#anyway that fucking lemon curd....

[monster-noises]

A memorable meal this year? 🎃

ooo mm.. the fact I can't pull one up right away goes to show how many like.. Cool Meals I attend..

OH FUCK WAIT my birthday dinner at my aunts on TCAF weekend that I almost cried at with the biggest most delicious steak, the most succulent mushrooms and a lemon curd desert that I Still think about because fucking Christ it was so good.. ;<;

also hello pumpkin!!!! it's been a bit!

[spacefuneral]

I'm a man of many refined and also many trashy tastes and I think everyone overlooks the delicious simplicity of a frenched fry as is. I feel the same about plain donuts and vanilla ice cream. Coming from someone whose favorite kinda fry is a garbage fry and I sold bougie $9 ice cream cones for two years. I enjoy a sorbet, I'm a sorbet kinda guy.

But damn if I don't love a good plain fuckin' donut. Ain't nothin' betta.

[ms-demeanor]

I'm not a huge fan of french toast so I don't make it all that often and when I do make it I prefer to eat it with this whipped cream cheese stuff that I make (8oz cream cheese, 8oz heavy whipping cream, 2tbsp powdered sugar, beat until fluffy) and raspberry jam. My dad also likes this, so when he was over this weekend I made some french toast. This, however, left us with a lot of leftover whipped cream cheese stuff and I was poking around trying to figure out what to eat it on when I realized that I had all the ingredients for scones, plus the raspberry jam and some lemon curd in my fridge.

I keep forgetting that it takes like less than half an hour to make scones if you have all the ingredients and a pastry cutter, and I almost always have all of the ingredients in a pastry cutter.

Anyway I ended up making us scones to have for breakfast to use up the last of the whipped cream cheese stuff as like a low-effort clotted cream and it fucking ruled. If you like scones you should know that it's actually pretty easy to make them. I should go make scones.

[pbmonkeybutt]

How did the cheese go? 👀

Ha ha sorry it's been a long day, but I finally got some time (and the proper materials 😳) to do it.

Here it is! Fresh out the pot. It still has to drain and the curds never got as big as I was expecting but at the same time it looks like every ricotta I've ever seen lol. Just more watery and hot.

Depending on what it's like tomorrow I might make another batch with the last half gallon of milk. I'm definitely gonna try tonight's batch in some kind of pasta dish tomorrow since that's how I enjoy ricotta best.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

I don't have a bakestone but my mums always made rlly good welshcakes with a frying pan so hand over the recipe I want to see if u can compete (I hope u can my mums a terf and I don't want to rely on her welshcake recipe forever 😔)

Ah ha, well, fuck terfs, here's a recipe! Or three.

Welsh Cakes (basic recipe)

Okay so the enemy of Welshcakes is dryness so we must FOCUS on that. A common mistake is to roll out the dough too thin, I suspect, but I’ll come to that.

Um, the currants: I know they're traditional. I know that. So I have included how to use them BUT I hate them, so I have also included The Other Option: you cut them in half and sandwich them with a filling like jam, and then they’re called 'splits’. Right:

Rub together:

8oz self-raising flour

4oz margerine/butter (I’ve used sandwich spread before which is basically fine but only use 3oz then)

1 tsp cinnamon or mixed spice

Pinch nutmeg

Until breadcrumb-y. Then add:

3oz caster sugar

1 large egg

(Optional) 4oz currants that you have been soaking in tea during this time (this makes them richer and also moister, which you want, never trust a Welshcake recipe that omits that step)

This should make a dough rather than a batter. Roll it out to between a quarter of an inch to half an inch thick (don't go thinner! Dryness is the enemy!) Use a cutter to get little cakes (mine are heart-shaped because that's the shape of my cutters for some reason. Use a mug if you lack a cutter.) If you decide to omit the currants, like me, you’ll need to make it half an inch.

Anyway IT'S BAKESTONE TIME or in your case frying pan time - you're quite right, it does work, but just be aware that the cooking process will have to involve you flipping them much more often than on a bakestone. But that's fine you do you.

Heat your bakestone to a low to low-medium heat. On my hob, the heat goes up to 12; I use a 4, and leave the stone for an hour to hit temperature. You will not need to wait so long! As a frying pan heats much faster than an inch thick slab of cast iron. Run a bit of butter over the stone, and then off you go! Put the cakes onto the stone. They should take roughly four minutes each side normally. Don’t be afraid to keep flipping them, though. There’s an art to it at this point - when you take them off the very centres should still look like they’re just still dough instead of fully cooked, but it takes a bit of practice to spot it. Don’t fear experimenting. You’ll have loads.

Once they’re done, if you used currents, sprinkle sugar over. If you didn’t use the currents, let them cool slightly, then cut them in half and put jam in - raspberry or blackberry for preference. And you’re done!

HOWEVER here are some alternatives that I have made

Welshcakes (Chocolate Chilli and Lime)

Amend the base recipe as follows:

Sub up to an ounce of flour for cocoa powder, and use half a teaspoon of chilli instead of the spice.

Go to Tesco or some shit and buy lime curd (or marmalade if you like it I guess but I Hate Rind)

Split them with the lime curd

Alternatively you can omit the chilli and split them with Nutella for Double Chocolate

Welshcakes (Christmas Pudding flavour)

Ohhhhh, trust me on this one. Amend the base recipe thusly:

When soaking the currants, spike the tea with brandy

Use brown sugar instead of caster

Substitute one ounce of the flour for ground almonds and half a teaspoon of baking powder

Up the spice to 1 tsp cinnamon, 1 tsp mixed spice and ½ tsp nutmeg

Add the zest of one lemon and one orange

If you make splits, split them with brandy butter. Then everyone eats them and they smell like Christmas.

[dragonmuse]

If you're still taking prompts - would love to see something around Jim's top surgery in the Leda House 'verse!

Also, thank you so much for your stunning au 'verse - it brings me so much joy. (And thank you in advance if you do write this - and if you don't, thank you anyway!!)

(still taking prompts for sure!! hope this suits)

In the end it was totally worth it, but it only took two days of not being allowed to shower or lift their arms over their head, before Jim was about ready to claw their way through someone else’s skull. Not Oluwande, he’d been great, feeding and watering them at regular intervals and queuing up a lot of entertainment, and mostly accepting their horrible mood. 

Just staying in bed was the worst, but moving around too much was deeply uncomfortable. And everything itched. 

“You’ve got a visitor,” Oluwande ducked his head around the bedroom door. 

“Tell them to go fuck themselves,” they gritted out. 

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Eddy said merrily, just out of sight. “Or is that against doctor’s orders?” 

“Ugh, fine, let them in.” 

Eddy strolled in, their dove gray cashmere jumper swirling around what looked like silk pajamas. They had a box in one hand and glass of water in the other that Oluwande had ostensibly left for a few minutes ago. 

“Gimmie,” they demanded and Eddy handed it over, then shucked off her shoes, before plonking herself down on the empty side of the bed. She fussed over the pillows for a minute, then settled in. “You moving in?” 

“I’m getting comfortable because you’re a captive audience and I have DVDs.” 

“We don’t own a DVD player,” they said smugly. 

“I figured, so I brought my own,” Eddy pulled out a silver rectangle with a long cord. “Plugs right into my laptop.” 

“You’re a dinosaur.” 

“I’m a dinosaur with a fuckton of bootleg karate movies from the 90s. Want to continue to hate on me or watch ass kicking?” 

“The ass kicking,” they decided quickly. 

They were only twenty minutes into the first film when Eddy fished around in the box and produced a pastry the size of her head, filled with lemon curd. 

“Almost forgot. I flipped the barista off for you too.” 

“Really?” 

“Would I lie about that?” 

And Eddy wouldn’t. Eddy truly had marched into their less preferred coffee shop that Jim loved, ordered their favorite pastry and then continued the war that Jim had had against that one barista (who knew what he had done) out of sheer solidarity. 

“Thanks.” They bit into the pastry, uncaring about the crumbs.  

By dinner, Eddy was gone, but Frenchie and John had arrived. Jim wouldn’t see them in the bedroom, but there was nothing wrong with laying against the back of the couch and listening to all the gossip of the week. 

Jim had been a part of the unofficial rotas before. When Roach broke his arm, they’d dutifully showed up with Oluwande and let him critique their cooking. When the entire fearsome foursome had been taken out by the flu, they’d carried their share of care packages to the front door and waited for signs of life. 

They’d never been on this end before. 

“My mom wants to talk to you.” Oluwande handed them the phone and drifted away before they could protest. 

“Hi, Dolly,” Jim said quietly. 

“Oh hun, how are you doing?” Dolly asked tenderly. “Are you in a lot of pain?” 

“Not anymore, mostly just itchy.” Jim found a stray thread on the hem of their t-shirt and picked at it. 

“You know I had this shoulder surgery years ago and I still remember how it itched when it was healing up,” Dolly clucked. “Terrible, isn’t it? Oluwande said you’re a little on the fence about guests, but I would love to stop by for a bit on Saturday if you’re up for it.” 

Jim didn’t want guests. They didn’t really want anyone to see them laid low and vulnerable. But suddenly, a ferocity of desire for something that was long since lost came to them. They wanted their mother. They wanted her hand on their forehead, cool and comforting like when they had had a fever as a small child.

“You can come,” they said around the lump in your throat. “I...uh...I’d really like that.” 

“Good, good. I can make banana pudding, the kids always like that when they were sick.” 

“Could you-” they started, stopped, swallowed hard. “Would you make that raspberry tart you do instead? If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“Jim, I would love to make it for you,” Dolly said softly. “You know I can’t get the grandkids to eat it?” 

“They don’t know a good thing when they taste it,” Jim declared. 

“We’re in agreement there. You rest up for now and tell my son that he better be taking good care of you.” 

“He’s doing great,” Jim said honestly. 

On Friday, Jim’s phone buzzed and they picked it up with a frown, 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you dead?” Izzy asked suspiciously. 

“No?” 

“Because I texted you three days ago and all you sent me back was a picture of what I think was a seeping wound.” 

“Gross, right?” They snickered. “I’m alive.” 

“Good. Bored enough for paperwork yet?” 

“I really want to say no,” they sighed. 

“You don’t have to do shit, you get sick time, but if you’re already climbing the walls...” 

“Just send it over.” 

“It’s yours. I’ll give you the deposition prep for the Macmillian case too.” 

“I liked the fruit basket,” Jim recalled. “Didn’t know they let you swear in those little cards.” 

“For what they make you pay for pears, they should fucking well better.”  

Over the next few days, they started going out and reclaiming bits of their life. Just to the corner to get their preferred breakfast sandwich or a ride to the bar to at least sit and watch the show for a while. Lucius made them fancy mocktails and let them take as many toothpicks as they wanted for chewing on.  

“Hey,” Teal floated down after the show, a concerned twist to her mouth. “I got a message from the center asking if I could emergency sub in tomorrow, I think I can still get you to the appointment if I say yes, but I don’t want to cut it too close. What if-” 

“It’s fine, I can get a cab or something.” They stabbed at a cherry bobbing in their drink. Oluwande hadn’t done anything but dote on them the past two weeks and he loved volunteering.

“But-” 

“I can take you.” Leda should really not be able to sneak in that many layers of skirts, but she was weirdly far stealthier than she was as Stede. “I rented a car yesterday to pick up a bit of furniture. I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t return it just yet.” 

“Uh,” Teal gave Jim a look. “That work for you?” 

They considered Leda’s towering wig. They could go alone. But they hadn’t bounced right back the way they thought they would. Jim woke up still tired most mornings and by mid-day, they had been curling up for a nap. It was embarrassing, but they were a realist and it would be a lot easier with a driver and someone making sure they got all the doctor’s directions. 

“Yeah, fine. Thanks.” 

They’d said thank you a lot more than they ever had the past two weeks too. Lots of new unfamiliar things.  

Stede was punctual and he took notes during the appointment, politely stepping out for the actual physical exam. He was a fucking gentleman about the whole thing. 

“Would you like to get some lunch?” He offered after. 

“I’m allowed to shower now,” they said firmly. 

“Then let’s get you home and then have lunch,” he said without missing a beat.

Getting clean was fantastic and they were already in a better mood, but then Stede took them to one of the little ridiculous posh restaurants that he liked where the food was served in increasingly unlikely ways and they got to eat popcorn shrimp out of a popcorn maker. 

“That’s Eddy’s favorite too,” Stede laughed. “Do you want the dessert they set on fire?” 

“Stede,” they said gravely. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” 

It was a few more weeks before they could start up throwing knives again. They’d been worried about that leading up to the surgery, but as good as it felt to go back to it, it hadn’t been agony to wait. 

There were worse things than getting fed their favorite things, given movies they liked and to have Dolly come over with a raspberry tart and give them a kiss on the forehead. 

And one day, they got to stand in front of the mirror and see the person they knew they were look back. 

“I think I’ll get the scars tattooed eventually,” they told Oluwande when he came to admire it with them. 

“Yeah? We could paint them for now, try on somethings you like.” 

“Let’s do that.” They pivoted on their heels and kissed him with conviction. Nothing came between them.

[skinnybabe7]

Happy new month!

December is here and I’m sure, as well as some of you, that I want to lose those fucking pounds, before new year comes around.

So I’m back on track since Monday (the 29th day). I actually did restrict food the previous week, but I then ended my period and was a bit more hungry somehow.

So before the new week started, I did let myself indulge in some food. But it’s alright, because it was followed with almost a 2 day fast!

Here’s a food log

Monday

Breakfast: Green tea 🍵 (0cal), Lemon 🍋 (1cal), Coffee ☕️ (2cal), Sweetener (0cal), Sugar (12cal), Lactose free milk 🥛 (41cal).

Lunch: Tea 🍵 (2cal).

Snack: (0cal).

Dinner: Jacobs 3in1 café latte 2x (109cal), Lactose free milk 🥛 2x (85cal).

Limit: 900cal.

Total: 255cal.

Burned: 67cal.

Tuesday

Breakfast: Jacobs 3in1 café latte (54cal), Lactose free milk 🥛 (48cal), white bread 🍞 that’s lower in sugar and carbs (86cal), Lactose free feta cheese (54cal), Avocado 🥑 (72cal), Chia seeds (14cal).

Lunch: (0cal).

Snack: (0cal).

Dinner: Jacobs 3in1 café latte (54cal), Lactose free milk 🥛 (44cal).

Limit: 900cal.

Total: 426cal.

Burned: 24cal.

Wednesday

Breakfast: White bread that’s lower in sugar and carbs 🍞 (119cal), Avocado 🥑 (75cal), Lactose free feta cheese (86cal), Chia seeds (14cal), Cucumber 🥒 (7cal), Delma sandwich butter 🧈 (13cal), Jacobs 3in1 café latte (54cal), Lactose free milk 🥛 (39cal).

Lunch: Jacobs 3in1 café latte (54cal), Almond milk unsweetened 🥛(9cal), 1 packaged vanilla ice cream cone 🍦 (105cal).

Snack: A few pieces of a cooked potato 🥔 (44cal), Cooked mushrooms 🍄 (3cal), Tomatoes 🍅 (1cal), A bit of heavy cream 🍶 (21cal), Cucumber 🥒 (1cal), Delma sandwich butter 🧈 (4cal), 4 pieces of jelly candy 🍬 (128cal).

Dinner: Jacobs 3in1 café latte (54cal), Almond milk unsweetened 🥛 (13cal), Lactose free buttermilk curd with five grain cereal bits (127cal).

Limit: 900cal.

Total: 969cal.

Burned: 60cal.

Over: 9cal.

So far I’m not being too hard on myself this week, because I don’t want my body to go into shock mode and make me binge.

If I want that jelly candy I will have a few pieces, or maybe a bit of ice cream, but I still try to eat very healthy and be below my calorie limit.

Next week I will be more strict and maybe even include some workouts or stretching and dancing.

Anyways, stay safe you lovely people 💕 and as always here’s some thinspo

[alienheartattack]

Sweet Revenge (Inexorable AU)

Word Count: 2260 words

Rating: E. They fuck. It’s dope. Don’t read if you’re underage or have objections to explicit adult content.

Summary: Levi and Mikasa have a feud at the school bake sale and decide to get revenge on their PTA nemesis.

Notes: For non-US readers, PTA stands for parent-teacher association, where parents volunteer at their children’s schools to get involved in the school’s activities and influence the quality of their child’s education, usually through fundraisers and other events.

This story takes place 8-9 years after the events of Inexorable and about 2 years after the events of the other Inexorable AU fics, A Scream in the Night and A Minor Dispute About Rain. The only thing you really need to know if you haven’t read those is that Levi and Mikasa have a daughter named Anya, who is basically a grumpy mini Levi, in addition to Hana.

The only thing keeping Levi from running after the PTA president and giving her a hefty piece of his mind is Mikasa’s grip, firm and insistent, on the hem of his sweater.

“You’re going to stretch it out,” Levi snaps at his wife, redirecting his ire at the closest target. Mikasa idly caresses the swell of her belly with one hand and looks at him with one eyebrow raised, silently asking if he wants to argue with his pregnant wife in public.

“I’ll let you go when I’m confident you’re not going to track Joanne down and scream in her face,” she says calmly. “As much as I’d like to see that.”

“She fucking begged us to help out at this bake sale and now she’s just gonna call our lemon bars basic?! We’re not goddamn pastry chefs!”

“Levi, listen to yourself. You sound legitimately insane.”

He sighs, letting his shoulders drop as the tension and rage starts to leave his body. Mikasa releases his sweater and he collapses into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. She joins him, gingerly lowering herself onto the uncomfortable metal folding chair provided by the school.

“I hate this so much. I hate Joanne, I hate being on the PTA, and I absolutely fucking hate bake sales,” he huffs.

"Well, we’re stuck here for the evening. I don’t want to be here either but I’m trying to make the most of it. Mikasa picks up a lemon bar and takes a huge bite. "Besides, fuck Joanne. These are good.”

Levi motions for Mikasa to give him a bite. “Fuck Joanne,” he agrees through a mouthful of pastry and curd.

Thankfully business picks up after that, and Levi and Mikasa spend the next half hour handing out lemon bars to parents and kids, ignoring Joanne hovering around them and observing their dealings with a disdainful eye. When the rush clears, she slowly approaches their table, pretending to be browsing. They both clock her gaze drifting over their mostly empty dish of lemon bars and the small twitch at the corner of her mouth that telegraphs her dissatisfaction with the Ackermans’ success. Triumphant, they share a brief glance, another silent Fuck Joanne.

To their dismay, she approaches Mikasa, staring at her oversized t-shirt dress. “Bun in the oven,” Joanne reads, her cold eyes sweeping over the looped script printed across Mikasa’s abdomen, decorated with a drawing of a smiling roll baking away. “Oh, you’re pregnant, sweetie! Congratulations!” There’s sweetness in her voice, but it’s tinged with venom. Mikasa knows it all too well.

“Thanks,” she mutters, bracing herself for the backhanded part of Joanne’s compliment.

“I thought you’d just let yourself go, but it’s a blessing instead! What a relief!” She laughs uproariously at her own joke. Levi jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans, balling them into tight fists so Joanne can’t see how enraged he is. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

Mikasa does not answer, instead focusing her energy on keeping a straight face while she contemplates murder. Levi can sense her tensing up, her shoulders stiffening, fury radiating from her body in waves.

“It’s a boy,” he cuts in curtly. “We’ve already got our two girls.”

“Your oldest isn’t—” Joanne’s voice drops to a near-whisper— “yours, though, is she?”

Levi narrows his eyes, no longer interested in hiding his annoyance. “She’s mine. I’ve helped raise her since she was a baby.”

“Oh, how sweet. What a modern family,” she gushes, cooing with an edge of condescension in her voice. “Well, congratulations.” She then turns and walks off, conveniently waving to someone across the room.

“Are you okay?” Levi asks Mikasa in a low voice once Joanne is out of earshot. Mikasa stares after her, eyes black with rage, her breath hissing through clenched teeth. She doesn’t need to say anything; he already knows the answer is no.

He places a reassuring hand on the back of her neck, massaging her nape the way she does to him when he’s stressed and ranting. “Tell you what, I’ll go out to the car and grab something sharp, we slice Joanne’s Achilles tendons and then get the hell out of here.”

“What? No!” She looks over at him, her expression disgusted and exasperated. “You have to stop watching gore movies with Hana. She’s barely ten.”

“She loves them! We were watching some zombie bullshit the other day and that little monster laughed while watching a guy get his guts ripped out and eaten. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna grow up to be a serial killer.”

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “Well, if she is, she gets it from Eren’s side of the family.” Even though he’s still angry on his wife’s behalf, Levi can’t help but chuckle at that.

“Fucking Joanne,” he grumbles. “If zombies ate her guts they’d spit them back out. Her kid’s an asshole, too.” Mikasa is well aware of that fact: Joanne’s son tried bullying Anya at the beginning of the school year, calling her a midget and pulling her hair until she had enough and whacked him in the face with her math textbook. That was Levi and Mikasa’s first run-in with Joanne before they joined the PTA, and things have only gone downhill since.

A few more kids approach the table, hesitant due to Levi’s scowl; Mikasa shutters her anger behind a calm facade and handles the sales, though she doesn’t say much.

When the latest wave of customers leaves, she turns to her husband. “I think I have an idea to make both of us feel better.”

A look of skepticism crosses his face. “Really? I was kinda hoping for that severed Achilles tendon.”

Mikasa facepalms; she’s had years to grow accustomed to her husband’s awkwardness and his awful jokes, but sometimes he still manages to surprise her. Ironically it only makes her love him more, this odd, cranky man who might literally kill for her.

“Joanne parked next to us, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, remember? I said her car looks like the physical embodiment of vaginal dryness and you laughed so hard you peed a little.”

“You really didn’t have to mention that last part.”

“I dunno, it gives the story flavor. Pee flavor.”

“Look, I have an idea. Get someone to take the rest of the lemon bars, then meet me in the parking lot. If anyone asks, I’m not feeling well and you need to take me home.”

Levi sighs. “What are you planning?”

Mikasa leans in close to him, her lips millimeters from his ear. “Meet me outside and you’ll see,” she purrs.

Five minutes later he bursts through the metal doors at the back of the school to see her sitting on the hood of Joanne’s car, an aggressively beige sedan.

“Come here,” she beckons him. He approaches her and, when he is within reach, she grabs his shirt and pulls him to her. Their lips collide awkwardly before settling into the familiar rhythm of their kissing, slow and deep.

After a few moments, he pulls away. “What is going on here?”

“Revenge,” she says. “I want you to fuck me on the hood of Joanne’s car.”

He ponders the suggestion for a moment, then smiles — and then a giggle escapes his mouth, a sound somewhere between bewilderment and glee, then another, then another.

“Aw, come on, don’t laugh. I thought it’d be fun.” She frowns, embarrassment heating and coloring her cheeks.

“No, no,” he says once he’s able to control his laughter. “I fucking love it.” He kisses her fiercely, growling deep in his throat. “I fucking love you.” Mikasa smiles, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. There’s some maneuvering involved in getting her underwear off, her round belly making the whole process somewhat unwieldy; Levi stuffs them in his pocket then gets down on the concrete, kneeling before her.

“Are you serious?” she squeals, trying to look at him over the curve of her stomach.

“If anyone asks, tell them you went into labor and I’m checking how far along you are.” With a low laugh he gets to work, nuzzling her pussy before licking a firm stroke along her seam. Mikasa bites her lip and lets out a shaky anticipatory breath in the brief moment before Levi lavishes attention on her clit, massaging it with his lips and tongue. She gasps when he pulls away from her a few minutes later, halfway to orgasm and disappointed not to get there.

“We need to be fast,” he says in lieu of an apology, undoing his pants and pulling out his half-hard cock, pumping it a few times in his fist. “I’ll finish you off at home.”

“You’d better,” she replies, a playful threat.

Levi settles himself between her legs then enters her with no warning or fanfare save the soft moan they both make, a low noise of contentment, of wholeness. They have always been a fearsome team, first as colleagues, then lovers, now spouses and parents, and their lovemaking is no different, each of them able to discern angles and positions from sighs, from grunts, from the furrow of a brow or the touch of a hand. Tonight Mikasa slides her hands down Levi’s back, skating over the soft brushed cashmere of his sweater, telling him that she wants him to be gentle with her — for now, anyway. Joanne’s comment must have stung, he thinks, and he resolves to show her exactly how beautiful he thinks she is, pregnant or not. There’s a certain earthy, ephemeral beauty in her pregnant body, something attractive and incredibly arousing about the thought of her creating and building life even as she sits next to him selling lemon bars at a school bake sale. He loves the way her hard edges have softened, the pleasing new fullness in her cheeks, the luminous glow that seems to emanate from within her.

(He has learned since her last pregnancy not to mention that he also loves the growing size of her breasts, and in return Mikasa only rebukes him for staring when he’s open-mouthed and practically drooling.)

Mikasa’s eyes flutter closed as Levi rocks against her, a gentle motion that makes the car bounce in time with his thrusts. A bubble of laughter escapes her lips.

“What’s that for?” he asks with a smile, then kisses her before she can answer.

“I love you so much,” she says against his mouth. “And fuck Joanne.”

Levi stops moving; Mikasa cocks her head, silently asking him what’s wrong. “Don’t say that bitch’s name when I’m inside you.”

“Look, do you want to revenge-fuck me or not?” She isn’t sure if that’s a word, but during sex, when they’re heated and frantic for each other, even Levi’s crude come-ons sound like poetry, so maybe this will work.

It does. “You want me to revenge-fuck you?” he growls, slapping his hips against hers with a rough thrust. She whimpers at the impact, a wave of pleasure rippling through her body.

“Yeah,” she pants. “Show me how angry you are.”

He makes a low hum of approval; though he’s become more proficient at sweet talk and romance in the years he’s been with Mikasa, he tends to favor sex as intense as his personality, grasping hands and heavy eye contact. Mikasa has never seemed to mind though sometimes, like tonight, she needs him to make love to her first.

Levi fucks her hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the cool night, her cunt making obscene liquid noises around his cock. Even through the delicious haze of their passion they’re listening out for footsteps, for cars, for the creak of doors opening.

“We should finish soon,” Mikasa pants.

“I’m close.” He slows his pace, grinding against her, sinking into her as deep as he can go, before pulling back and scything into her slick heat again and again, harder and harder, muttering curses and endearments and wordless sounds of effort and desire.

And then he thrusts into Mikasa so roughly that her ass hits the hood of Joanne’s car hard, triggering the car alarm, horn blaring and lights flashing.

“Shit!” Levi yelps, startled by the sudden noise. He jumps back from her, stuffing his stiff, aching cock back in his pants and undoing the fly with adrenaline-shaky fingers.

“We gotta go!” She hops down from the car, landing unsteadily on her feet, pulling her dress down over her nudity. “Do you have the keys?” She scrambles over to their car, pulling at the handle of the locked passenger door. “Come on!”

Levi reaches in his pocket for the key fob, mashing the buttons so the doors unlock and the ignition turns on. Mikasa clambers into the car as fast as she can, slamming the door behind her, and Levi follows soon after. Through the windshield she can see someone coming to locate the source of the commotion and chants, “Drive! Drive!” at Levi while he clicks his seatbelt into place.

“Seatbelt!” he barks at her and she complies, fear and arousal and adrenaline making her feel jittery and giggly and wonderfully alive. Levi remains stoic, but there’s a devilish glee playing at the corners of his lips: he’s enjoying himself just as much as she is. He backs their car out of the parking spot with the precision of a stunt driver and peels off, speeding off into the night seconds before Joanne comes outside to investigate the shrieking car alarm and the strange ass-shaped dent on her hood.

[thecenturiestrickle]

Thank you, @edge0fmydesiree, for tagging me in the Six Sentence thing. You're hella sweet for thinking of me.

I don't have six sentences.

BUT.

I do have ~1k words.

Here's a super rough draft of a scene from the corporate au I've been having a dalliance with while omegaverse 4 obsessively checks my iPhone's location, wondering why the hell I'm not home to give it the dicking it craves.

Again, super rough draft. Not even sure if it'll make it in, but I think it hits the tone and dynamic that I want to go for.

Anyway. Liam's the boss who's actually a badass at work but a total disaster at everyday life, and Theo is one of his long-suffering executive assistants (he has two others subordinate to Theo). Also, they might be in love. Who knows. 👀

They stay until 1:00 AM.

The morning after, Liam is fucking miserable. He slept maybe three hours, tops, but he arrives to work at his usual time. When he gets to his floor, Theo is there already--of course--looking like he got a full night's eight even though that's mathematically impossible. His hair is styled neatly with pomade that smells of sweet almonds. His bright white shirt is pressed and tucked in his slacks evenly, the tie Liam got him as a thank-you gift (blue with little pineapples embroidered in white) anchored with a sterling silver Tiffany and Co. tie bar (also a thank-you gift from Liam) in a straight vertical line trailing down the center of his broad chest.

To someone who doesn't know him Theo might look perfectly done up.

But to Liam he seems rough around the edges--eyes just a bit droopy despite the caffeinated moisturizer he knows Theo likes to use after a rough night. There's a faint hint of stubble past his beard line and down toward his Adam's apple where he didn't shave quite as closely enough as he usually does. He smells like the Irish Spring Speed Stick deodorant he keeps in his gym bag instead of the YSL L'homme he wears to work.

When they enter Liam's office Liam realizes that the shaders have been pulled closed and the place is as dark as it can get at this time of day. The couch has been set up with a blanket and a pillow. There is a pile of clothes folded on the coffee table.

"I tried to clear your morning and rescheduled what I can, but the budget meeting at ten is firm," Theo says, looking apologetic despite his neutral tone of voice.

"Theo, this is--" Liam waves a hand at the comfortable looking makeshift bed, the darkened office. He blinks up at Theo's tired face, touched by and grateful for the gesture and hating that he has to turn it down. "As much as I want to--and I really want to, I can't. There's--I need to prep for the--"

Theo steps into Liam's space and slides the jacket off his shoulders, the flat of his palms hot on Liam's skin despite the barrier of starched cotton impeding Theo's touch. Not for long, though, as Theo unbuttons and removes Liam's shirt and Liam finally feels Theo's naked fingers and hands on him. Theo hangs up the jacket and shirt in the discreet wardrobe tucked next to one of the bookshelves, comes back to crouch at Liam's feet to pull off his shoes, one foot after the other. He sets them aside, stands up once more to undo Liam's belt, and as he removes his pants says gently but firmly, "What you need is to sleep. I've written memos for everything on your calendar today. I don't have all the updated numbers, but you could fill those in yourself later. Everything's in your Google Drive and there are hard copies in the folder in the right drawer of your desk."

"Theo," Liam starts as he steps out of his slacks and watches Theo get back up on his feet to face him.

"Try to get some shut eye. Okay? I'll come wake you up in," he grabs Liam's wrist and checks the time on his watch, "two hours and fifty-two minutes." He gives Liam a once over, rakes his eyes over Liam's tank top stretched over his torso, down to his tight black briefs, his black dress socks. Liam's cheeks warm from the scrutiny and he knows he's turning red from his face down to his neck and chest. A strange look comes over Theo's face and Liam notices his hands flexing at his sides. There is a beat of silence. And another. and another. Theo says finally, "I turned the AC down as cold as you like, but I left some sweats here in case you get cold."

"O-okay. Thank you." Liam swallows thickly.

Theo nods. "Try to get some sleep." He leaves without another look back and closes the door quietly. Liam is actually a little chilly, so he reaches for the pile of sweats. He pulls the pants on and leaves the drawstrings alone, letting the waistband sling low on his hips. When he unfurls the hoodie he stops, warmth filling his chest when he sees that it's one of Theo's, the one Liam always likes to borrow. He pulls it on quickly, thinks not idly that he wouldn't mind if Theo hasn't had a chance to clean it, that he's lending it to Liam worn and unwashed.

He settles in and doesn't remember conking out.

When Theo wakes him up later it's with a gentle hand on his shoulder and a parfait cup with layers of granola, fresh blueberries, and lemon curd. Before he can ask for coffee he spies the coffee service tray perched on top his desk. He runs a hand through his hair and checks the time--twenty minutes after Theo said he'd come back to wake him up.

"I tried to give you as long as I can." Theo's fingers combing Liam's hair back into something resembling order, possibly. Certainly nothing like the riot of thunder Liam starts to feel in his chest.

He has to make an effort to breathe normally. "Thanks. I really needed it."

"Ready to work?"

"Hell yeah."

"Good."

He is tempted to dillydally but Theo holds his parfait cup and coffee hostage and refuses to surrender them until Liam at least puts his slacks back on. In ill-considered retaliation he fucks around and tries to get Theo to dress him since Theo was the one who undressed him in the first place, but Theo just raises a single arch eyebrow and eats a spoonful of Liam's parfait, wordlessly threatens to eat another one if Liam keeps it up with his foolishness.

When Nolan knocks gently on the door ten minutes later and opens it without waiting for an answer, Liam is still in his tank top but he's got his slacks on, and he and Theo are passing the small spoon back and forth, fingers touching around the parfait cup between them still only half empty.

[ihearthes]

Quarantine Christmas Part  2

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Smut Word Count: 2768 (Part 1) Fiction Chalenge via @caitlin‘s fiction party via @sweetcreatureinthedark

Part 1

December 24, 2020

“Smith!” he bellows way too early and cheerfully as he pounds on my bedroom door. “Happy Christmas Eve! Come on! Let’s go for a jog.”

“Arrrrggggghhhhh,” I growl. “No.”

“If you hike the Hastain Trail with me, I’ll spring for coffee afterwards.”

“Go away, Styles.” Drawing the pillow over my head, I try to block out the sound of his voice. 

“Fresh air will be good for you.”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” 

“Not on your life. I hate hiking alone.”

“Fine!” Throwing the covers off, I don my newly cleaned leggings, sports bra, and a t-shirt before opening the door and marching past him in my tennis shoes. “Bully,” I accuse. 

“You’re mad that I’m forcing you to take care of yourself?” Although he sounds offended, that smirk is back. 

“Whatevs, Styles. Let’s go.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

He sets off at a brisk pace, and I trail behind him slightly. After all, I’m still waking up. 

“Keep up, Smith!”

Just to be ornery, I slow my stride, taking my time examining the plants next to the path. When I next glance up, Harry is a solid quarter mile ahead of me, and I contemplate turning back, finding a picnic table and taking a nap on it until he’s done. 

But no. That’s not to be, as he turns and jogs back to me, keeping his legs pumping as he moves backwards. 

“You’re going to trip on something,” I caution. 

He grins. “You care about me!”

My eyes roll so far back into my head that I swear I can see my own brain. “No. But I care about Glenne, and she would be mighty upset if I had a part in damaging you.”

“Mhm.” The smirk is back, and as hard as I try to keep a sour look on my face, it’s challenging. “Where was Christmas supposed to be?” His question is casual, but it causes me to flinch.

“Indiana,” I snap off the word like one would a twig on a dying tree. Immediately, I feel guilty. “Sorry.” My mumble is quiet, but loud enough for him to hear and nod in silent acceptance. “You don’t deserve rudeness. What about you? London?”

“Holmes Chapel. With my mum, my sister, and her boyfriend.”

“Ah. Is it cold there this year?”

“Fairly mild. And Indiana?”

“Cold, cold, cold. Maybe even snow still on the ground.”

“Yeah. Christmas in Los Angeles is quite different.” Harry gestures around the trail, and I smile. 

“Definitely.”

“What are your favorite traditions?” 

By the time we loop back around to the start of the trail, we’ve exhausted the topic, and I realize my mood has improved tremendously. 

“Thank you, Harry.” The words are soft, and I try to insert as much authenticity as I can into them. 

I have the pleasure of watching his eyes soften as he observes me over the top of the car. “Coffee next! And a trip to the grocery!”

“Grocery? You’re cooking?”

“WE are baking and then cooking.”

“Really?”

“Yep. We’re going to create a mashup of our traditions.”

“No fucking way!” I exclaim, excited at the prospect. Sitting up, I search for a piece of paper and a pen. “I didn’t bring my purse, Styles. Give me your phone.”

“My phone?” Confused, he gazes at me while at a stoplight. 

“I need to write down the ingredients we need to buy. Let’s see. We can’t make some of the cookies we each like because I don’t know if Glenne has cookie cutters in the right shapes. So how about some ginger biscuits?” 

When he nods, I gesture for his phone. “Come on, Styles. I need to look up recipes and make sure we get the right ingredients.”

Reluctantly, he unlocks his phone, handing it to me. “No snooping,” he warns, shaking his finger in my direction. 

“Puuuuuuullllllleeeeeasssse. As if.” Using his browser, I search for a recipe for the ginger biscuits for him as well as one for thumbprint jam cookies, copying the ingredients into his Notes app. 

“Now, for dinner,” he begins, and my fingers pause as I wait for his next words. “Mum used to do a roast, but I don’t eat meat anymore. Just fish. And your family always does turkey. How do we compromise on a protein?”

“Scallops? Salmon? Both delicious and something I would consider fancy enough for a holiday meal.”

“Excellent!” Harry declares. “And can we agree on brussel sprouts and yams?”

My whole being is excited at the prospect of this meal with Harry. Suddenly there’s a silver lining to spending my favorite holiday away from my family. 

As he turns off the engine, I rest my hand on his wrist until he twists to look at me. “Thank you, Harry.”

“You already said that.” He rolls his eyes, but the crinkles send a different message. 

Less than 30 minutes later, we’re back in the car with the trunk full of groceries, including prosecco. After stopping for the promised coffee, we return to Glenne and Jeffrey’s house, unloading the food. 

“Mind if I take a shower before we start?” I ask, looking down at my clothing. “I feel dusty still from the trail.”

“Let’s both shower --” He stalls at my shocked expression “-- in separate bathrooms, Smith. Then let’s see who can put together the worst Christmas outfit from whatever we can find in the guest bedroom where we’re each sleeping.”

A grin crosses my face. “Oh, you’re going down, Styles!” Rushing out of the room, I’m confident that my ears are playing tricks on me because I think he responds with “I would love to go down on you.” He must have said something completely different, and I shake my head to clear the thought. 

When I emerge later, I’m wearing my grey sweatpants which I’ve pinned garland to along with one of my green hoodies and a giant wreath draped around my neck like a necklace by a red ribbon. Arriving in the kitchen, I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of Harry wearing a skirt of wrapping paper over his also-grey sweatpants, along with a variety of bows stuck to his Green Bay Packers hoodie. 

He shrugs, “Apparently they use that guest bedroom for storing wrapping paper.” 

I laugh as I pluck one of the bows off his hoodie and place it on my chest after removing the wreath. 

“You win,” I concede. “I’m surprised there’s so much Christmas stuff in their house.”

“Eh. The Azoff family celebrates everything.”

“Lucky us, then.”

Side by side, we create the dough first for the ginger biscuits and then for the thumbprint cookies. After he slides the first pans into the oven, Harry crosses his arms. “Scrabble while we wait for them to bake?”

“Oh, it’s on!” I agree, and we settle at the dining room table to play the game. 

“Fine. You win,” Harry pouts over an hour later as I play my final letter which manages to be on a triple word score tile. 

“Woo hoo!” Stuffing one of the ginger biscuits in my mouth, I chew thoughtfully. “These are pretty good. I might make them again next year.”

“Same for these,” Harry grins as he chews on one of the thumbprint cookies. Crossing his arms on the table in front of him, he leans toward me. “Now how about you tell me exactly why you turned down my account when Glenne offered it to you?”

Shock courses through my body, and I freeze, knowing my face is likely turning into a candy cane red. 

“She told you?”

“Of course she told me! I had specifically asked for you, so I was a bit heartbroken when she told me that you refused.”

His word choice makes me raise an eyebrow. “Heartbroken?”

“Devastated? Wrecked? Disappointed? Take your pick, Smith.”

Swallowing, I make eye contact with him. “I’ll tell you why I turned down our account if you’ll tell me why you call me Smith.”

His tongue darts out and wets his lips as his green eyes bore into me. “Because you remind me of a Granny Smith apple.” Confusion must sweep across my face, as he continues talking. “You’re tart at first, but you can be sweetened. I’ve witnessed it in the past as well as just the last two days.” His face colors, but he continues speaking anyway. “Plus I suspect you’re incredibly juicy, and I would love a sample.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Had Harry Styles just made a very obvious overture? Yes. Yes, he had. My eyes float over his face, searching for any indication that he’s lying, but the sincerity is striking. 

First I look at my entwined hands, and then I decide to show the same courage he has exhibited. “I turned down your account because I couldn’t possibly work for you when I’m this attracted to you. It’s bad form to want to --” I can’t decide on the appropriate word, so I settle for “-- jump your client.”

The smirk is back, and it’s followed by an uproarious laugh. “This is too rich! To think that we could have been having some sort of relationship all this time is mind-numbing.” Rising, he holds out his hand. “How about we consummate our mutual attraction?”

“In the middle of the afternoon on Christmas Eve?”

“You got a better idea of how to spend our time?” 

“Swimming?” I tease. 

“Smith?”

“Yeah?”

“Take my hand.”

His words and tone make it clear that he’s interested in moving forward with this. My own body’s response is in sync with his. Gently, I place my hand in his as I rise from the table. Twisting his body, he also shifts his hand, leading me in the direction of…where? A bedroom seems too rushed. Not that my hormones would agree. 

But no. We walk down the two steps into the living room where he turns on the Christmas tree lights before settling on the couch and tugging my arm so that I join him. “Oh, wait.” Rising, he approaches the sound system, and soon the strains of Christmas music fill the space. Returning to my side, he settles with his arm around me. 

“Smith…” His words are a whisper, and I rotate my head in his direction as he brushes his finger over my cheek. When our lips meet, I swear I can hear the angels sing. His mouth is soft and tender, and I twine my fingers through the hand draped over my shoulder as I open wide to allow him to enter. Our tongues tangle in heat and dampness that also seems to pool between my legs. He tastes of the lemon curd thumbprints we had jointly made, and I relish the flavor, wanting more. 

Shifting closer to him, I tilt my head to provide greater access, and his hand drifts to my sweatpants. Withdrawing from me, he examines our clothes. “Mind if I remove this garland?”

“Not at all,” I purr. “As long as I can get rid of these bows.” The wrapping paper skirt had already been ruined when we sat down for the Scrabble game. 

Rather than unpinning the garland, though, he hooks his thumbs into my waistband and draws the sweatpants over my hips. “Up, Smith.” I lift my bum as he removes my bottoms, leaving me in my panties. 

In return, I inch his hoodie up his chest and off, tossing it over my shoulder, heedless of the bows that seem to desire to stay attached to the musician. Can’t say I blame them. 

“Hmmmm,” he murmurs before capturing my lips again. 

When we come up for air, my hands have managed to roam his chest, tweaking his nipple and wrenching a moan from his mouth. For his part, his hand has drifted over the small piece of cloth separating my treasure from full access. His thumb rubs a pattern over the fabric, and soon I’m panting. 

“Fuck,” I mutter as we separate. 

“Yes please” is his cheeky reply. 

“Dork,” I indict.

“Mhm. Take off that hoodie. Please.” 

Willingly, I oblige. Before the material has hit the floor, he’s capturing my nipple in his mouth, and I throw my head back as fire stokes through my body from my tits to my core. “Shit,” I proclaim. 

His fingers return to the scrap of cloth covering my center. As his thumb teases my clit through the silk, a finger slips underneath and into me. Without thought, I cry out, my lower body rising from the bed to get closer to heaven. 

“Been a while?” His voice is rough, sounding like sandpaper as he dislodges from my breast. 

“Too long,” I pant, “but you’ve always had the power to bring me to the brink just with a look.”

“I see,” he smirks, and normally I would want to smack him, but this time, I find it endearing. 

“I want --” I gesture to his sweats, and he grins. 

“If I refuse?”

“Then my treasure box can close pretty quickly if I don’t have something in my hands.”

Harry laughs. “Fair enough.” Shucking his sweatpants over his hips, I find that he’d chosen not to wear underpants as his cock springs upwards into my waiting hand. 

“Shit. I need lubricant.” I complain. 

We gaze at each other, the lust clear. Jumping up from the sofa, we race together to Glenne and Jeffrey’s bathroom. I scour the lower cabinets while Harry throws open the linen closet. “Got it!” he announces, holding the bottle over his head. 

“Thank God!” My relief is real. Grabbing the bottle from him, I find I can’t move. Now what? Where do we go? We can’t very well do the deed in their bed. 

Grabbing my hand, Harry once more takes the lead, and we end up in his guest bedroom. I gesture at the bed, and he strips off the duvet before lying down on his back. Crawling onto the mattress, I settle between his thighs, tilting the bottle of lube and squeezing a fair amount into my hand. Relaxed, I hold my hand over his cock, allowing droplets to fall. His eyes plead with me, and I grin at him. 

“Impatient, Styles?”

“Desperate for you, Smith.”

With that pronouncement, I wrap both hands around his length, allowing my fingers to glide gently along his shaft. One hand falls underneath where I can tickle his balls playfully. When his hips start bucking, I withdraw from him completely -- albeit slowly with a final few long strokes. 

His eyes fly open, and he pats the bed next to him, so I lie there. 

“Smith…”

“Shhhh. Hush, Styles.”

Miraculously he doesn’t say anything, but he does reach out and shift aside the fabric over my vagina before he delves a finger inside. I know I’m wet. Hell, I can feel the dampness. 

His finger teases me, and I writhe under his attention. 

“Fuck, Styles. I’m gonna…”

“Do it!” he orders, and my lower body creates a bridge as my hips rise into the air while my thighs tremble in ecstasy. 

As I land back onto the bed and earth itself from my recent visit to heaven, Harry carefully removes my panties and throws them over his shoulder. 

“Condom?” He inquires.

“IUD. You clean?”

“Yep. Got tested not long ago. You?”

“Fuck me, Styles. We deserve this.”

“Indeed,” he grins just before he plunges into me, and I cry out at the feel of his length inside me, filling me and touching every part of me. 

“Shit.” My breaths come in short spurts as he pumps into me. I can’t seem to catch my breath as my second orgasm starts building. “Shift to the left, Styles.”

“You got it, Smith. Can you scratch at my back?” 

“You bet.” 

The communication is nice as we guide each other to what pleases us the most. As much as I want to take our time, it’s not nearly long enough before I feel my insides begin to clench in a familiar way. 

“Fuck, Styles. I’m coming!”

“Me too, Smith! Fuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkk!” He stretches the word into multiple syllables as I feel his seed squirting into my womb, stopped only by my birth control. His fingers reach between our bodies as he manipulates my clit until I see stars and arch my lower body to become closer to him. 

Collapsing on top of me, his breathing is as uneven as my own. 

“Merry Christmas, Smith,” he murmurs while we’re still joined. 

“Merry Christmas, Styles,” I reply, hugging his body tightly to mine. No telling if we have a future, but this holiday is going to be one for the books. 

A/N:  This short story is dedicated to those who aren’t able to join family this Christmas due to the Coronavirus.  Be safe.  Be healthy.  Make the best of the situation. Sending you BIG HUGS!

[miekasa]

SCREAM!!!!! OKAY you get me YOU GET ME!!!!!! and YES the fact that the giant fighter robots are called Jaegers like...the material on hand...there’s SO much one can do!! it’s for multiple ships and for multiple reader-inserts, like hello world!!!! one of THE best aus!!! it could be an eren x reader fic where eren’s family (sadly, gr*sha 🙄) spearheaded the program hence Jaegers, and idk what the plot would be, but there would definitely be family drama. dee-lish, deelish! jean x reader, where jean is a pilot and reader works in the lab....angsty and fluffy! hange as the scientists with their apprentice armin and reader who is gonna start working there? if you’re a coconut head stan, go for it! i personally...headcanon it as a levi x reader fic because i’m a whore for levi 😌 they’re co-pilots. like unpacking all that between reader and levi, and going through the mortifying ordeal of being known just so humanity’s strongest and his partner could bring down the kaiju? yeah yeah 😌 and on the other side of things...the drift. ahem. the things one can do here. mentally holding each other in place to keep one from chasing the rabbit—oh HO the communication issues! suddenly knowing the other person so well that they nonchalantly save the last lemon curd cupcake for them because it’s their favorite and their partner was late to the mess hall. suddenly knowing how to brew tea to perfection. that neural connection lingers after a fight, and co-pilots are drawn to each other (whispers: bed sharing...and it progresses...to a lot more). mmhm mmm. i just...it’s modern romance that completely reinvented the concept of soulmates and elevated it and made it absolutely transcendent okay!!!!! i have a lot of feelings about this kinda au, literally it eats my brain and i daydream about it a lot 👁👅👁

YES TO ALL OF THIS!!! YES ABSOLUTELY YES!! The mortifying ordeal of being known... the idea of letting somebody into your head and literally knowing the inner most mechanisms of your mind, body, and soul... it's so tender; it's so fucking GOOD!! OKAY here me out for some options below

Okay, here me out: Kenny and Levi who, despite their unconventional uncle-nephew relationship, are just about the best pair of co-pilots anyone has ever seen (bc you know, shared trauma brings a family together). Until Kenny is killed on a mission, and Levi has to find a new co-pilot. Cue oc, Levi's childhood best friend, a talented engineer, and Hange's right hand woman. Hange suspects oc and Levi would be pretty compatible, maybe even with a higher compatibility than Kenny; except, oc has no plans to be a pilot, and Levi wouldn't want to do a drift with her anyways, because that would mean letting her into his mind, and, subsequently, letting her know that he's in love with her.

Or, alternatively, oc just happens to be a new recruit who is talented, and drift compatible with Levi, and become good friends through their training. Over time, it's Levi who realizes that he feels something for her outside of the drift, and finds himself drawn to her and picking up on little habits and preferences. It's too bad she's already engaged to one of Levi's closest friends.

Or, Eren's family spearheaded the Jaeger robots and obviously receive government funding to engineer them and keep them going. The whole family is pretty impressive; tho it damaged her, Carla was the first woman to solo pilot a Jaeger and saved an entire country, Gr*sha is the head engineer, and Zeke and Eren are pretty damn good co-pilots. But some other nations have suspected that Gr*sha has been making faulty Jaegers for them, and making the best ones for his home country; and oc is the person sent to by one of these nations spy/steal the blueprints/maybe even kill the Jaeger family, and ofc she somehow meets Eren and falls in love in the process.

OR scientist coconut boy and oc who were childhood friends, and who both shared a common interest in deep sea creatures. She's really interested in the kaiju themselves and has her own theories about where the come from and their overall biology, that would sound crazy to any government official, but Armin believes her wholeheartedly. However, having nearly been killed in an attack, oc grows apart from her love of the ocean and the animals; so while Armin goes on the study and aid the Jaeger program, she finds a new hobby, far away from the kaiju. When it comes time to try and close the breech, all the scientists, Armin included, are stumped and there's a few puzzle pieces they can't quite solve, but Armin remembers oc's theory, and he knows that she's about the only person in the world who could help save them right now, so obviouslyyy he has to go and find her and bring her back and ask for her help and you get it.

Okay one more because I love Jean. He and Marco are pilots, and oc is actually Marco's girlfriend; she's a civilian, and lives in their hometown. Except, in their most recent drift, Jean and Marco have been having some difficulties; Marco isn't letting him in as much, and when he finally does, Jean sees that Marco's been hiding that he's been cheating/cheated on oc. Jean is upset with him, but hardly has time to reprimand him or talk it out fully because Marco dies on their next mission. Enter oc, who joins the Jaeger program to avenge the death of her boyfriend, which wouldn't be an issue, if she weren't drift compatible with Jean, the only person in the world who knows what Marco did wrong.

As you can tell, I have many thoughts about this. I am obsessed with this movie. Very much. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[ddagent]

Huge request for Papa Bee to be on the podcast!! 😻

Here we are, our footnotes session with Papa Bee! Quite a few people sent in questions, so I’m just going to include those as part of the fic rather than list them all here. But thank you to all those who do send in questions; it’s so much fun!

A huge thank you to @resthefuture​ who made this AMAZING moodboard for the podcast verse. Seriously, it is gorgeous, and I love it. 

B: The following podcast contains strong language, literary violence, and explicit sexual content.

(tourney horn plays)

J: Welcome to The Bear and the Poorly Written Maiden, the footnotes! And for the first time, we have a VERY special guest. It’s Bee’s father, Papa Bee everyone!

S: Hello!

(Jay and Bee clap)

J: Thank you, Papa Bee, for joining us today.

B: You didn’t exactly give him much of a choice. 

S: It’s fine, Little Star. I love listening to the two of you doing your podcast; you both sound like you’re having so much fun.

J: We are, thank you, Papa Bee. Now, you’ve brought snacks for us to eat during the podcast today. Quite a few people have asked about your biscuit recipe, can you tell the listeners what you’ve made for us?

S: Of course, lad. I’ve made some lemon curd biscuits for you, lad, and some sausage rolls with apple for my girl. 

J: Bee does like a bit of sausage. 

B: JAY! I cannot believe you just said that.

J: What, what? You do; you always prefer to have a sausage sandwich when we have breakfast before classes. (chuckles) I don’t know what you’re implying. 

B: I hate you. I really hate you.

J: You’ve been saying that since we met, but I don’t think even you believe that anymore. (pause) Anyway, we’ve got introductions out the way, we’ve got our snacks sorted, let’s get down to business.

B: Last week we began reading the first chapter of Off the King’s Road, a hideously explicit tale of Goldenhand and Ser Blue’s journey to King’s Landing.

J: Papa Bee, you were the one who provided us with this dreadful novel. Can you talk about how you found it whilst I have a biscuit?

S: Of course, lad. Since you and my Little Star have started doing this podcast, I’ve been keeping an eye out for any secondhand bookshops, charity shops. Me and Goodwin – you remember Goodwin, don’t you, Bee?

B: Of course, he taught me how to swing a re-enactment sword. 

S: Well, we were at a boot sale the other weekend on the other side of the island, and this woman had two plastic tubs filled with all these paperbacks. Now, one caught my eye, because I remember you getting in trouble at school for reading it. 

B: Oh, Gods.

J: Off the King’s Road. (Bee groans) She mentioned the Septa caught her?

S: Oh, she did. Only time my Bee ever got sent home was because she had been reading a dirty book.

B: It was a historical romance novel, and what was it doing in the library if not to be read?

J: You’re just full of excuses, aren’t you? (Jay laughs) What chapter were you reading? Was it the one we read last episode?

B: No, no, I believe it was the one in the Harrenhal baths.

S: Memory serves, you went through a period of only having baths after that. 

J: (laughs) Really? Oh, well, in that case, I cannot wait to get to that chapter. 

B: Our shower was broken! 

J: Of course, of course. Now, we’ve had a few comments about the latest episode, which is more than the usual one comment we get from you, Papa Bee. So we’ll take it in turns to read some of them out. This is from weirddaydreamingfangirl, who says “I can't wait for Papa Bee’s appearance!"

S: Very sweet. Hopefully, it won’t be a disappointment.

B: Of course it won’t be, Dad. Okay, here’s another: ulmo80 says, "That book sounds awful." It really does, but get used to it, because we’re committed to reading the whole thing. Dad, do you want to read out the next one?

S: sarahoftarth says (pauses) Do you think she’s Margo’s girl from down the road?

B: I don’t know, Dad. I don’t think so.

S: She could be. She’s called Sarah. Anyway, sarahoftarth says, “Jay's unsuccessful flirting is just too much, I just want to shake them both!” And if it is Sarah from down the road, say hello to your mother. 

B: What does she mean by flirting?

J: What does she mean by unsuccessful? 

B: Well, clearly that you’re not very good at it. Not that I’ve ever seen you flirt; plenty of people flirt with you, but you never pursue someone yourself. 

S: I think there’s a reason for that, Little Star. 

B: Oh, I know. ‘None of these women meet his impossibly high standards’. 

J: Really? That’s what you think? (pauses) Okay. Let’s, uh, le’s answer a few questions, now. Here’s one for Papa Bee, it’s from a-squire-is-for-life-not-just-for-sevenmas, “Papa Bee, what made you decide to name your daughter after Ser Blue?” That’s a great question.

S: Well, like my daughter, I have a love of history. Our house has always been filled with antiques and suits of armour and Oathkeeper right in the main hall. There’s not been a huge amount of girls born in the last few generations; none, in fact. Both me and Bee’s mum expected her to be a boy, too. 

J: What would you have called her, if she was a boy?

S: We liked Robb, and I’d always quite liked Brynden as a name, too. But she was a girl, and I knew she had to be Bri–she had to be named after Ser Blue. Someone strong, and brave. Who would do amazing things. I knew my daughter had to be named after her. 

(pause)

B: O–okay. Next question is from everything-is-a-cereal-bowl. (laughs) Clearly someone on your wavelength, Jay.

J: I don’t know what you’re trying to say.

B: There was milk in my saucepan this morning.

J: I was making a creamy pasta sauce.

B: There were choco pops in it. 

J: I was making hot chocolate?

B: Anyway, everything-is-a-cereal-bowl asks, “Papa Bee, what do you think of Jay?”

S: I think he’s a lovely lad, very smart, and the smartest thing he’s ever done is become best friends with my little girl. 

J: See, Bee, your dad thinks we’re best friends.

B: Fine, fine! We’re best friends!  

(all three laugh)

J: I think we’ve got time for another couple of questions. Okay, this is from jaybee28: “Hi Papa Bee—”

S: Hello jaybee28!

J: “Hi Papa Bee so excited to have you on an episode of footnotes. I know they recommended submitting questions related to your ancestors but something has been bugging me since the latest episode and I can think of no one better to pose the question than you!” Okay, does this mean you have to ask it?

B: I think so. Jay, give my Dad the tablet.

S: Alright, let’s read what we’ve got here. Right, so, the question is, “Jay... why do you know how little/much Bee knows about blow jobs?”

B: WHAT THE—

J: Language.

B: I read out the warning at the beginning; it says strong language so I’m going to say, what the fuck, jaybee28?

J: (laughs) It is a valid question.

B: No it isn’t, not in front of my father. 

J: I think any father would be happy his daughter doesn’t know a great deal about blow jobs. 

S: Little Star, I do listen to all your episodes, you know. I am aware my daughter knows about sex. Especially after you found that book, and all those stories of you and—

B: —no, please, I beg of you, do not finish that thought. 

J: I will pay you five hundred gold dragons right now, Papa Bee, to finish that thought.

B: You can barely afford rent; you ate at my house all last week to save money. 

J: It’s called being financially conscious. But, honestly, I’d live in a box if your father finished that sentence. (Bee huffs) And, in answer to your question, jaybee28, when we first started researching the idea of a podcast, we were looking through historical erotica and Bee casually wondered why so many stories had cannibalism as they all described swallowing a man whole. 

B: Wonderful; this is exactly what I wanted to happen on this podcast. 

J: Come on, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. 

B: Next special guest we have is going to be your brother, you do realise that, don’t you?

J: (pause) I do now. 

B: Good. Right, one more question before we finish. It’s for my Dad. colour-chart-courtship has asked, “Papa Bee, what would you think if Jay and Bee decided to host their podcast for life? Jay is hers, Bee is his, for as long as the tourney horn plays.” I–I don’t get it. 

J: Well, as long as we have people listening, I guess we’ll still do it. 

S: colour-chart-courtship, I would be over the moon if these two decided to host this podcast for life. It makes them both happy, and that’s all a father wants for his little girl. And if they decide to make any spin-offs, I’d be glad to help out with those, too. 

J: A spin-off, I’d like that. (pause) We could read out bad essay assignments!

B: I do believe that’s a breach of data protection. 

J: Pfft. 

B: Right, before it’s necessary for me to help Jay navigate a university tribunal, I think we should end it there. Thank you, Dad, for joining us today. I hope it hasn’t been too traumatic. 

S: Not at all! I’ll come back next week, if you want.

J: I have a feeling next week’s guest spot is already full. Right, Bee?

B: Right, Jay. 

J: (sighs) But, yes, thank you so much, Papa Bee. And thank you, everyone, who has listened to our podcast, commented or sent us in questions. If you have any questions, feel free to send them to thebearandthemaiden@ravenmail.com.

B: We have our caw account up and running; you can leave us some comments there. 

J: Next episode we’ll be heading back to the Stark camp for chapter two of Off the King’s Road. 

B: We’re also going to be on Vinyl Grooves in the next week or so; we’ll let you know when the episode goes out. 

J: Wonderful. 

B: Dad, do you want to say the closing remarks?

S: Of course! Valar morghulis!

(tourney horn plays)

[sunnytumbies]

I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that! 

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

___________________________________________________________

Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest. 

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home. 

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven. 

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow. 

Cal is not having a good day. 

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach. 

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through. 

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much. 

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t  matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits. 

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans. 

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles. 

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone. 

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay? 

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day. 

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything. 

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do 

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course. 

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it. 

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?” 

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it. 

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.” 

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

Some time later, Quincy comes for him. 

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach. 

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?” 

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

  “Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

  “No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. 

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.” 

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely. 

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom. 

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”  

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.” 

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard. 

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea.  “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.” 

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.” 

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.” 

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him. 

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches  for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea. 

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache. 

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.” 

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.” 

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?” 

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

[hrina]

hi everyone! it has recently come to my attention that this week is 1daaw, and i really just wanted to join in on all the love and highlight some of my fav fics of all time (written by some of my fav writers of all time!)

this list is by no means exclusive, so if you’re a writer and i follow you please don’t get offended! these are just a few fics that i’ve read during my time on tumblr that really stood out to me and quickly captured my heart. some are recent and some are a bit older, but they’re all amazing regardless of age! 

with that being said, remember to SUPPORT fic writers by REBLOGGING and GIVING FEEDBACK on their work! every writer on this site does it for free, simply because we want to share things with you and make you feel something. so definitely make sure that if you’re gonna read any of these fics, you let the author know your thoughts! 

anyway i’ll stop rambling now lol, everything you came for is under the cut :-)

all the things yet to come by @harrysdodgyankles 

this series is honestly just *chef’s kiss*. as a psych major, i really enjoyed reading a story where harry is set in a career that i can recognize and identify with! and don’t even get me started on the slow-burn of it all; it’s so painful, but that just makes it a hundred times sweeter when the two characters finally admit their feelings. amina is such a wonderful writer and i would happily recommend her any day of the week!

gunrunners by @waitingfortwilight

the suspense!!! the emotion!!!!!! i fucking love this series and i always get so excited when katie starts giving away sneak peeks! i love the dynamic between harry and the reader, and i really love the way she writes the MC as a fiery, independent person who doesn’t take anyone’s shit. if you haven’t read it yet, you’re missing out my friends

love always, harry by @gucciwoodnymph

honestly it would be a CRIME not to mention this series. tanvi’s talents are worthy of publication and that’s that on that! i’m a slut for the best-friends-to-lovers trope, but the way that she’s written this fic is insanely original and she managed to put her own refreshing spin on it. there’s conflict, there’s resolution, there’s pining, there’s honestly everything you never know you needed lmao. read this immediately!!!!!

make amends by @all-things-fic

i know that this was liz’s very first piece, but that doesn’t make it any less worthy of attention. in fact, it still reigns as my fav thing she’s ever written. the ANGST.......the FEELINGS.........i really love that she was so determined to show us that relationships can be complex and there isn’t always a quick and easy fix. with that being said, im a sucker for happy endings, so this one-shot catered to basically all of my needs. liz is a fantastic amazing phenomenal writer, so definitely go give her some love!

a picture’s worth by @meetyourmouths

i really don’t know what is it that stood out to me in this fic, but i’m not complaining. iz has such a sophisticated and professional way with words, it makes you feel like you’re reading an actual, physical book. this piece in particular took me hostage, shaved my head, slapped my ass and called me a whore. as a sidenote, everything on her masterlist is amazing, and i highly recommend checking it out!!!! 

in the a.m. by @smokeinherperfume

another goodie!!!!! i really love nora’s writing, but this series in particular left me completely floored. it had angst! it had fluff! it had smut! it literally checked off every single one of my nonexistent boxes when it comes to reading fic. also, who doesn’t love the idea of harry being their next-door neighbour? highly suggest checking out nora’s writing, you won’t be disappointed!

the lemon curd series by @permanentcross

where do i start bro.......E was the very first harry account i ever followed, and actually the one who inspired me to start writing about harry again! she has this way of bringing him to life so easily, and never fails to make the things she writes about seem as realistic as possible. this series specifically made me melt, because the way she wrote harry’s inner turmoil had me !!!!!!!! she’s basically tumblr royalty on this site and i’m sure everyone has already combed through her masterlist, but if you haven’t read her writing yet, get on it! 

fixer-upper by @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy

this one-shot will probably take you at least an hour to read but fuck if it’s worth it. andrea literally broke into my house, yanked me out of bed, threw me into the trunk of her car, and drove us both off a cliff and that’s on PERIODT. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again: the way she writes dialogue is just unreal. i will never stop talking and gushing and rambling and singing her talents & praises!! go check her out asap

both of you/ours by @stylishmuser

this one is an oldie but a goodie!! i believe this was the very first thing of pal’s that i read, and it’s what made me smash that mf follow button! the TENDERNESS of this series is unlike anything you’ll ever read, yet she still manages to make it all realistic as can be. i read this while i was still trying to find my footing as a harry writer, and it’s stayed with me still after 2+ years! highly highly recommend

[nomorelonelydays]

kick your pretty feet up on my dash

Part 1

-

Sidney retires a little earlier than he thought he would, at age 34.

 He retreats into a small town in Oregon. It’s not a hockey town. No one knows who Sidney Crosby is, and it’s an unexpected blessing.

 He hadn’t meant to land in Cardwell Point. It’s a little vacation-ville that boasts an annual fair every summer; it has an artificial lake, a small, quiet cabin that Sidney now calls home, a garden where he can grow tomatoes (that refuses to grow), and friendly enough neighbors who are all, for the most part, below the age of 18 or over 60 and have been in the town for about three centuries. It’s far enough away from Pittsburgh, he supposes, so that’s a plus.

 He knows the organization had expect him to stay, working with the team as a coach or at least for the sake of the Little Penguins program. He remembers the looks they’d given him when he’d broken the news to the front office. But it hurts more than it should, being so close to Geno hockey and not able to do anything about it.

 Maybe his heart has gotten softer with age.

 Maybe that’s why he packed so quickly, because when Geno asked him so mournfully, “Where you gonna be?” on his last day, he’d nearly changed his mind.

 “I’ll let you know,” Sidney promises. A little white lie.

 “You tell me soon, or I find you,” Geno says fiercely.

 Geno had hugged him like he didn’t want to let go, and perhaps he lingered a bit. But Sidney had simply chalked it up to him projecting. As usual.

 He’s spent the majority of his time in the NHL hoping for a man to love him back. He’d wanted the handholding, the late night, date night kisses on an empty street, and he’d been willing to wait years for it—did wait years for it. He had been ecstatic when they gave the C to Geno, finally. His heart had lurched forward, almost painfully, when Geno beamed at him, shy and determined under the weight of the letter, and Sidney tells himself that he’s happy. He is happy. He will be happy.

 “So what’s next?” Flower asks, voice choppy (always) through the phone.

 He figured he’d get a dog or something, maybe spend his hours fishing and not thinking about hockey or Geno or what anyone must think about him practically vanishing.

 He did not imagine that he’d be dragging himself up at 4 in the morning, post-retirement, to a bakery that must’ve been in this town when Christ himself was born, to be up to his elbows with flour and butter. The owner, Deidre, is 68 years old, had laughed in his face when she first met him, squeezed in the corner of her café and brooding over his coffee, when he’d told her that he’s retired.

 “What the hell do you mean, retired? You’re about 18, right?”

 Sidney knows he looks nowhere near 18, but Deidre also doesn’t look she’s got the best eyesight around, so.

 It takes about four more coffee runs, three “on the house” chess pies that Deidre insists on feeding him, and two times of Sidney helping her transporting bags of flour from the truck to the kitchen when she’d been short-staffed, that he realizes he’s accidentally stumbled into a some sort of volunteer-job hybrid.

 But he likes it.

 He has the time, and Deidre needs the help even if she won’t admit it. He likes listening to Deidre talk about the town and her husband (who hasn’t been alive since 2013, Sidney realizes way too late, when he makes the blunder of asking where he is—to which Deidre responds, ‘Who the hell knows. Fucking around up there, probably’) and her dry humor. He likes bringing out the trays of brioche rolls and learning the names of the regulars, from the adults stumbling in at 6:30 AM for their morning coffee, to the kids who come into the store for their afterschool cookies. (He endures the moms who—not subtly—tries to flirt with him while taking half the day to buy a dozen muffins.) He likes kneading the dough for the tarts, because it helps him forget about all those warnings the doctors said about how if he kept going, hockey’s going to knock out his knee once and for all and he’d be lucky to be able to walk at all.

 Deidre asked him how he ended up at Cardwell Point, just once.

 “You running away from home?” she asks, very seriously. Her glasses are sliding off her nose. “Don’t you lie to me. I’ll know.”

 “Not really?” He’d kind of googled ‘small town’ and ‘West Coast’ and ‘house for sale,’ because ‘where to go after retiring at age 34’ hadn’t given him a lot of useful results (or any).

 “This is a very small town, and I know this because I never left this place,” Deidre says. “No one comes here unless they were trying to get away from somewhere. A girlfriend, maybe?”

 Before Sidney can say anything, she quickly adds, “Boyfriend?”

 His hands stop for a briefly moment, but he catches himself and gets back into the rhythm of piping the cupcake. “Um.”

 “Anyways,” Deidre says, already moving on and washing her hands, “I’ve been thinking of naming the desserts. Like a person name. I think it’d give them character, help them sell better. I’d want to name a cheesecake after my mother—that was her favorite thing to make when I was little, but I never really got the hang of messing around with cream cheese. What do you think?”

 Sidney nods because it doesn’t matter to him either way. He’s suddenly struck with the fact that he hasn’t called Geno in weeks, even though he told Geno he would right after he’s settled in. And Geno hasn’t texted either, which aches like a dull, forgotten thing at the pit of his stomach.

 He doesn’t have the heart to be the one to break their silence streak, because there’s a tiny part of him that’s still that afraid if he hears Geno’s voice, sounding so far away, he’d want to fly right back where he started, to break his heart all over again.

 One afternoon, he’s making tags for the mini cakes and cookies with Deidre when, out of the blue, he blurts out, “I, uh, I really wasn’t lying. I had to leave my job because of medical reasons. My knee, it’s not—I can’t strain it too much. And um—he wasn’t a boyfriend. It wasn’t…it wasn’t ever going to happen.”

 He kind of wants Deidre to spit out some sage, grandmotherly advice, not unlike a fortune cookie. He could use a fortune cookie. She has four kids, after all, all scattered in cities across the East Coast or the Bay Area, working in tech or finance or whatever the hell she had said. But she merely pats his arm and nods.

 “Well, you have Cardwell Point now, if you want it,” she says, finishing up the lettering on her sign with a loopy ‘y’ for Lily. “There. My mother’s name. This one will be for the mini-cheesecakes. When I figure out how to make them right.”

 He doesn’t know if that’s what he’s waiting for. But he’s spent so long chasing after things he can’t have that Deidre unofficially gifting him Cardwell Point makes his chest bubble up with something wonderful. He ducks his head low and finishes up cursive ‘a’ on his own card.

Day 65 into retirement, and Sidney doesn’t write a tell-all, post-retirement article about his life and regrets like what Deadspin is probably salivating for. (To be fair, Sidney doesn’t even know who to go to first to start publishing something like that.)

 It’s way worse.

 He opens an Instagram account.

 @DeesBakeryCafe

Come in to see us and these lemon-curd filled, poppy seed muffins (The Trina) tomorrow! Happy Friday, everyone.

 The muffins are artfully placed next to the window seat, where the sunlight gleams off the drizzled glaze. It gets 56 likes, which Sidney honestly believes might be just about the general portion of the town who have working smartphones and knows how to use it.

 To Sidney’s surprise, they sell out the next day. Seeing Deidre’s display case empty at least an hour before they close and listening to Deidre chatter excitedly over their next seasonal item feels almost as exhilarating as winning a game. Maybe even just as good.  

 He only wishes he’d stop wondering what Geno would say if he knows what Sidney is up to. If he’d even want to know.

[bygone-age]

Holby City Bake Off Week 4

After the mini epic that was Bread Week, Dairy Week will be a lot shorter, honest!

~~~~~~

DAIRY WEEK

SUNDAY EVENING

"Bastard!"

John Gaskell looked up from his paperwork and put on his best "I'm pretending I don't know why you're pissed at me" smile.

"Rox! What can I do for-"

"Don't you dare pretend that you don't know why I'm here, you little shit! What the fuck were you thinking!?!"

"Oh. You mean the baking thing? It seemed funny at the time. I'm guessing you don't agree?"

"No I bloody well don't! You know how private Henrik is and how the hell are we supposed to prepare in two days!?!"

"Come on Rox! It's baking a few cakes and putting the kettle on, not a five course dinner with silver service."

"I'm covering for you tomorrow, have you forgotten that little detail?"

"Oh shit. Yeah, sorry about that. Really. Pay you back?" John at least had the sense to feel genuinely guilty.

Roxanna smiled. Like somebody who just thought of a great payback.

"Oh you will, I guarantee that."

******

TUESDAY

HENRIK AND ROXANNA

"...you should have seen his face! He has to spend the next fortnight "offering guidance and advice" to groups of gifted students!"

Henrik, who'd been arranging cake slices onto a new cake stand, merely looked up and raised his eyebrow.

"Oh, alright, he thinks he has to spend the next fortnight on an initiative he hates, but it serves him right for dropping us in it! And anyway, he's actually good at it. He's not a professor because it looks good on a letterhead, he's a bloody good teacher when he chooses to be."

"All true of course, but the last time you and John had a "prank war", as I believe it's called nowadays, I had to lie the police."

Roxanna stole a lemon bar from a plate and laughed.

"I remember! You invented two new conditions in process! The Dean didn't know whether to be awed by your ingenuity or to suspend the three of us!"

"Luckily, he decided just to pretend it never happened. On the condition it never happened again or at least that it never got back to him again."

"What time is everyone coming? These are lovely, by the way."

"The lemon bars a recipe I found online. They apparently go well the Earl Grey tea Ric is bringing. He'll be here just before nine - he's been visiting Darla today. Sacha is picking up Charlie and Duffy, they should be here in a few minutes and Ms Naylor will be calling as soon the programme starts. Hopefully, her mood won't be too affected by having to work - according to Ms McKendrick, her "cupcake aim" is deadly."

"No Bernie and Serena?"

"Family dinner. They're meeting Cameron's girlfriend. Serena told me the whole family will be there, so she's anticipating lots of stress."

"I hope it goes well, for Cameron and for them."

At that moment, the doorbell rang and while Henrik finished getting things ready, Roxanna went to let their guests in.

******

NIKKI AND JAC

"...so I've done a dairy free chocolate cake, a ton of vegan cookies because they're really easy and take like ten minutes in the oven - I did some this morning while I had my breakfast - and I did a blueberry buttermilk cake and a banana yoghurt cake in case it's all about using alternative dairy products. I sent the banana cake and half the cookies to Mr Hanssen's."

"Impressive, I just bought loads of tea and a kettle. And a Disney themed tea strainer and an infuser."

Nicky stopped doing the paperwork she needed to finish before nine.

"Why didn't you just borrow the one from the break room?"

"It's crap and this one only cost a fiver, the Disney stuff cost more. "

Jac motioned to Nicky's paperwork.

"I've got prep Mr Murphy's valve replacement to finish, you get that done and make a check of the ward and I'll see you in the office."

******

"What the hell are maids of honour!?!"

Jac's voice sounded slightly screechy through the the speaker of Sacha's phone, but everyone agreed - the choice of technical was strange, to say the least.

From his seat on the couch between Duffy and Sacha, Charlie took a drink of tea before replying.

"Tudor tart apparently, made using cheese curds or sweetened milk curds according to Google. You can also put jam in them."

"Didn't they do a Tudor week when they were still on the BBC? They should have just done that."

"Probably a rights thing. According to the net, it's twenties week next week, that should be interesting."

For the next few minutes, tea was drunk, cake was eaten and talk revolved around the technical results and the following week's theme.

END OF WEEK FOUR

NEXT WEEK: TWENTIES WEEK - Cocktails a plenty at Nicky's when she hosts a girl's night. Roxanna supplies costumes, Duffy makes the strongest Sidecars ever and Jac has an impromptu sleepover when she falls asleep during showstopper and everyone is afraid to wake her!

~~~~~~

Well, there we are! Hope you enjoy that. Obviously Nicky wasn't the only person that baked, but I've had over twenty tabs open on my phone for over a week, so I thought it would be simpler to concentrate one person (and Henrik's lemon bars). That means that all recipes are genuine and available online, apart from lemon bars which are a converted pound cake recipe (that is available. don't ask me how it was converted, Henrik did it). You can buy Disney themed tea accessories.