#Kitchen Porter Jobs

[operationalchefconsultantblog]

Top Tips for Choose a Chef Agency

When it comes to organizing an event or managing a busy kitchen, finding reliable temporary staff can be a real challenge. You want to serve your guests with the best and at the same time, spend time with them. Although you are a good cook yourself, you do not want to spend the entire evening in the kitchen to manage the food and ensure that the food is served at the right time. You can have a team doing this for you, and a top chef agency comes to the rescue. 

In the following section, we have outlined a few tips that will help you choose the right chef agency to cater to your requirements. 

1. Look for a specialist agency - Choose an agency that specializes in chef and kitchen staffing. They will have a better understanding of your needs and will be able to provide you with the right staff to meet those needs. 

2. Check their reputation - Do your research and check the agency's reputation. Look for reviews and testimonials from past clients. This will give you an idea of their reliability and quality of service.

3. Experience matters - Look for an agency that has been in the business for several years. They will have a better understanding of the industry and will be able to provide you with the right candidates for your temporary kitchen porter jobs.

4. Check their screening process - A good agency will have a thorough screening process for their staff. This includes background checks, reference checks, and skills assessments. Make sure you ask about their screening process before hiring their staff.

By following these tips, you can find a reliable agency that can provide you with high-quality staff to enhance your guests' experience.

[toastsnaffler]

me trying to figure out if a 2hr commute is worth it... 9-5 work day at 21k/year but it is a lab job but it's asbestos testing not biology but they cover u to get qualified. but 2 hour commute thats 4 hours a DAY + up to a fifth of the paycheck on travel alone but they pay more once ur qualified since its only a trainee role to start and I wouldnt need to stay there long term if I can get >6mo lab experience... I feel insane for even considering it but god. I need a job

[scottishstoner]

Big life update

In the beginning stages of starting to possibly (probably?) date this guy from work, we went out on Saturday night after our staff party, we went to a club then back to his flat but we didn’t do anything all the way, we kissed, we talked, cuddled, messed around but nothing all the way just fun, he played the guitar, he’s amazing at it but modest and we are texting a lot and talking at work (people are gossiping about us and asking us stuff coz everyone saw us leave together haha but anyway, they’re nice enough about it lol more in a ooooh 👀 kinda way lol) and we plan to go out again when we’re both not working and have money and stuff and yeah we both really like each other and stated this and also he’s a great kisser ok bye

[multifandomsimagine]

Author's Note: It's still the 10th where I am but I know it's already the 11th where you are so, happy birthday to the best mutual ever ❤️

Imagine the guys making you breakfast for your birthday

— Birthday Present #1 for @cantstoptheimagines —

Of the three, Luke was definitely the worst cook in the group. For one, he had never really had to cook before when he was still living with his parents; they were the ones who made sure that he had a hearty breakfast and a filling dinner each day. If Luke had his way, he would live off of Hot Pockets and Tostino's, something quick and easy to make so he could spend more time on music.

Alex was a decent cook. While he wouldn't burn down the kitchen when making himself a bowl of cereal, all he could really do was make simple meals: a grilled cheese, an omelet, mac and cheese. Much like Luke, Alex's parents would cook his meals for him but he did have to rely on himself more after things got tense when he came out to them.

Compared to the other two, Reggie was basically Emeril Lagasse. With money being tight at home, he was left by himself as soon as he was able to operate the stove. His parents spent so much time working - and arguing - and Reggie was left to fend for himself when he got home from school. With spatula in hand and having watched every episode of How to Boil Water and Essence of Emeril, Reggie was a master in the kitchen.

It was why the trio had decided that Reggie would take the lead in your birthday breakfast with Alex as his sous chef and Luke as the kitchen porter though the best-laid plans often went astray with the group.

Though the guys know you're a heavy sleeper and never get out of bed before ten in the morning, they don't want to risk raising their voices on the off chance your birthday is the day you decided to be a light sleeper. However, it was really hard to remember to not yell when Alex or Reggie caught sight of Luke's "improvements."

"Why are the flames so high?" Alex whisper-shouted, barely remembering to lower his voice as he dropped the knife he was using to cut up some fruit to rush over to the stove, turning the dial from high to low.

Luke lets out an offended "Hey!" but the blond ignores him as he's quick to snatch the spatula from Luke and scoops up the pancake from the pan. He moves to drop it onto the stack of pancakes, dropping it into the stack of pancakes Luke had already made.

"Hey! I was doing a good job!" Luke huffs out, gesturing to the four pancakes on the plates.

This is when Reggie walks over, having finished plating the breakfast scramble he had been in charge of.

"I did everything that you guys told me." Luke begins to list off the steps on his fingers. "I put butter on the pan, ladled a spoonful of batter onto the pan, checked to see that the side was brown before flipping it over, and made sure the other side was brown too before plating them."

"Not everything," Alex countered. "The flames were too high. Why'd you raise the heat?"

"I wanted to help out with the other stuff so I raised it so the pancakes would cook faster."

Reggie grabs a fork from the utensil drawer and moves to the plate of pancakes, cutting a piece off from the top pancake. Instead of being met with the sight of a light fluffy interior, the trio watches as batter oozes out of the pancake.

Luke snatches the fork from the bassist's hand and begins cutting into the other pancakes. Except for the first pancake that Alex had made as an example for Luke, they all ooze out batter and the three are left to stare at half-cooked pancakes.

"The pan was too hot. The outside of the pancake cooked before the inside could." Reggie sighs. "And now we have gooey pancakes."

Alex picks up the bowl of batter and takes a look before letting out a groan. "And only enough batter for like one pancake." He shows the bowl to the others.

"We could make more, right?" Luke runs a hand through his hair.

Reggie shakes his head. "I used the last of the eggs for the scramble."

"So all we have right now is the breakfast scramble, a bowl of fruit, and a cup of juice."

Luke's eyes dart around the kitchen, trying to find a solution. His eyes light up when he spots the house keys and his wallet before maneuvering his way to them. "I can buy more. Daniella’s sells eggs, right?" He raises his wallet up. "We have like two hours before [Name] wakes up. I'll be back in like fifteen minutes. I won't be the reason she starts off her birthday without her favorite breakfast."

[powderblueblood]

bethy on beale street

eddie tells lacy the story of how al munson and elizabeth franklin met in memphis, tennessee. or, love is a grilled cheese sandwich. (2k) cw: sickening fluff, me making shit up about beale street, al munson is a junior sleaze but is no match for elizabeth franklin and her sunshine smile. taggin @dieaverage & @fracturedarkness x

part of the hellfire & ice universe

"oh, this is pathetic."

you push your lower lip out a little further, gesturing to the blackened thing of jiffy pop with the pitiful enthusiasm of a door-to-door salesman that needs to make one last sale or else she's giving her exhaust pipe a blow job. "eddie."

"was that your dinner?" he asks, gesturing to the failed science experiment in your hand with the cigarette in his.

a couple of incinerated kernels fall out the bottom. you nod, eyes shiny. he rolls his head around on his neck, groaning with a fervor. he's such a fucking sucker.

"fine! get in here-- you're so goddamn lucky wayne's doing overtime--"

"oh, otherwise i'd starve!" you say, brightening up immediately as you hop through the door of the munson trailer.

"otherwise you'd starve."

"emaciated!"

"a dessicated corpse come monday."

and come a few moments later, you're biting into the most heavenly grilled cheese you've ever had. like, really. the cheese is plastic and gooey and dripping and a string of it clings to your chin. eddie, the chef de cuisine, points for you to clear that up. you'd really underestimated what this boy could do with a pan-- you didn't even think he owned a pan.

watching him whip up this little number with the cigarette still dangling from his mouth was... mystifying. if entirely unhygienic. but if that's what you're putting up with for how this thing tastes...

"s's very good," you say with your mouth full.

"don't they teach you not to talk with your mouth full at miss porter's finishing school for prisses?"

you pinch your brow and give him the finger.

"better be careful," eddie says, tone sauteing in warning as he reaches forward and nudges that offending finger back into your little fist, "this is exactly how my parents got together."

your eyes flare as you wipe some grease off your lower lip. eddie rarely talks about his parents, just like you rarely talk about yours-- for a bouquet of reasons. bonding over your shared daddy issues is difficult when they're criminal accomplices-turned-enemies or whatever.

or maybe it's easier. you two just hadn't tried it yet.

"really?"

"tale as old as time," eddie sighs, sitting backwards on one of the two kitchen chairs and picking up the salt and pepper shakers.

"he was a line cook." shake shake. "she was a waitress." shake shake. "he could not leave the state of tennessee. they used no discernible form of birth control and figured that was a good enough reason to say 'i do'."

"how did they end up here?"

"well, soon as i was let loose upon the world, dad decided he was a little homesick--" eddie's eyelids sag sardonically, "--read, he had to go somewhere and cool off. hawkins is as good a place as any for that, unless you're al munson and trouble draws you in like a fucking electromagnetic force."

there's a beat.

"what part of tennessee?"

he doesn't expect you to ask that. knocks him out of his facetious narration. makes him twist his ring a little, like he's debating whether to tell you or not.

"um. memphis."

you smile, all knowingly. "beale street."

he smiles back, warming back up.

because of course you wouldn't say graceland first.

because you're pretentious and you're psychic, or something, because you're the goddamn oracle of delphi and you'd know to say beale street because...

franklin's diner was on beale street. still could be, eddie doesn't know, because they left memphis when he was still a baby. what he did remember, from what he could remember of his mom and what al rarely trickled into conversation, was that franklin's diner was an institution.

franklin's was beloved. it was the kind of place that slung hash and sausage to people twenty-four hours a day. those people ranged from civilians to cops to politicians to musicians to poets to drunks to degenerates. the hierarchy broke down at franklin's-- everyone was the same. everyone took their hat off at the door and said their pleases and thank yous and ate together. and laughed together. and told stories together.

whoever you were outside of that didn't matter.

so it stood to reason that a man on probation could get a job there.

al munson avoided a stay in the federal correctional institution in good ol' shelby county by the skin of his dazzling midwestern teeth. friends (because friends come by easy for al-- look in any dark, shady corner and there's a friend) had told him to make for franklin's, because not only is there work, but there's work.

and women.

seemed as if back of house was staffed by nothing but a pirate crew of ex-(and soon-to-be)-cons (which ain't a bad transition out of the big house, if you think about it), but front of house?

some of the most dee-vine fading beauties that memphis had to offer. one-time contenders for miss tennessee, each and every one of them, were it not for... the missing teeth, the bum eye, the drinking, the swearing, the smoking, the cussing out the customers.

al, as you can imagine, flourished in this environment. plucky little upstart sleazeball who handled women like don juan by way of some shitstain in indiana no one'd ever heard of? they loved him. cherished him.

and al, a lover of women of any shape, size or moral decrepitude, cherished them right back. in every imaginable way.

("gross." "i know, but stick with me.")

that turned south one sweltering august day when poppy franklin (which is what they called the big man who owned the place) came huffing in after a five-foot-nothing spitfire with a fried blonde dye job.

"y'know what, poppy, fine!" she yelled, her accent ringing through the diner like high, fine crystal tainted by smoke. "you want me as part of the family business, then i am more than happy to oblige-- but i got conditions! if i'm workin' my shift, we are listenin' to my music!"

she grabbed each side of the jukebox like the wheels of a high powered rally car, tongue peeking out the side of her sugar pink lips, eye squinting.

"c'mon, girl," poppy gasped, clutching at the counter. "goddamn ernie ford ain't music?"

"no!" she barked, and she swung around with this megawatt smile that filled her whole face-- filled the whole diner.

"this is music!"

and that first lick of hoodoo man blues rips through the jukebox speakers and the place goes up.

("hoodoo man blues? i don't think i know that." a beat. "what? but you know everything." a lingering kind of look. "i don't know everything! only most of everything." "i'll play it for you." "i'd like that. anyway. as you were.")

so, this little chickie dipped around the back to grab an apron and ran smack bang into al, who'd been ignoring his darla-of-the-week to watch this whole flurry play out via the service window.

she knocked the wind out of him. like, clean deflation.

"he- hey." first time al munson has ever stuttered, ever, on record.

"indiana, right?" she kept on smiling, like it'd hurt to stop, and dug this prefixed name tag out of the apron. "yeah, they said you was pretty."

all al could muster was this huff, like 'heh!' because she was looking at him with these eyes, just picking him apart and putting him back together with this look on her face that felt like the first blast of sunshine out of the joint.

which he knew about, right. so that mattered.

"bethy?" he pointed to the nametag.

"holy crow, and he's literate! you're a real diamond in the rough, there, indiana!"

and she threw her head back and cackled like a hyena and al munson knew he was done for. lights out. game over. see y'all next time! y'all come back soon now!

elizabeth 'bethy' franklin had landed back in memphis after an ill-guided attempt to rebel in nashville. she made it about a month until she became incredibly homesick, because bethy franklin was raised around love and family and music and nashville had the music part and some of the love part, and as much as she wanted to do something completely independent of her family, she missed her people. wasn't her time. so she came back, with a shitty blonde dye job that made a mess of her natural red curls.

and she was as effervescent as she was when she was a kid; always had a smile for everybody, and a dirty joke for everybody she liked. and she insisted on pumping that chicago blues out of the jukebox during every shift, dancing her way around that diner. the customers didn't even give a shit when she messed up their orders-- she was that magnetic.

al spent the next three weeks trying everything he could to take her out.

"bethy, you like ribs?" "you know i do, al, and you know i know every rib joint in town." "bethy, you wanna go for a drive?" "last i saw, i was the only one of us with a car!" "bethy, i just got this record by these dudes, uh, the aces--" "you better not be tryin' to impress me with things i already know, indiana!"

she made him work harder than he'd ever worked in his life-- much to the chagrin of every other waitress in the joint, who he'd tossed by the wayside in pursuit of the heiress to the finest, dirtiest diner on beale street.

the only day that franklin's closed was new year's day. poppy had even made it a longstanding rule that they could finish up early on new year's eve, around eight o'clock, to get at least some of the night's dancin' in.

as if they weren't already sick of each other's company, the diner staff stuck together like a pack of rats, descending on downtown memphis and causing a ruckus in the bars. one favored spot of the franklin family, this little tin roof bar that dealt mostly in country music, even called on bethy by name from the stage.

"well, let's see now-- looks like the prodigal daughter has returned safe and sound from the armpit of our national nudie suit, nashville, tennessee! you goin' git up and give us a tune, miss bethy franklin?"

and again, that voice rung clear but raspy, clean through the room and al’s aching heart, "well, i would, john, but your guitar player's just been kicked out the bar!"

"i can play." and al munson stepped up to the plate, to the stage, and he held that gibson like it was excalibur and he'd just yanked the sword out of that goddamned stone.

"you can play?"

"anything you want."

bethy covered the microphone and stared al down with a challenge. "long-legged guitar pickin' man."

which sounded like an insult, but he ripped them first couple chords off like it was nothing.

("and the crowd went up?" "and the crowd went up.")

she could sing, that girl. al too, but she had a voice like a nightingale. and she had him singing that same stupid song as midnight approached, sucking down cigarettes outside the bar. then, twenty minutes to go-time, bethy materialized in front of al and said--

"i could eat."

which is a terrific thing to say to a line cook, especially one that has since decided he would sacrifice the world and its riches just for a minute alone with you.

"bethy franklin, i'm gonna make you a grilled cheese so good, you're gonna ask my father for my hand in marriage."

so they high-tailed in back to their diner, down the street, breaking in with bethy's spare set of keys. al fired up the grill with white bread and all-american cheese on hand and bethy fired up the jukebox and danced herself around the kitchen to where do you go to, my lovely.

("oh, wow." "yeah, thought that might tickle your sensibilities.")

in about ten minutes flat, al was watching bethy insistently pick her sandwich up from his spatula, even though he was insisting she'd burn those pretty hands.

"these hands are fireproof, indiana. they can survive anythin'."

"they gonna survive how good that grilled cheese is, bethy?"

and bethy didn't hold back. she let her eyes roll right back in her head, humming out her mm-mm-mm! credit where credit's due. ate the whole thing in three bites.

"it's elizabeth, by the way."

al looked confused, but something on her face told him to remember this. the eyes that were usually sparkling with light had dimmed a touch; a more intimate setting of her gaze, if you will.

"that nickname. been drivin' me crazy my whole life. kinda... whassa word, diminutive, y'know? i like my name-- it's big and solid and important, don't you think?"

al shook his head and took elizabeth in. the whole big shining beacon of her, the one he'd let himself be burned right up in. singed, to a crisp. moth, meet flame. you get the idea.

and he said, "only one way we could make that name sound better."

"how'zat?" she asked.

and he said, "if we made it elizabeth munson."

and elizabeth smiled again, because she was always goddamn smiling, and said, "what's your daddy's number?"

back in the room.

you exhale big, and eddie's watching your reaction for... he doesn't really know what. he digs around for a cigarette and offers you one.

"this what you're like in hellfire club?" you ask, leaning back in your chair and crossing your legs. "because that was a hell of a story."

"good point. not enough grilled cheese motifs in my campaigns, lacy, i really oughta write that down somewhere..."

"no, i mean it. you're good."

the compliment sort of hangs between you. eddie's not quite sure how to handle it-- he doesn't have asbestos fingers like his mom did.

you look at him for what feels like an excruciatingly long time.

"i think you're like her," is what you finally say, and it feels like when you do that thing where you play with the tension of a situation like a cat with a mouse.

eddie's chest immediately tightens. eyelids stutter. he tries his damnedest to brush it off, but he's leaning in, the way he always does with you. he can't not give. he can't resist, not when it's you.

"i think it's the smile." you say, biting at the tip of your little finger. "provided what you told me is not complete unverified bullshit."

"hold on." and he's up and out of his chair, searching around for his jeans that he'd discarded earlier (yeah, he's walking around in his own damn boxers, it's his damn trailer, grow up (you're being very grown up about it)).

he slides a photo that he keeps in his wallet toward you, leaning over you.

it's a young woman, can't be more than 21, with a little baby that has a shock of dark curly hair. her dark roots are growing out a little. she's beaming toward the camera like her life depends on it.

eddie watches you as you study it, all considered and pouty like you get when you study anything. you hold the photo up right next to his face.

"now smile."

he smiles.

"bigger."

he stretches the corners of his mouth way out.

"just as i thought. identical."

pink colors his cheeks, just a little.

"a couple of all-american cheesers."

[killersfool]

fluff w bobby! idk smth like hurt/comfort. maybe she’s had a bad date and goes to bobby and they like confess , idrk but i think that’d be cute

Comfort | ROBERT KEATING

thank you for the request !!

PAIRING: robert keating x f!reader

WORDS: 3.4k

SUMMARY: reader goes on a terrible date. she calls her old work friend, rob, who comforts her and opens up about some hidden feelings.

GENRE: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, fluff

WARNINGS: references to eating disorder

The worst date of my life occured on a Tuesday afternoon, starting at exactly 8.43pm. For starters, the guy was late, 13 minutes late on the dot. Never trust your Tinder matches. I guess I should've figured out what a mess the whole thing would be. I'd sat down at a window seat in Nando's. Sun glowed gently across the table. It gave me a positive outlook on the whole thing. But by the end of the evening, as I left that dreaded restaurant with a soggy bag of chips in my right hand, I was holding back tears. Rain was pouring. My umbrella had broken. Dark clouds had appeared in the sky. Pathetic fallacy. I could hardly even breathe as I sat down in the train. 

My first port of call — for some odd reason — was my old work friend. Rob and I had worked together in a restaurant just down my street. We'd been through hell together. My worst memory was when I dropped about ten glasses across the kitchen floor, accidentally smashing them to pieces. The manager heard the crash ring out through the entire restaurant. He ran through the kitchen doors. They swung open as if he was a wild beast prepared to eat me whole. Bones and all. This was the first time I'd made a major mistake as a kitchen porter. I was trying to prepare myself for the incessant shouting to soon ensue. But before I could even build a wall around me, a hand grabbed mine and pulled me out of the kitchen. I wasn't sure who it was grabbing my pinky finger or why they were helping me escape but I didn't complain, I just let them lead me through the main restaurant where guests were staring at us with patient eyes. They really believed we were running around just to ask for their order.

The long mane of curly hair made me realise who was dragging me alone. Robert Keating. The waiter who's sarcasm was off the charts. Each time he came into the kitchen, he'd be going on a rant about how stupid the job was and how much he hated the manager. Most of the chefs agreed. But they'd make sure to put on cheery faces whenever Mr Jacob came in to check everything was alright. Robert had worn Doc Martens to the beach when they had a dinner party to celebrate 10 years of the restaurant. I had made sure to come along with my best dress on and trainers. Robert had appeared with some Doc Marten boots, red shorts and Joy Division shirt, assuring everyone that his boots were 'made for walking on sandy terrain'. Then he complained about them for the entire time. He didn't make any sense.

Once we'd escaped through the front door of 'Jacob's Pizza', we continued running down the street until we got to the park. I knew by that moment I'd sure be fired. No one was running after us. No one really gave two shits about us. We weren't a necessity to the work force. We were just there. Looming.

Rob had sat down on one of the kid's swings (the tiny ones that you can't get into once you grow out of them). He allowed his infinitely long legs to dangle off the edge—not putting them through the holes because he'd surely get stuck which would've been a very Rob thing to do. The park was empty. It was a Tuesday evening. Stars lined the sky. Rob patted the swing next to him, asking me through his motions to join him. I complied. Awkwardly slotted myself in a mildly comfortable position onto the swing. I grabbed onto the rusty chains which had been there for dozens of years. Paint ripped away by years of use, years of bad weather.

"Mr Jacob didn't deserve us. We were too good for him." Sixteen-year-old Rob always thought quite highly of himself—not to the point of being a show off—but just enough to make you shake your head. The use of the collective pronoun was different for him. A change to usual. He was including me in his declaration of greatness. His blue eyes were shining and he'd thrown his apron to the ground. Black button-up shirt and black trousers. His smile was a lighthouse, illuminating that stretch of grass before us.

"I fucked up. Sorry, Rob." I'd looked away from him. Wrung my fingers together, picked at my nails. We'd been working there for months. Of course I had to be the one to make a mistake.

"Hey, don't worry. There's loads of jobs around here. I'm sure you'll find somewhere else," he assured. He reached out a hand between the two swings, let it linger on my shoulder. I followed suit with him. Chucked my apron into the nearest bin. One of those bins that never get emptied. Overflowing with fizzy drinks and sweet packets.

I allowed my head to drop down onto his hand. His fingers took a short hike through my hair. 

He then started to laugh. "How the fuck did you drop all those glasses? I swear you purposely tipped the tray over."

"What if I did?" I smirked. It had been accident. Or maybe my irritation at the place just wanted to come out. 

Rob was pressing his shoes to the ground, trying to make the swing fly upwards. He'd smiled to himself at my words. "Then I thank you for your service. I'd been trying to get out of there for a while. My band are getting way more gigs and the job was getting in the way of everything."

"Your band? You've never told me about that." I was intrigued. I had no idea he played an instrument. I knew that he loved The Strokes as he'd always put them on the kitchen playlist. I couldn't imagine him on a stage. Performing. Making music. It was the last thing I'd expected he'd do.

"Yeah. We've called it Inhaler. An ode to Eli's asthma—"

"Hewson? He's in it? Fuck no." I'd never been the biggest fan of Elijah. He'd dated my friend and left her heartbroken. I'd never personally spoken to guy but from a distance, I was the slightest bit terrified of him. 

"I had no choice! He forced me into it."

"So he's singing, right? Then you're playing what?"

"Bass."

"Really? That's..."

"So sexy. I know."

That's when I shook my head, smiling. His face was serious but as my teeth appeared, so did his. We were both laughing at nothing, giddy because of the air cooling our cheeks. Just his presence, him being next to me, made me feel so much warmer.

Now my eyes are teary, my throat is raw. I'm sat in the corner of a train compartment. Toddlers are screaming at their parents, music is blasting in my ears and the fields turn to blurs of green as I lean back into my seat. 

The guy was a prick. A self-centered waste of time who thought the whole world revolved around him and only him. I was asking all the questions. He didn't want to know anything about me. His mouth would never stop moving. I hardly got a single word into any conversation. He showed off about his job, his money, the university he went to and he joked about how much I ate. He'd stared at my stomach when I stood up, as if he was trying to measure my waist with his eyes. That's when I just walked out of the place, taking my remaining chips with me. I don't know why I even agreed to go. He wasn't even nice on the app.

Phone ringing. Hand over my stomach. I had gained weight. I'd started eating more than I had months ago. Food was a comfort, food was a memory-store, food was something to keep me going. There were all kinds of flavours that would bring me back to figments of my past. Eating was a way to reminisce and a way to make new memories. It had irked me—that look in his eye, the raise of a brow. I was skinnier on my Tinder profile. But back then I wasn't happy. Constantly focused on my calorie intake, on how much exercise I had done in a week. 

"Hello?" Rob picks up. His words play through my headphones. His voice hasn't changed since I last saw him. It's still low and raspy.

I sniffle, finding it hard to even get my words out. I can see in the train window that my skin is blotchy and red. My bottom lip is quivering. I'm trying to hold everything in. I'm like a bomb on the verge of explosion. I don't like crying. I especially don't like crying on a train where eyes are glancing over in my direction.

"You alright?" He whispers. It's 10pm and I'm wondering what he's been doing. Has he been at a show? I've been trying to keep a track of where they've been going on their tour. Right now he could be absolutely anywhere. The last I heard he was in Scotland.

"What are you up to?" I try to divert the conversation to him. I just want to hear him talk. Anything he tells me, I'll listen.

"I'm back home in Dublin. Eating mince pies. I know it's early but my Ma is too obsessed with Christmas for her own good. It's what, 2nd of November? And she's already got her tree up. Tinsel and everything. What's up with you? You sound different. Has Eli been giving you shit again? That gobshite needs his head knocked in."

He's in Dublin. I'm in Dublin. 

"I miss your Ma." I remember the one time we walked home from work together. His Ma had given me a lung constricting hug. She'd thought I was Rob's girlfriend. Told me that he non-stop talked about me. I didn't believe her. I still don't believe her. I could never see Rob having a crush on anyone, let alone me. "It's nothing to do with Eli. Although I agree, he is a little bitch. It's actually this shitty bloke I met on Tinder. He thought he was all that. Most boring guy I've met in my life."

"Instagram, please?"

"I don't trust you with anyone's Instagram."

"At least tell me his name. I want to make fun of him."

"Albert."

"What a name. Honestly, I'm thinking about getting my name legally changed to that. Albert. Wow. I'm impressed." 

"He told me his nickname was 'Alby'. I almost laughed." I smile to myself, wiping tears away. I hear Rob snort through the phone. 

"Found his Instagram. That was easy. He looks weird. Shit hairline."

"Rob!!! Keep away from his DM's please."

He went silent. He was most definitely already sending him stupid messages. I didn't really mind. The guys deserved shit after what he put me through. Two hours of nonsense. At least the food was good. Nando's is my favourite.

"Aren't you in Dublin? Do you want to come play some bird bingo? It's been a while since I saw you. We've got at least a years supply of mince pies."

I'm cheesing. Sucking in quick breaths as my tears stop falling. The train comes to a halt in the station. My head is leaning against the window, my mouth opens wide as I see a figure sat down on a bench. That familiar mop of hair, those shining eyes, an entire bass guitar case sat beside him. I'm gobsmacked.

The call ends before I can try to speak. Before long, my legs are moving and I'm shuffling through crowds, trying to find the exit. Maybe I was just imagining him. Maybe I just wanted him to be there. But then I'm outside the train, walking down the platform and two arms wrap around my stomach. 

"Hey," is all he says, straight into my ear.

He isn't usually this touchy. We used to go for coffee and he'd never hug me. We weren't that kind of friends. Now his arms are holding me flush against his chest and his hair is tickling my ear and I just want to close my eyes and blow the world away.

I turn around to face him. His hands are still on my waist, scrunching the material of my jumper. He has a cardigan on, his eyelashes are so long, he's watching me with worry etched upon his features. 

Then I break down. I can't deal with it anymore. I can't hold it in.

"Sweetheart..." He pulls me straight into his chest, hands cupping my head like it's going to split into two. I sob into his cardigan. My palms are against his shoulderblades and his head is on my shoulder. I can feel his nose smush into my skin and he mumbles quiet comforts into the air. "He doesn't deserve you. He's an idiot. Piece of shit." Words of comfort are usually just insults from Rob—but they still make me feel way better.

I don't know what I would've done without him. I keep imagining myself going home and crying into my pillow, no one there to tell me it'll be okay. I'm so glad he's here. I'm so glad he's holding me.

"Let's go home?" He pulls me away the slightest bit just to see my face. His thumb jumps just beneath my eye, wiping away the falling tears. He then gently kisses my nose. I'm shocked and confused. The warmth of his lips against my freezing nose is a welcome relief. I'm sure a sigh escaped my lips at the gesture. 

I'm not sure which home he means. His or mine. But wherever we're going, I'll follow him. I want to be somewhere warm. I want to eat some nice, warm food and forget that guy ever even existed. Rob still has an arm around me as we walk through the station. He gives me a packet of tissues and buys me a hot chocolate from Starbucks. Even whilst carrying his entire bass along on his other shoulder, he makes sure to keep an arm around my back, fingers curled over my waist. 

"How come you've got your bass?" I taste the hot chocolate. It burns my tongue. My spare hand points along the rather massive case which is definitely heavy.

"I was practicing with the band. I was about to head home when you called me so I ran to the station instead."

"So you lied about the mince pies?"

"Oh no. That is very true. You'll see when we get back. I just lied about where I was—you know, for the surprise element."

His then. We are going to his. I've never been inside his house before. I've only walked down his street and glanced through the windows. He'd always have the best Halloween decorations. The Keating house was always a go to in order to get the best sweets. His mum would come out dressed in the most flamboyant costume possible. Rob would always be standing beside her, forced forwards with a bag of sweets in his hands. 

Up past his parents' cars. Still some Halloween stickers on the windowsill and pumpkins next to the welcome mat. He twists his key in the door. It clicks and opens up to a corridor. He was right about the Christmas decorations. Snow globes on a bookshelf,  wreath on the door, Christmas tree lights are colourful through the window. The whole living room is dark green.

The house is silent. The dishwasher is wildly spinning and wind is wailing. Other than that it is extremely quiet. And warm. So very warm. I can actually feel my fingers now. 

Rob takes my hand once I've pulled off my shoes. He pulls me along into the living room, we crash down onto the sofa.

"Tell me everything," he says. He stretches out his legs and places his feet on the coffee table. He has fluffy socks that have the face of a red robin. "All the nitty gritty. Get it all out of your system."

"I don't even know where to start." I pull at the skin of my cheek, look up at the ceiling. "We went to Nando's. It was my idea. I got there bang on time but had to wait for ages for him to get there. He was late—"

"First red flag."

"Right? I should've just left. Anyway, he came in. Blamed his lateness on traffic when he literally lived in the town I went to. Like wouldn't you just walk? He ordered hardly any food then got all weird when I ordered my usual. I had a pudding too. He was just so judgy. He told me about his degree in Maths and how he was doing a phD. He didn't seem to impressed about my Law degree. He barely even let me talk. Then the last thing, the cherry on top, was when he stared at my belly when I stood up as if I had some kind of disease. I felt ill. I've never been so insecure in my life."

Rob's mouth was open wide, jaw dropped. He kept his eyes on mine. Listening. It was so nice to have someone just hear what I was saying for once. 

"You're the prettiest, most intelligent girl— I'm going to have a right word with that nob— I'm going to have a right fucking word with him. He thinks he can just..." His burst of emotions makes him stand up and pace around the room. I smile at his compliments but frown when he starts to get angry.

"It's fine. I'm here now. I don't have to think about him again."

Rob sits down again. Then his head falls onto my stomach. He closes his eyes. His arm reaches over for the coffee table. He grabs two mince pies. One for me, one for him. Bending his arm and extending it, he passes one up to me. I gratefully take it. I peel off the metal then take a bite. It’s delicious. Rob is smiling up at me. There’s a little pastry on his chin. I wipe it away with my thumb. My finger seems to have a mind of its own. It starts to trace lines along his face. Beauty spot to beauty spot. Like his skin is paper and I’m doing a join the dot. My thumb lands back on his lips and I trace along the two pink shapes. A little chapped, warm and soft. He opens his eyes again. 

Then I’m hit by this weird feeling. Like I’m reaching a high. Or I’m slamming the accelerator. Or I’m at a claw machine and finally win a prize. That hum of euphoria, singing through your ears. He’s twisting his head on my belly like it’s a pillow. My thumb is still at the corner of his mouth. My heart is beating in my ears. There’s something clicking. A realisation.

I’m in love with Rob. I’ve always been in love with him.

“Look, I know this is a really bad time to say this,” Rob speaks. His words a gruff. I listen intently. 

“What’s up?” I brush his hair out of his face. Curls between my fingers.  

“You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

Rob closes his eyes again. He breathes out. He looks for my other hand and places it on his chest, his hand resting just above it. I can feel his heart pounding like crazy. I never knew a human heart could move so quickly. I never knew that here, in this dimly lit room, after my heart has been torn into two separate pieces I’d be feeling Rob’s heart under my fingertips.

“Geez, Rob. Am I that scary?” I stroke his hair again, his fingers now grazing my knuckles.

“Yeah, terrifying.” 

“Just tell me. What is it?”

“I love you.”

The whole room falls apart. My whole body feels like it’s been ripped into two then sewn back together. His eyes close again but he peeks a little with his left one just to gauge my reaction. I’ve stopped moving. My brain isn’t working. 

“Christ. Really?” I whisper.

“Yes. I think of you every time I buy pizza, every time it’s Halloween, every time I’m drinking from a glass. Everywhere I go, you’re there. Whenever we went for coffee, I’d feel empty when you left. It just—even when you told me about this date. I was jealous at first. I want to take you on dates and fall in love with you even more.”

He sits up. He grabs onto both of my cheeks.

“I love you too,” I say before pulling him into a kiss.

[vernadskova]

Job interviews should not exist for work that does not require a degree because there are no specific skills or experience they can determine via a fucking oral examination. Zero practical use but to facilitate discrimination, hire kitchen porters off a centralized waiting list.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

What do you mean Nancy wouldn't want kids? After coming home to Steve and the kid they adopted, she finds a piece of paper on the fridge with scribbles all over it.

"It's their first article," Steve would say proudly.

And then their kid would wrap their little arms around Nancy's legs.

"I'mma porter, Mommy, like yous. I ported!" They exclaimed.

"They're so proud of their mom," Steve would also say.

Of course, Nancy would hang it up at work. Though by next week, they're a firefighter ballerina. Then, the next week, they're a lesbian like Aunt Robin, but then Aunt Robin has to sit down and explain to them that it isn't a job.

"Can I be a dingus like yous say Daddy is?" They would ask.

"Of course you can," Robin replied immediately.

"Robin! No!"

And then there's the snuggling. . .the moment where the kid would just curl up over Nancy's chest as she slept, her hand over her heart. Nancy would still be able to work on her article even if the kid snores loud enough to wake the next state over. Their dog is curled up at her feet. The distant sound of Steve arguing with Robin in the kitchen helped keep her focus. Nancy is entirely at peace.

Of course, Nancy is followed by both dog and kid the moment she walks through the door. Then she relaxes after dinner with Steve promising to give their kid a bath. Of course, that all goes to hell when the dog jumps into the bath and then jumps out, causing their kid to jump out too. Then they're running into the living room. Nancy smiles at the moment, listening to the chaos, and headed into the living room where the kid and dog are looking out the window.

"Look, mama, squirrel!"

Nancy picks her up and presses her nose to their hair. Steve comes in, drenched in water, and his hands on his hips. He looks annoyed like he tries to be, but he actually loves the chaos of it all. He smiles at the sight of them.

"I guess you need help after all," Nancy said in amusement.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve smirked. "I'm going to be saying that to you when you try to reach the top shelf again without the stool."

Let's face it, Nancy and Steve both thrive in the chaos, but they thrive in the peace too. Transitioning their monster hunting skills had been easier than they thought it would be. Though being a parent was something they both wanted, it still made them nervous and worried. Turns out, though. . . A chaotic lifestyle is something that they got in the bag. It was a good kind of chaos.

[boyrobott]

i had the best day with you today

"You guys—?" Astro stares around the penthouse kitchen in total disbelief, turning slowly on the spot to try and take in everything at once — colorful streamers draped haphazardly over every available surface, and a paper banner clumsily tacked up over the arched entryway, one side noticeably lower than the other, and a cake on the table, topped with white icing and blue sprinkles and flickering candles, a handful of presents wrapped in bright yellow gift paper beside it. "You guys threw me a birthday party?"

Read on AO3.

Astro knows it's been a year since his fight with the Peacekeeper, because everybody is talking about it again, and the reminders are everywhere he goes — President Logan wants him to make a speech about the whole thing, for crying out loud, and he knows the guy means well, but he really wants to say no, except he's not sure if he can do that politely, and he's not sure if he can do it at all, actually, because this is the president he's talking about, and the last time he said no to the president, he died twice in as many hours, and he'd prefer not to repeat that experience, please and thank you.

On top of that, every reporter in the entire city is trying to corner him for an impromptu interview about the year-old battle, armed with cameras and microphones and notepads, and he doesn't want to be rude to them when he knows they're just doing their job, but he doesn't want to relive that day again, either, so lately he's been taking every backroad and byway he knows to avoid them.

Things aren't much better at school, either, where it's an even fifty-fifty split between the classmates who pepper him with way more invasive, uncomfortable questions about the Peacekeeper than the reporters ever have, and the classmates who never wanted a robot around in the first place, and now they're seething about all the renewed interest in the fight, which means they're being twice as nasty as usual — TJ Porter, the unofficial ringleader of that second group, had a "conversation" with his friends in the school cafeteria yesterday about Astro's "future career" as a worthless pile of rusted, used-up metal in the junkyard.

(Astro tried his hardest to pretend he didn't hear TJ at all, and tried even harder than that to not think about this time last year, when he actually was facing a future as a worthless pile of rusted, used-up scrap metal in the junkyard.)

The HRA just recently published a brand-new and characteristically scathing article about the upcoming anniversary, too, and Astro knows he probably shouldn't have read it, but morbid curiosity can be very persuasive when it wants to be, so he knows exactly what they said about him, and he knows it went like this: A year has gone by since the combat robot known as Astro Boy caused all manner of property damage, supposedly in the name of "helping" the city, and still, the wider community continues to passively accept its presence in our skies and streets, even allowing it to attend public junior high school with our children. When will the proud people of this great nation come to their senses, and realize how deceiving appearances can truly be? This "Astro Boy" is no more a child than your local bank-teller, and it experiences no more emotion than the average vacuum cleaner.

(Astro turned off his phone for the next forty-eight hours after that, and tried not to think about this time last year, when the HRA was publishing articles about him in the immediate aftermath of the Peacekeeper fiasco, saying perhaps the former President Stone was correct in his opinions, if not his execution, of what to do about this blatant misuse of Ministry technology and we must hope that Dr. Tenma intends to eliminate this danger to the public before it can do any further damage to our city.)

Astro knows it's been a year since his fight with the Peacekeeper.

That doesn't mean he wants to think about it.

But the reminders are everywhere he goes, and everyone is talking about it, and everyone wants to hear him talk about it, too, and President Logan wants him to stand up in front of the city and make a whole speech about it, talk about the week when the whole world wanted him dead, and he was all alone and nobody wanted him and he didn't know who he was, and he barely even knew what he was, really, except that he wasn't human and he wasn't Tobi so he wasn't good enough and nobody wanted him and he was all alone and Dr. Elefun had lied when he said there's a place for you, you just have to find it, and he can't stop waking up in the middle of the night with panicked apologies spilling from his lips, saying I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry Dad I'm so sorry I'm so sorry Dad please I'm sorry I'm sorry I swear I swear I'll do better I swear I'll do everything right I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry please Dad please don't kill me—

Yeah, Astro knows it's been a year since the Peacekeeper.

How could he forget?

But he's so busy thinking about it, and trying not to, that he actually does forget something else that also happened in the same week — something that isn't the Peacekeeper, something that isn't the ice-cold grief and crushing loneliness of waking up on his own in the junkyard, in a pile of robots that were just as unwanted as him, or the burning fury of the Robot Games, the bone-deep humiliation as Hamegg treated him like a monkey in a circus, the iron-heavy guilt of murdering all those other robots, the choking sorrow of knowing he'd just lost the best and only friends he'd ever had, and the devastation and despair of realizing he was going to die when he'd barely begun to live, the devastation and despair of realizing he had nothing left to live for.

Something else also happened in the same week.

But he's so busy trying not to think about anything from that week he completely forgets all about it.

Everyone else remembers, though.

"You guys—?" Astro stares around the penthouse kitchen in total disbelief, turning slowly on the spot to try and take in everything at once — colorful streamers draped haphazardly over every available surface, and a paper banner clumsily tacked up over the arched entryway, one side noticeably lower than the other, and a cake on the table, topped with white icing and blue sprinkles and flickering candles, a handful of presents wrapped in bright yellow gift paper beside it. "You guys threw me a birthday party?"

He's been so wrapped up in everything, trying to come up with a polite way to decline President Logan's request without accidentally alienating another elected official so soon after the last one, and trying to avoid the overzealous journalists around every corner, and trying not to think about this time last year, trying not to get lost in the memories, crystal-clear like it all happened just yesterday, that he didn't remember or even really know it was his birthday today, but it is, isn't it?

On this day last year, he wasn't waking up on his own in the junkyard — he was waking up in his father's lab at the Ministry of Science in the dead of night, his systems coming online and the cameras behind his eyes pulling the world into sharper and sharper and sharper focus until all the pixels suddenly coalesced together, and he saw his dad and Dr. Elefun for the first time. On this day last year, his artificial lungs were expanding with his first breath, and the synthetic vocal cords in his throat were vibrating with his first words, and the joints in his knees were whirring with his first steps.

On this day last year, he wasn't dying on a cold metal table with his father's grief-stricken apologies still ringing in his ears — he was coming alive.

He can't believe he forgot.

But everyone else remembered, and they're throwing him a whole party for it, even though it's technically an activation day, and not a birthday, and robots don't actually celebrate their activation days, anyway.

He wants to thank them. He wants to tell them they didn't have to do all this just for him, and he wants to tell them he can't believe they did do all this just for him, and he wants to tell them it's totally amazing, and he loves it, and he's sorry he's being so weird about it but as soon as he can wrap his mind around it, he's going to be really, really happy.

But his brain is frozen, and he's not sure he could push everything he wants to say past the lump in his throat, anyway.

"You really don't have to pretend you didn't see this coming, Astro," Cora shakes her head, but she's laughing as she does. "Widget and Sludge gave it away, like, a thousand times all week. It's okay. We know you already knew."

"Everyone expects a surprise party on their birthday, Cora!" Widget counters immediately, with the air of somebody who's already had this argument on several previous occasions. "And if they expect it, then it's not really a surprise! So you've got to make it super-duper clear to them that you are throwing them a party, because then they think it's going to be something totally different, and then it's not! Which means it really is a surprise! And! Look at him! He is very obviously surprised! Check and mate!"

Sludge nods proudly, standing up as tall as he can and puffing out his chest. "It was a double submersion!"

Dr. Elefun chuckles. "That's called a double subversion, Sludge."

"Same difference," Sludge rolls his eyes.

"It's really not," Orrin says.

"I-I didn't even know you guys knew my birthday," Astro stammers, awkward and uncertain, because it's honestly the only thing he can think to say. "Did I tell you, and then just… forget?" Come to think of it, he's not actually sure if that's even possible — with such an advanced artificial intelligence installed in his system, he can easily remember everything that's ever happened to him in precise, pin-sharp detail — but it also sounds exactly like the kind of thing he'd do.

"Oh, no, your dad gave us a heads-up, actually," Widget tells him. "He… what did you call it, Zane? 'Came through in the clutch'?"

Zane gives her a thumbs-up. "You got it."

I didn't know my dad knew my birthday, either, Astro thinks, but he catches himself a second before he actually says it out loud, biting his tongue against the instinctive response. "Oh."

"Yeah, four days ago," Cora huffs, rolling her eyes and folding her arms over her chest. "We had four days to get everything together for this. And your dad totally sucks at parties, by the way, so he was zero help. He was just like—" she pushes her voice down to a much deeper octave, in an obvious imitation of his dad's low, gruff tone, "—oh, yeah, it's Astro's birthday on Sunday, haha, isn't it crazy how time flies! And then he was gone!"

"Guilty as charged," Dad says mildly, without so much as a trace of said guilt in his voice, and a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he's trying his best not to laugh. "I've been persona non grata with everyone since then."

"Anyway," Cora jumps in again, pulling the conversation back on-track, "that's why this isn't as awesome as the birthday party you guys put together for me in February. We just didn't have enough time to do everything we wanted — we'll do something way cooler next year, though, trust me. It'll blow this one right out of the water, you'll see."

Astro can't believe she honestly thinks there could ever be anything better than this — the people he loves more than anything in the world all gathered together in the same room, safe and smiling and happy, and here just for him. He can't believe they did all of this just for him. He can't even begin to imagine what Cora thinks could top this.

"No, no, this is—this is perfect," he chokes out, his vision getting suspiciously blurry all of a sudden, but he's also smiling so wide it's hurting his face. "Seriously, guys, I love this. It's perfect. Thank you so much for doing this for me."

"Of course!" Orrin chirps cheerfully, like it's totally unthinkable that they wouldn't do all this just for him, and he rolls forward a little to wrap Astro in a hug. "We love you! You're such a wonderful person, and a great friend, and we're so excited to celebrate your birthday with oh my god the cake is on fire!"

"What?!"

Everybody immediately abandons their positions to scramble over to the table and stare down at the confection — which is, in fact, very much on fire, a bright orange-gold flame about the size of a grown man's hand dancing wildly atop the buttercream frosting.

"Holy crap!" Zane screeches. "What the heck kinda birthday candles do that?! Birthday candles should not do that!"

"You lit them too early!" Dad turns on him a little too quickly for this to be a brand-new argument. "I told you that we should have waited for him to get here before we lit the candles! Why didn't you just listen to me?!"

"Who cares why it happened?! The cake is on fire!" Cora yells at the pair of them as she dashes over to the sink, fills a glass with water straight from the faucet, and races back to the table with the cup clutched in her hand, clear fluid spilling out the sides and splashing over her fingers. Of course she's already three steps ahead of the rest of them — she always is, even in situations as unexpected as this.

But before she can douse the flame, Orrin throws himself in front of the cake with his arms spread wide in the universal pose of Fearless Action Hero Taking A Bullet For Another Character. "No, no, wait! Don't do that! The cake will get soggy! And then it'll be ruined!"

Cora grinds to a dead halt, the water still swirling violently around inside the glass, and gapes at Orrin like she's never properly seen him before. "Are you being for real?! Are you actually being for real right now?! The cake is on fire!"

"I know, but I worked so hard on it!" Orrin wails miserably. "And it's perfect! Astro is going to love it!"

"I-It's fine, Orrin," Astro rushes to reassure him, but he's way more focused on the miniature bonfire in the center of the table than the cake beneath it. "Seriously, it's totally okay. Let's just—"

"Salt!" Sludge hollers, waving his arms around in the air like a traffic controller. "Salt won't make the cake soggy, and it'll put out the fire, too, right? We can use some salt!"

Poor Orrin looks like he's about to cry. "But that'll ruin it, too!"

"We don't have a whole lot of other options here, Orrin!" Dad barks at him. "We have to take care of that fire now! It's going to get out of control!"

"This is not my fault!" Zane declares, despite the fact that no one is directly accusing him anymore. "You know what? It's your fault!" He jabs an accusatory finger at Tenma. "Yeah! It's your fault for having such crappy birthday candles that they can't even burn for—!"

"The birthday candles were perfectly fine!"

"Then why the heck are they burning so quickly?! Answer me that, Science Man!"

"Because they're birthday candles! They're not supposed to burn for long periods of time! That's why I told you not to light them until Astro actually got here, but—"

"Orrin," Cora seethes, in that dangerous voice she always uses when she's about to explode with sheer rage. "If you don't get out of my way in the next ten seconds, I swear I'm going to—"

"Oh, for the love of God!" Apparently, even Dr. Elefun has lost all patience. "Somebody just blow it out!"

Everyone goes dead silent and statue-still for a long, loaded second, gawking at Dr. Elefun like they've never even considered the concept of blowing out birthday candles before. Honestly, Astro is kind of embarrassed no one else came up with it first.

"…Huh," Zane says finally. "Probably should have thought of that one sooner, yeah."

"No, no, wait! Astro has to do it!" Widget pipes up, as Cora skirts around Orrin and bends down over the cake to follow Dr. Elefun's orders. "It's his birthday! He has to blow out the candles, doesn't he?"

"Guys, I think the fire might be kind of a bigger problem than who blows out the—okay, okay," Astro gives up the fight barely a second later, because Cora has backed off again to clear a path for him, and Sludge is trying to physically haul him over to the table with a hand on his leg, tugging on the excess denim at the knee of his jeans. He quickly steps around Cora and Orrin, leaning in close (somewhere in the background, he hears his dad mutter a quick be careful, son, like he doesn't face off against mad scientists and evil robots and convicted murderers and god only knows what else on a daily basis) to extinguish the fire in a single breath.

The whole group instantly clusters around him to inspect the huge black scorch mark on top of the cake. Poor Orrin looks absolutely devastated.

"I'm sure it still tastes okay," Astro pats him on the shoulder. "We can just cut that piece off, or something. It's really no big deal." He reaches to pull out a couple of the burnt candles — the lingering heat will sting, of course, but not as badly as it would if he had human skin — but he freezes halfway there, because the burnt candles… are not candles, actually. "Uh… Zane… w-why did you use… matchsticks?"

"You did what?" Dad wheels around to fix Zane with the Minister of Science Death Glare that has left lesser men (including Astro) fleeing the room in terror.

"Oh, man, that's what those things were?" Zane pushes past Cora and the twins to get a closer look. "I thought they were just really crappy candles! Sorry, Science Man, that's my bad." He even has the guts to reach up and pat Dad on the back, despite the fact that Tenma looks two seconds away from picking him up and bodily throwing him out of the penthouse.

"How did you even light these?" Astro asks, to defuse the impending argument (and also because, now that he's thinking about it, he actually really wants to know) as he hastily plucks the smoldering sticks out of the cake. "I mean, since you thought the matches were birthday candles…"

Zane puts a hand in the pocket of his shabby brown jacket and pulls it back out again a minute later to show off a silver cigarette lighter. "Duh. How do you think?"

"Oh, my god!" Tenma snatches it straight out of Zane's open palm before anyone else can react. "Why on earth do you have a lighter?! Who gave you a lighter?!"

"Hey!" Zane makes a wild grab for it, but Dad has at least six inches on him, and easily holds it out of his reach. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you guys don't carry them around, too! I mean, you never know when you need to set something on fire, am I right?"

"Um," Dr. Elefun says. "How many times have you needed to set something on fire, exactly?"

There's a suspiciously long second of silence after that, wherein Dad looks like he's having a few dozen heart attacks right there in the middle of the kitchen, and Zane wrinkles his brow in an expression of deep concentration. Astro has a terrible feeling that he's counting the various occasions in his head.

"You know what!" Orrin says, all of a sudden, and very loudly, in an excruciatingly obvious effort to break the tension, and redirect the conversation. "Why don't we have some cake! Who wants cake? Everyone wants cake, right? Everyone loves cake! Can't go wrong with cake!"

"Uh, yeah, let me help you with that," Astro gratefully latches onto the excuse to escape whatever kind of chaos is inevitably going to happen next, hurrying after Orrin into the kitchen proper. He grabs a handful of forks from the cutlery drawer, and pulls down a stack of plates from the cupboard, piling it all together to make it easier to carry before he heads back over to the dining table.

Orrin is already there, patiently removing a few of the matchsticks he missed in his shock over Zane's cigarette lighter, and carefully cutting the blackened section away from the rest with a large knife, while Cora and Zane are arguing vehemently over whether arson can really be considered a hobby or not. Widget and Sludge are arguing even more vehemently about which one of them did a better job of keeping the surprise party under wraps all week, while Tenma and Elefun are talking with their heads together, probably trying to decide how to tell Zane's foster parents that their twelve-year-old charge has a lighter.

(Astro really can't believe Cora thinks there's anything that could be better than this — the people he loves more than anything in the world all gathered together in the same room, even if they're all a little frazzled from the fire, and the cuff of Widget's sleeve looks a bit singed.)

Right at that moment, Dad glances up and locks eyes with Astro, still lingering on the edge of the group with the plates in his hands, and waves him over. Astro quickly deposits the dishes on the table and makes his way over to his dad — who, to his intense surprise, puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close in a kind of side-hug.

Astro thinks about this time last year — waking up on his own in the junkyard, standing in the arena under the blinding sun as the Robot Games raged on and on, realizing he had nothing left to live for, realizing the whole world would be better and happier if he wasn't in it anymore, dying on a cold metal table with his father's grief-stricken apologies still ringing in his ears — and he realizes, with a funny kind of jolt in the pit of his stomach, that his life really could not be any more different now: he's alive, making a tangible positive difference in the city, surrounded by people who love him just as much as he loves them, and he's so happy he feels like he must be overflowing with it.

(He's not alone anymore.)

"I'm sorry about all this," his dad murmurs, pulling him suddenly out of his thoughts. "I know this has gotten off to a… rough start."

Astro thinks about this time last year, and shrugs it off, his mind finally calm for the first time in a week. "That's okay. The best things usually do."

[operationalchefconsultantblog]

Here’s Why you must have a Private Chef at Home

There is nothing more pleasing and satisfying than your dinner cravings tended to professionally by a personal chef. While most of us are always worried about grocery shopping list, what to cook for lunch and dinners, there are some of us who take advantage of the chef recruitment agencies to hire personal kitchen porters. 

These days, men and women both, work in the professional world and so they both come home tired. Hiring a private chef makes it easy to eat healthy home cooked food. Here are some benefits of hiring a private chef 

· Chefs save your time: A chef can take care of all the meal planning. He can do all the meal planning and cook for you so that you can pay attention to other important tasks of the day. It is particularly useful to people with busy lives and households. 

· Healthy and customized meals: Instead of ordering meals from outside, you get almost the same taste by getting food cooked by a professional at home with home ingredients. A chef can also offer different meals for different people at home including children and old people in the family. 

· Keeping kitchen organized: With a kitchen porter, you do not have to worry about organizing the kitchen. He will keep everything stacked and all the places neat and clean. If you are looking forward to hire kitchen porters, you can reach out to us. We offer chef recruitment services.

[toastsnaffler]

indeed going back to the victorian age

[penny-for-her-thoughtsdv]

Penny Age Milestone

Headcannons

Plus a little Pam & Hubby

Tw: alcoholism, military mention,

periods, blood

Pam was born and grew up in Zuzu City. She worked as a bus driver for one of the local military bases and it was there she met a brown haired lover boy who swept her off her feet.

Pam married Penny's father rather young and had Penny when she was in her early 20s. Thus she feels like her youth was spent being bound by marriage and being tied down motherhood. They met and lived for a short time in Zuzu City.

Pam also was a rather party crazy young woman but stopped her drinking while pregnant. She was dedicated to being a good mother.

Penny's father stuck around because he loved his family and felt like he could be a family man in his young age. Once he was out of the military he proposed to Pam and they had a small wedding.

When Penny was 13 months old the trio moved to Pelican Town. It was cheaper to live and Pam's job as a bus driver brought in a pretty good amount of money.

Once Penny was 24 months old, Pam started drinking again. Slowly the family began to fall apart.

Penny was 6 when the bus broke down, tourism slowed down in Pelican Town and the family began to barely scrape together enough funds to even keep their small trailer; Pam began to drink from noon until midnight.

Penny's father started to grow bored of "Playing House" with a girl he thought he was just going to have a one night stand with. He left the pair on Fall 7 when Penny was 8 years old. Pam had drunk herself silly and he just left as she slept on the couch. Penny tried to keep him at home but he simply walked off. She begged and cried but he still left her.

After her father left Penny really got into reading. Fantasy books, science fiction and fairy tales were her way to escape.

Although Penny never went to a formal school, she started going to the Pelican Town library shortly after her father left to escape her mother's alcoholism. She took online classes starting at 10 years old and continued reading anything that she could get her hands on.

From the ages of 8 to 10 Penny was rather closed off from her mother and didn't speak to her often. She felt abandoned and as if her mother didn't wish to keep the family together. Pam, of course, had tried her best and took the light shunning to heart. Her drinking only got worse. It was around this time that Pam began to become much more confrontational to her daughter when drunk.

At 11, Penny discovered she loved wearing skirts! It made her feel like a princess and she found it just to be so much more comfortable than the pants she had worn up to that point.

When Penny was 13 she wondered what her mother's drink tasted like. The lass took a small sip of a caramel porter. Immediately Pam joked about how her daughter was turning out to be just like her. Penny immediately threw up in the kitchen sink and has sworn off alcohol ever since; she wants to be the complete opposite of her mother.

Penny finished reading her first book series when she was 13 years old; The Solarian Chronicles. She still keeps it in her room and will reread the series when she is really craving a comfort read.

Penny was 14 when she started her menstrual cycle. She had been walking through Cindersap Forest and fallen over a small log as she allowed her mind to wander off into a daydream. She returned home with what she thought was a scraped knee but when the blood didn't stop and was not coming from her knee she started to freak out. Pam was thankfully home and was able to drunkenly tell her daughter all the joys of womanhood. And with a slurred monologue Penny learned all the horrifying truths about her body and it's features for the next fifty or so years. Pam did however hand her a tampon and wished her the best of luck before sitting back down on the couch.

When Penny was nearly 15, Pam began to tell her stories about men and their evil ways. Of course she meant no harm and only wanted her daughter to be prepared but the tales of men and them only wanting women for their bodies terrified the young woman. For a short while Penny had a distrust in men because she viewed them as predators. Penny is Pam's only family after all and is loved greatly.

When Penny was 17 she began to babysit the children in town; Jas and the son of a new family, Vincent.

[strayheartless]

Comfy Cloud things:

The series where I give Cloud a soft loving polyamorous relationship surrounded by comfy slow living things, because HE DESERVES IT!:

Of all the things Sephiroth expected to find upon entering Genesis’ apartment that evening, a blanket fort in the middle of the room was not one of them.

The coffee table and couch had been commandeered as pillars; the cushions raked from every available place; the TV had been dragged from its place in the corner into the make shift tent, and Sephiroth was sure the slight glow from inside the fort had something to do with the solstice decorations box that lay abandoned in the hall.

As he shrugged off his coat and grabbed the hoodie Angeal had left on the Radiator for him, he stopped by the kitchen to ask what was going on. Inside, he was once again shocked to find that the soft tinkering that had been coming from behind the door was not in fact Angeal, but Gen and Zack.

“Am I having a stroke?” He questioned from the doorway, as he watched Zack hook his chin over Genesis’ shoulder. The latter appeared to be making Banora spiced cider on the stove, and chuckled lowly .

“If you are, your doing a spectacular job of pushing through it dearest.” They smirked, patting at the arms around their waist for Zack to release them . “How was patrol?” They asked, shoving a spoonful of warm cider into sephiroths mouth as they approached.

“Cold” The General mumbled around the spoon. He pulled back, “that doesn’t taste nearly as dangerously alcoholic as usual” he said gesturing to the spoon.

Zack snorted, coming over to greet him as well. “Cloud said he didn’t want to get drunk this evening, there’s no alcohol in it”

Genesis made a tsking sound at the reminder and pulled a face. They mumbled something that could have been ‘such a waste’ but Sephiroth knew from the way they stayed relaxed that they didn’t truly mind.

The mention of their chocobo shaped partner had Sephiroth noticing his absence almost at once.

“I take it, the pile of blankets in the living room is their doing?” He asked keeping clouds pronouns ambiguous until he was told otherwise. It had taken a while getting used to the constant switch from ‘he’ to ’They’ with Cloud, but it had gotten significantly easier of late to pick up on it without being told.

“He’s been grumpy all day.” Gen chuckled. “Zack stuck him in there in the hopes it would spare a training room porters feelings.”

“Did it work?” Seph glanced at Zack who looked a little too proud of himself.

“Yup” the younger popped the ‘P’ “he’s spent the last few hours snoozing to cartoons on mute.”

Sephiroth was impressed. Cloud had a tendency to be unbearable when he was in a funk. On a few quite memorable occasions it had been Sephiroth’s own blade that had handled the brunt of their frustration when dysphoria was kicking their arse, or when their ability was questioned as a Mako sensitive Third class.

Sometimes though, Cloud just woke up grumpy, and it really didn’t matter what was said. He’d stay that way until somebody realised he needed a cuddle.

Would Cloud ever admit that’s what they needed? No, absolutely not. When it came to stubborn, pig headedness the only one on par with him was Genesis, but it didn’t change the fact that that was the cure.

Sephiroth hummed amused and wandered out of the kitchen, back to the blanket fort. He knocked on the hard wood of the coffee table and waited until a little flutter of blonde pulled back the curtain of thick Duvets.

Inside, the fort was quite spacious, easily big enough for four of them, though they may need to adapt the design for future grumps if Angeal’s shoulders were to fit, let alone a entire fifth body. Cloud was cuddled up in the middle, dressed in one of Zacks too big hoodies, and what Sephiroth suspected was his own sweat pants.

The bottoms of them were rolled up and the general would never say it out loud (he values his knee caps, thank you very much.) but it was endlessly adorable.

“I’ve been reliably informed you are being a tyrant.” He goads, watching Cloud glower at him sleepily. “Am I to assume my person is forfeit to pillow duty effective immediately?”

The TV remote that was thrown at his chest was enough of a ‘yes’ that he scooted closer; pulling Cloud into his arms and settling them both into the downy soft comforter.

Cloud wiggles further down, getting their head directly under Sephiroth’s chin before huffing into the man’s neck. Sephiroth chuckles, tilting down to lay a Kiss on clouds spikes.

“Better?” He whispers fondly.

“I hate you,” Cloud half heartedly kicks at the man’s shin. There’s no impact behind it to hurt though.

“No you don’t.” Seph challenged gently.

Again Cloud huffed, exasperated but so, so content.

“No,” he mumbled. “I don’t,”

Ta da! Thoughts?

[girlsrawesome64]

Idk if your still accepting match ups for COD but here you go.

I’m a Gemini, ENFJ, trans Masc, He/Him, I’m a bit mouthy with a lot of different hobbies. I cuss a lot and pick at the skin around my thumbs as a nervous habit. I have a hard time opening up to people and tend to flinch when I get touched by someone for the first time. But once I do get friendly with you I tend to make more sexual jokes and crasser humor.

I wear glasses and usually long pants with sweater or tank tops with open button ups.

I’m Aromantic but Allosexual which means I have a hard time forming romantic attachment with people, but I wouldn’t find physical intimacy or affection.

I’m a cuddler, I love blankets and stuffed animals. I like music and writing. My favorite animal is a bunny.

I love cooking for people and others. So in the COD universe I would probably be just a civilian who works at a restaurant or something.

I’m fine with light angst and I prefer someone from task force 141.

Thank you so much for this!

S-S-S-S-SIMON

TWS: Implication of abusive home life, physical abuse scar, anxiety, picking, smoking(tobacco and weed), light drinking, aro dread (worry of being romantically liked), work stress (+reader shouts in kitchen), customer service, anger for shitty higher up, sudden snappy rejection to joke-brief mention, momentary disassociation+heat descriptive, gossip mention, momentary suggestiveness, depressivey thinking (PURP=SIMON) + Cuddly/platonic touchy Simon, aro4aro, hope this is ok and doesn't read too romantic, was thinking close squish vibes 😭💕 (im slowly learning; education welcome) Realistically sexual attraction would probz be a huge part but I cannae write it so feel free to mind blast the gaps

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Young adult Simon begrudgingly picking up a kitchen porter job. A role in your kitchen- well, as far as anybody was concerned. You'd been promoted to sous chef fast in this crappy bar/restaurant hybrid joint, which would be surprising if not for the paint peeling off the walls and constant inconsistencies of management.

Such as: yet again, you are left understaffed on a peak day and YOU had to lead ship because your shitass head chef didn't show up. Whoop de doo. What's more, you're tasked with training the fucking new guy, who- when you first had to come find him- seemed to have an attitude with an entitled cocky sway and his hands in his pockets. But that wasn't important right now; you had shit to prep and fast.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Safe to say the day was a blur. You muttering rushedly and guiding him in and around, barely getting a chance to meet him and take the sight of him in; just cringing as you try to squeeze past the big guy without touching, to and from your station.

The most you got was your anxious glances over your shoulder to check everything was running; that he was doing his job. A flash of his tatted arm flexing to press down the pass-through dish washer, suggesting the patchy art went up further when his crusty spare uniform's sleeve would move slightly in the motion. Oh, uh- good for him. Focus up.

What you hadn't gotten the space to witness was how Simon's personal too-good-for-this ambiance had quickly flattened into his tall frame curling over the sinks uncomfortably. His head down, diligent and thorough, only daring to give you morbidly interested side-glances when you weren't looking. He was otherwise very tuned in to the sound of you barking arguably obscenely worded orders at the junior chefs, daze only broken when one was suddenly directed at him- in which he whipped his head up to obey with a croaked out "Yes, chef."

Which made you double-take; this wasn't that kinda snooty establishment. He almost made your stressed scowl turn to a laugh from the shock, but no, he seemed dead serious as he effectively completed your request.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Before you knew it you had survived the reckoning of unprecedented big tables and last-minute front-of-house promised function food, leaving your eyes glazed in the direction of the finally unmoving ticket machine after allowing your chefs break. The uncomfortable wet trickle down the back of your neck expanded your awareness back into your body: the warm flush from the kitchen's humidity; the sore realization of your fingers on your thumb; the..gaze on the back of you? Sure enough, Simon 'casually' turned his head back around to totally (/s) focus on his piled-up workload. The hums of machinery, radio and distant chatter all seemed tensely faint in the silence of you two mandatorily alone.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ But hey, he definitely wasn't so bad. His gloomy, blunt countenance entertaining no-one (except maybe you, and a couple front-of-house girlies) when he barely bothered to stay after work for group drinks, etcetera. Don't get me wrong, he certainly had his own dry spark, but more often than not he'd seem to small-talk folks into a corner so he could back out and leave (especially with the girls). Sigh. Destined to never bond with the weird dude on a night out.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Or so that was your estimate, until mid adrenaline-filled panic from a work mistake, you see him over there reservedly wiggling to your music from the kitchen speaker as he worked. Or the first time he talked back to you in the kitchen, loud deadpan delivery as he teased you (to your co-workers' bafflement)- which just resulted in a loop of increasingly sweary quarreling, to Simon's probably-shouldn't-be growing smile to himself.

Thankfully, despite his words, he didn't fuck around. You could trust him with his role plenty fine. Or just trust him at work in general.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ When your head chef finally decided to clock in and had the nerve to start talking you out on this and that- oh my god. You did your best, but come break your hand was already exasperatedly dragging across your face as you walked to your spot. Simon roughly there too, mid smoke. Probably due back soon.

He nodded up in recognition, letting you settle before potentially opening the floodgates.

"He's a twat."

If you wanted to just sit, he'd sit. Plenty same if you needed to talk, allowing you good, deep time to vent whilst ad-libbing in agreement at your head's absolute expense.

None would go unnoticed, nor the way how your nails kinda fucked up your thumb as you spoke. It's not like he'd be on your ass about picking, just...details. Conclusively, your strife had successfully absorbed over to him, and now he was just bubbling in sympathetic frustration at the unfairness at his teammates energy being wholly undermined, disrespected and taken.

One thing was sure, full seriousness, if you wanted to go to HR/etc. about it, he'd absolutely have your back.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Second thing: the next day when he clocked in, he pulled something fluffy out his bag. What's tha- aww. A fuzzy little plush white rabbit, how cute is that? Conveniently pocket size. You tease him, because that didn't usually seem to be his style, before he's casually plopped it in your hands.

How did he..? I guess a lot of public conversations happen on the clock, and that he was listening to yours.

It was..nice..but..? It wasn't a nice feeling in your stomach, anxiously fiddling with Pocket Bunny instead with an thousand yard stare as you processed your emotions. You liked him, definitely, but the thoughtful gesture planted that worry that he was romantically interested. To say the least, it's always such a headache feeling forced to put out a 'disclaimer' on your existence. Co-worker gossip wasn't helping.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ So, you were brave. The pit in your gut uncomfortably hollowing further when he enthusiastically agreed to join for after-work drinks (because you asked), something he still barely does.

What seemed like excruciating filler time later, you're finally mostly alone, squeezed into some semi-sticky booth-table-thing. Simon leant over to you, squinting through the erratic dim, dark purple lights and shouting conversation over rumbly generic club music with his other hand on his drink.

Eventually you blurt out back the topic of your worries. Kind of. Not exactly confessing, but making the questions of orientation inescapable. Your heart just pounds faster when he pronounces back a, "WHAT?", leaning closer, 'cause he can't hear for shit in here- making you double down and repeat yourself until he's looking at you a little dumbfounded. How the dancing lights reflected pure off his wide dark ones was stressful until he burst out into a ramble, that piece by piece, seemed to resemble your own thoughts. Like a description for aromanticism by someone who didn't know the term. Your tension relievedly, gradually breaking and melting off. Adrenaline, however, still there as you bounce back in educational agreement.

It was like a weight had been lifted, truly. For him too apparently. The hypocrisy of the head chef being back wasn't as bad as previously thought if it meant more time slacking off with him. Sarcastic, bawdy back-and-forths in the kitchen that actually got him to crack into a proper chuckle (and got you both told off). Just shit that shouldn't be said that Simon was unblinking at, just returning that attentive amused look that got you through the day.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ So much so that Simon actually picked up more shifts. Something he was hesitant about from the workplace itself, but he needed the money, and being out the house was very welcome and having a friendly face there made it not-so-bad.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Or-finally- someone to side-eye at their peers and heads weird shit. Better yet to back you up, when Simon spoke out for you a couple of times. Someone to babble, pace and rant to outside in their own little break spot whilst he smoked.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ More shifts meant seeing each-other more, all of them. So when you eventually crack, from just life in general, or the last straw from the kitchen, he'd meet with you as soon as he could, offering a presence, a hug.. anything you want.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ His hugs are really fucking good. Cozy as hell. You can bury your face in the crook of his neck or his chest and he wouldn't flinch, just hugging you tighter, patting your head and stroking it. He's warm. Especially if it's after work and he's wearing that black thick hoodie he always does- omigod it's so soft. Well, not the most expensive fabric ever, but his presence makes it comfortable. Plus a lil' kiss on the top of your head if that's your thing.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ If that's something you both fall into, he jumps at the opportunity; touch-starved as fuck.

Leaning arms crossed over the bar to hover next to you, lurking over you; hugging your waist while he's waiting to go post-close; holding your waist for a sec to brush past you in the kitchen. From what was meant to be a simple break and hug, one time they found you straight-up conked out laying in the drystore in eachothers arms.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ He always waits for you until you're ready to leave together. Which might mean Simon with his hands in his pockets, having to sneakily get probed for the nature of your relationship by gossip-ier coworkers. To which he shrugs and deflects something or other. It wasn't any of their business (nor was he sure). Boys will be boys, they guess.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ But yeah. In pitch black night, almost every night, he escorts you home if you let him. Holding hands if you want. Sometimes smoking a joint. A stupidly lengthy journey (for him) to your doorstep and back to his, whether you drive, do public transport or whatever. He disguised it as casual good companionship. He didn't want to be creepy, its just.. that flicker of reluctance in his eyes when you got to your destination gave you the impression he was purposefully putting off having to face his home.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ Days pass. Weeks become months. New people rotating in and out of the team. The days get longer, welcome spring breeze stilling to more humid heatwaves. But he's always there.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ One new thing about Simon: he was off sick for a few weeks, and now he's back. But he's almost always wearing a surgical mask? He didn't seem sick anymore, I mean..maybe a little more mellow, then snappy, not as into your banter as usual.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ So one night he's walking you back, sweating through that dumb mask- which he switched out to a black one he keeps using- you invite him in. Sleepover, or something?

He's surprised maybe, but after using the last of his energy for a subdued cautious sweep of the place, he's exhausted. He double-bounces backwards back on your bed, still adjusting his mask back up from the movement, looking up to find an adorable welcome menagerie of stuffed animals.

It almost makes him smile. First proper one in a while as he looks over to you and takes in the sight of your room, hand subconsciously stretching out to reach for your knee and rub circles. Oh, and to snatch that little bunny out of your pocket, hugging it to him instead with a smirk. Bonus points if he pisses you off.

With the blankets soft against his head and side, he got an idea. Unraveling them, gesturing you closer to properly wrap you in his arms and nuzzle down into the cozy bed situation. With bunny, him and the whole gang. Maybe you could go to sleep like this. But, come on, surely without the mask-?

He caught your wrist at even an indication of the thought of it, gently holding it back down against his chest. From your close proximity you could finally see the beginnings of a big healing scar at the the top of his cheek where the mask moved slightly in his vague refusal. Ah.

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ There was a lot of unkind things in this world, but Simon was not. (Uh, to you at least.) You could only give his hand a reassuring squeeze in the hopes that life would lighten for you both. And if not? At least you'd always have each-others back.

B-B-B-BONUS ROUND:

Steals your glasses and looks stupid in them.

Performs elaborate yet half-hearted puppet shows with your stuffed toys.

Periodically asks what you're writing now, squinting over your shoulder. His tones dry but he needs to be updated of the drama, damn it.

Exchanges the most would-be-an-eyeroll sideye of solidarity over at you when he seems to get flirted with romantically. Or fems in general. They just don't seem to get the hint.

Subtly acts like a space-making service dog for you in crowded places or if it looks like someone's gonna touch you.

photo cred~ @yumethefrostypanda

[waywardxrhea]

Lying to the Devil Installment list

What happens when you lie to the Devil? How long can one woman keep a lifetime of secrets from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen? The answer may surprise you...

pairing: Matt Murdock x enhanced!fem!OC

series content: coffee shop AU, fluff, humor, friends to lovers, pining, language, canon typical violence, angst, drinking, implied smut, medical emergencies, mental health disorders (PTSD, panic disorder).

After witnessing the murder of her mother, Julianne Porter finds herself running from her past and ends up in Hell's Kitchen, New York under the alias Crystal Shaw. She uses the powers she was born with in order to stop petty crime on the streets and eventually ends up working with Daredevil. During all of this, while working at her day job at Stardust Brewing Company, she ends up falling for a regular customer, the ever-handsome lawyer Matt Murdock. Join Julianne as she navigates hiding her past from her new friends and lover, her detrimental heart condition, and a life as a crime-fighting vigilante.

This is the installment list of chapters in Falling for the Devil! All chapters are written it is just a matter of editing and publishing on a weekly basis! Enjoy!

Publishing planned to start on Sunday March 3, 2024 and be updated on a weekly basis (we love the queue feature)

Introductory

Chapter 1 - Heart of Stone

Chapter 2 - Vigilante Shit

Chapter 3 - Good Grief

Chapter 4 - We Could Be

Chapter 5 - Black Butterflies and Deja Vu

Chapter 6 - Jet Black Heart

Chapter 7 - Walls

Chapter 8 - Strawberry Mentos

Chapter 9 - Panic Room

Chapter 10 - Paranoid

Chapter 11 - Face Your Demons

Chapter 12 - My Consequence

Chapter 13 - This Life is Mine

Epilogue

a/n: yes all the chapter titles are song titles that i found had the same general vibe to the chapter, i use quotes from in the chapter, or inspired context of the chapter! i will be putting links to the songs at the end of each chapter or just putting the line that inspired it at the beginning with the chapter description!

[koifishart]

I want to be Your Koi Fish

Warning: +18 content, criminal underworld, intercourse, strong language - and so on

Fanfiction based on: "Baki" by Itagaki Keisuke

>4<

>>4<<

She must have had absolutely enough of her current job, because she agreed expressly, but pointed out that she wanted it to be unofficial until the day she finished school. He wasn't going to press her down to anything, and to use her skills only when necessary. Hanayama preferred to see her on private grounds, when they could talk quietly and enjoy their own company. He considered. He wasn't sure if it was love, but in an indefinable way he wanted her close. The closer the better. He was sitting on the inside terrace sipping green tea, deciding to call. At the last moment, he noticed Kizaki standing nearby. He studied him as usual. Faithful to his father, mother and him. Good advisor, great diplomat, right hand. He could always be a step ahead of his thoughts, which made him more than useful. It took a few rings her to answer. The first thing he heard was a terrible noise, a bit like she was in the zoo with a trip from primary school, and next to it the road was undergoing renovation.

- Very bad timing... - Hanabi finally spoke.

- Busy? - he asked naive.

- I'll show you. - she murmured.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and an image appeared on the screen. First a piece of her T-shirt, blue with navy blue dots, a dark, long ponytail that fell over her shoulder next to an amazing green eye, and then everything she had behind her back - a square kitchen table and children. Very energetic, screaming, running blindly, quite a large herd of CHILDREN. He didn't get a closer look, but he probably saw four girls and three boys. Though it might as well have been an entire platoon. The picture's gone.

- My three sisters and mother came to visit, so...they went shopping, and I stayed at home with my nephews. - she explained, then heard a loud crack and her groan. - DAD'S PORCELAIN! I'll call you back if I survived.

She hung up. He had completely forgotten that she had sisters, nor had he suspected that they were mothers. He didn't like this arrangement. Everything indicated that they treated her like a free babysitter.

- Something's wrong, boss? - Kizaki asked.

- If she don't call back for a few hours, someone died for sure.

>>><<<

The day was not easy. They dropped off a bunch of children early in the morning, without even asking if she had other plans. She had. She was going to take the day off and rest, while browsing the online stores for new clothes. She was left alone, her father, in spite of very incorrect contacts with her mother, became their chauffeur and most likely porter, which he did not seem to mind. She understood him... he missed the person he loved. She missed too, though she wasn't sure if she loved or just felt attached or even obligated to Kaoru. She spent the day cooking for a bunch of fussy eaters, playing something they did not want to play, reading books to children who "are already too old to read, they are turned on an audiobook" and similar, very developing and pleasant things for both sides. In the late afternoon they returned, loaded with bags, and she would have given her a hand cut off after visiting the hairdresser and beautician. No, she didn't miss it, she didn't like to make-up or so, but the argument, "you have children, you will understand," made little argument for leaving her alone with the seven each time, when there were always four of them. She hoped that at least she would read, since they had already arrived, but it turned out that their LOVED SERIES was broadcast on TV (two months ago she heard about the beloved one and the title sounded completely different), so since she is sitting with the children anyway ... She looked at her sisters. All three were lovely, but some so... identical? Despite their natural differences, they had a very similar style of dressing and brushing. A moderately smart chimpanzee would notice that they were siblings. The oldest, Ayame, stubbornly lightened her hair. So in the end she was quite tall, very fair blonde with green eyes. Shizuka was born natural red after her mother, with sapphire eyes after her father. Yui, the youngest of the three, naturally black-haired with blue eyes as the previous one. They were intelligent, had potential, but preferred to use their physical qualities to live... somehow. That's the only thing she could say about their tactics. She was surprised every time, but they said they'd rather pretend to be cute idiots than show off eloquence and wisdom ... unless it was necessary or profitable. Fortunately, the children were persuaded to take part in a drawing competition, and she kept mochi hidden in her wardrobe for the black hour. She had a moment of rest. She fell on the bed watching little things pour a sea of creativity onto the sheets of paper. She promised to call back ... He must have been waiting, because he answered very quickly.

- I warn you, I don't have so much time. Mother and sisters are "so terribly busy with the TV", and I'm still with kids. - she muttered conspiratorially. - Fortunately, they go to sleep soon.

- Get dressed, I'm gonna kidnap you. - Kaoru fired quite seriously.

- Are you deaf?! There's no option!

- There is, but it seems that you're afraid of to go against your mother. - he replied. - Do you prefer me to come for you?

She imagined it. The mother opens the door, and behind it stands a muscular guy who looks at least five years older, scarred by samurai swords, asking about her daughter. Even though they don't live together anymore, she would get a detention for the rest of her life and celibacy ... for one more day. Then mother would call the police and make up more scary stories, and her sisters would die of wanting to feel at least one of his big biceps, grateful in the most immoral way they could possibly enter their heads.

- Nope, I'm fine. I'll do it. - she replied firmly.

She tidied up the kids' room, made futons, and shaded the windows. Everything was ready. Tied her hair in two braids that fell over her shoulders, then pulled on black shorts and long socks, threw a loose beige t-shirt over her head, and zipped her black sneakers on the wedge. She threw the backpack on her shoulder to go down after a while. They were all sitting on the couch watching TV, sighing at the handsome man on the screen. Hanabi cleared her throat to get their attention. They didn't like the fact that she stopped looking at some Latin muscles.

- Room's ready, kids are drawing upstairs, you can do the rest. - she ruled on her way to the door. - I'm leaving.

- What? You were supposed to look after the children! - mother said indignantly.

- I just found out that my boyfriend has a free moment, which is rare. I'd love to use it. - she replied firmly.

She looked at the three sisters and felt like slapping her head. She just gave them water for the mill. BOY. A man in the life of the youngest. It's a wonderful topic for gossip and chat. Especially considering the mother's newest philosophy of life. She won't come out.

- Whaaaaaat? - Shizuka was surprised. - Boy? Boyfriend?!

- You didn't boast. - Yui growled.

- How is he? - Ayame asked. - Great?

- Well...a year older, tall... - she replied, wondering what else to say so as not to interest them too much. - ...intelligent eyeglass.

- A NERD?! - they snapped together with disgust.

She wondered what he would look like a skinny man with glasses thicker than the bottoms of a bottle, and decided she had no idea. Mother was getting ready to forbid her, she was ready to jump to the door when father appeared in the room.

- DID YOU HEARD THAT?! - the parent was indignant. - Do you know, what's our child is doing?!

- Yes, and I don't mind. Kaoru is a very nice guy, he certainly cares about our daughter. - he replied calmly, then turned to the youngest. - Go, or you'll be late. Have a nice evening.

She had the impression that he was even glad that the girl was hanging out with a mafia boss. Well, it's hard to be "even worse". There were few who posed a real threat to Hanayama. She was glad that at least her father was on her side. She left, despite her mother's protests. He had great timing, or had been waiting for a few moments, she just didn't notice. This time he was alone, on foot, without any bodyguards. So the conclusion was obvious: he had eluded Kizaki. Again in a white suit and purple elegant shirt. She wondered if he was wearing anything else, or if he was simply stuffing wardrobes more monotonous than James Bond by simply caring about the image of the yakuza boss. She didn't even want to check if the sisters were sticking their noses to the windows to see who she was disappearing with.

They walked along a fairly well-known road leading through the park to the next district. She wondered where they were going.

- The plan was a bit different, but I got a call on the way... so I'll show you one spot. - he said in a low voice. - I warn you, do not lean out.

- Dangerous terrain? - she asked, smiling.

- Yes. - he confirmed. - The company even more.

At one point, she noticed that they switched to routes that she did not even know. She looked around carefully to remember every detail. She recognized a few of the surrounding streets, and after reflection she realized that she knew more or less where she was. He led her to a place she had heard about in city legends and "bad boys" stories. Home to all martial arts and related subjects, the Underground Arena. Whoever wins, gains prestige and fame among all the greats associated with sports of this type. In the middle of the sand ring stood the tiny owner of the sanctuary, Mitsunari Tokugawa. Very famous and valued, not only in the environment. He came from an illustrious family that had for centuries treated the martial arts and all those who dealt with them with great respect. There were five men beside him. One of average height, the rest minimum 185 cm. She knew their faces, heard about the escape of the greatest criminals for whom the death penalty was not successful. As ordered, she did not lean out. But she listened with growing concern. It didn't look colorful, but as she knew Kaoru, he was glad. He sipped his bourbon listening to Tokugawa's words. Fight without rules, only to let the fugitives know what failure is. She suspected that the yakuza boss would not have to be told twice. Anyway, he clearly said it in front of them - regardless of the situation, whether he was sick or in bed with a woman, he would be waiting. She began to worry about him involuntarily.

She didn't know where the fugitives would go, wasn't particularly interested in it. She walked out next to him, and that was the most important thing. With them were those he probably met in the arena. The creator of the Shin Shin Kai karate school and style - Doppo Orochi, who reportedly killed a tiger with his bare hand. Jujitsu master Goki Shibukawa, who she has heard of training judo policemen. Eishu Retsu, called Kaioh, like all the highest masters of Chinese kenpo, a living legend of his people. And the youngest of all this twisted group - the strongest boy in the world, current arena champion, training MMA - Baki Hanma. She expected that the son of the famous Ogre Yujiro would be a little taller, and it might turn out that he was shorter than her ... although she was not sure. That unbearable feeling again. Someone was watching her. She didn't like it, but maybe it's better that she didn't get used to it. She finally saw him, he wasn't hiding. Walked out just in front of them. Hanabi sighed heavily, covering her face with her hand. She didn't know what he might want, but in his case it could be all, or it might just be nothing. Oh, he was bored, he got out of his hole and that's it. Slightly long hair, combed mostly to one side, three-day stubble, skinned face. Yeah, he was drinking again, so guess she figured out what he wanted. She stopped in mid-step.

- Something's wrong, young lady? - Shibukawa became interested.

- The past has just caught up with me ... - she muttered sluggishly.

- Long time no see, my daughter. - the stranger said hoarsely.

- Do you know each other? - Kaoru asked.

- Yes, young man.

She barely noticed when he started to attack. Smooth movements, very unpredictable. She remembered the style too well. She jumped half a meter from him, watching closely. Surprisingly quickly, he stood relatively straight. But she wasn't stupid enough to think it was over, or couldn't afford more. If he wanted to, she could play for a while.

- Until now I have raised twelve sons. Twelve guys big as mountains, masters of my school... - he explained in a drunken tone, swinging between them as he approached her. - And only one daughter, an inconspicuous little child with those twelve bulls. Right, Hanabi?

She didn't block the blow. He hit vital point between the eyes perfectly. She felt a piercing pain from the bone near her nose spreading all over her skull and then to several other places. He didn't want to kill her, hit her too lightly. The force, however, was so great that she rolled over on the hard, compacted ground. She felt her face numb, and her eyes were blocked by a black curtain.

>>><<<

Hanayama saw her body fly backwards, and there was little he could do. His heart skipped in his throat as he saw her head dangling over her sitting body, a trickle of blood dripping from her nose. He glared at the newcomer. Guy was already dead. He was absolutely against violence against women.

- Easy, big man, wait your turn! - The man laughed mockingly. - The girl is not finished yet. She's stubborn, and for me, she'd get up from the grave.

He must have been mad. She was unconscious after all! He turned, seeing an apparently badly folded, repeatedly broken index finger stretched out toward her. She stood up very unsteadily, taking her steps slowly. Hanabi looked at her opponent as if she didn't actually see at all. He had seen that dull expression on other faces many times, but never in someone who was still able to move.

- My blood! - the man chuckled.

He lunged towards her with a series of attacks, and she... surprisingly lightly fought them off. It was as if she was playing with a baby or a little kitten, even though it did not look like a toy. Finally, when the stunned opponent moved away a bit, she grasped him skillfully by the head and delivered a solid punch with her knee straight into the jaw. He fell to the ground, spitting blood and teeth. She grabbed his clothes. Even though her unconscious face showed no emotion, she looked as if she wanted to kill him.

- Hanabi, leave him, it's not worth it. Hanayama finally spoke.

- She won't hear you, she's unconscious! - The man laughed paranoidly, looking into green eyes completely expressionless. - Come on, kill me! You can!

- Fuck off or treat me normally, Master Wu Song. - she croaked finally, spitting blood on him.

She threw it to the ground, then stood as if nothing had happened, dusted her clothes, and reached for the backpack that must have fallen from her hands as she flew stunned by the blow. She took the bandage out of it, covered her nose, and exhaled gently through it to let the rest of the slime drain. Sometimes he forgot completely that life was a threat to her.

- Would you like some ramen? I pay. - she threw in their direction. - I'm starving.

>>><<<

The last thing she could expect was HIM. She didn't owe him anything, and she didn't really feel like "dropping in for tea." Besides, the last few months have been extremely busy, so she simply didn't have time to visit the school. He didn't have to take the fatal twelve with him - thank goodness! She liked them, but they were a pain in the ass, and she valued relative peace. Maybe that's why she liked Kaoru so much? Despite the position he occupied, the sport he chose and huge dimensions, he was a real oasis. She led them to the best (and the only) ramen restaurant she knew in the area. She reached her on the last drops of fuel, grateful for the bowl of pasta and toppings placed in front of her by the owner. They had known each other for a long time, he knew that when she came, she would stuff herself under the cork, so he usually added something extra. She waited for nothing, felt the saliva drip down to her waist.

- The appetite is good, almost like Baki! - Retsu laughed.

- It's subconscious fighting fault. - she explained, nibbling on an egg marinated in soy sauce. - This part of the mind is triggered mainly when we sleep. The brain is working at full capacity, but as the body is at rest, the balance becomes even and energy consumption is low. If we add exercise, the technique becomes terribly fuel-consuming.

- Uuu ... somebody's got body chemistry in their little finger! - whistled Doppo appreciatively.

- I'll find out who it was? - Hanayama muttered from beside her.

- Eh... the man who started teaching me Muay Thai eight years ago. - she muttered, looking at him with the air of a beaten dog. - I heard that he was supposed to be Kaioh, but he he lost interest.

- It doesn't work like that... - Retsu muttered.

- I'm inclined to believe that he does. It was enough for him to escape the temple. - she replied. - Recently, he probably doesn't feel like living, maybe that's why he threw so much. He is a capricious and complicated man.

She thought. Yes... extremely complicated. She remembered that day. She walked down the street completely shattered after her mother walked away with a bang, slamming her father in the face and the door for goodbye. As if something inside her snapped. Not that she was attached, but a full family, even if mostly on paper, gave her psychological comfort. She couldn't find a place for herself ... until she finally reached the end of a completely deserted street. She saw an old, battered signboard saying that somewhere in this building houses the school of boxing and Chinese kenpo. Interesting connection. Her legs carried her to the basement, where she actually found training boys, several years older than her. There was also someone who looked like a teacher. A tall, well-built man with a rough, weathered face. He gulped at her, saying that there was nothing to look for here and all she could say was "teach me." He threw her out the door, so she came back in, saying the same thing. This time he slapped, drawing the attention of the participants. He only growled at them that it was none of their business and, glaring at her in disgust, turned on his heel. She decided not to let go. She wrote to her father that she's busy and would be back when done. She shouldn't, but was pretty sure no policeman would be looking for her in a gutter like this. She knew he needed her, but she couldn't help but be selfish. The guy probably hoped girl would give it up. She did not. She slept on the doormat for a week. In the meantime, he insulted her, cursed her about the worst, called on whores, mediocrity, stupid jerks, spit on her every time. In the end, his conscience seemed to move him, because she woke up on a mattress in the training room. He agreed, but his expression suggested he was not very willing to do so. She was supposed to show up every evening and not complain, because if she insists so much, he will show her what she has worked for. The first training sessions were terrible. He was trying hard to prove that girl was too weak, fragile, unskillful, and inflexible. After two months she couldn't get up, luckily it was summer vacation, she didn't have to worry about dragging her body on shaking legs to school. Father openly admitted that he did not understand it, but as long as he is alive and still wants to, he will not object. She was going to smash head to the wall and probably succeeded. In the end, he decided to teach her something he hadn't shown to any other student. Muay Thai, enriched with several drunk boxing techniques. He laughed furiously that if he beat her face well, she didn't have to drink to be able to handle the technique. After all, he must have exaggerated. She woke up with a bleeding nose, on her back, and