#I've been dying to try lobster

[becca-e-barnes]

heyy!! can you do a dbf bucky caught masturbating? only if u wanna obv~!

No honestly bc the thought of a man masturbating is way too hot, it makes me so weak 🥵

I've probably talked about this before but it's delightful to imagine him staying over in the guest room of your house for a while and when he thinks the house is empty, he's taking some time for ✨self care✨, not knowing that you're still home.

I always imagine he's so vocal too so when he thinks he can be as loud as he wants, he doesn't hold back.

He's surprised at how badly he needs this, taking his time at first with just a few leisurely strokes. He's rock hard in no time, his hand wrapped around his own length, doing everything he can not to think about you.

Fuck, it would be so wrong to think about you. He knows it would. It's wrong to think about kissing up your bare legs or sucking bruises over your collarbones. It's wrong to imagine how you'd look on your knees for him, begging him to finish on your face.

No matter what he does, that's all his brain wants to come back to. He can almost hear how sweet your little moans would be when he rubs your clit.

You'd be such a good girl for him. He knows that and he loves it.

There's no harm in letting himself give in a little. As he gets hornier, precum drips from his tip and he's only focused on imagining how gorgeous you'd look beneath him, lost in pleasure the way he is.

He hadn't even considered that you might still be home. As far as he knew, you were planning to go out with your parents so he was safe to groan your name the way he wanted to.

Heat pools between your legs at the sight of him on the bed in front of you. The guest room door hadn't been pulled shut completely and when curiosity got the better of you, you were beyond surprised to see Bucky laid out on the bed, stroking his own cock and whining your name.

"Such a good fucking girl for me." His voice was loud enough that you could hear every word.

His hand moved faster, soft breathy moans tumbling from his lips and hanging in the air.

Your panties were soaked. Rational thought had all but left you. Pure need buzzed in the pit of your stomach and there was no doubt in your mind that you'd summon this image of Bucky every single time you felt like touching yourself for at least the next 3 months.

The decision seemed to come naturally to you and before you'd really thought about it, you'd pressed the door open and stepped inside, settling on the end of the bed.

Bucky sounded startled. Understandably. His cheeks were flushed, desperately trying to cover himself and make apologies at the same time.

"Bucky, please." You almost sounded timid while you prized the blanket from his grasp. "Can I taste you?"

He swore he had to be dreaming. This couldn't be real. You weren't actually asking that right after he'd spent so long imagining it. Is this how manifesting works?

"Are you sure?" He asked, not missing the way his dick throbbed when you nodded enthusiastically.

Bucky pulled the blanket back, grasping his dick again, stroking slowly. He swore he'd never forget the sight of your tongue pressed to the tip of his cock, looking up at him before you swirled your tongue around the head, gathering as much precum as you could.

"Oh fuck, that's it. Such a good girl for me, holy shit." He's lost in the feeling and he couldn't tear his eyes away from you, even if he wanted to.

Your lips wrap around his tip, sucking gently while he continues to stroke himself and he swears he's going to lose it. You hum your approval at a fresh bead of precum gathering over his tip but it's not there very long before you've licked that up too.

He forces himself not to imagine how pretty you'd look with your tongue or your face painted with his cum because if he does, this is over. He's determined to make that a reality but not just yet.

[foldingfittedsheets]

Before my beloved and I moved in together they were living with roommates in a place that didn't have a bathtub. Now, a reasonable person might conclude from this that baths would be out of the equation in a home with only one standing shower and no tub.

But these people weren't quitters. Naturopathic doctors and acupuncturists they were dedicated to treating their bodies well and one of the ways they liked to do that was hydrotherapy. Most people are familiar with this through things like polar bear plunges. You sit in a hot tub then jump in freezing water.

It's supposedly good for you and they were way into it. But again, no tub. They'd do hydro showers but it just wasn't the same. These people were not quitters, though. (One of them is the boob soap person, so it really isn't a surprise that she goes hard on everything). So they got what looked like two big metal old timey tubs but which were actually animal food troughs and set them up in the garage. They set up a water heater and god knows how they emptied the tub after, I think there was hoses involved? A pump maybe? I honestly can't remember. Anyway! Voila, hydrotherapy on demand.

I was not aware of this. So when I came over after a long day and my beloved said we should take a bath I was extremely puzzled. I only knew about the one shower. They showed me the garage tubs. I did want a bath and I wasn't really sure about the setup, but honestly I'll try anything once if only for the story, so I agreed.

Fun fact about me though. I haaaate being cold. I've been 0% body fat most of my life with skin barely keeping my bones enclosed. I'm always cold. My favorite activity at the time was sitting directly in front of space heaters. My shower temperatures turn me lobster red and make my beloved cringe. Willingly dunking myself into cold water is the antipathy of my entire deal.

On the night in question I happily submerged into the warm tank, pleasantly surprised by the big silly improvised tub. Which again was meant for livestock. My knees bumped companionably against my beloved as we soaked in the hot water. After a while they rose to go into the cold water. "You don't have to," they told me.

But I was haunted. I wouldn't be doing hydro if I just stayed in the warm tub. Maybe hydro was amazing. It has all these health benefits. I desperately didn't want to but I stood up with them. We were having this nice intimate evening in the garage, just us, I felt safe. I was gonna do it.

They stepped easily into the cold tub, dunking matter of factly into the frigid water. I went to step. I did. I really really tried. My foot went in and I started shrieking, my progress arrested by the total state of shock I entered when my warm toasty foot hit that smug arctic water tension. My beloved started laughing as my pitch ascended the deeper my foot went into the cold water.

I started loudly narrating my discomfort as my foot touched the bottom and I willed my other foot up to join it. "THIS IS VERY COLD," I yelled, "IT'S SO COLD I THINK I MIGHT DIE HOW ARE YOU JUST CASUALLY SITTING IN THIS FREEZING COLD WATER?! I'M DYING- I THINK I'M DYING! I'M DYING BUT WE'RE HERE, TOGETHER! I CAN DO THIS! I CAN DO THESE EVEN THOUGH IT'S SO COLD ALL MY MOLECULES HAVE COMPRESSED INTO A SOLID STATE!"

I ended up with both feet planted in the cold tub, water up to my shins, bellowing and panting while my beloved laughed so hard they couldn't breathe. I hunkered over the cold water, squatting like a frozen gargoyle.

My beloved was trying to psyche me up while I willed my body to obey me. In a sudden jerky drop like a puppet whose strings have been cut I plummeted my body into the cold and let out a shriek that I’m sure could have shattered glass and then leapt up out of the water at a speed relative to a rocket achieving space flight. I didn’t like it.

When we got back inside my beloved's roommates were collapsed on the ground with tears in the their eyes from how hard they'd been laughing. They and probably every neighbor down the block had heard my pterodactyl screeching and narration because the garage was not remotely soundproof.

[barkingangelbaby]

I keep having insanely vivid borderline lucid dreams?? I've had like three tonight. most of them have had my friend frankie in them (I miss u so much) and I'm just gonna type details I remember before I fall back asleep (woke up to a truck plowing snow with an obnoxious beep whenever they use the plow... I hate u whoever u are)

one dream started with me visiting locations this person's daughter used to frequent (a hospital room, cafe, garden, etc) & going through their small rituals (adjusting a thermostat, saying hi to certain ppl, getting a specific coffee etc) then talking to their mom about it? then I was back in my hometown at frankie's house- they were showing me a bunch of pictures of this strange fish/lobster type and told me that was the reincarnated daughter???

I put my hand in a fish tank to touch it and got 5 scratches on my left index finger and two on my right, they asked why I put my hand in and went to get me disinfectant

them & their mom texted me that they had a spare key for me under the back porch if I needed it. I was anxiously checking my phone bc my work hadn't confirmed we had today off bc snow- but we went down to my home state anyway?? N had a different hairstyle (the asymmetrical lesbian haircut with lined shaved into the side) and asked me why we came down before I knew if I had to work or not (I don't know!!)

frankie was on their period but was getting sick from the pads they used then told me they thought they were dying??? we were just going around their house trying to find pads that worked while I held my weird cut finger. (sidenote I've been having dreams where I beat up their ex boyfriend but the dude is someone I've never seen before/usually ends with me crushing their fingers in some kind of door... strange I do not like experiencing being violent)

I was walking in a crowd and the "babyback, babyback, babyback ribs" commercial music was playing in my head, everyone around me was singing a justin bieber (kill me) cover?? I think renee rapp was next to me ??

then I woke up to the snow plow lol. the cat's laying on my tummy atop the blankets n the dog's in between my legs under them, N is peacefully sleeping next to me. (just a cute lil life detail for ya)

ok time to nap before my alarm for work goes off lmao

[komakitigerdrop]

I'm so happy to see Kirishima ... do you have any headcanons for him? Thoughts about him and his face in general? I've read just about everything online and am dying for some discussion.

Ha! 

If I have headcanons for Kirishima? My friend, I have a lot of headcanons for Kirishima, as in, a lot, I think about Kirishima all the time.

I think about Kirishima so much that I have more headcanons for him than any other character, probably. XD

Before I share some of them, though, I feel I should take a moment to say why I am so obsessed with him. First: those glasses! *heart eyes* And second: to me, Kirishima = Asami - 69% passion - 94% charisma + 48% pragmatism +110% organizational skills. In essence, though, I think both of them share core qualities that I find very appealing: intelligence, a taste for the good (and expensive) things in life, strength, resilience, loyalty, authoritativeness. Not to mention they are both very hot in their own ways. 

(For the record, I also find Suoh amazing but in a completely different way. I’ll save that for another post.)

So, here are some of my favorite headcanons for Kirishima Kei:

His apartment is in Shinjuku across from the Toyama Park, not that he has time or the desire to enjoy the view much. He is a minimalist, of course, so expect to find only a few functional and very sleek pieces of furniture in his unit, all of them customized to his specifications. Think of chrome, fancy lighting, smart devices, and a single piece of modern art that sits silently on a small table by the entrance.

Being the busy man that he is, Kirishima has his own virtual personal assistant. Think of Alexa but far more technologically advanced, like… hologram style (I shall call her Melissa for educational purposes). Among other things, she turns on the AC when it’s hot outside, and in those cold snowy winters, she is the one to keep him warm (if you know what I mean).

Funny fact: one day Asami visited and changed Melissa’s settings so that she would look (and sound) like Takaba Akihito. Since then Kirishima has been having trouble getting his old assistant back and his nights are considerably colder.

Kirishima is, as we know, a proud home owner who likes to cook his own meals. Because he excels in everything he does, he has his own Le Cordon Bleu diploma, and because he is a natural multitasker, he keeps trying to perfect that broiled lobster recipe Asami-sama likes so much during his online Hungarian lessons (in his free time he likes to learn a new language every six months).

Of course, when his boss calls he has no qualms dumping the lobster and everything else in the trash bin to run to the rescue, even if he is already on his jammies. As a matter of fact, because Asami calls him so many times when he is already in bed, he is very proud of his exclusive, tailor-made flannel pajamas signed by Italian and French designers. That way, he is always dressed to impress in the event of an emergency.

Anon, I could go on and on and things would only get even more strangely specific but there you go. This is just a taste of the thoughts I occupy myself with. XD

[starship-imzadi]

S5 E16 Ethics

"maybe next time you should bring a deck that's not transparent to infrared light" ah ha!! I've seen speculation as to why Riker wins at poker when he plays an empathy, an android, and someone with "x-ray" vision and at least for the last one, now we know you just need cards that aren't.... transparent to infrared light. I don't know what that means from a practical stand point, but there it is.

It's kind of odd which injuries in the Trek-verse can or cannot be repaired...I understand there has to be a limit but it's not really clear what can or cannot be done.

It 100% sounds like Jonathan has either bad allergies or a head cold. I.e. he sounds really stuffed up.

So... Klingons sound very ableist. Assisted suicide is one thing, for degenerative disease, but paralysis is by no means an end of quality for life.

"I've been experimenting with DNA based generators" now, the idea of this technology was fairly futuristic for the 1980's and 1990's, not to say it was inconceivable but rather that it was outside of the contemporary scientific technology of the time. But now, just over thirty years later, growing specific kinds of tissue outside of an organism is something scientists are legitimately working on. It's still an impressive ambition, but it doesn't feel like in the 24th century it should still be an unusual, cutting edge pursuit.

Okay good, Picard and Riker are discussing the whole assisted suicide/apparently ableist Klingon culture....thing. And Riker is absolutely right, he does really well with keeping an open mind. (Even just in reference to Klingons we have "a matter of honor" as a testament to it.) It's interesting that Riker went to Picard not as his captain but for counsel as his friend. I think I would react very much like Riker. If a good friend asked me to help them, if they were dying without cure and in pain....I think I would do something to help. It would be so incredibly hard... but if a friend asked me to do that when they weren't in physical pain, weren't immediately dying.... I don't know how that could be excusable regardless of how they viewed the context for it. And even if Worf's request reflect his trust in Riker....does he realise what he's asking him to do? Riker is being asked to shift his paradigm...but Worf doesn't have to make any such concession.

Damn!....way to go Troi! (She kind of just did to Worf what Riker did for her in "The Loss" almost.... I have more respect for her loss of empathy than for Worf's loss of honor and she was looking to end her career not her life....Worf is so extra sometimes.)

Worf puts so much pressure on his son. In a way I can see this being a little moment, knowing Deanna and Worf date for a bit in season 7, where Worf has allowed Deanna to see him vulnerable and, for him, that's a notable intimacy.

This woman...needs her credentials checked.

"Beverly" he used her first name!

This really does bring up a bigger question. Riker's struggle is with being asked to help Worf commit suicide. But Beverly is set on stopping Worf from commiting suicide all together. In certain religious contexts suicide is considered reprehensible, and assisting suicide is illegal in most counties (even for medical purposes). At what point is someone's life their own to do with as the please, to live or die? If someone wants to die is there an obligation to the people around them to force them to live?

I really like Patrick's acting

Damn! Now it's Riker's turn! (If I ever need any sort of intervention...I want friends like Will and Deanna.) Riker did his homework!

Now hang on a minute! Alexander said they started doing multiplications in class....but that kid in "When the Bough Breaks" was friggin upset and complaining to his dad about doing calculous. CALCULOUS. What happened to that?!

Worf respects Deanna....that's one of the nicest things he's probably ever said to a woman. Okay but that actually is sweet, as is Troi's response and acceptance of the request. (But it also sets up the main reason Worf likes Troi: because of her help and connection with Alexander)

They brought back the lobster suits! Aww....I hate those. (Those these look different....less....red)

I kind of love this relaxed tension as Picard and Riker sit together, going over trivial bits of work, both trying to ignore their anxieties, distract each other, and offer companionship, as they wait. It's really gotten to the point where there's not a whole lot of separation between their personal and professional lives.

This kid is a bit annoying...but he's not a bad actor. Marina really sells the scene though.

Damn, do not get on Beverly's bad side. I have so much respect for her here.

[wilsherejack]

i've enjoyed your prompt fills so much, thank you for sharing them!! if you feel like it: chef!andrew trying (and failing) to woo picky eater neil with fancy food? :)

The thing about growing up on the run is that you never really develop a palate.

You eat what's there to be eaten, whatever you manage to stuff in your pockets while your mother distracts the cashier trying to haggle for cigarettes, as if it's anywhere near possible to haggle in a 7/11.

You eat school lunches, bland chicken nuggets and congealed mac and cheese and unseasoned carrots with those little close to expired fruit cups with the peaches and cherries and simple syrup.

You drink gas station coffee—maybe it stunts your growth, but you drink it anyway—and fill old plastic water bottles from drinking fountains or public restroom sinks.

At least, that's what Neil tries to explain to Matt one day, when Matt invites Neil to his favorite restaurant in his hometown. It just so happens that Matt's hometown is New York City, and the chef at this place has a Michelin star, but Neil isn't on the run anymore and his paycheck is hefty enough that he can afford it.

“What about the tasting menu?” Matt says. “Eleven courses, look. You can figure out what you actually like, and not just what you'd eat if you had to eat it.”

Neil looks over some of the past options. He doesn't know what half the words on the menu mean, but he's pretty sure sturgeon is a fish. A fancy one, maybe, but for his purposes, there's not much difference between sturgeon and the cheap cod he gets in giant frozen bags from Trader Joe's every week.

“You really think this is worth the price?” Neil says. “Couldn't we just buy some quail eggs at Trader Joe's and figure out how to poach them ourselves?”

“I don't think they sell quail eggs at Trader Joe's,” a cheerful waiter at Matt's shoulder says. “My name's Nicky, and I'll be your server tonight. How are you guys? Do you want me to explain anything in the menu to you?”

“No, we're good,” Matt says. “Can we just do the full tasting menu? Neil here hasn't ever eaten food that wasn't either junk or bland college dining hall food, so we're trying to fit twenty-four years of culinary education into one night.”

“Wow, twenty-four years,” Nicky says. “Well, luckily, if anyone can fit that much into one night, it's Chef Minyard.”

“It's not Kevin Day tonight?” Matt says, frowning.

“He took his yearly personal day,” Nicky says. “But I promise, you're in excellent hands. When Andrew bothers, he's just as good if not better than Kevin.”

“But Chef Day makes those parsnip tarts,” Matt says. “Does the new guy make those too?”

“He's not new,” Nicky says. “He's actually been here just as long as Chef Kevin. He makes a pretty good parsnip tart, but he likes to be a little more improvisational with the actual menu, so you might get some interesting stuff you aren't expecting.” Nicky beams at them. “Do you want to include the drink pairings, or order something off the drinks menu?”

“Just water for us tonight,” Matt says. “Neil doesn't drink.”

Nicky eyes him. “A shame,” he says.

They go through the menu. Neil doesn't think any of the options really speaks to him the way Matt wants them to, not the parsnip tart or the braised oxtail or the poached quail eggs or the deconstructed Neapolitan pizza or the petit-fours they serve at the end with complementary brandy.

“What do you think?” Nicky says when he brings them the check. “Better than dining hall mush, right?”

“I guess I can recognize that it's better,” Neil says. “But I don't really like any of it more.”

Nicky looks positively agog. “Really? Not even the truffled caviar?”

“That just tasted salty to me.”

Matt looks like he is definitely going to take a cab home and leave Neil to navigate the subway alone.

“Maybe the chef had an off night,” Nicky says, generously. “I'll have a word with him.”

“That's not—” Matt says, but Nicky has already disappeared back toward the kitchens.

Neil breaks into the bougie fortune cookie they served—it looks like a regular fortune cookie, but it has gold flake on it and some kind of purple gel inside. It tastes like a regular fortune cookie.

“I'm never bringing you anywhere again,” Matt says.

“You shouldn't.” A new voice; it comes from behind Neil, and it belongs to the person who must be Chef Minyard, a blond holding a chef's hat and wearing a white chef's coat. “He has no taste.”

“This is Chef Minyard,” Nicky says hurriedly—he must be thinking of his tip; he hasn't taken their cards yet. “He's a little upset that you were disappointed, but he wants to make it up to you.”

“I don't want that,” Andrew says, leveling a cool look at Neil. “If he does not like my cooking, he has no taste.”

“He hasn't found something he likes yet,” Matt says. “He grew up on, like, jail food.”

That makes Andrew arch an eyebrow.

“Not jail,” Neil says. “Just stolen.”

He watches Andrew react. It's not a secret—everything about Neil's past is public domain, pretty much, including that he spent most of his adolescence on the run.

“Maybe if Chef Day were here—” Neil says, and Nicky makes a sound that might be horrified or impressed.

“Come back tomorrow,” Andrew says. “Chef Day will be back, and he can make you dinner.”

Neil considers it. They're not flying back to Philadelphia for pre-season until next week, and Matt is nodding vigorously across the table from him.

“Not dinner,” Neil says. “Lunch.”

“Lunch,” Andrew agrees.

As they leave the restaurant, Matt is practically bouncing.

“You have to wait months for a meal there usually,” he says. “Even lunch. I'm secretly glad you pissed him off, even if you were rude.”

“I was just honest,” Neil says. “You're the one who told him I grew up on jail food.”

“It was good, though,” Matt says. “He loved it.”

To be honest, Neil thinks, remembering Andrew's sudden interest, he did.

*

At lunch the next day, they sit up at the bar, where the bartender delivers food directly to them from the kitchen. She introduces herself as Renee and keeps their glasses of water—sparkling for Matt, still for Neil—topped off throughout the first half of the meal.

Eventually, she asks, “Neil, have you enjoyed any of this yet?”

“It's fine,” he says.

“He's a big fan of those omelettes they make in college dining halls,” Matt says. “You know, with no seasoning and raw spinach.”

“I'll let the chef know,” Renee says.

A few minutes later, she comes back out, this time carrying two plates of something golden-yellow topped with a spoonful of the black spheres Neil has quickly become familiar with.

“Lobster, caviar, and caramelized onion frittata,” she says. “We served this at brunch yesterday and had some of the ingredients left over. Don't tell anyone.”

Neil takes a bite. It tastes like eggs, layered with the chunky buttery taste of lobster and the salt from the caviar. He gets some of the sweet onion, too.

“It's fine,” he says.

“Fine,” repeats a voice at his shoulder.

Neil turns. “I thought Chef Day was cooking for us,” he says.

“Chef Day is busy with customers who booked tables six months ago.”

“I don't hate it,” Neil says. “I just don't see the point. You eat food because you have to. If I could take a pill every day that contained my calories and macros for the day, I would.”

Next to him, Matt makes a sound like a dying bird. Andrew doesn't spare him a glance.

“You are a walking tragedy,” Andrew says. “Do you like dessert?”

“Not really,” Neil says, at the same time as Matt says, “He likes strawberries.”

“Perfect,” Renee says. “Strawberries are in season.”

She smiles beatifically at Neil, who doesn't trust her on instinct.

He expects the next few courses to feature strawberries, but they don't. If anything, Andrew seems to be trying to get more avant garde with his offerings—a tray of charcuteries that Renee informs them are illegal in most states due to raw milk; balut, which makes Matt actually moan; a foie-gras mousse coated in gold flake and topped with caviar and shaved truffles, a single serving of which might be worth more than most people's rent; something that Renee calls “molecular gastronomy” and which is just a bunch of bubbles that barely taste like food; baby eels coated in breadcrumbs and deep-fried; carrot tartare; and finally a chocolate so bitter that it triggers Neil's gag reflex.

“My god,” Matt says. “Neil, can you keep pissing this place off? If they're going to give us a meal like this every time—”

“You liked that?” Neil says.

“You're joking. This is like, cutting edge foodie culture. Everyone who reads my food blog is going to be so jealous.”

“You run a food blog?” Neil says. He can actually imagine it. “Do a lot of people read it?”

“Yeah, but that's not the point,” Matt says. “Like, we just ate eel parmigiana made by a chef with a Michelin star. Who else can say that?”

“You weren't satisfied?” Renee interrupts. “Can I ask what you liked the least?”

“The eel was fine,” Neil says. “Not the cheese or the bubbles. Or the chocolate. And I think I don't like caviar.”

“Just fine, though,” Renee says.

“He likes tangerines, too,” Matt says helpfully.

Renee fixes Neil with a long look. “Can you come back tomorrow? Around this time?”

“Yes,” Matt says.

“Uh—” Neil says.

“Yes. It's summer. We don't have to work. We're coming back.”

“Okay,” Neil says. “Fine.”

*

The next day, they get treated to a much milder cheese plate—Renee tells them they're all mountain cheeses, though what that means is beyond Neil—and four courses of seafood, including a complicated-looking paella and a plate of butter-poached haddock. They get macarons for dessert.

“We decided to stop wasting resources on your unrefined palate,” Andrew informs Neil. “No truffles or caviar for someone who does not appreciate mushrooms or fish.”

“I like fish,” Neil says.

“Like and appreciate are not the same thing,” he says. “Come back tomorrow. We will try again.”

*

The next day, they get a traditional fancy French meal. Escargot, filet mignon, et cetera. For dessert, flaky pastry with nuts. Still no strawberries, though Matt gets some of the shaved truffles on his steak.

“I like the escargot,” Neil tells Andrew, though it's mostly a retaliation for the unrefined palate comment of yesterday. “Too much butter, though.”

“Neil—” Matt says, but Andrew only raises an eyebrow at him.

“Tomorrow,” Andrew says.

“We're leaving Thursday morning,” Matt says. “Chef Minyard, it's your last chance.”

Chef Minyard doesn't look impressed.

“Lunch,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

*

Lunch is fried breaded duck breast, cacio e pepe pasta, a carrot salad, and a fruit plate that features peaches, cherries, and a drizzle of honey.

Matt laughs out loud when they get to the fruit plate.

“It's a joke,” he says. “It's the school lunch I was making fun of you for, look.”

And it's true: sure, Andrew has exchanged duck for chicken and seasoned the vegetables, but it's the same basic components.

They taste good, Neil decides, and when Andrew comes by to check on them, he tells him.

“You're lying,” Andrew says.

Matt laughs again. “Dude, you can't hide anything from this guy.”

“I just can't tell the difference,” Neil says. “It isn't going to bring me joy or anything. It's just food. It's just fuel.”

“But a car can tell the difference between gasoline and old bacon grease,” Andrew says.

“Sorry,” Neil says. “This experiment has failed.”

They walk out of the restaurant with Renee, who is getting off her shift.

“It's a shame you two are leaving,” she says. “Andrew hasn't had this much fun in ages.”

“This has been fun for him?” Neil says.

“Why else would he have humored your awful taste for this long, dude?” Matt says. “Personally, I think he has a crush on you.”

“A crush,” Neil says. “On me?”

“Yeah, dude, don't act so surprised. You know if I weren't happily taken—”

“—everything would be exactly the same, except you'd be on Tinder,” Neil says.

Matt pouts.

Renee says, “Neil, Andrew isn't working dinner tonight. You have his number, right?”

He does. Andrew gave it to him after their second trip to the restaurant so Neil could text him what time they were coming by.

“You should text him,” Renee says.

“Uh,” Neil says. “Okay.”

*

He meets Andrew at, of all places, a Trader Joe's. It's the one on 72nd St, a half hour away from closing, and Andrew is perusing the baked goods section like he has all the time in the world.

“Don't tell me Michelin-starred Andrew Minyard eats Trader Joe's brownies,” Neil says, and Andrew, as if to make a point, adds a package of brownies to his basket.

He continues to dutifully ignore Neil through the rest of their shopping trip, stopping in the freezer section for a carton of ice cream and then in the spice section for a bottle of pink salt.

“What's the difference between the pink salt and the white salt?” Neil says.

“Aesthetic appeal,” Andrew says.

“I thought food was about taste.”

“Food is about all your senses,” Andrew says.

“How did you get into cooking?”

“Juvie,” Andrew says. “And then therapy.”

“Is cooking like therapy for you?”

“Yes,” Andrew says, dragging a hand over the carton of ice cream and then pressing a cold finger against Neil's wrist. “It helps with being present. Because it is about all your senses.”

“Okay, so I get taste obviously, and smell, but you don't hear food.”

“What makes some textures more pleasing than others?” Andrew says. “Sometimes it's mouthfeel. Sometimes it is sound.”

He moves his finger away and makes his way to the register, pays for the groceries, and then leans back against the escalator that leads them back above ground.

“And you're getting ice cream,” Neil says. “For the—mouthfeel.”

“For the taste,” Andrew corrects.

When they get outside, Andrew walks lazily up a couple of blocks and then west a block until he finds what he's looking for: a man packing up his fruit cart near a bar.

“How much for a thing of strawberries?” Andrew says, and there's an odd bubble at the base of Neil's throat that he can't identify. It's almost laughter.

“Three dollars, but two for five and three for six,” the man says. “Or you can have strawberries and blueberries, two for five. Raspberries, blackberries, two for six.”

“I'll take strawberries and raspberries,” Andrew says. “Wait, I want to pick the strawberries.”

He picks over the few boxes left, all of which have been sitting out all day in the New York summer heat. He chooses one anyway, drops change into the man's hand, and then leads Neil onto the subway uptown.

Andrew's apartment is small and mostly empty, its kitchen opening up into the living room. Only the kitchen is well-stocked—the living room has a couch and TV and not much else, but the kitchen features an island with stools and a series of complicated-looking machines.

Andrew doesn't touch any of them. He puts the brownies in the microwave, then scoops some ice cream over them, slices strawberries over that, and sprinkles all of it with the pink salt. He pushes a plate toward Neil and starts methodically eating his own.

The first thing Neil notices is the overwhelming sweetness of it. The second thing he notices is the way the salt cuts all of it, and then the tartness of the strawberries—Andrew chose some that aren't all the way ripe yet, and it seems to be by design.

Then he notices the heat from the brownie and the cold from the ice cream, and then the smell of the chocolate. The sound of Andrew chewing. His own plate, the black-brown, the white and gold of the ice cream, red of the strawberry, all sprinkled with pink salt.

It looks nice.

“It looks nice,” Neil says.

“See,” Andrew says. His wrist bumps against Neil's across the island, and Neil can't tell how deliberate it is. “Aesthetic appeal.”