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demcrazymandolin · 1 month ago

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Heya! April-Doodles here, I was wondering if you had any hometowns for the Goslings in mind. I know it’s been mentioned that Jones is from Alaska, so that got me wondering about everyone else. Do they have accents from their hometowns, and would specific Goslings cover up their accent or proudly speak in accent-lingo no one else understands? I think it would be cute to know little quirks that the Goslings have because of where they were raised.

I have my own silly guesses (would they be headcanons at this point?) as to where I would put the Goslings, but I also think I just thought about Massachusetts/Heavy Boston accent Mosson one day and giggled very hard over it, which is in the sketch vault, but I digress—I would love an author-canonical answer for my silly questions!

Hello!! This is something Gabe and I have had established for a while but we haven’t had the chance to reveal all of their home states yet. We don’t have any soecific towns/cities in mind necessarily, except for Jason being from Gentry, Arkansas. But~

Palmer is a SoCal boy. I personally headcanon him living and growing up in San Diego. His parents are immigrants from Mexico. He is bilingual and speaks Spanish as well as English. We’ve touched a little on his accent in Say Nothing and how he’s slowly letting it come through more and more, but used to hide it.

Elliott is from Colorado, like Kim! We figure he’s probably a city kid, but haven’t delved too deep into his life outside of being a soldier. He’d have a pretty standard American accent.

Mosson is from upstate New York, on the Eastern side. He’s roamed all over New England and parts of Canada and is a big outdoors guy. Doesn’t talk like a stereotypical New Yorker, but he can do an incredible impression of that accent.

And Jones is, of course, from Alaska, which we’ve revealed in the fic.

Nick wears a Chicago shirt in the game so we assume that’s where he is from, while we headcanon that Rachel and Eric are both from New York state. Eric would’ve grown up around the Catskills and Rachel across the state in Buffalo.

Rana would have an accent similar to Salim’s. We haven’t decided exactly where in Iraq she is from, but since she is a well-known archaeologist, she travels often anyway. She is from one of the more traditional cities of Iraq, however, which is why she wears hijab.

Sun-Hi is from Colorado, as mentioned before. She is also bilingual, Korean being her first language, but when she speaks English she has a standard American accent.

#LOLLLL #this is hilarious btw #THE GOSLINGS ADJFKEHFI

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demcrazymandolin · 2 months ago

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Prompt #6: Cookies Words: 1758 Summary: Salim has planned for a nice afternoon together with his son and his friend, but things go a little different than he expected.

“Almost,” Salim says. “A few minutes more.” He eases the oven door closed again, giving himself immediate relief from the wall of hot air pushing at his face. The top of the ma’amoul almost has that golden color that means it’s been perfectly baked, with finely crushed pistachios filling the inside of the pastry.

Zain’s favorite. Close to how Rajwa used to make them, he hopes. If he has to bribe his son with his favorite food to spend more time with his father, then he will. Especially if it means Zain avoids ingratiating himself even further with Will, that new ‘friend’ of his. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Zain. But as Salim is twenty-two years older than Zain, he has more experiences with the type of person Will seems to be. A flashy young man with more money than he has morals. They’ve been down this path before, though. With the old neighbor’s son. Trust him, Salim tells himself.

Knowing it will seem like he’s still glancing at the cookies’ progress, Salim closes his eyes for a brief moment. He takes a second longer to gather his breath, hearing the low hum of the oven as it works, and effaces all the worry from his expression before he straightens up from where he’d been checking on the cookies. Turning his back to the oven, he reclaims his seat across from Jason at the table.

“Got the whole place smelling like a goddamn bakery,” Jason says, draping one arm behind the back of his chair, the other resting on the table, legs sprawling wide — upon Salim’s request, Jason has long since made himself at home whenever he comes to visit — as he sits and watches his host move back and forth across the kitchen. Jason’s lips thin, the very ends curving up in a light smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a mix of ease and delight. The mere sight of it fills his chest with a comforting warmth. Something about Jason and the way he carries himself, seamlessly slipping into Salim’s life and still fully understanding him despite their scant amount of time together, always elicits that response from his body. “I tell you, Zain’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

His eyes snap up to Jason’s own. Despite the casual tone, the look in Jason’s eyes seems a little guarded, albeit genuine, his shoulders hiked up only a fraction of an inch, like he’s holding on to some painful truths of his own that he doesn’t want to show and definitely doesn’t want to disclose. The urge to press for more balloons up inside Salim, pushing against his chest, hungry as he is for more crumbs of Jason’s past, of Jason’s experiences in life. But he’ll only do so on Jason’s terms. So he swallows, nods, and says, “Thank you, my friend.”

He lays his hand on top of Jason’s, giving it a firm squeeze, and waits for the tension spanning Jason’s shoulders to disappear. Testing the waters, he begins, “What was your—”

The sudden sound of metal working against metal rings out from the hallway, interrupting his question and resonating in the quiet kitchen. Before either of them even looks to the hallway, Jason jerks his hand back, sitting up in his chair at the kitchen table. Salim stares at the loss of contact, wondering. What’s that about? Then they hear the tumblers of the front door’s lock fall into place, a clear click, and the mechanism unlatches.

Beyond the kitchen, the front door lands shut with a heavy thud. Though he tries, Salim fails to catch Jason’s gaze, seeing Jason duck his head until the bill of his cap obscures the view. Hurried footsteps begin to make their way deeper into the house, and Salim has heard that gait for almost nineteen years of his life. His son has come home, he thinks, before correcting himself; his son has come to visit.

“Zain!” he calls out, “We’re in the kitchen.” All in English, because Jason deserves to understand the words as well.

Once his son enters the kitchen, Zain shoulders off his weekend bag, slinging it to the floor without a care. Not that Salim would bother to criticize that. Even with the limited hours Jason has been here, Jason has already picked up a discarded sock here or a forgotten lighter there, teasing him for his messiness with a sly look.

“Hey, dad,” Zain says. A beat later, he adds, “Jason.”

“Zain,” Jason acknowledges in return.

“Come,” Salim invites, foot nudging the chair beside him, making it scoot back from the table, “sit.” Several questions bubble up inside of him. Is Zain doing well? How has he been? How are his grades, his friends? But he stills his tongue, forcing the barrage of questions down. “Tell me how your month has been.” He glances across the table, smiling wide from pure joy, and catches Jason’s eye again. He holds the look for half a second, winks at Jason, then looks back at Zain. “Help me brag about my wonderful son to Jason.”

Jason gives a disbelieving snort, tilting his head to the side an inch, dismissing the idea with a tiny shake of the head. “Nah, you don’t need more ammo in that area,” Jason says, the stark contrast of his Southern accent infusing the words with an undeniable charm.

Zain rolls his eyes, giving him a fond smile as he nods at Jason. “What the cowboy said.”

Before Salim can ask any of the things he wants, before he can even reveal the origin of the rich scent of confectionery that Zain can certainly smell by now, Zain continues, talking as he walks over to the bathroom.

“Anyway, I can’t,” Zain calls out, “I’m heading out with some friends.”

Salim goes rigid. Across the table, from the corner of his eye, he spots Jason’s eyes swiveling in his direction, furtively glancing over at him. After all, he has spent the last hour peppering in comments about how happy he is Jason and Zain will get to spend more time together.

“I thought we would be spending the afternoon together,” Salim says. “The three of us.”

Over the faint noise of the running faucet and the distant sounds of Zain freshening up, his son calls, “We have all weekend for that, dad.”

“At least stay a few minutes. I made you ma’amoul.”

“That’s okay,” Zain dismisses, and the core of his chest grows a little taut as the disappointment settles in. “I really can’t, Will’s waiting right outside.”

He takes a breath, reminding himself. Trust him. Zain will always be his boy, but he’s also old enough that he doesn’t need his father dictating or overseeing everything he does.

“Okay,” he gives in, worry already building in the pit of his stomach over what Will might try to get Zain and the rest of their little group to do. “Where are you going?”

“The beach.”

“We’ll save you some ma’amoul, then.”

As Zain walks back into the kitchen and over to the main hallway, he gives an utterly indifferent shrug. “Sure.”

Salim knows a good parent doesn’t take these things personally. But memories prick at the back of his mind, plaguing him with reminders of Zain devouring every last crumb of ma’amoul whenever Rajwa made them. Not because he wants Zain to praise his cooking. What he wants is what he has always wanted since he first held a little bundle that felt like it was more cloth than baby, and what he will always want for the rest of his days. For Zain to have a good and happy life.

“Stay safe,” he orders Zain. That, at least, is not up for discussion.

At the same time, Jason calls out, “Have fun, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Zain hits back. Followed by a quick, “Don’t wait up for me!” The last things they hear are his retreating footsteps followed by the door opening and closing as the lock falls back into place.

The low, mechanical whir of the oven drifts over, the only sound in the kitchen after Zain’s swift departure. If he doesn’t take out the ma’amoul soon, they’ll end up burnt.

“Hey,” Jason says before he can rise and make his way to the oven. The word is soft, tentatively asking for Salim’s attention. “You know Zain’s smart enough to make the right call. You can trust him.”

“Really, I had no idea.” The sarcasm springs out before he can tamp it down. It’s what he’s been telling himself over and over whenever he worries. He wants to close his eyes, to shut himself off from the world for a moment so he can pray Allah will silence the fretting thoughts lurking in the back of his head. But he keeps them open, seeing the minute shift in Jason’s face as if it wants to shutter closed but Jason is fighting it.

Of course. Jason reached out to him, and he slapped his help away.

Back in the Sumerian temple, he caught glimpses of some guarded emotion before Jason steeled himself, retreating behind a hardened mask so he could continue to see Salim as the enemy. The mere idea that a small lapse of control could make their relationship backslide grates at his throat when he swallows.

Yet the expression crossing Jason’s face shows reality is not as bad as he feared. There’s a careful, measured distance behind the look Jason gives him, but he’s not closing himself off entirely. “I get it,” Jason reaches out again, understanding him even when Salim didn’t expect him to, “you’re worried ‘bout your kid. Comes with being a good dad.”

The tension around his chest dissipates, and Salim breathes in, free and deep, ensuring his voice will be level enough to convey how he feels. He leans a little closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m sorry, Jason.”

Jason blinks, and the lines of his face are hard to read, wavering between being wary or open, but Jason’s eyes are trained on him.

“You did nothing to deserve that remark.” Although he doesn’t hear anything, he sees Jason’s chest rise from the deep breath he takes. Otherwise, Jason doesn’t move a speck. Salim continues, “It was wrong of me to say. Forgive me?”

An achingly long beat passes as Jason assesses him, eyes roaming over his face. Then the corner of Jason’s mouth quirks up.

“Get me one of those cookies before they burn, and I’ll think about it.”

#so cute and so amazing #i desperately need a part two of this!!!!!

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