in gravity. You grab his shoulder for a little balance. "Thanks fer…for breaking that guy's wrist. I mean, I think you broke it…Coulda been real bad for me."

He chuckles as he struggles sliding in the card. "Cunt deserved it. And I told ya, didn't I? Not gonna let you drown."

You can't help but smile. You rest your head on the doorframe, feeling a different shift as you watch him, noticing the little threads of silver in his beard, the ones beginning to dust his temples and the shape of the scar there. The door finally beeps and he pops the handle, coiling his arm back around your waist. He meets your eyes as if he's about to say something but it fades and he stares with a look of…surprise? Concern? It's there and then gone, like a mirage replaced with that glower look you know so well. "You really shouldn't do that. Don't look at me like that," he says gruffly.

"Like what?"

He looks away as he starts to sidle you through the door. "Like I'm fucking Prince Charming."

"Oh," you whisper. You try not to worry your lip as you stumble after him. That's not the alcohol warming your cheeks and suddenly the carpet looks very, very interesting. But your sloshed little brain replays his words and you snort, "You are definitely not Prince Charming."

"Oh, so you did notice?," he quips, nudging the door shut with his boot.

"No, no, no, you misunderstand," you insist as he awkwardly shuffles you towards your bed in the dark, cramped space. "Prince Charming is a lie, Butcher. He's a lie."

"The fuck you going on about?," he mutters into your hair, peeling back your covers with his free hand.

"He's a lie! With his too big smile, and, and with the rehearsed pickup lines he doesn't mean, and promises he never keeps. You know who the Charmings are?," you ask as he coaxes you to sit on the bed and taps the lamp on the lowest setting.

"No, who-? Oi! Don't reach for those bloody shoes like that! You want a concussion, that it?!" He rights you with a hand on your shoulder and only kneels down when he's certain you won't topple over. "Just fucking sit still, will ya?"

"You wanna know who? The Deep. And Homelander. And A-train. All those fuckers. To use your favorite word, Prince Charming is just the grandmaster cunt."

He shakes his head, grumbling something about your footwear. But you don't hear him and prattle on. "But I have a theory. I think the fairytales got all spun on us. We shouldn't want Charming. It's…" You shrug. "It's the wolf."

Butcher looks up at you just looking all the world like he is done with you. "The wolf?," he asks flatly. You nod. "The big, bad wolf? You sure it was only three drinks?"

"Hear me out. The wolf wasn't really bad, just doing what any animal does to live. Still more honest than Charming, anyway. Ya know? And wolves are loyal…Loyal to the point of violence." You wince when Butcher yanks off the first shoe. He gives you an amused glance as he chucks it into a corner.

"Oh thank you," you sigh. "That's so much better…Maybe that's what this fucked up world needs. For us to be a little more wolfish." An idea flits in your mind and you hum as a lazy smile crosses your face. "Besides, can't argue with what they said in the stories. The wolf will hear you better, he'll see you better and clearly e-ee-eeee…Um…"

You suddenly remember who the hell you're talking to. And you trail off when you discover that the amused look on Butcher's face has changed. His lips are curled into a smirk you're not used to. And you're sure it's the alcohol running with your train of thought, twisting your perception. But suddenly in the low light, his wild locks remind you of dark, thick fur. And you know damn well his eyes are hazel but for a split second, you could've sworn they looked gold. And feral.

"Don't mind me," he says, his voice in a deeper register than before. "You were saying?"

He slips off your other shoe, letting it clatter to the floor as his hand slides up your ankle to the back of your knee. He sits up taller on his heels. He doesn't blink. 

"I, uh…I guess…I-I forgot," you breathe. Your face feels far too warm. When did you get so heady?

"How about you remind me, lil' Red? How's the story go?" He raises three fingers on one hand, the other rubbing lazy circles about your knee with his thumb. "Let's see…Eyes to see you better…Ears to hear you better…" He slowly lowers the last finger and leans in. "What are the teeth for, my dear?"

Your lips part but words fail you as you stare back at him. You feel a little dizzy but you're not sure you can blame the liquor anymore. Those firm fingers now gripping your thigh, however…

The next breath you take shudders loudly in the space between you. You try to piece a coherent answer and instead another hiccup bubbles out. You clap a hand over your mouth, startled.

Butcher looks at your hand over your mouth for a long while. Then lowers his eyes and sighs. "Aww fuck. Fucking hell." He shakes his head. "This ain't no bloody fairytale at all."

A confused crease forms between your brows. "What's that mean?"

"It means," Butcher says quietly, shifting an arm under both your knees and the other behind your back, "That you, love, are drunk off your ass." He tilts you back onto the bed and you groan as everything spins. "And you're already gonna hate yourself enough when that hangover finds you in the morning."

"M'not tired," you slur, turning on your side, face halfway in the pillow.

"Sure you're not." He pulls the coverlet and sheets up to your shoulders. "Shut your eyes and have a little kip."

"Wait," you yawn as you hear the jangle of keys. Your fingers snag his coat sleeve when he turns off the lamp. There's a glow in his other hand. Your brain slowly recognizes it as his phone. "Billy? Where you going?"

"Shhhhhh." Your eyes ignore your attempts to stay awake and slip closed at the sound. "I'll be back. Go to sleep, lil' Red." The sleeve slips from your fingers and the door clicks shut, but you never hear them. It's the warm whisper in your ear you hear last before sleep curls around you.

"The wolf's going hunting."

[boombambaby]

[ @umbravirtus liked for a starter from here ! ]

Dishes full to the point of overflowing line the lavishly decorated table in the Royal dining room, each one meticulously placed in an order only known to the chef's who created the meal. In the middle of the table sits a tiered display of plates filled with the many different entrees he requested for the night, and servants fuss over the minute, finishing details as he takes his seat at the head of the table.

Mid-bite, one of the servants alerts him to the fact that he has company, and Kuzco peers around the tiered 'centerpiece' to see Hans standing in the entryway. With his mouth still full, Kuzco can only roll his eyes and make an impatient gesture for him to join him at the table with his free hand.

He takes his time finishing his last mouthful, chewing leisurely as he waits for Hans to take his seat, and only swallowing once the two of them have been sitting there staring at each other for an uncomfortably long moment. "Soooooo, got anything new for me?" Kuzco doesn't wait for an answer before he sucks his teeth, frowning as he feels something stuck and reaches up to rid himself of the stubborn morsel of food. Very proper, Kuzco. Good job.

"Don't just sit there, the llama meat is getting cold. Dig in, cheekbones."

[hebbarskitchen]

paneer manchurian dry recipe | how to make dry paneer manchurian with step by step photo and video recipe. basically an adapted version of chinese cuisine with its cooking techniques which meets the requirements of indian taste. in other words, it is a 2 step process where firstly, the paneer cubes are deep fried with spiced corn and all purpose flour coating. later it is sautéed with mixture of soy, vinegar and tomato sauce.

[jacobsullivan]

closed starter | @earthwindandraen Jake + Rachel At the Werewolf BBQ.

Two plates, piled high, with every entree and side dish offered. Some items, coined casseroles, salads, and varying layers of dip, of questionable contents. Starved after a busy day of games, played with the full force of his physical and magical abilities, Jacob couldn't put his food away fast enough. He didn't stop to look up, not even once, during his first plate. It was only when he moved on to his second that his eyes even lifted beyond the top of a toasted hamburger bun. An aura of unique and interesting color came into his vision, momentarily drawing his curiosity. It was weird to stare, he remembered, only after staring for too long. "You......uh..... gonna eat that?" He asked in an attempt to make an explanation up.

[mod-kyoko]

hey hey mod kyoko this is my first time requesting something on your page so i'm going easy on ya!

May i request Tsumugi Kirumi and Korekiyo with a ultimate astrologist s/o? like they study space and stars and mars and the other sturf of astrology? For some odd reasoning i find shinguji extremely comforting and pleasant to the ear and eyes :)

Thank you and Happy New year!

-Mod Kaito

ahh the v3 cast <3 (specifically kirumi <33)

dude i hope you meant astrology as in horoscopes too because that's how i interpreted it

tsumugi, kirumi, korekiyo x astrologer!reader (gender neutral)

tsumugi is definitely the type to appreciate an art such as astrology

in fact, she's super into it

she thought some posters would liven up her room so she bought some charts of constellations and the planets

she'd ask you to teach her how to interpret a birth chart, get obsessed, and then ask everyone she knows for their time and date of birth lol

she spends a lot of time reading up on this sort of stuff because she knows it's your passion

anyway, she's done so much research she knows almost as much as you, so the two of you can have hour long conversations, which is refreshing, because most people you talk to think astrology is fake? weird? yadda yadda

tsumugi's recent birthday gift for you was a brand new telescope

it was the latest model, with newer technology built into it, like the kind a laboratory would have, and now it's in your home!

thank tsumugi for being almost unhealthily obsessed with your interests

you and kirumi will stay up late at night drinking tea, starting a fire, and gazing at the night sky through the windows

she always plans these nights on a calendar, like the super organized maid she is, and prepares small entrees as well

she is always pointing to constellations and asking you to name them

she's really good at making conversation about your interests, it's like she has a database of conversation starters specific to you because it's her heart's desire to make you feel wanted and cared for

though, she doesn't really understand the horoscope part of astrology

she asked you if it was real one time

she probably meant is it accurate?

you'll tell her to take it with a grain of salt. some people really believe in it, and others think it's silly.

though she recognizes horoscopes as a pseudoscience, she does think it's fun to read them and see how accurate they are for her

the two of you are literally always going to be outside at night. always

korekiyo actually bought you both a tent so you could camp

the two of you have contests to see who can spot the most planets, stars, and constellations

imagine sitting on a blanket in the grass together, and he has his arm around your shoulders as he points up to the night sky omg

astrology appears in many cultures so of course he knows all about it, and you're the perfect match for him

he has always wanted an s/o who appreciates the universe as much as he does, and has interests similar to his own

and in moments like this when you two are talking about your shared interests is when he truly falls in love with you over and over again

sometimes he'll ask you to just rant to him about astrology so he can see your face light up as you talk about your passion

and of course you're so focused on info-dumping that you don't realize how kiyo is staring at you so intensely with our adoration in his gleaming eyes

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

literally didn't even like korekiyo but now because of my own damn writing im a simp 😭

-mod kyoko

[merrock]

It's time… for a bake-off! With world baking day happening on May 19th this year, we thought that we would do something fun and new to celebrate! Sponsored by Flour Co. in the suburbs, this event will allow Merrockites to show off their baking skills (or lack of) and win some fun prizes along the way! Everyone will be judged on May 19th, with your fellow townspeople (who chip in a donation) doing some sampling as they wander from table to table, seeing which treat tickles their fancy the most. Who will take home the grand prize?!

ic date: May 19, 2024

ooc date: May 14-19, 2024

dress code: casual, but if you want to dress like a cute baker, we won't judge!

invited: everyone! but those who want to judge must pay a fee to taste all the entrees.

notes: please read under the cut for lots more information!

This event is very much so going to be a 'trial and error' type of thing for us, as we've never really held a competition where we are asking you guys to submit things… and using it in character. But we thought that it would be something fun and new to spice up the town, and hope to see lots of participation! Here are some important rules / things to keep in mind:

to limit the amount of submissions, each player may submit three, only, and each character can only submit one! this means if you play six characters, you can choose three who will participate.

characters may team up for the event! but that will count as one of your submissions.

be realistic with submissions! if you have a character who is notoriously awful at baking, please don't take something off of google that looks professionally done and submit it. send us something horrible! that makes it all the more funny!

along with that, giving credit is preferred; we will talk about formatting your submission after the rules, but if you can link us to where you found it, that would be amazing.

In character interactions for this event will take place at the judging -- anyone who wishes to participate in judging will give a small donation and be able to wander through Flour Co., sampling the various entries so they're not just seeing them, but tasting them, too! Each table will be set up with forks, napkins, plates, the submission, and a number of photographs to view, just in case it gets all eaten up first! You're also welcome to write out baking the item, itself, if you'd prefer! But obviously please don't do open starters in your character's kitchen (baking takes place at home).

To submit, please use our submit box and fill out this little form.

CHARACTER: who is submitting

ITEM BAKED: what they baked (sending us the link to the source would be awesome!)

BAKING LEVEL: i tried, pretty good, damn! (choose one!)

DESCRIPTION: how your character would describe the submission, just a couple of sentences is fine!

NOTES: this is where you tell us anything special about the submission, like maybe it looks horrible, but tastes great, or it looks unreal, but tastes meh, anything that will help people vote!

Submissions will be taken until Monday, May 13th at 10PM EST!

[jungwnies]

partners ✰ 8 confessions confessions confessions

masterlist | next

the two of you sit comfortably at the table while your orders are being prepared. "i feel like everytime i want to apologize, i'm being interrupted by something." jake says breaking the ice.

"just forget it sim, what's done is done." you tell him.

"i'm really not that bad y/n, i promise." jake claims. "i don't know why i discredited all your hard work, i really have no idea why i said all of that, and i'm really sorry about that."

"i think it might take a little bit more than an apology to convince me you're not all that bad." you tell him as the lady places the entrees in front of you guys.

the two of you thank her and begin to eat. "then let me prove to you that i'm not that bad." jake suggests as he cuts the meat on his plate.

"go for it." you tell him.

— ts

"thank you for letting me walk you back to your dorm, it gets a little dangerous at these hours." jake says as the two of you walk down the quiet streets.

"it's better two people fighting one person, right?" you tell him as you stick your hands into your pockets. "honestly, i didn't realize how chilly seoul got at night."

"i would have given you a jacket, but i left it in the van." jake laughs.

"i wouldn't want to wear your jacket anyways, who knows what kind of contagious skin diseases you might have in the fabric of that jacket." you joke as you approach the entrance of the tall building.

"so, this is where your dorms are?" jake asks looking up.

you nod, "yeah, nothing special."

"i guess i'll see you off here then, thank you for today y/n." jake grins. "i look forward to seeing you next week, i'll do my best to plan something."

you smile and chuckle, "don't get all sappy with me now, but yes i'll see you next week."

you wave him goodbye as you enter your building. you walk into the elevator and pull out your phone and click the call button. the phone rings for a few seconds until the person on the other end answers.

"hello?" the voice on the other end confused.

"like you said, it gets dangerous at night so let me stay on the phone with you until you get back to your vehicle." you say as you click the button to go up to your floor.

"are you sure i'm still the one getting all soft? or is it you?" jake jokes.

"shut up." you hiss jokingly. "so tell me sim, have you started planning where you're taking me next week?" you ask as the elevator doors open to reveal the floor your dorms are on.

"well is there anything in particular that's on your bucket list?" jake inquires.

"uhh, hold on." you enter your dorms and say hi to your members and quickly rush to your room and close the door behind you. "sorry, i'm back, but also i'm not sure."

"how about... a karaoke room? jake suggests with a slight chuckle.

"you're serious?" you ask laughing.

"i mean why not, we're both idols, we both sing, it would be fun, right?" jake quizzed. "actually, how about we go eat dinner first after music bank, then we can sit in the park and get to know each other more."

"that actually doesn't sound too bad, but you'd have to find a very private park." you tell him as you make your way to the bathroom.

"i have the perfect place in mind, but i'm in the van now." jake tells you as you hear the van door close in the background, "we can talk about this more another time, have a good night y/n."

"yeah, you too jake." you say before hanging up.

– ts

after showering, brushing your teeth, and washing your face you click the facetime button your friends contact.

"so, how was the date?" soobin asks as he sets up his phone.

"for starters, it was not a date, and secondly, it wasn't that bad." you confess as you plop into your bed.

"well, i never thought i'd hear you say that... literally ever." soobin laughs as you laugh along.

"he's trying his best, i'll give him that." you sigh.

"well, i'd love to hear about what happened today, so tell me everything." soobin tells you as he focuses on what you begin to tell him.

word count: 763 | thanks for reading!

taglist: @whois-alexis , @hanienie , @reikofruitloops , @baldi-2 , @yelleloww , @aetzensvct , @moonshoon , @kimipxl , @shinsou-rii , @giraffeass , @ghostiiess , @ohbeomgyu , @tlnyjoong , @silcry , @beomgyusonlywife , @xiaoderrrr , @lalalalawon , @iea-tsand , @noonaslvr [open - bolded could not be tagged] join the taglist

2022 © jungwnies

[cat-lady-spinster]

I'm back for the ask game! 15, 27, 46, 48, and 57.

15. Do you go down each aisle when you grocery shop, or only the ones you know you need stuff from?

Absolutely, even the aisles I'm pretty sure I'm not interested in. Just in general I like wandering around grocery stores, maybe I'll stumble on a sale or something new. It's great. Most of the time I walk to the store so I'm not under any sort of time restrictions

27. Do you prefer Boardgame Night, Build-Your-Own-Pizza Night, or Movie Night with your friends?

We tend to do more craft parties, once we all got plain witch hats to decorate but it's really common to bring whatever our current project is. We always end up talking over movies and missing half the plot so movie night really only works if we've already seen it.

46. What kind of stuff do you keep on the door of your refrigerator?

Condiments mostly, once a bottle of kombucha got moved to the door and I didn't find it for a month because it never occurred to me to look by the ketchup.

48. If you could build your home from scratch, what outrageous feature would you want to build into it?

Big fireplace and a ridiculous amount of shelves

57. Do you tend to bring an appetizer, entree, dessert, or drinks to a potluck?

I'm all over the place with this one, my foccacia gets requested a lot but it takes 2 days to make. The last time I made it I included the recipe and a jar of sourdough starter so they'd see it's not a whip up really quick style dish. At one of my old jobs we did a mac and cheese cookoff. I've done homemade crackers a few times if it's more of a wine and cheese thing. I really only do desserts for birthdays

[outer-edges]

okay so i got yelled at tonight by a member real bad for something that wasn’t even a bit deal (his appetizers, starter salad, and entree all came out at once) but i think the table next door took pity on me because they tipped me like $30 and I’ve served them before and they don’t usually tip so that makes it a little better

[vitaliskravtsov]

56 and patater for the spotify wrapped!!

56) wayfairing stranger by the longest johns!!!!!

I know dark clouds will hover on me I know my path is rough and steep But golden fields lie out before me Where weary eyes no more shall weep

There’s something distinctly awful about the first night in a new city, and Providence is no different. San Jose to Vegas had been an adjustment, loud and bright and messy, but Vegas to Providence has, thus far, been unnerving.

Alexei thinks he understands, now, why all those horror movies take place in New England.

Even in a city, it’s too quiet. Admittedly, he’s used to the Strip, and he’s used to the desert and heat lightning and everything else that comes with Las Vegas, Nevada, USA, but Providence feels otherworldly.

He’s on a quiet side street, which is helping nothing, and it’s 3am, which is helping nothing, and he’s fucking lonely. He misses his boyfriend, for starters, and his cat, for next starters, and his apartment, for entrees.

He misses the stupid way the lights never really got dimmer and the way that the city swelled around you to swallow you whole. 

There’s nothing to swallow you in Providence but the dark and the quiet and loneliness.

They’re playing in the West on a roadie in three days, and he thinks he can hold out until then, hold out for the desert and his cat and his apartment and his pretty blonde boy who doesn’t believe he’s pretty and doesn’t listen when people tell him he’s good at hockey because it never means anything until he’s holding a goddamn Stanley Cup.

Right now, though, he’s crying in a hotel room in Providence fucking Rhode Island because his boyfriend just got done playing twenty-five minutes in a game that he should’ve seen only eighteen of, but Kirmer must’ve seen something he didn’t like (or something he did, though that has been getting rarer) and decided to make Kent live with that. 

Alexei’s never felt so alone.

There’s a message on his phone from his new captain, just a short one that says “Welcome to Providence!” and the urge to delete it is so strong that Alexei throws his phone across the room instead of dealing with that.

Just then, it rings.

Alexei gets up, and he picks up the phone.

Inevitably, it’s Jeff, calling because Jeff has this magical sixth sense of when Alexei Needs Things And Kent Is Busy.

“Priveyt,” Alexei says, because he’s sad and English is stupid and Jeff speaks enough Russian.

“I’m going to tell you about growing up in Nebraska until he’s done media,” Jeff says, slow and careful and determined. “And then you’re going to talk to your boyfriend about revenge dick tricks or things that aren’t hockey or whatever you get up to, but you’re going to talk to him.”

“Da,” Alexei says, and he does. 

Jeff paints a pretty picture, but Alexei is barely listening.

He’s barely listening when Kent gets on, either, just kind of hanging on to the cadence and roll of Kent’s voice, paying the briefest sort of attention to the game narration and the most sort of attention to the sound of kentkentkentkent.

He falls asleep like that, Kent’s voice in his ear, and he wakes up and goes to practice.

He can’t close his eyes and pretend it’s Vegas. There’s snow. He needs a non-fashion winter coat for the first time in years. The rink feels different and sounds different, and when he finally gets out, he goes back to the hotel room and cries.

He does a little math and a little Googling, and sends a text before his mandatory afternoon coffee meeting with the captain.

At 10am on a Tuesday, Kent gets a text that simply says “only need 6 more seasons until okay for retire”.

He’s going to light up Vegas on Thursday.

He’s going to burn Providence to the ground, consequences be damned.