#anyway lettuce cooked isn't too bad

[fazcinatingblog]

Apparently I'm on MasterChef now

[aheckinmess]

Symphony

Read on AO3.

Tags: Robert "Bob" Reynolds, Original Female Character(s), Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, Alexei Shostakov, John Walker, James "Bucky" Barnes, Sam Wilson, Thunderbolts, Bob x Original Female Character, Coping with Grief, OC is an Empath, Another Tower Fic, Watchtower Shenanigans, This is part of a much larger fic I'm writing with my friends, but I'm writing this because I needed to get it out, or I would explode, and then who else would feed you all this tasty Bob content?, Sam is OC's Adoptive Father, Bucky is the Best Uncle, Yelena is a Good Friend

Word Count: 6,360 words

Summary: Daffodil grew up with the Avengers after a past riddled with trauma and tragedy; after Endgame, she's trying to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and rebuild when she meets the Thunderbolts at the insistence of Uncle Bucky. She isn't prepared for how quickly she gets attached to them, nor is she prepared for Bob Reynolds, someone who understands how she feels more than she knows.

Chapter 1: Symphony

Daffodil bets money every time she steps into the communal kitchen that none of the Thunderbolts have eaten a decent meal since they moved into the Watchtower. Of course, she doesn’t exactly blame them with all the shit they’ve gone through.

Yelena and Bob frequent the kitchen for simple meals like spaghetti or hamburgers or chicken alfredo, seeing as they’re the few team members who don’t burn water. The same could not be said for Walker, Ava, or Alexei. Those three set the kitchen on fire every time they so much as glance at the stove, which is probably why they live off of frozen dinners and microwave mac n cheese. 

The heavens open up and sing when Uncle Bucky steps up to the oven range. The last time he made peanut butter pie, Daffodil slid to her knees and hugged his legs like he’d hung the sun in the sky.

Only problem? Uncle Bucky rarely cooks in the Watchtower kitchen.

That might explain why when Daffy goes to slice her tomato, she cuts her thumb instead, with a dull blade as the culprit. 

“Shit!” She shoves her thumb and the knife under the faucet, muttering curses that would send her father into cardiac arrest.

“Can’t find your way around a knife?” John smirks and tosses his soda in the bin. “We gonna have to start giving you safety scissors to cut your veggies now?”

“I might be able to handle a knife if you freaks would keep them sharpened!” Daffy sticks her tongue out at him. “Don’t any of you ever cook something other than instant mashed potatoes and boxed rice?”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.” 

Daffodil quirks a brow and opens the cupboard above the sink. A pitiful little moth flutters from the empty vessel and she swears she hears it crying.

“Look at this! Moth families are in poverty!”

“That’s not my fault! Maybe Mr. Moth should assess his options and switch jobs to better support his family.” He digs through a drawer for the first-aid kit.

“How dare you! Mr. Moth is doing his best.” Daffodil grabs a paper towel and squeezes it around her mutilated thumb. “Careful with that Neosporin. Don’t press too hard.”

“This isn’t my first time, Daffy.”

“That’s what she said.” 

“You are impossible.”

Five minutes later, Daffy finds the knife sharpener and transforms a block of sad kitchen cutlery into weapons of war. When she finishes, she returns to her mission of slicing and dicing her tomato.

“What’re you making anyway?” John pokes his head over her shoulder. “Enough to share, I hope?”

Daffodil points to the grocery bags on the counter: ground beef, lettuce, sour cream, cheese, guacamole, hot sauce, and homemade tortilla shells. 

“Oh, hell yes.”

The Thunderbolts wander into the kitchen like a litter of hungry puppies as soon as the smell of cooked meat wafts through the halls. Daffy puts Walker on microwave duty with the tortilla shells since it’s the only appliance she trusts him to operate.

“Ah, yes, finally! A good cook is in the house!” Alexei cheers from the lounge. “We will eat well tonight!”

“Who says I’m sharing?” Daffy taunts.

“Are you kidding me? There is always enough to share with your favorite uncle.” 

“Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain why you think she’s sharing with you.” Uncle Bucky claps the Russian’s shoulder in passing. “You’ve got enough for me, right, Ducky?”

“You people are animals.” Daffy groans, adding taco seasoning to the beef and leaning back to headbutt her uncle. “But of course you can have some.” 

“I will literally drag Ava to the store with me to get more if it means you will share with all of us.” Yelena pleads.

“No worries. There’s plenty. I always buy extra for you guys when I cook here.” She smiles.

Yelena eyes the frying pan and starts gathering toppings to line up across the bar when Daffy switches off the burner. Ava sets up plates and utensils while stealing cubes of tomato.

There is one person unaccounted for and Daffodil represses the question of where he is lest Yelena look at her like she’s on an episode of Bachelorette.  Instead, she busies herself with putting the meat in a bowl and setting the grease aside to cool. “Dinner’s ready!”

The Thunderbolts descend upon her taco bar, fighting each other to get a plate as if they’re starving wolves. Walker elbows Yelena, who smacks Alexei, who squeezes in front of Ava. Daffodil vaguely wonders if Valentina feeds the poor heroes.

“Did you make these tortillas yourself?” Ava asks around a dollop of sour cream. “They look homemade.”

“They are. Don’t judge me if they taste bad, it’s only my second time making them.” Daffy chuckles.

“I have never put a bite of your food in my mouth that I could not swallow.” Alexei wraps his arm around her shoulder. “You make good food. Just the right kind of food for a hungry team of heroes.”

“Hungry is right.” Bob’s soft timbre shudders down the hall as he comes into view.

Daffodil hates him. 

She hates the way he makes her lips tip up and the stress melt off her shoulders. She hates when he steps closer and her body naturally opens to welcome him in the conversation. She hates how her eyes latch onto his and the world falls away for a breath because his presence hugs all of her broken pieces into a mosaic of hopeful daydreams – daydreams she has been scared to hold onto since her parents died thirteen years ago. 

Daffodil hates that Bob loves her so effortlessly, because all she can do is fuck everything up.

“I was starting to worry you might be getting chased by a feral street cat.” She hands Bob a plate and ignores the soft pang of affection he emits every time he gets close.

“That was one time.” He nudges her arm.

Daffodil’s soul stitches itself together when he smiles at her. 

“One time is all it takes to worry. That means your chances are statistically higher than the average citizen.” Daffodil chances a glance up at him again, wondering what it would be like to stop holding back – to stop being afraid. 

She looks away as soon as his eyes meet hers.

“What are we watching tonight, Dinner Gang?” Ava asks, plopping into her usual spot in the middle of the sofa. “My personal pick is Top Gun.”

“We watched that last time!” Yelena says around a bite of taco. “Holy shit, Daffy, this is delicious.”

“I learned from Uncle Bucky.” She shrugs, shifting the attention away from her and watching everyone’s eyes pop out of their heads.

“So the peanut butter pie wasn’t a fluke?! The man is just Gordon Ramsay and never told us?” Walker scrapes up some lettuce and cheese that fell out of his shell. “You owe us.” 

“It’s called following the recipe.” Uncle Bucky grouses, stuffing another bite in his mouth. 

“It is an inherited family trait, how wonderful!” Alexei laughs.

“Everyone shut up and figure out what we wanna watch or we’re watching Top Gun again.” Ava whines, but pauses on the remote long enough to give Daffy a thumbs up.

“I vote we watch Sing 2 because I don’t want to be emotionally devastated by Top Gun again.” Daffy proposes.

Somehow the only open seat ends up being beside Bob. Either Yelena conspired with Ava, or maybe the universe just laughs at her every failed attempt to act normal around him.

Daffodil bites the bullet and sits by him and Ava rewards her with Sing 2.

“A kids movie?” Walker pouts.

“It’s actually pretty cute.” Bucky offers for her benefit.

Daffodil munches through two tacos before she can fully relax. Having Bob in her vicinity is a recipe for an accelerated heart rate, which wouldn’t be so bad except she’s aware he can literally hear it.

By the middle of the movie, she scoots a little closer – their sides touch and she forgets how to breathe when his arm hugs her shoulder. Bob’s love suffocates her, wrapping itself around her like a hot towel she desperately wants to clutch tighter.

Daffodil only manages three minutes against his chest before she gets up to collect peoples’ plates.

“Hey, you were the one that made dinner. We can do the dishes.” Yelena scoots forward to stand.

Daffodil shakes her head and her magic stretches out like a rubber band to fill Yelena with the warm comfort of trust. She hates fucking around with Yelena’s feelings, but if she lets herself get lost in a pool of Bob she will drown.

She hates that he makes her feel like it’s worth drowning.

“Oh, it’s alright.” Daffy smiles. “I don’t want you to miss any of the movie, it’s one of my favorites and the good part is coming up.” 

Why are you running away? Yelena’s eyes ask.

I’m afraid. Daffy sighs and then ruffles the assassin’s hair before taking her plate. But I’ll try again soon.

“Fine. But next time you’re not getting out of it.” 

“Deal.”

Daffodil hums along to the songs echoing into the kitchen and then focuses on pouring the grease into a cup. Once it’s properly stored, she falls into the comfortable rhythm of washing dishes. 

Bob pads up behind her and brings sweeping waves of uncertainty with him.

“Let me help?” He asks.

Daffodil cannot tell Bob no.

“Sure. Dry what’s already in the rack, I’m running out of room.”

“Thanks for cooking it.” He grabs a towel and sets to work. “It’s not often we eat so well. I think everyone just gets tired of the long days.”

“No doubt about it. Walker and I checked the cupboards and they were so empty you’ve left moth families in poverty.” She tuts, smiling into the grimy pan as she scrubs. “I’m surprised they haven’t started a rebellion.”

“Moth families?” Bob laughs.

Why does he laugh so easily for her? More importantly, how does she know she’d fight the universe to save that laughter for herself? 

“There was a sad little pantry moth that flew out when we opened the door. He didn’t even have any crumbs to take home to his family. What’s he supposed to do in that kind of economy, huh?” Daffodil flicks a few droplets in his direction.

“Hey!” Bob snorts and whips the towel at her shoulder. His expression dampens abruptly and it gets quiet before his next words fall as soft as snowfall, “You know, if you visited more frequently, I’d be glad to go grocery shopping so you have things to cook.” 

There it is again. His emotions aren’t just feelings anymore, they’re so intense they talk. Please. They beg. Please stay. I miss you.

When did Bob become so necessary? Right now her ability to breathe hinges on whether or not he’ll tilt his head up to look at her. If he’ll say those words out loud and create a reality out of his screaming emotions.

Instead, his brows furrow and his desires are clouded by prickling concern. “Daffy? You okay?” 

She blinks and turns from him in a flush.

“It’s hard to stay here right now.” The words tumble out.

It’s a half-truth. A smoke bomb in the maze of her pain she’s too afraid to traverse in his company.

“...have we done something wrong? Something to make you uncomfortable?”

“No. I love hanging out with you guys. I consider you all my family.” Daffy continues, scrutinizing a speck on a plate she’s well aware is a soap bubble. “This isn’t my first time in the Avengers Tower, though.”

Comprehension dawns on his features.

“You…you knew the Avengers. That’s right. God, I didn’t mean to…shit, I’m so sorry.” Daffodil can taste the shame swimming over his shoulders.

“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t know. I’d love to visit more, really. But even though the Watchtower isn’t exactly the same, their ghosts are still here.”

How often she’s tried to explain to her father how she can still feel Tony in the renovated lab – residue of his determination and guilt drips down the walls, fading every time she steps inside.

One day she’ll step inside and the last particles of her uncle’s snarky laughter will fail to greet her.

“The training room is the worst.” Her lips tremble. 

She hands him the last dish and all but sprints down to the training room in question. He’s right behind her, a quiet but competent companion.

“People don’t realize how much emotion they leave behind in a room. Even softer emotions. They leak into the carpet, hang in the wallpaper, and I’ve even found a few hiding under the bed.” She chuffs, stepping up to an old punching bag and grazing her finger along the worn leather. 

A pinch of laughter, a handful of fury, and a swarm of fortitude. All of it belongs to Steve, woven into the bag like a tapestry with Walker’s anger, Alexei’s vitality, and even Yelena’s sorrow. Every day, Steve’s thread frays a little more.

Natasha’s longing saturates the rest of the room, down to the sweat in the old mats. Longing for a better life, for a family, for a home.

“You…feel them all around this place. It’s like they’re still here even though they’re gone.” Bob frowns. “Can’t you turn it off?” 

“Even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to. It’s as comforting as it is painful.” Daffy sighs, plopping on the floor and raking her nails against the hardwood, desperate to unearth another memory. 

“Do we make it worse? I mean…do we make it harder to feel them?” 

“No. Everyone’s emotions feel different. Like their own unique scent or fingerprint.” She pats the space beside her and Bob sits – his elation punches her in the stomach as she holds his hands. “You, for example. Your uncertainty feels like a tide rolling in, afraid to fully breach the sand. Alexei’s feels like more of a dance, tiptoeing forward and back in rhythm.”

His thumbs graze her skin and he catches her eyes.

“What do your emotions feel like?”

Daffodil breaks. 

Her ruddy sculpture of broken pieces totters and tilts. 

What do her emotions feel like? Has she ever told anyone? Ever shifted the delicate balance to impress her feelings on another to share? God, it’s all she’s ever wanted. To offer up the desires of her heart to someone she loves and ask them to hold it.

Just for a little bit.

“Hey, I’m here. You can cry – I can handle it.” He whispers, thumbing a tear from her cheek. “I know you must miss them. Let me carry your emotions with you for a while.”

Grief opens its bottomless maw and Bob offers Daffodil the safety of his arms when her cries ring through the Tower.

“They feel…heavy.” She hiccups, clutching the fabric of his shirt.

She wants Tony.

She wants his quippy remarks and hidden snacks throughout the lab. Or sleepless nights when she wandered into his lab with a sleeping bag until the mutterings of his tech jargon lulled her eyes shut. By morning, Tony would still be tinkering away, or she would be tucked back in her bed.

Usually Steve was the culprit, and on the following morning he ate breakfast with her. He always made time for Daffodil – without fail. The mundane would become mesmerizing as he shared tales of the past over a plate of eggs and bacon. Steve was the sole reason Daffy passed American History her sophomore year.

Bruce helped her pass Chemistry. She texted him every day to ask where he was since Thanos – a string of one-sided questions and updates on life that begged him to answer, or at least let her know he wasn’t gone like everyone else. Daffodil always found him on the roof, one of his favorite places to relax. If he felt frustrated about a particular science struggle, she offered her ears to listen while he talked out formulas, offered possible problems in measurements, and Daffodil sat there and listened. 

Natasha would have hurt when Bruce left, too. She asked Nat to train with her extensively every day after Ultron, the first time Bruce disappeared, knowing without it being said that she needed a distraction. Daffodil felt Nat’s absence like a lure bobbing atop a stagnant pond, always searching for fish but never finding a catch.

Daffodil added her to the list of people she never got to say goodbye to.

Clint and Thor’s absence hurt even knowing their general whereabouts. It’s worse knowing they’re still around and she still doesn’t see them. What she wouldn’t give to hear another of Thor’s Asgardian drinking songs, or melt into Clint’s arms after a bad day at school.

Every memory, every shared laugh, every tear stain, every snappy quip pours through the Tower as her magic spreads her sentiment out to Bob and the Thunderbolts in the living room.

Shock colors her features as she calms down and a group hug swallows her. Bucky and Alexei sit behind her at Bob’s side, both taking turns rubbing her shoulder. Yelena and Ava take post at her legs, resting their heads on her lap as Yelena hums a lullaby and Ava pats her knee. Then there’s Walker, usually awkward as hell but sitting at Bob’s other side and murmuring soft reassurances.

“We’re here. You don’t have to hold it all alone.”

Daffodil isn’t sure when her body goes limp and her exhausted body succumbs to sleep, but three more words reach her before she submits to the void.

“We love you.”

. . . . .

Daffodil refuses to return to the Watchtower for weeks. It’s not that she fears being weak in front of them – she’s an empath, for heaven’s sake – it’s that she fears belonging. 

Half of her family died. She knows they’d want her to move on and make friends and laugh again. She knows they want her to keep fighting and dream new dreams, and forge a new family to bridge the gap in her heart. 

So why does it feel like a sin to move on? Why is she so scared to be happy?

“You’ve got that look on your face again, babygirl.” Sam comments over breakfast. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

Daffodil shrugs, knowing her dad is tapping into his VA therapy skills for her benefit but having no idea how to answer him.

But his concern floods her senses and she knows she has to try.

“I still miss them.” She starts, because that’s the easy part. That’s always the easy part. Everything after that gets messy. “I don’t know what to do without them.”

Daffodil knows it’s stupid. It’s been four years. Four years to mend and recover. Four years to move on and find something new to aspire to. Four years of constant distraction so she wouldn’t have to face the influx of regret and guilt and emptiness that plagued her every time she thought about six cold graves in the ground, six empty places at the table.

Six infinity stones that fucked with her universe.

“You don’t have to know.” Sam reaches across the table to squeeze her hand. “You spent years with these people, Daffodil. Years to build your schedule around them and plan for the future. That’s not something you recover from overnight.”

“It’s been four years, Dad.” 

“And for all four of them you’ve tried to ignore it.” Sam chuckles whenever her eyes widen. “I notice more than you think. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you wanted to get an education – and I know Bucky appreciates you helping him get on in Congress – but it was the most obvious display of escapism I’ve ever seen.”

Daffodil goes quiet. Her father knows more than he lets on. And if he does, maybe the others do too. Maybe they won’t hold it against her for maintaining her distance.

“I’ll go visit them today.” She decides at last.

“Good.” He pats her hand one more time and then finishes his breakfast. “I know they’re not going to replace the others, but it’s okay to get close again. Even if it hurts.”

Daffodil grins and hugs her father on the way to put up her plate. With a smirk, she looks at him over her shoulder.

“I’m impressed. Did you borrow Uncle Bucky’s speechwriter?”

“You could say that. I hear we’re a favorite of hers.” 

Daffodil finds Asterin draped over the couch when she finally makes it to the Watchtower. Her head snaps up as she raises a finger at Daffy.

“You, ma’am!” Asterin begins. “I have a bone to pick with you!”

Maybe she should have stayed home.

“What did I do? I just stepped off the elevator.” Daffodil scoffs, tossing her bag onto the other end of the couch.

“You had an emotional breakdown without me!” She throws arm across her forehead. “With everyone on the team except me! And there was even a group hug?! The betrayal!”

Daffodil smiles when Asterin peeks out from under her arm with a smirk. It elicits a laugh at the very least, and she tosses a pillow at Asterin’s face.

“It wasn’t planned, I assure you.” Daffodil waves her off. “As it stands, it appears I’ve run everyone off. Where is everybody?”

“On a mission. I got here about thirty minutes too late to go with them; Bucky said they were dealing with clean-up and should be done within the hour.” Asterin leans over the couch and finishes chugging a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Didn’t take you for a day drinker.”

“Long day. Needed to relax.” Asterin shrugs, before pointing towards the fridge. “Plenty more in the fridge and on the top shelf. I grabbed the alcohol. Bob stocked the pantry on Thursday – he knows you like to cook.”

His thoughtfulness slaps Daffodil in the face despite his absence and she heads to the fridge for a screwdriver and a frozen margarita.

By the time the Thunderbolts return, Astern and Daffodil both belt out lyrics into a brush and a wooden spoon.

“I’m just a man! Who’s trying to go hooome! Even after all the years away from what I’ve known!” They both drag out the lyrics, languid movements dramatizing the moment as Walker drops his shield with a thunk.

“What the hell did we walk into?” He looks between Daffodil and Asterin, both of whom pay no attention to the rag tag team in the midst of their emotional musical display.

“Judging from the bottles, I’d say this is a party I’m sad I missed.” Yelena snorts, grabbing a Buzzball and throwing it back. “Give me a few minutes and then I’ll tag in.”

“Yelena!” Daffodil chirps at the end of the song. She tackles the assassin in a bear hug and rests her head on her shoulder. “I love you guys so much. I missed you.”

“Oh, you’ve definitely been drinking.” Yelena snorts, rubbing Daffodil’s back. “We missed you too.”

“Yay, Drunk Daffy! She’s my favorite.” Asterin giggles, flopping over the side of the couch. “How was the mission, guys? Anyone need the med bay?”

“Standard procedure. Nothing bad. Mostly scrapes and bruises.” Bucky waves the girls off with a bemused grin. “And even if we did, I’m not trusting you with a needle in your current state.”

“I am the vision of sobriety!” Asterin whines as she turns over too far and faceplants onto the carpet. “Fuck.”

“Uncle Bucky!” Daffodil’s next target is her uncle, who chuckles as he pulls her into his arms. “Please don’t be mad at me…” 

“Why would I be mad at you, Ducky?” He coos, patting her hair. 

“I dunno…” Daffy huffs, closing her eyes briefly to soak up her uncle’s attention. “I didn’t visit you guys for a while…”

“I would never be mad at you for that. If anything, I’m jealous. Have you tried wrangling this circus of monkeys?” He ruffles her hair.

She misses this feeling of normalcy and banter. She misses her happy Avenger family and how no matter who was in the Tower, it was always home. God, she wants the Thunderbolts to feel like home, too.

It’s just too fucking scary.

“Daffodil, this is splendid! You’re so candid this way. We should all drink together more often.” Alexei pours himself a glass of vodka and throws it back.

“I second that!” Ava whoops, dancing to the new playlist Yelena has on in the background. 

Daffodil blends into the music and laughs from her belly. Walker hangs out with Bucky and Alexei, the girls all dance while singing at the top of their lungs, and Bob?

Nothing could stop Daffodil when she finally catches sight of him stepping off the elevator.

“Bob, you’re here!”

“Yeah, I was a little late. Oh, hey!” He beams as his arms are suddenly full of her.

Daffodil loves him.

She loves the way his eyes sparkle when he glances her way. She loves the fire crackling in her toes when she sees him, like her feet can’t wait to jump over and get close. She loves how his eyes always travel to her lips like he’s waiting for her to finally, finally tell him that she wants to stay by his side forever because she’s always wanted to – to draw out the words like a ballad only she can sing. 

Daffodil loves him so much she wants to be better, to be everything he deserves.

“Asterin said you filled the pantry for me.” She doesn’t even think twice about wrapping her arms around his neck. “That mean you’ll help me cook sometimes?”

“If you want me to.” Bob smiles and cups her hands against his cheeks. “You were in quite a state last I saw you. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine! Really! Just emotionally constipated.” She promises, stretching her fingers up to play in his hair. The excitement under his skin hums and she giggles. “Your hair is really soft. Mine is too! Wanna feel?”

But before he can answer she’s tugging his hands into her long, curly strands. Daffodil leans into his probing fingers with a sigh, enjoying the scalp massage while it lasts.

“You’re right, very soft.” He shakes his head as she gazes up at him. “We should get you some water.”

“No.” Daffodil refuses, swallowing thickly as his emotions threaten to submerge the Watchtower. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I may lose my nerve.”

“Lose your nerve?”

She kisses him. It’s quick and barely lasts more than a few seconds, but she kisses him. 

“Sorry. I, um…” She pulls back with her neck buzzing and glances behind her as she stumbles back. “I can leave you alone now.”

“Wait, come back.”

Bob brushes her cheek and leans back in. He takes his time – he drops his hand to steady her at the hip while he reorients Daffy’s center of gravity. He kisses Daffodil the same way a summer breeze sways against blades of grass. 

Delicate, intentional, curious. 

He rewrites her genetic code; it’s as if she’s known him since before the world was born. Her hands settle against his chest when they pull back, breaths shallow.

The Thunderbolts sit on the couch opposite of the accent wall hiding them; Walker’s playful jibes creep around the corner, but they remain otherwise oblivious.

All except Uncle Bucky, who stares Bob down from the corner with a glare that promises death. Daffodil sobers up the moment his feed tromp in their direction.

“You break her heart and I’ll break your goddamn neck. Void be damned.” The threat is quiet but assured. When he turns to Daffodil, his expression melts into a lopsided grin. “I won’t tell Sam, but I demand video footage when you finally tell him.”

It’s so antithetical to how Uncle Bucky should react. Nevermind that she’s cursed to doom everyone around her to an early grave, but to have Uncle Bucky believe she’s deserving of someone like Bob?

“Do you think Dad will be disappointed in me?” Her face crumples, her nose twitching. “Do you think he won’t want me anymore when he finds out?”

“He might tease you a bit after he finishes the Obligatory Dad Freak Out.” Uncle Bucky laughs, slacking his stance. “But he will never not want you, Ducky. Of that, I’m certain.” When he hugs her and she cries, he rolls his eyes. “I forget how emotional you get when you drink.”

“You’ve seen her like this before?” Bob clears his throat.

“Are you kidding? Sam and I were the ones to take her out drinking with her friends for her 21st birthday. Asterin and Ned went with us.” Uncle Bucky steps aside to grab a glass of water and hands it to Daffodil, who drinks it obediently. “You think she’s affectionate now? She kept crying over every small thing, things like accidentally bumping elbows with Sam or grabbing Asterin’s fork by mistake. Kept saying, ‘I don’t ever want you to be sad! I just want you to be happy!’” 

Daffodil finishes her water just as Uncle Bucky completes his impression of her voice.

“But I do want you to be happy.” She pouts, looking at the floor.

“It’s not a bad thing, Ducky, it’s adorable.” 

Thus reassured, she hugs Uncle Bucky’s metal arm and steadies her muddy thoughts with daydreams of cuddling up to Bob. As if reading her mind, Bob’s hand rests at her waist.

“Is it okay if I love him?” She murmurs.

“You asking yourself or me?” Uncle Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Damn him. Damn her uncle and her father for knowing her so well.

“I don’t know anymore.” She groans, before the voice of Patrick Wilson serenades her from the lounge. “They’re watching Phantom of the Opera! It’s my favorite, come on!” 

She drags Bob to the last available couch and curls into his side with a blanket draped over her. Yelena smirks in her direction, but Daffodil sings along with the movie, unaware of her friend’s taunting expressions.

Daffodil cries at the end, just like she does every time she watches it, only this time she’s not alone. This time when she cries it is without shame, and Bob pauses every few minutes to dab them away with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Alexei, Uncle Bucky, and Asterin conspire to torture the Thunderbolts with Sweeney Todd as the next musical movie choice. Halfway through the movie, the alcohol loses its potent grip on Daffy's brain – though, perhaps it’s less sobering up and more of the feeding people human meat pies that does the trick.

A peek up at Bob reveals he’s engrossed in the movie before him, half mixed between horror and fascination, offering Daffodil the perfect time to escape out onto the roof for some air. When she steps out into the cool, autumn wind her shoulders droop and a smile paints her lips. She sits on the edge of the balcony, legs dangling over New York between the safety bar around the edge.

Another set of footsteps pad up to her.

“Running away again?” Yelena asks. 

“Not intentionally.” Daffodil chuckles, patting the spot beside her. “Actually, I just needed some air.”

“Sounds like you’re sobering up.” Yelena takes the offered seat and leans her chin on the safety bar as she looks over the city. “You finally going to make a move?”

Daffodil doesn’t say a word, not sure if she wants to tell Yelena about the impromptu kiss earlier.

“Do I deserve to?” She asks instead.

“What do you mean, Daffy?”

“Do I deserve to move on? Why do I deserve to have a normal life when they didn’t live to get that chance?”

Yelena doesn’t need to ask, and Daffodil doesn’t have to explain. Yelena lost Nat, too, after all. Daffy loses her thoughts to the drowning chorus of cars down below.

“Because they died to give us that chance.” Yelena finally says, looking at her with eyes twinkling in the darkness. “And we’d be rude as hell to shit on it.”

Daffodil presses her forehead to the cold metal and lets the sounds of the city suffocate the guilt still pooling in her chest. A strain in her nostrils grows into a dull ache as she struggles not to cry – three times is quite enough for one day, thank you.

“Do you want to see him? See what he was like?” Daffodil asks, pulling her Iron Man necklace from her yellow hoodie.

“Show me.” Yelena nods.

Daffodil turns around and clicks the sides of the little Iron Man helmet. The eyes glow and beams out a hologram of Tony himself onto the floor of the balcony. Tony’s hologram stares dead into her soul, the same way he did on that last, fateful day.

She misses him. It’s like her heart draws in a shuddering breath as he reappears in front of her for the first time in four years, brown hair askew and contrasting the high-end blue blazer resting on his shoulders.

“Everyone wants a happy ending, huh, kiddo?” The cold numb prickling of nostalgia sweeps through Daffodil’s nervous system, swirling into a volatile hurricane as it clashes with the warm longing of being home again. “If you got this message, Dandelion, I’m sorry to say your ending wasn’t quite as joyful as I’d hoped.” 

The following sigh as Tony’s hologram steps closer hollows out the rest of Daffodil’s fragile psyche. 

“I’ve been where you’ve been, Dandy. No family, alone, no one to rely on but myself. And even if you’re the only one left after the dust settles, I want you to know something.” She doesn’t know how the hologram figures out how to gaze at her with such precision, but he does. “None of this is your fault.” His eyes crinkle with mischievous intent. “Not even the fact that I’ve been calling you the wrong flower for years. It’s not your fault. I don’t doubt there will be hundreds of reasons for you to ask ‘what if,’ but it’s done now. There’s nothing you could do.”

“But there was.” Daffy whispers, hugging herself in an effort to smush together her broken pieces. “You were right there.”

“Knowing your stubborn ass, you  don’t believe that for a minute, but I made this message to remind you as many times as you need that it’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Keep living. Even when it hurts, keep living. Keep doing the things you want to do, even if you’re not sure what they are anymore.” 

Yelena hugs Daffodil’s arm and leans against her shoulder. Tony smiles at her one more time.

“You’re part of our family, our home. Always have been. So go kick ass, Dandy. And do it with my fucking seal of approval.”

Round four of tears is inevitable but Daffodil doesn’t care. She tucks the charm back in her hoodie and wails into Yelena’s shoulder with Tony’s dead eyes glowing behind her eyelids. 

Daffodil doesn’t know when she fell asleep, but between the copious alcohol in her system and listening to Tony’s message she is not surprised when she wakes up staring at a familiar ceiling inside the Watchtower. 

She’s really got to stop falling asleep crying on people.

When she lifts her head, it’s clear Yelena took charge of her sleeping arrangement. 

Bob lays beside her snoring in short bursts through his nose – a glance around reveals Uncle Bucky and Asterin on one couch with Walker, Ava, and Yelena splayed across the other.

Alexei’s feet hang on the trio’s couch as he lays belly up, snoring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach.

She grins and decides to make breakfast for everyone, but not before giving herself another look at Bob’s sleepy face. Since no one’s awake, one kiss on his forehead seems innocent enough, and she settles into the kitchen with practiced ease.

Several batches of pancake mix later, everyone stirs from their well-earned slumber. Asterin wakes first with Uncle Bucky, who truthfully probably only pretended to sleep this long for her comfort. 

Daffodil giggles when Asterin thunks her head against her shoulder.

“How you doin’ this morning?” She yawns.

“Better than before I fell asleep.” Daffodil confesses. “How about you? Need something to eat? I’m making pancakes.”

“You’re a fucking saint.” Asterin praises, picking up a whole pancake with her hands and chomping into it like a savage. “Shit. Needs syrup and butter.”

As she puts a plate together, Bob creeps up behind Daffodil and she almost paints the ceiling with a half-cooked pancake when his arms circle her waist – she succumbs to the weight of his presence and lets him kiss her cheek.

“Smells good.” He hums, grabbing a towel and swiping a few crumbs from the counter into the trash bin. “Want me to get you something to drink?”

“Orange juice, please.” 

Daffodil serves the pancakes just as Walker and Ava stumble in.

“I knew there was a reason we kept you around.” Ava snags a plate and drowns it in syrup. “We’re gonna have to pay you before long.”

“Keep the moths fed and I’ll consider it adequate.” 

“Moths?”

Walker snorts in his cup of milk. Bob giggles.

“I feel like I’m missing crucial information.” Asterin pouts around a mouthful of breakfast.

“I’ll explain later.” Daffodil rolls her eyes and finds her seat at the dining table, but not before Bob pulls out her chair for her.

Uncle Bucky smirks and Yelena winks at Daffy as she joins the breakfast squad. Alexei’s snores still echo in the background as white noise.

It’s not Tony. It’s not Tony throwing a napkin across the table or Bruce subtly offering her an extra fry. It’s not Natasha communicating to her entirely through facial expressions or Clint doing trickshots with his leftover food into the trash can. It’s not Thor shattering his mug and crying, “ANOTHER!” or Vision explaining that it is scientifically impossible to have fecal matter for a brain.

No, it’s not quite her family as she knew it.

But it’s a start.

[40sandfabulousaf]

大家好! I returned to Song Yue, the restaurant Pa introduced me to, with LL, the expat friend from China, in tow. Both Song Yue and Din Tai Fung serve dishes from Taiwan island, but they couldn't be more different. The latter is famous for la mian xiao long bao (handpulled noodles and soup dumplings); the former specialises in jia chang bian cai (homestyle cooking). We had pork ribs and radish, poached cabbage with fish maw and egg floss, as well as ginger duck, their specialty dishes. LL especially loved the pork ribs and radish, as did I, although everything was excellent. I also collected the Legend Age moisturiser and eye cream which I'd ordered. LL included a foundation FOC for me to try, as well as a facial mask sheet. Yay!

A new stall serving Western-style meals opened near our office and they offered a promotional price for teriyaki grilled chicken to mark their opening: $6.90 (regular price $9). SC, ML, MI and I decided to try it. I asked for teriyaki sauce on the side but ended up not touching any: the dish was tasty on its own. The chicken looks large but it's pretty flat and quite crispy whilst remaining tender and juicy. The meal came with 2 sides: 4 onion rings and buttery mashed potato. This was undeniably good, but $6.90 good, not $9 good. I won't be ordering it once the promotion ends. The quantity of chicken doesn't justify the price tag.

Another week, another bowl of zha jiang mian (pork noodles in bean sauce). The stall I was at seemed to be owned by Malaysians rather than China nationals. I decided to give them a try and requested for additional vegetables to go with my noodles. Instead of shredded carrot and cucumber which are usually served with this dish, there was... a mound of lettuce. I was disappointed but tucked in anyway. Honestly, it wasn't bad. The noodles were quite smooth and slurpable and the tasty sauce coated each strand without being too salty. My main gripe is, the soybeans were too hard and chewy instead of soft and palatable. It isn't something I'll specially return for, but it was decent. I'll try their tomato egg noodles next time if I happen to be within the vicinity and have a craving for some.

I'm not a fan of coleslaw because many places add too much mayo and the mixture ends up gloopy, but I needed my veggie fix during WFH lunch this week. Coleslaw was the only veggie menu item at the stall serving local western style meals near my home, so I ordered it along with chicken spaghetti. The portion was pretty reasonable for $3 and it was actually good! The thinned out mayo didn't overwhelm the crunchy sweetness of fresh carrots and cabbage. I polished off the little dish before tucking into the chicken and spaghetti. This still isn't my favourite way to eat vegetables, so it will remain a last resort. On the bright side, I know where to get some coleslaw that isn't gloopy now!

It's been another eventful week as more nations signal their displeasure against the war in Gaza, from Chile joining developing countries rallying behind the genocide case against Israel at the ICJ, France banning Israeli companies at a weapons exhibition, Maldives banning Israeli tourists to Ghent University severing ties with all Israeli academic and research institutions. I hope this brings some comfort to Palestinians in Gaza, where children are once again suffering from malnutrition following Israel's invasion of Rafah. The above video shows very disturbing images of sickly, emaciated children. One can only hope their nightmare ends soon and this war finally comes to an end. Stay strong Gaza! 下次见!

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

There is the option to freeze anything that isn't a lettuce tomato or cucumber. I know it seems obvious, and you probably considered it, but it's what I do. If I have the energy I even cut up the vegetables before sticking them in, so I can just pull handfuls of whatever out of the freezer bags to toss into whatever meal until they are gone. Most things aren't affected in texture enough to matter if you are cooking them anyway, the only thing the doesn't work for is salads, but that's why I always try to have a pot of mini cucs, mini toms, herbs and planted lettuce cores on the go, so they equally can't go bad.

I know this isn't going to work for everyone and you might have already thought of it, but the way I solved the vegetables in the fridge problem was to not have vegetables in the fridge. The freezer is a lot like a time-pause button.

Tossing some cooked veggies that have been fried in spices on an otherwise fresh crisp salad can be really good too, like a hot home made dressing, so you graze your little greens garden and your cherry tomatoes, and then dump on the sauted peppers and mushrooms and onions from the bag in the freezer you bought 3 months ago [pollinating with an electric toothbrush does work].

I know that just growing your own veggies at home doesn't work for everyone with every type of executive dysfunction problems, but for me it's an easier way to get to it when I have the energy and think to get to it.

Some veggies will also keep longer if you put their base in a little bit of water in the fridge, like the cup of green onions I still have growing in my fridge from the groceries I did in November. I think it works with celery and lettuce too if you can find the right container, and give it enough air space, and don't put the water up too high.

i'm morally against time travel, but i really need scientists to figure out how to time freeze. not generally, just like, in a box. so i can store my vegetables without fear of losing them. please, scientists, i have executive dysfunction and my fridge is not enough to cover the time where i manage to get groceries and the time i manage to cook. i need you to break the laws of time and space because i can't lose another brocoli.

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

This isn't really a prompt so I'm sorry but just like any stargent please? Obliviousness? Pining? Maybe a dream or two about Stiles?

This??? Turned into a soulmate au??????? 

???????????????????

I’ll be real most of this was co-written by a neat bourbon. 

Christopher Robert Argent didn’t have a soulmate.

It wasn’t unusual. Roughly a quarter of the population didn’t. Another quarter had more than one. The other half had the standard, One for One Soulmate Match.

But not Chris.

He knew because his dreams were his alone. They never took on that particular sharp quality that everyone described when they were viewing the day to day life of their soulmate. Around the age of 18, when most of his friends were excitedly describing trips to the grocery store, or a laundromat they’d never seen in the hope that someone else would recognize it and be able to point them in the right direction, Chris was dreaming about the stages of wolfsbane poisoning and how to recognize a banshee.

By 20, he’d accepted the sting of not having a soulmate, and agreed to the arranged marriage his father wanted. A daughter came shortly after, and Chris thought that not having a soulmate was worth this. His eventual divorce was worth this. Raising her as a single parent with no support from extended family was worth this. His baby girl was worth everything.

So how was he supposed to explain to her that he’d started having dreams about one of her best friends?

__________

“Hey Daddy,” Allison said, dropping a kiss on his cheek as she sat at the dinner table. Picking up her fork, she continued, “Stiles is coming over to work on our American History project in about half an hour.”

Chris inhaled sharply and choked on a piece of lettuce. Coughing, he grabbed his water and tried to clear his throat.

“You okay?” Allison asked, concerned.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Uh, you and Stiles have a project together?” Chris prompted.

“Oh, yeah. We’re doing a report on William Henry Harrison.”

Chris furrowed his brow.

“The president who died a month after taking office from pneumonia?”

“Yep.”

“... That was Stiles’ idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yep.”

His idea. Because he was a high school student, invested in the shortest, easiest project possible.

High. School. Student.

Young. Probably not even capable of having soulmate dreams yet.

Chris sighed, and then concentrated on eating his dinner fast enough that he could shut himself away in his office before Stiles arrived.

He was just cleaning up the last of the dishes when the doorbell rang. Chris cursed quietly to himself, hurrying to dry off his hands and disappear-

“Hey Mr. Argent.”

Chris spun around, trying to arrange his face into a casual, no-I-wasn’t-running-away expression.

“Hello, Stiles. How are you doing?’

Stiles dumped his backpack on the table and leaned a hip against it, crossing his arms. It made the definition on his forearms stand out-

Chris deliberately snapped his gaze back up to Stiles’ face.

“I’m fine. We have a lacrosse game tomorrow night, you should come.”

Chris took a brief moment to consider Stiles, sweaty and worn from lacrosse, approaching him after-

“Ah, I have some prep work I need to do for a gun show tomorrow night, Stiles. Sorry about that.” And God, was he ever sorry.

Stiles was clearly disappointed, but just shrugged and said, “Maybe next time? We have games every Friday.”

“Maybe,” Chris agreed before hightailing it out of the kitchen.

__________

“Hey Chris,” came a voice from down the aisle. Chris looked up to see Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles pushing a cart behind him.

Chris sternly reminded himself that cereal boxes are not camouflage and tried to relax his stance.

“Sheriff, what can I do for you?” Chris asked.

“Oh don’t be like that,” the sheriff said, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he reached him. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Make sure Stiles isn’t making a nuisance of himself while he and Allison work on their project of theirs,” he chuckled out.

Chris smiled stiffly and looked back at the cereal boxes, looking at the labels as if they were hardline journalism. He definitely didn’t say I wish your son would make much more of a nuisance. I wish he would break every single goddamn thing in my house, so that maybe I wouldn’t be so pitifully sad every time he leaves.

Instead, he said, “Nah, he’s a good kid.” Eager to do something with his hands, he grabbed a box of Trix and dropped it in Stiles cart. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “Well, I better get back home and make some dinner for Allison. Be seeing you.”

It wasn’t until he’d made it all the way home, cooked dinner, and gotten halfway through the dishes that he realized he’d picked out Stiles’ favorite cereal, the one he saw him buying in dreams at least once a week, and given it to him.

God fucking damn it.

__________

Stiles didn’t have a bad life.

It wasn’t “My Super Sweet Sixteen” all the time, but it wasn’t bad. He had friends, his dad clearly loved him, and they didn’t struggle to pay basic bills.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have bad days.

Chris woke up one Thursday morning after a dream. A sharp, clear, Stiles dream, where Finstock had reamed him in front of the whole team for fumbling a couple of catches.

Chris knew without a doubt that it had happened the day before, and he also knew that he would finally be going to a damn lacrosse game, if only to try to wipe the downtrodden expression that Chris had seen.

The next night, Chris made a point to cheer loudly whenever Stiles was on the field, celebrating his successful passes with a touch too much enthusiasm, if Allison’s looks were anything to go by.

After the game he tried to sneak out with the rush of the crowd, but Stiles still caught him.

He was sweaty and breathing hard. They’d just barely won, and he was clearly riding the high.

“Mr. Argent! You came!! I heard you cheering! Holy shit, you’re a yeller aren’t you?”

Stiles lunged forward to give him a hug, battering Chris slightly with his chest pads.

“Oh shit, sorry-” and before Chris could even think of a protest, Stiles was ripping off his shirt, and then the hard pads, leaving him in a paper thin, completely transparent undershirt. Then the hug was happening again.

Oh Lord, the hug.

Chris silently, but fervently hoped he would get a replay of this moment in a dream.

Eventually Stiles pulled back, smile beaming.

“I-”

He was cut off by a horde of lacrosse bros, barreling down on them to cheer and push him toward the locker rooms.

Stiles tried to say something else, but it was drowned out by the general crowd and excitement of teenagers.

Teenagers.

Chris sighed.

Turning to look, he saw Allison at his elbow, smiling her dimpled smile.

“Are you going to stay?” she asked.

Chris shook his head.

“I don’t want to get old man cooties all over your youthful fun,” he teased. Allison laughed and leaned forward for a hug.

“You don’t have old man cooties, dad. Not since you stopped using Brooks Brothers aftershave. You could stay, you know. It’s not just us whippersnappers who get together after games. Melissa will be there, and the sheriff if he doesn’t have to work. Derek and Peter will be there too, and Laura comes sometimes. Burgers and milkshakes are an all ages kinda deal.” She paused for a moment. “... You’re allowed to have relationships outside of me and business, you know.”

Chris stared at her as she paused again, clearly steeling herself.

“... if you happened to discover that you have a soulmate, you could pursue that.” Her words couldn’t have been more to the point.

“Allison,” Chris said slowly. “What do you know?”

“I-”

“ALLISON!” Chris heard Lydia yell from across the stands. As soon as Allison was distracted, Chris slipped away.

Whatever Allison knew, he didn’t think he was ready to hear.

__________

Chris was two fingers deep in whiskey when there was a knock on the door.

It was late, but Allison had texted as soon as she realized her dad was gone.

10:23 p.m. AllyI’ll be home by 1. We’re talking in the morning.

It was only about 11:30 now, so it wasn’t likely to be her. She rarely forgot her key anyway.

Chris reluctantly lurched out of his chair to check the peephole, just in case there was some kind of emergency.

There wasn’t an emergency, but there was a Stiles.

Chris opened the door just as he raised a fist to knock again.

“Oh!” Stiles said, jerking his hand back and almost unbalancing himself. Chris quickly stepped forward to catch him, but the whiskey had nibbled away at his own equilibrium, and he ended up overcorrecting and dragging them over the entryway, into the house together.

They fell back against the wall directly behind the front door, Stiles pressed against Chris, and Chris feeling too stupid to remember why that was a bad idea.

Then they were kissing.

A deep, searing, tongue tied, slick lipped kiss that started at the mouth but quickly moved to the whole body. Stiles was clearly inexperienced but very eager, and Chris had never felt so engaged in a kiss.

His hands gripped Stiles’ waist while Stiles’ framed Chris’ face, stroking along his cheekbones and petting down to the back of his neck. When Chris licked along the point of one of his canines, Stiles moaned, and Chris finally had to pull away to breathe heavily.

Stiles didn’t give him a moment, though, immediately latching his mouth on to Chris’ neck, sucking and licking his to his collarbone. Chris tilted his head, exposing more area for him to work with. He had a fleeting thought that he’d never tried to sell guns with a hickey before-

And the sudden realization splashed over him like a bucket of cold water.

“Stiles- Stiles, stop. Stop.” Chris couldn’t bring himself to physically push him away, and it clearly took a moment for the words to pierce the fog of lust that Stiles was currently lost in.

“What?” he asked, pulling back, brow furrowed and eyes slightly dazed.

“You- I- this is illegal.” Chris finally pulled a hand away from Stiles to rub it down his face. “Oh God. You’re the sheriff’s son.”

Stiles looked confused for a moment before his expression suddenly cleared.

“I was held back in fifth grade,” he said. “The year my mom died-” he cut himself off, looking uncomfortable. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I had to repeat fifth grade, which made me a year older than all the other kids. Which means I’m still a year older than all the other kids.”

Chris’ mouth was hanging open.

“Which means I’m definitely legal,” Stiles continued encouragingly. “And… also old enough to be having soulmate dreams?” he finished tentatively, turning the statement into a question asking something other than what the words said.

For the rest of their lives, Chris would blame his slow uptake on the whiskey.

Stiles would blame it on his mind-bending kissing skills.

In any case, it took a solid thirty seconds before the light finally clicked on, and Chris dragged Stiles all the way inside, barely pausing long enough to text Allison that she should stay at Lydia’s that night.

[luvquadvolcanus]

TL;DR: my family's cooking paradigm is fundamentally at-odds with my aversion of eating the same (objectively boring) things over and over again, and this manifests itself in the unseasoned meat that we eat most days

me reaching once again the end of my rope on eating unseasoned meat. thanks to my brother's tastes (to oversimplify just a bit, meat with nothing), over the years, my family has been making less and less "dishes" or even just meals that aren't a slab of meat with a starch (also my parents getting more busy). I try to cook something more interesting when I cook, but at least one meal per day is made from someone other than me (and I don't have the time to make super elaborate things either), and usually it's the current object of my distaste.

Now, I really hate eating the same things over and over again. I really can't stand it. Twice before I refused to eat chicken for like 2-3 years in a row because we had it for maybe 2/5 meals? And it was always the same shitty-ass unseasoned chicken breasts or legs. In kindergarden, literally 4/5 meals had as a first dish pasta with tomato sauce. I did not eat pasta with any sort of tomato sauce until I was 13 (ok, I ate a tiny bit. but only if I had to), and, to this day, I don't like that (I'm fine with tomato-based sauces on pasta).

These are just some examples, but this has caused a bunch of issues over the years because my family apparently loves eating and buying the same fucking things every goddam day: same breakfast biscuits, same unseasoned meat, same pasta with ragù (tomato meat sauce), same unseasoned boiled vegetables (for my parents)... The moment I say I like some snack or breakfast item, suddenly they buy 6 months' supply of it, at which point I eat only that for 6 months because I loathe wasting food, and nobody else will like it, but really I got sick of it after 2 weeks.

There is a bit of variation, but it's pretty minor compared to what I wish for. Also I am painting what I eat in a perhaps too bleak light, but I'm beyond sick of it. The issue is that, instead of it being, like, 2 specific dishes I won't eat, it's the whole cooking paradigm my family has that I'm sick of. Really, it's an endorsement of how much I liked meat that I still like it, if the dish is interesting, and that it took, at the end of the day, quite a bit for it to reach this point (I've been at this level of intolerance for like 2 years at this point).

The specific inciting incident this time was my lunch: porkchops cooked by my brother. Obviously, rigorously unseasoned (How he manages to go to a good cooking school and still have this palate, I don't know). They were done correctly, the issue was, they were fucking unseasoned slabs of meat. I did, add vegetables, under the form of lettuce and tomato on sandwiches I assembled out of my meat, and, while they did help, they were much too weak to defeat the boringness of the main part of this meal. Anyway, that shit sucked tbh and that's when I wrote the post (well, a bit before that, actually).

Also, other catalyst for this, was that in the past few weeks, I've went to a few family and friends celebrations and meetups at restaurants, and picked meat dishes most times, being sorely disappointed (almost. thank you burgers) every time, thanks to the fact that the meat dishes I got turned out to be, you guessed it, mostly unseasoned meat. And I'm not talking about bad places! It was decent ones every time!

I just want like, rice and beans (that we can barely make because my brother won't eat them), or curry (that takes too long), or fish that isn't unseasoned, white fish boiled with a tiny bit of salt, or an omelette that isn't overcooked to hell, or anything that isn't some basic-ass base to which my dad says that we can "add" something (as in, plonk it in after cooking it), and starts listing the same 20 things he always lists, out of which there are maybe 3 distinct things that someone would want to add to it. (Any time I hear the word for "add" in italian I almost pop a fucking gasket nowadays).

i can't believe i'm actually becoming someone who doesn't like meat

[angeloftheisles-blog]

Angelo laughed at the question, paying more attention to the note than his hands as he rang the boxset through. It was routine by now, so he didn't really need to pay that much attention. It beeped anyway.

Phillip eating vegetables though? Now that was attention worthy. There were days he half expected him to come down with scurvy or something, the way he ate.

"I'm not big on the whole vegan thing - I like eggs and dairy - but vegetarian isn't too bad. And you can put pretty much whatever you want in salads, but things like lettuce and tomato and cucumber are pretty standard. Red onion, avocado and cheese too." He may not be the greatest cook in the world, but even he could throw together a salad. It was a little harder when he was advising somebody who looked at vegetables like they killed his parents though. "If you're free some time, come to my place for movies or something. We can make pizzas and I'll have a veggie pizza so you can try it and still have back up pizza if you gag."

He turned the screen to Phillip, showing him the price listed. "This was what it cost when you ordered it in right? Abi put it in the system, not me, so I dunno if you're getting charged extra."

Angelo grinned at the question, giving a little half shrug in reply. Phillip regularly encouraged him to try freelance art, but he kept putting off doing anything about it. It was partially confidence related and partially just his own bad procrastination habits though.

"I've got a sort of commission sheet I was going to drop by the Explorer's Guild after work, see if they'd stick it up on the request boards or something. Other than online, it's the only place I can really think of to advertise it, especially since most of what I do is traditional. Online works better if you work with digital stuff," he shrugged. He grabbed his sketchbook, flipping it over and opening the back page to show his drafted 'request'. "See? Gonna drop a copy in later."

angeloftheisles:

Is That An Anime? || Open

Angelo’s grin widened when he realised who the customer actually was, pleased to see his coworker stopping by. The other man was definitely the quiet (ha) and introverted type, but they got along well enough that it was always good to see him. Between geek stuff, photography, and Angelo knowing enough about tech from his mother to carry on conversations about Phillip’s hobby/side job, they definitely had enough to talk about.

“Oh that? Yeah, sorry, sold it to a little girl this morning,” Angelo joked in response, though he had already turned to free his legs from under the counter and jump up from the stool. He disappeared into the back room and returned a moment later, holding the requested boxset carefully. He had been curious when it first came in, so knowing it had been a special order from Phillip made sense.

“So ‘salad stuff’ huh? Turning over a new leaf and trying some vegetables?” Sure it was probably rude to read the scribbled out shopping list, but if he really cared then he probably would have used a fresh bit of paper. Or at least turned it over.

Phillip grinned and rolled his eyes at the comment. Oh yeah, open his package and sell it to some random girl. He would never hit anybody, but he might just tackle a girl to the ground over that…he had been waiting for a couple of months once the pre-orders opened. He flipped the paper over and shook his head, laughing to himself.

‘Glad it made it safe. Has a bonus two mystery charms in it.’ He tapped the pen on the counter and shrugged. ‘Some girl made a comment that vegan is super tasty now, thought I should give one meal a try? Did something happen to the veggie things? What even goes on salad? >8(’

He wrote quickly–not as fast as he types, but it was quick enough for what he needed. Over time, he had mastered on sizing his own letters for maximizing the paper space and–okay, so he just didn’t want to get caught without a way to communicate again. That was always a mess.

‘Have you started up doing commissions yet?’ he added as an after thought.