#honestly i was trying NOT to make this a lemony prompt

[sushiandstarlight]

“Unwrap”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Prompt One

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Lemon Warning

“You look tired.”

“We don't get tired.”

“No, we don't need to sleep. We get tired. You get tired and you sleep.”

Crowley had wandered into Aziraphale's rooms, in the back garden of the estate, shortly after what he would assume was the child's bedtime. Although, come to think of it, it was a bit late even for that.

“Did the child give you a hard time today?”

“Nah, just being a kid. Lots of questions.”

“Hmm, I know you like that.”

Nanny's hat and coat hung on a rack by the door. Her tie and dark sunglasses were discarded on the coffee table. By now Crowley should have been in a relaxed sprawl, but he wasn't. He sat stiffly, staring ahead.

“Tea?”

“Sure, Angel.”

Something to fuss with, that's what he needed. Just a moment alone and something familiar to occupy himself. Really, he was reading too much into Crowley. He was always reading too much, paying the demon too much mind. So the serpent was tired. Well, weren't they both?

Aziraphale moved into the tiny kitchenette and put the kettle on, palms down on the counter as he waited for the water to boil. The only sound in the room was the kettle warming so the soft sigh behind him wasn't nearly as hidden as Crowley might have liked it to be. He took care in making Crowley's tea just how he liked it: steeped a little longer than the angel would prefer, but also with a little extra sugar. He would have drank it plain and bitter out in the world, but in here with Aziraphale he was safe to indulge. There was no one to impress, only an old friend. Neither of them would mention it, but Aziraphale would see the comforted droop in Crowley's shoulders after the first sip and that would be thanks enough. There were enough things in the world to be on the defense about: tea did not need to be one of them. Not here; not with him.

When he brought the mugs back to the sitting area, Crowley was still sitting stiffly in the chair, staring out over the yard with a pained expression on his face. Aziraphale sat the mugs down on the coffee table and knelt beside him, hesitating only a moment before placing a hand on the demon's knee. Even that gentle tough made Crowley jump.

“Ngk! Sorry, Angel, lost in thought.”

“Are you okay? I mean, really.”

“Sure, tip-top. Always okay, me.”

Aziraphale stared at him pointedly and watched as Crowley's put on smile melted around the edges.

“It's silly.”

“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.”

“I'm afraid,” Crowley sighed again, “that I'm rather stuck in my corset.”

Aziraphale couldn't help the way his eyes drifted downwards, to the gentle curve of Crowley's waist. Truth be told, he had been doing his best to ignore it as he did with all the shapes that Crowley twisted his body into. It was only, sometimes, when he was alone that he would indulge thinking about them... All of them. There was no shape of Crowley's that Aziraphale found unappealing. But, if this one caused him pain...

“But, my dear, we have been here for weeks... how-”

“At first, I was...” and here Crowley made a pulling up gesture, “but then I thought maybe we should take it easy on that. Wouldn't want the energy to draw unwanted attention.”

Now that he thought about it, Crowley had visited him for tea (or something slightly stronger than tea) every day the first week they had been here in disguise. But he hadn't seen the demon off nanny duty since then. Why hadn't he noticed that before now? He would never curse his ability to get lost in his books (because he had brought a few with him even for this trip), but sometimes they caused quite a bit of inattention.

“Wait, do you mean...” He instinctually reached for Crowley's middle, but stopped the movement halfway, looking up at his face, “How long have you been stuck in this thing?”

Crowley looked away, out over the yard again, and mumbled something.

“Tell me it hasn't been since the last time you were here.”

“I... can't.”

“Crowley.” It was a reproach and a pity, rolled into one.

“Well, it's not like I'm human. My body can handle it.” Aziraphale watched him try to curl in on himself defensively, but when realize he couldn't bend that way in the corset his lips drew flat in frustration and he sat up straight again.

“How long are you going to let it go on, then?” Aziraphale cocked his head and squeezed the knee still under his other hand, “until the child is grown and armageddon is postponed?”

“m'here, aren't I?” Crowley grumbled.

“And here I thought it was for the company.”

Crowley glared at him.

“Is that a request, dear?”

“... yes.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably in the chair and met his eyes in a series of darting movements.

“Well, up you get then,” this was not going to be a problem, Aziraphale thought, not at all. Friends helped friends out of corsets all the time, didn't they? How else was one to get in and out of one, after all? They seemed to require help by their very nature.

Aziraphale stood and backed up to give the demon room and thought that maybe, just maybe, he saw a smile of relief flash over his face before he turned away from him. He watched Crowley's elbows move as he made quick work of the buttons down the front of his shirt and then struggled to get it off his shoulders. Aziraphale gently plucked the shirt up and tugged it down his arms.

And so, he got his first look at the corset itself: it was mainly black, which was to be expected. But, it was decorated in swirling patterns of coiled red, too. At first he couldn't tell, but upon closer inspection, he realized the coils were that of one, long snake. The scales glittered in the low light of the room. The boning was golden and winked at him, too. It was a beautiful work of art, in and of itself, but it was the shape it pulled Crowley's body into that stole Aziraphale's breath. That decadent curve to his waist had his hands itching to touch, to trace. He fisted his hands at his sides to keep them from trembling from the want of it.

Crowley, seemingly entirely unaffected by the moment, tossed a glance over his shoulder.

“It ties at the top and bottom and laces all the way down.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was fine. He grasped the ties at the bottom and tugged, finding them easy enough to undo, before falling into a steady pattern of unlasing upwards. The task itself was repetitive enough that he was momentarily lost in it.

Until Crowley groaned softly.

“A-alright there?”

“Oh. Yeah. Just, it feels good to have it loosened.” He wiggled a little and Aziraphale lost his grip on the laces.

“Hold still, dear, I'm not finished yet.”

“Fussy.”

“Hmm.” He was most of the way up now and faced a new challenge: Crowley wore his hair a bit longer as Nanny and, well, it was right there... The almost unbearably soft-looking waves settled only a little above the last tie of the corset. He bit his lip and indulged in admiring them. Of course, he wouldn't tough them. That's not... That's not what they are.

“Taking a smoke break?”

“No,” Aziraphale laughed, if a bit higher than he normally would, and quickly finished unlacing the corset, pulling the top knot free. He helped Crowley lift it over his head and watched as the man before him relaxed for the first time in an uncounted number of days. He cleared his throat and gently set the corset on the coffee table beside their tea. It really was a lovely item, he would hate to see it ruined; or worse yet, to be the one who marred it.

“I'm sure that feels much bet...” he trailed off as he turned back, only now really taking in all the skin he'd uncovered. Really, that on it's own would have been arresting, but what stopped him in his tracks were the lines cross-crossing Crowley's back and sides. Clear marks where the seams had come together, where the boning had held him in, and where the laces had pressed, even over a layer of fabric.

“What was that?”

Aziraphale barely heard the question, his hand reaching out of it's own accord, fingers stroking along one of the lines that started at Crowley's hip and trailed upwards. He felt more than heard the sharp intake of breath under his hand. He should pull back. He would pull back. Any moment now.

But he wasn't pulling back. Instead, he was tracing another line back downwards- right along Crowley's spine. He heard the hiss just as he felt the shudder go through the man in front of him.

“Does it hurt?” Aziraphale was whispering and he wasn't sure why. Was it reverence? Was he trying not to get caught? Maybe the moment would shatter if he spoke too loudly.

“N-no,” Crowley's throat worked loudly in the quiet room, “no, that doesn't hurt.” He wasn't whispering, but his voice had mysteriously dropped a couple octaves. Also, importantly, he hadn't made a move to pull away or discourage Aziraphale's roaming fingers.

So, instead of pulling back, Aziraphale pressed his entire hand flat into the small of Crowley's back and stroked upwards, feeling the already-disappearing lines under his palm. Crowley's skin was much softer and warmer than he expected. Every bit he touched only made him want to touch more. He was losing his grip on why that was a bad idea. His palm reached the end of the marks and continued upward, along the back of Crowley's neck and into his hair. And it was, oh it was, every bit as silky as it looked. A sound left him, whether it sounded of pain or pleasure he couldn't say.

An answering whine drifted back to him as Crowley pressed his head backwards into his palm. His breath left him in a gust, his heart somehow feeling twice as large but also half as heavy, seeing this beautiful creature so willingly submit to his touch. He stepped forward, completely into Crowley's space, guiding the demon's head back onto his shoulder as he stroked down the side of his jaw, his neck, and then along his clavicle. He pressed forward against him, wishing briefly that he was disrobed, too, and he could feel all this warm skin against his own.

His other hand drifted up and settled to wrap around Crowley's hip, but didn't stay there long. It roamed upwards, counting the ribs along his side and feeling the lines the corset had left there, too. He felt the short panting breaths stirring in the lungs beneath his fingers.

He drew his nose along the line of Crowley's arched and bared throat, taking in the scent of him: something dark and sweet like deep, red cherries. His hand had stopped, sprawled across Crowley's lower belly. The room was filled with the harsh sounds of his panting breath. Aziraphale couldn't hold out any longer, he drew his tongue along the arched line of Crowley's throat and then nipped it sharply.

“Angel, please!” Crowley sobbed, breaking any semblance of silence the room had held. Any denial that this was happening. Crowley was every bit as lost to this as he was. Aziraphale wanted to wander, lost in this experience with him.

Aziraphale soothed the spot with a kiss and then nuzzled up to his ear.

“What would you have me do, my darling?” He was idly stroking his thumb just under the demon's belly button. Crowley didn't respond with words. He grasped the hand on his belly and moved it downwards, pressing it to the front of his tight, and now tented, skirt.

“You're so beautiful, Crowley,” he murmured against the demon's neck as he traced him far too gently through the cloth. Crowley's hips bucked towards his hand, but he pulled back until he settled against him again before resuming his gentle touch. Crowley groaned, a sound of frustration that was belied by the twitching under Aziraphale's palm. He liked being teased, toyed with. That was a piece of information Aziraphale sent to the back of his mind for later consideration.

He trailed his other hand back up along Crowley's neck and into his hair, grasping it and gently pulling back, exposing more of his throat to his teeth and tongue. He watched Crowley's Adam's apple bob as the man attempted to swallow back his cries and whimpers.

His own control was slipping, though. He didn't think he could tease the man in his arms much longer. What he wanted was to take him apart, to see him loose and relaxed against him, both of them knowing that Aziraphale had given him that. Removing his teasing fingers, momentarily (he promised himself), he reached down and hiked up Crowley's skirt.

Crowley, himself, was lost to it. His hips thrust into open air, seeking out the return of Aziraphale's hand.

“Patience, serpent.”

“That's a virtue,” Crowley hissed, “I don't have any virtues.”

“We both know that isn't true,” Aziraphale nibbled on the shell of his ear, prompting an almost violent shiver to rattle through him, “but we can argue about that later.”

Now, he had wrapped his slickened hand around Crowley, tight enough to hold him, but loose enough to allow the demon to thrust into the grip. Crowley let out a guttural groan and thrust into his fingers with an every-increasing pace.

“Tighter, ah, tighter please,” he gripped Aziraphale's arm, as if to hold him in place. As if Aziraphale could stop what was happening, even if he wanted to. His eyes had been glued downwards, watching Crowley move between his fingers, but now as the man breaths of the man in his arms grew quicker and unsteady, he pulled back a bit so he could watch his face. He tightened his grip and that was all it took: Crowley's face screwed up in pained pleasure before he let out a high whimper as he came, pained pleasure giving way to utter relief.

He felt the moment Crowley's knees wobbled and caught him, pulling him in tightly to his own body and holding him there, peppering his neck and sweet, gentle kisses as his breaths slowed.

“So, uh, you liked the corset, huh?” Crowley had made no move to leave the circle of his arms. His grip on Aziraphale's arm had slackened, but he hadn't let go.

“Hmm, yes, I might. A bit.”

“A bit. Angel, you go on and tell me what you really like and I'll just go ahead and do it. I can't imagine.”

“Yes, I like the corset. But, Crowley, oh you know, don't you?”

Crowley had found his feet again, although the knees were still a bit iffy. He turned slowly, still keeping close to Aziraphale.

“Know what?”

“I like the corset because it's very you. And I love all the things that you love, because I love you.”

“Oh,” a blush crept up over Crowley's cheeks and, marvelously, down his chest as well (Aziraphale logged that thought as well), “you big, sappy Angel.”

“I don't think you mind, actually.” Aziraphale squeezed him close.

“No?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmm.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes, I love it. I love you, too. But I'll take it back if you keep grinning at me like-” Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss that made him lose his knees all over again.

[vegalocity]

71/74 spicynoodles plis

Prompt meme || @herecomesmonkiekid

71. A Gentle “I Love You” Whispered After A Soft Kiss, Followed Immediately By A Stronger Kiss //74. Kisses Where One Person Is Sitting In The Other’s Lap

A bit of Bodice Ripper DNA in this one because what am i NOT supposed to experiment with style after being asked to write for the same ship a bunch of times? just wait till i lemony snicket a prompt fill

--

Red Son had always thought the phrase 'a car crash in slow motion' was overly trite and fancy to describe someone being so incapable of controlling themselves they could only use the phrase to describe their poor decisions as a way to excuse themselves from fault. That there was no way to stop it from happening, despite ample time to put a stop to whatever 'it' in question was. He'd always thought that there were a million ways to pull out of a million things and a person is only guaranteed a certain outcome when they push for it time and again.

Well as it seemed, emotions had made a hypocrite out of him because he could not have taken any of the opportunities to pull away from this—away from Xiaotian—if he'd tried. It was like everything had snowballed and by the time he'd realized what it was building to he was already in too deep to pull away.

Why on Earth it had felt so natural at the time those few months ago, when the two of them were brawling over some scheme he honestly couldn't remember, for the fighting and shouting to turn into... something else, he couldn't say. Just that it was. It felt like the proper next step in the heat of the moment, the quickest way to get that clueless quipping fool to stop talking and ruining his monologue with his inane commentary.

And it certainly had shut Xiaotian up, but from there it spiralled. That one lapse in judgement creating a torrential downpour of one foolish action after another, sensations that were so few and far between over Red Son's life they may as well have been entirely new, and loathe as he'd been to admit to it when they were forming, emotions that were unable to be reasoned away.

And all of that lead to where he was now, surprisingly comfortable sitting in a mound of stiff cheap pillows, Xiaotian perched atop of him and kissing down the length of his neck to give Red Son a few bruises to match the ones that he'd put on him earlier. For such a defnitionally passionate action it was.. comfortable... Almost routine. They had to be careful of course, couldn't be too loud or someone would hear, couldn't leave a mark anywhere that wasn't easy to cover, Couldn't stay the night no matter how much either of them would want to stay with the other.

It was all they had right now. Red Son didn't have the strength to break from his parents yet, no matter how much less he was willing to be part of their schemes, and Xiaotian could never and would never be persuaded to quit being the Monkie Kid. These stolen moments were all they were gonna have until he could-...

Until he could what? Betray his flesh and blood because he'd fallen in love with their enemy like a character from one of the bodice rippers he used to steal from his mother's secret drawer?

“There, now we match.” Xiaotian spoke softly, breath against Red Son's sensitive neck sending shivers up his spine. He was practically glowing in the dim light smiling down at Red Son with that soft look and pressing a feather light kiss against his lips, it was so stupidly simple, so blasé, so perfectly Xiaotian...

Oh.. it seemed he had fallen in love, hadn't he?

Xiaotian stiffened above him, before descending on him again, this time determiend to kiss the daylights right out of him. Red Son hummed against Xiaotian's mouth and kept a reasonable pace, but couldn't for the life of him understand what had turned the gentle tone of Xiaotian's kisses to charged and weighty?

“Say it again.” Xiaotian breathed against his mouth when he pulled away—though 'pulling away' was a strong term, his lips were still only centimeters away from Red Son's, he'd pulled far enough away to talk but other than that was as close as ever—and Red Son realized all at once that he must have spoken a rather important part of his internal monologue out loud.

Another foolish action he'd been unable to stop. Xiaotian pulled away a little further and cupped Red Son's cheek in his hand. “Red?” He wasn't trying to make eye contact with Red Son, thankfully, allowing Red Son to focus on the furrow in Xiaotian's brow instead of agonizing over how fucking uncomfortable meeting people's eyes was.

“I love you.” His heart was beating so hard he felt as though he might pass out, But he did say it again as asked.

Xiaotian's entire face lit up, if he was glowing before he was positively radiant now. Then they were kissing again.

“I love you too.” Xiaotian's voice was no higher than a whisper but it hit him like a truck. A car crash in slow motion indeed. It was too late now, maybe it was too late during that first time in the caves when it was just the two of them. Maybe even earlier than that. But here they were. It was too late, they were in love.

And sometimes there's just no walking away from a car crash.

--

Send me stuff!

[brawltogethernow]

So the problem starts, the problem starts when Kaine agrees to go to a bake sale.

This little old lady put her hand on his face, see? What are little old ladies doing putting their hands on his face? Doesn’t she know he could snap her neck with a finger twitch?

“You are a good Catholic boy,” she says. “I know one when I see one,” she interrupts when he opens his mouth to protest, though he wasn’t yet decided which descriptor to zero in on first. “You are always at confession.”

Kaine may, possibly, have been using confession as a kind of no-papers-required stand-in for therapy. Or maybe a no-blood-shed-Aracely-isn’t-glaring-at-me stand-in for hurting himself.

He has enough brain cells not to say this. Barely.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and tries to pull away.

She leans with him. Her hands remain on his face.

“But I never see you anywhere else!” she says. “You must come to the bake sale. It’s on Friday.”

“Okay,” says Kaine’s mouth entirely without his input. He was born with an inbuilt structural weakness against little old battle axes. He attributes this to the ghost echoes of Peter Parker’s idyllic childhood.

-

“So what are we making?” demands Aracely as soon as he returns to the presidential suite. “Lemon bars? People on TV make lemon bars. What is a lemon bar?”

Sometimes, Kaine is more glad than anything that she's always eavesdropping on the inside of his head. Often, he’d cut off a limb, hell, all his limbs, to keep her out. He'd grow a bunch of spider legs again and then cut those off. He’s not sure exactly where this falls between the two extremes. But definitely closer to the negative side.

“Oh,” she says as if he answered, tipping her head. She’s turned around on the couch and sat up on her knees and braced her arms on the back of it to see him better. “You don’t know either. That’s okay, we can Google it.”

-

So they burn the kitchenette a little bit.

"We can rebuild it," says Arcacely. "We have the technology."

He definitely leaves her in front of the TV too much. But what's the alternative, bringing her with him more?

"Yes, it is," says Aracely like he spoke out loud. "And that is but one more reason why you should do that."

"Hell no," says Kaine, and books it out of the suite fast enough that he can pretend he didn't hear her shout, "Swear jar!"

-

He finds the maid who most often handles their rooms. He hands her a stack of hundreds for her trouble, then gives her a couple more because he can tell the exchange has scared her. He tells her the hotel can bill him the damages. And then he asks her how to get to the hotel kitchen.

Aracely appears, out of breath, as he finishes bribing his way into use of a stove. Her ability to do this is one reason among many why he doesn't own a cellphone.

"You could have just asked them," she chirps, methodically going through the room and opening, examining, and then closing every drawer. It's empty right now, so there's no one to stop her. "I think they would have just let us use the kitchen. The people here like you."

"No, they don't," corrects Kaine. "And who cares? It's not like we need to save money." He can just go hit more human traffickers if he runs low. And since he spends a lot of his time doing this even when he's not running low, he is in absolutely no danger of running low. He's pretty sure he could buy a yacht, or a politician.

"Success!" proclaims Aracely, and when Kaine turns around she's holding a clear plastic tub of brown powder over her head. There's a piece of paper laminated to the side with text printed on it that might be a recipe. "Brownie mix!"

-

"That is not food," declares Aracely of their creation. "No one is going to buy that."

Kaine leans over to examine it. It's kind of...grainy.

"Brownie sand," says Aracely. "Could we start a new trend?"

Kaine sighs. They should have known trying to quarter the banquet-sized serving on the tub was a bad idea. They have clearly miscalculated on some ephemeral measurement level. They've angered the baking gods.

"Are there baking gods?" inquires Aracely.

"Why don't you ask the Catholics," says Kaine, and tugs her away to tip the cleaning staff again.

-

“This is good too,” says Aracely, presiding over the storebought tubs of those weird shitty grocery store cookies that are mostly icing that they brought instead.

“I don’t even know how I got here,” says Kaine. “What are we doing here?”

His nose twitches. He’s not sure if one of them still smells like burnt lemons or if he’s just imagining it. He does know that he’s avoiding anything lemony for a long time.

-

The woman who got him into this sidles up to them shortly after they set up, looking very pleased to see him there.

"Always good to see fresh faces," she says, and winks at him.

She continues to talk in a way that stays steadily one step to the left of him feeling like he has a firm grasp on the conversation. Possibly that's because he's overthinking things and doubting whether he's correctly interpreting a single word she's saying. What even is "the congregation", in this context?

He looks at Aracely.

She shrugs.

Is it a list. Do you have to complete a set of tasks to qualify. Are there membership cards?

Aracely shrugs a little more beffudledly. Her reeducation via television and following a vigilante around active crime scenes must not have taught her about this.

-

The bake sale is to raise money to fix the air conditioner. This means that the building is the same temperature inside as it is outside. The best description he can come up with for the response the people in the room are having to the sweltering temperature is "cheerfully miserable".

Other than that it's...weird. Festival-ish? It kind of plucks the strings of memories that don't belong to him of May Parker presiding over neighborhood events with an endlessly gentle iron fist, but it also doesn't. He also kind of feels like he is impersonating someone who is actually supposed to be here. But that's nothing new.

There is a big confused snarl in Kaine's chest made mostly of other people's experiences that he can't even begin to interpret if he pings himself about the concept of "God". He thought that might be a problem if he just walked in here and...socialized.

It is not. No one is asking him about God.

"What do you think about the setup this time?" a woman with a thin mouth and long, spindly fingers demands. Her lipstick is the same shade as Annabelle's hair and her turtleneck suggests a total lack of concern for the wet Houston heat that Kaine finds honestly terrifying.

"The--?" he starts to answer.

"It's definitely for the best they didn't decide to hold it in the basement again," she continues, saving him from answering her not-really-a-question. "I mean, why? The lobby has all these lovely windows."

She gestures. Kaine nods along, his adrenaline spiking more than it ever has for any interaction with a werewolf or a most dangerous game type with a knife.

Thus follows a brief interaction where Kaine hums or nods when appropriate, and in return learns that she's very invested in the greater accessibility of the lobby, she plays piano on a volunteer basis for the church, and she knows he's "one of Marie's injections of fresh blood" but doesn't seem interested on calling him out for not belonging here.

"Do come to the community breakfast tomorrow," she finishes, buys two cookies, and leaves.

The emotional aftermath is akin to having weathered a near-death experience.

-

Aracely has found an older couple to speak Spanish with and is chirping away at the same blistering clip typical of her English, but with a more fluid cadence that betrays it's at least one of her native languages. The in-his-head thing doesn't really go both ways, so he has no idea what they're talking about. Probably something he'd regret knowing. What if she is asking them about baking gods.

A guy in a priest...collar...thing...who Kaine hopes desperately is not the one he sometimes monopolizes, or, failing that, does not recognize him, has sprouted up to make polite conversation.

"Not a bad turnout today, eh?" he says.

"Good thing they moved it back into the lobby," tries Kaine.

The priest beams at him like he's repeated the secret code.

"So true," he says.

Kaine is totally mastering churches. This is great. He bets if it were Peter in his place he would have started a fight by now.

-

"I think that went well," says Aracely after they've retreated to the suite and she's curled back up on the couch with a bowl of...something. She stabs the contents of the bowl with a spoon. "We should definitely do that again. Socializing with your community is almost as important as scaring away all its drug lords!"

"They're not my community," says Kaine. Not just the Catholic church a few blocks away from the hotel, which he still thinks he prefers from inside an anonymous guilt box. Houston is not Kaine's community. He does not have, does not get to have, a community. (Aracely rolls her eyes in an incredibly teenagery way, projecting exasperation either at his answer or his train of thought.) "What are you eating?"

She salutes him with her spoon. "Brownie sand! It's very edible!"

"Ichh," says Kaine.

"It's good for you!" Aracely declares. She looks dubiously down at her bowl, and corrects, "It's not actively bad for you!"

"No more chocolate," says Kaine. "No more lemons. No."

"But maybe some more bake sales?"

"...Maybe."

"Yes!"

==

On AO3 (where the title and summary can be considered a bonus gag). Last year the GG Discord was talking about how the Marvel wiki categorizes characters by religious affiliation, which led to questioning why Kaine Parker was listed as Catholic. I reported back several months later after I read Scarlet Spider that it was because he started going to confession after being thrown through a church wall, which prompted gelpenss to pitch the mental image of Kaine showing up to one of the less cinematic things people do in churches.

[willow-salix]

Thought I'd share one of my isolation updates. I haven't had much time to join in with the #irrelief of @gumnut-logic because of these so I decided to go down the list and try to fit some of the requested prompts into this series of shorts. This is the one that I think Nutty requested, fish and chips on the beach. If anyone wants to give me some prompts or things they want the boys to do during lockdown, please feel free to send them in. The rest can be read on Ao3.

Day 47 of isolation on Tracy Island and I walked into the kitchen to find a bowl of fish staring at me.

"New pets?" I asked Gordon.

"If they are I really should have looked after them better," he answered, poking at the ice that they sat on. "We went fishing this morning."

"I never would have guessed."

"We thought we could have a fish dinner on the beach tonight, you know, barbie and beer, it'll be the best fish you've ever tasted."

I made a face. "I'm not really a big fish fan, I prefer them battered and wrapped in paper, not judging me for wanting another cup of coffee."

"You don't like fish?" You'd swear I'd just told him I hate puppies.

I shrugged.

"You have to like fish."

"What, is that a law now? The law of the island?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Yeah, I'm gonna be breaking some laws then, bub." I pushed the bowl aside with a shudder of disgust and reached for the coffee pot.

"Come on, live a little, just try them."

"So when you ask me to try something I'm supposed to agree but I ask you to eat a Yorkshire pudding and you pitch a fit."

"Thats different."

"Why?"

"Because you've heard of a fish."

I tried to argue his logic but it was really hard, so as I always do in cases like this, I went on the defensive.

"Nope, batter and chips or nothing."

"Chips? Why would you eat chips with fish?"

"Because you do. With salt and vinegar on them."

"Won't they get soggy? And what flavour?"

"Flavour?" my brain whirled for a second before I caught his meaning. "Not crisps, chips, like fries, but fat ones."

He still looked baffled but pulled himself together. "OK, how about we do both? You make your battered stuff and your weird fries and I'll do my grilled fish and we'll see what's the best."

I thought about it for a moment or two, then held out my hand. "You're on."

“You have to help prepare them though,"he threw in just as he grabbed mine and shook.

“What? No!”

“The deal is struck,” the little sod grinned. Dammit.

Half an hour of convincing later and he had me standing beside him with a fish of my own and a sharp knife, neither of which I particularly wanted.

“So first we’re gonna scrape all the scales off, using the tip and flat edge of our knife,” he got to work, rubbing at the fish as if he were shaving it. Just like doing my legs, I could do that.

“I don’t want skin on my fish, I reminded him, not if it's gonna be battered.”

“We’ll get to that later, just get the scales off first.”

“Bossy,” I muttered, but did as I was told. We had some kitchen towel wrapped around the fish’s tail which made it a lot easier to hold but it was still icky and I knew the worst was still to come.

Gordon rinsed his under the tap and took a pair of kitchen scissors, I followed.

“Right, see this hole here?” he pointed with the tip of the scissors and I nodded. “That’s its butt. Stick your scissors in there-”

“I’m out!” I declared, dropping the fish in the sink. “Nope, I’d rather lose, but you know full well that no one else would blame me so you wouldn't get any glory from it anyway.”

I left the kitchen and went to hide with someone that would be nicer to me. I found Virgil first and decided he’d do. I flumped down next to him at the piano.

“You smell,” he greeted me.

“Thanks, love you too.”

“No, not you personally, you smell like fish.”

“Gordon tried to get me to poke its bum hole so I left.”

Virgil blinked, although he managed not to mess up, his fingers still dancing effortlessly over the keys, “I don’t know what to do with that information.”

“Neither did I, so I noped out of the situation and ran.”

“Good choice. He’ll end up doing yours for you anyway, he always does. He can’t stand to see fish prepared wrong so if you don't want to do it, just do it badly and then he’ll take over.”

“Pro tip!” I nodded. “Thanks for that.”

“Welcome.”

I reached out a finger to plonk a key, because it was just too tempting.

“Go wash your hands, you aren’t stinking up my piano.”

I lifted my hands up innocently. “Think he’ll be done yet?”

“Probably, he’s pretty quick at it, but I’d give it anoth-”

“Stop hiding, I’ve finished the fish,” Gordon called up the stairs to the lounge.

“See?”

“Woop!” I jumped back up, using his shoulder as leverage , much to his disgust. “We’re having a competition.”

“Of course you are, but if it involves food I’ll happily judge.”

I did that pointy finger, winky eye, clicky tongue thing in answer as I trotted back down the stairs.

True to his word he had the fish all prepared, he’d even fileted and skinned mine. He might be a pain in the butt most days but he was a good boy where it counted.

“I need beer,” I announced.

“Is the thought of touching fish really that bad? It’s only 2pm.”

“For the batter,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Why does everyone think I want to drink all day every day? I’m only drinking on a saturday night for the quiz.”

“Because it's fun to watch you get annoyed when we say it,” he shrugged. See? He’s a sod.

I stole one of his beers for that comment, and after checking the recipe, assembled my ingredients and began to mix flour, beer, sparkling water, spices and baking powder.

“So you're basically making a cake for your fish?” Virgil asked, wandering through to get a drink.

“No, I’m battering it, you cretin. Fish and chips, the english food of summer and beach trips. Squidward wanted fish on the beach, that's what you're getting.”

“She means fries,” Gordon added just in case Virgil didnt understand me either. “I’m doing grilled fish and vegetable kebabs.”

“Wanna help me peel potatoes?” I asked Virgil, who was the quickest peeler I knew.

“Sure.” Bless his chonky heart, he’s always ready to help, especially if food is involved.

Virgil peeled and I chopped, making a mound of fat chips which I threw into a pot of water to par-boil ready for frying later.

Gordon had barely done anything to his fish, just rubbed some seasoning and oil into the skins and laid some lemon slices on top. Apparently simple was key, I told him that was a good thing if he was in charge. He threw a slice of lemon at me.

We stored all the prepared food in the second fridge and wandered off to wait for evening.

At around seven that night we had everyone assembled outside, some around the barbecue and some just lounging around waiting to be fed.

They had one of those fancy pants grills that have two gas rings on one side, which was needed for me to heat up two massive pans of oil. I had a flashback to the donut incident and was very grateful that Grandma wasn't involved this time and that she hadn’t fed me cooking sherry.

I had a few near misses with splattering oil and it took me a while to get the dip and slip action just right ( that was what I was calling the dipping in batter to coat the fish and then letting it slip and slide into the oil) but we got there in the end.

The chips were frying nicely and we’d managed to get vinegar from a jar of pickled onions, which was perfect for me as I prefer onion vinegar on my chips anyway.

Gordon had these weird fish cages, where he trapped the fish inside and just turned the whole thing to cook the other side instead of flipping.

It was supposed to be a competition but since it was just the two of us I obviously hadn’t triggered his competitive Tracy gene which is only activated in the presence of his siblings. It was actually quite nice to chill with him for a bit, we got into a nice rhythm and managed not to get in each others way too much.

When he was busy with his fish and his veggie kababs were getting a little too charred I turned them all for him, he in turn rescued a batch of chips as I had my hands covered in batter. See, we could be civilised.

We dished out food like it was a canteen, everyone lining up with plates. We didn't want people to have to choose whose food they wanted to try so we gave them some of everything and then all trooped down to the beach where Scott and Virgil had already lit the firepit.

Gordon's fish was ok, but I didn't like the fact that it still looked like a fish, its eyes were staring at me and I was plucking around its bones, which just wasn't for me, but the veggie kebabs were nice so I gave Scott the fish to finish.

I looked over to see Alan holding the entire piece of battered fillet in his hand and biting into it like it was a slice of pizza...I honestly don't know how his brain works sometimes.

“Back home we have tiny wooden forks for the fish and chips,” I told him, which blew his mind. I had to get my phone out and show him pictures of them.

“So, who’s fish was the best?” Gordon asked once everyone was done eating, although Alan was still doing his impression of the seagulls from Nemo and snaffling left overs with little yelps of “Mine” every time someone abandoned a plate. I was currently feeding him chips as he sat patiently with his mouth open.

“I like them both,” Jeff hedged. “But the beer batter was interesting.”

“Batter is a little too crispy for my tastes,” John mused, nibbling on a piece of batter he’d picked off my plate.

“I like the fat fries,” Alan mumbled around a mouthful of said chips.

“I liked the lemony taste of the fish,” Virgil added.

“So who won?” I asked.

Everyone shrugged.

We decided in the end that we didn't care who won, it had just been fun to cook and hang out on the beach and chill. Sometimes that's all you need in life, sorry we weren't more exciting but this is just a normal family that is coping with things the way that everyone else is.

They want to be out there helping people and doing things like normal, but they can't and it’s definitely starting to impact on them a lot, so if chilled days and enforced rest is all we can do, then were going to make the most of it.

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

All Those Things They Couldn’t Say - A Runaway Baudelaires AU

{ao3} {tumblr} {masterlist}

Chapter Twelve - Beatrice and Bertrand have a lot of Regrets

“Do you think they’re alright?” 

Beatrice sighed, rolling her head into her husband’s arm, so that the tears at the edge of her eyes would be better hidden. “They’re our children. They’ll be okay. We’ve… we’ve prepared them for this. We knew it might happen.” 

“He won’t catch them.” 

“They’re going to be okay.” 

Neither of them were very convinced. 

“This isn’t what we wanted for them.” Bertrand sighed. “We wanted them safer than this.” 

“They’ll get a better life.” Beatrice said, her voice dropping low. “We’ll kill Olaf and find someone to take care of them. In someplace safe.” 

They were silent for a bit longer, and then Bertrand said, “I… I know they’ll never be safe with us, but-” 

“I know.” she curled against him. “I know. But it’s better to know they’re safe and happy than to… to be there. Putting them in danger.” 

“We’ll always be on the run.” 

“Unless we turn ourselves in.” 

“VFD will find us.” 

“But they won’t find them.” 

Bertrand put his arm around her, and she ran her hand over his chest. She tried to ignore the dark stains on his shirt, which had been a worrying red just a little bit ago- or was it yesterday? 

“I’m surprised they haven’t broken your glasses yet.” Beatrice whispered, once again leaning her head into his arm. 

“They want me to see what they’re doing.” 

“Well… they’ve overlooked that it gives us a bit of an advantage.” Beatrice mumbled. “You’ll be able to see when we escape.” 

“Yeah.” he whispered. “When we escape.” He leaned into her, and said, “Do you remember the last time we spoke to him?” 

She nodded. “Violet was just two months old. She was already so bright.” 

“She would smile whenever he so much as looked at her.” 

“You could always make her laugh the best, though.” 

“But she’d cry if you were more than two feet away from her.” 

“That continued until she was four.” 

“She seemed upset the first few weeks. When she didn’t see him with us.” 

Beatrice shivered slightly. “We couldn’t have stayed with him. VFD was investigating him.” 

“I know.” 

“Should we have taken him with us?” 

“Can you imagine Lemony Snicket on the run?” Bertrand smiled a little. “He’d be so bad at fake names.” 

“He’d just use anagrams.” 

“I mean, he might have an advantage, considering he doesn’t photograph for shit.” Bertrand’s face fell. “Didn’t.” 

Beatrice’s face fell, too. “Didn’t.” she repeated, softly. Then, “When do you think they’re coming back?” 

“Whenever they fucking feel like it.” he spat, glaring at the wall. 

She sat up, running a hand over his cheek. “I won’t let them hurt you again.” she said, her voice shaking. 

Bertrand turned to her, a sad look in his eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bea.” he said, and he put his forehead against hers. 

“How long have we been walking, do you think?” Klaus asked. 

Violet had just finished re-applying the bandages around both of their arms, while Sunny ate a health bar from her bag. 

“Maybe a day or so.” Violet said. “Not including when we slept. I think we’re almost there. Tunnel seems to be thinning out, and it’s getting a bit brighter. We should keep moving. Sunny, stop eating the wrapper, let’s go.” 

Sunny sighed, but shoved the wrapper in her pocket and nodded. 

Klaus lifted her up, shivering a little, and he said, “Should we grab extra jackets?” 

Violet signalled for them to start walking, and as they headed out, she said, “I think we should be good.” she sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” 

“Water.” Klaus said quickly. 

Sunny cocked her head. “Non?” “It doesn’t smell like water.” 

“Well, to clarify,” Klaus said, “It’s water around us. These tunnels should be nearby a lake or sea, and we’re smelling what’s basically all that water behind piles of dirt and metal and whatever else this tunnel is made of.” 

“Mud?” 

“Yeah, sure, Sunny, mud.” 

They fell silent again, walking for several more minutes until they finally reached a small crack of light from above. Violet made her way over to the trapdoor, and stood on her tiptoes, reaching up; it seemed to be blocked, but a hairpin and two minutes of quiet swearing solved that. She pushed it open and hoisted herself up, only briefly glancing around to make sure they were safe before reaching down to take Sunny, and then helping Klaus up beside her. 

Klaus also surveyed the area, putting a hand on his bag. They seemed to be in some kind of drab kitchen, with chipping blue paint and only a few scattered dishes around the counters. Violet shrugged at him, and he lifted Sunny, before the two of them found a window to climb out, onto the gray street outside. There were several dusty buildings, a few with broken windows or crumbling walls. A truck labelled Lucky Smells Lumbermill was parked outside a warehouse, and Violet looked from that to the sign above them, reading The Anxious Clown. 

“See? There’s the lake.” Klaus pointed, and his eyes widened. “That thing is huge.” 

“Yep.” Violet peered over at it. “Looks more like an ocean.” She glanced around some more, and observed, “There aren’t very many people here.” 

“It’s a stormy season, seems like,” Klaus gestured to the gray clouds above them, “So it’ll be off-season for any tourism.” 

“Means we won’t be spotted,” Violet muttered, “But if we have trouble, there are less people around to help.” 

Klaus gave her a quick look, clearly communicating, You don’t have to remind me. 

A taxi happened to drive by on the street, and Violet held up her hand, waving it down. When the driver lowered the window, she asked, “Excuse me, where can we find the Anwhistle house?” 

“Anwhistle?” the man looked confused. “All the way up on the cliff. Are you sure you want to go there? You know it’s Hurricane season.” 

“I thought hurricanes only showed up on oceans.” Klaus said. 

“With a body of water as large as Lake Lachrymose,” the taxi driver shrugged, “You can get anything.” 

“Sandy,” Sunny said, meaning something akin to, “I’d rather not experience a hurricane at the moment, we have enough problems.” 

“We need to reach the Anwhistles.” Klaus whispered to her. 

“We’ll go. I think we have money for the fare.” Violet nodded. She opened the backseat, sliding inside, and she said, “Did you say this was called Lake Lachrymose?” 

“That’s right.” the man nodded, as Klaus and Sunny slid in. 

Klaus shut the door, and as the man started driving, Violet turned to her brother and asked, “What does ‘Lachrymose’ mean?” 

“Literally ‘inducing tears.’ An adjective describing something sad, or given to weeping.” 

“Sounds pleasant.” Violet sighed. “But, then again, it doesn’t smell like horseradish.” 

“It was named after Ivan Lachrymose, actually.” the driver informed them. “Lake explorer. Perhaps you’ve read his biography?” 

“Afraid not.” Klaus said. “Is there a library in town that has it?” 

“Yes, but it’s closed for the off-season.” the driver said. “Just about everything is but the fried egg place, that clown restaurant, the Fickle Ferry, a general store, and the train station.” 

“And the taxi, of course.” Violet said. 

“Yes,” the man smiled, “We volunteer round the clock.” 

Violet froze, and then grabbed Klaus’s hand. Sunny glanced at them curiously, and then said, “Arewe?” 

Klaus paused, and then translated. “When do we arrive?” 

“Soon enough. Just hold up, we gotta go up the hill.” 

The taxi driver started going up, and Violet whispered, “Do you think he’s VFD?” 

“Whazzit?” Sunny asked. 

“Tell you in a mo.” Violet muttered. 

“I don’t know,” Klaus shivered, “You usually have the better ideas.” 

“Not true.” 

“Whazzit?” 

Violet took a breath, and then said, “What do you know about the Anwhistles?” 

“Not much. In fact, I thought it was just Josephine living up here. But I haven’t seen her around town in years.” 

“Josephine is one of the ones Mother and Father told us about.” Klaus whispered, and then he looked up and said louder, “What happened to Ike?” 

“I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been in-and-out of town.” 

“How many people do you regularly pick up?” Violet asked. 

“Not much. It’s the off-season.” 

“You’ve mentioned.” 

“Would you like to see a picture of my baby?” 

Violet groaned, and Klaus said, “No, thank you. We have a baby of our own that we have to stare at constantly.” 

“Wanderkit,” Sunny said, meaning, “I do tend to run off on my own sometimes.” 

There were a few more minutes of the taxi driver trying (and failing) to prompt conversation from the kids, and eventually he parked and said, “Well, here we are. Why are you visiting Josephine, anyway?” 

“We have some business to attend to.” Violet said stiffly. “Klaus, come on.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Klaus said, passing some money over to the taxi driver. 

“Got a tip?” he asked. 

Violet hesitantly handed him an extra few bills, and then grabbed his wrist, stared him in the eyes, and said, “I’d prefer if you didn’t tell anyone we were here.” 

Some kind of fear flashed in the man’s eyes as he glanced up at her, and he hesitantly nodded as she slid out of the taxi. 

As soon as he drove off, Klaus said, “Very nice, Vi. Very subtle. Now he’ll tell everyone some kids threatened him.” 

“And admit he was scared?” 

“He’ll just tell VFD someone visited Josephine. Do you think she’s a Volunteer, too?” 

“Whazzit?” Sunny groaned. 

Violet sighed, and then leaned down to get face-to-face with Sunny. “Mother and Father were in a cult. VFD. We’ll explain more inside, okay? When Josephine leaves us alone.” 

“Fine.” Sunny huffed, crossing her arms. 

Violet gave Klaus a quick smile, and then they walked to the door. She pressed the doorbell, and then paused. “No noise.” 

“Maybe we just can’t hear it from out here.” Klaus said. 

Violet tried again, and then she moved and rapped on the door. Again, silence, and she groaned. “Maybe she’s not home?” Klaus guessed. 

“I didn’t crawl through cult tunnels for the bitch to not be home.” Violet huffed. She began to knock again, only for the door to fling open. 

“Don’t knock on the door!” a woman shouted, panic in her expression. “The wood could splinter and give you a cut!” 

The Baudelaires stared at her in utter confusion. Then, Violet sighed and said, “Are you Josephine Anwhistle?” 

The woman, a bit nervous, stuttered, “Yes. Yes, I- who are you?” 

Violet put a hand on her hip, gave her a glare, and said, “I’m Violet Baudelaire, and these are my siblings, Klaus and Sunny.” Josephine’s eyes widened in fear, and she continued, “May we come in?”

[muriels-bitch]

well since you said it would be a good nsfw prompt, can I have a little lemony fic about muriel being jealous and getting a little more touchy feely and rough ;)

While I don’t usually write NSFW fics, I liked this idea so this happened. Not full on lemon, I think the term would be orange? It’s pretty saucy.

Saucy fic under the cut :D

Muriel was in a sour mood. You both had ventured out to the market earlier, and while that alone would be reason to dampen his mood, it wasn’t that this time. Someone had flirted with you, and you could tell it was getting to him. He didn’t even have the patience to whittle- so instead he just sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ground.

You hated when Muriel got like this. When Muriel was in a bad mood, he’d recede into himself, rather than try and discuss his problems. You figured it was just habit after being alone for so long. After an hour or so of the silence, you decided this needed to be discussed. You sat beside him, turning to face him.

“Alright-” you started, taking his hands in yours. “Talk to me.” Muriel met your gaze, knitting his brows. You sighed. “Okay, I know what made you angry, but I still want you to talk about it... Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

Muriel sighed and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I… I don’t like when other people talk to you that way…” He spoke softly. “It makes me feel like… Hm… Since you’re mine, they shouldn’t be able to just do that, right?” Muriel thought about his choice of words, then glanced at you again. “N...Not to say that you’re my property… Not mine in that sense, but-”

“I know what you mean, don’t worry.” You squeezed Muriel’s hand, smiling at him. “It’s normal to feel protective over your partner. I’d rather you be that way, honestly.” You reassured.

Muriel sighed, slowly moving his hands out from under yours, wrapping his arms around your waist before pulling you up to straddle his lap. As you gripped Muriel’s shoulder’s for balance, he gently rested his hands on your hips as he kneaded into them. “I wish there was a way to just… Mark you.” It took him a second to realize, in a way, there was. The kneading into your hips stopped as his mind raced. You chuckled.

“I wouldn’t mind that…” Your tone was suggestive, as you slowly trailed your hands down Muriel’s firm biceps. Muriel’s face settled with a deep blush as he glanced away.

“I… Suppose I could, couldn’t I…?” Muriel mumbled. “But, I… Would you really… Want that?” Muriel asked. You smiled, gently putting a hand under Muriel’s chin, bringing your face close to his to press a tender kiss against his lips.

“I’d like very few things more right now, Muriel.” You reassured. Muriel’s grip on your hips tightened a fraction, but he didn’t quite move yet. You rolled your hips to hopefully encourage him, causing a low grunt to escape Muriel’s throat, as he leaned forward, pressing his face against your neck. You tilted your head the opposite way, moving any hair that could get in his way.

You felt a puff of breath against your neck before feeling Muriel’s soft tongue brush against it. You threaded your hand through Muriel’s hair as he pressed a delicate kiss against your sensitive neck, though he was hesitating. “It’s okay, Muri.” You reassured, gently petting his hair. “Go ahead, love. Leave a mark.”

With a soft sigh out his nose, Muriel’s mouth latched onto your neck, softly sucking a mark into your skin. You let out a soft noise, closing your hand in Muriel’s hair, though being careful not to pull. “Yes, that’s good...” You cooed.

It was over all too soon as Muriel pulled his lips away. He leaned back a bit to see the mark he left. He gently brought a hand up to rub it as his eyes met yours. “It doesn’t hurt, right..?” He asked. You shook your head.

“No, no. It feels good if anything, while you’re doing it at least.” Muriel blushed at that, the hand still on your hip traveling up a bit higher under your shirt.

“Then… Would you like me to… Keep going?” Muriel asked. You couldn’t hide your grin even if you wanted to.

“Yes.” You said. “Please.” Muriel gave a little nod.

“If that’s what you really want, then…” Muriel pushed your shirt up farther. “I’ll keep going.” A little smile tugged at Muriel’s lips. You lifted your arms and Muriel swiftly removed your top, eager to put his hands on you again. His large hands slowly stroked down from your shoulders to your chest, gently caressing your bare skin. You hummed, pressing a gentle kiss to Muriel’s lips, before tilting your head to the side, baring the other side of your neck to Muriel. Muriel leaned forward, sucking another mark into your neck.

“Mm… You can do it a bit harder.” You meant it more as a suggestion than a statement. Muriel hesitated, but he did suck into your neck a bit harder, before pulling back briefly. Then, he moved to your shoulder, and ever so gently let his teeth scrape against your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat for a brief moment. Muriel had never used his teeth on you before, so this was a new sensation, though definitely a welcome one. Muriel slowly put more pressure, and a small sound escaped your lips. You rolled your hips forward, baring yourself down onto Muriel’s lap. Muriel let out a grunt of surprise, biting into you a bit harder, before quickly changing gears, putting his hands on your hips to lift you up, before setting you on your back, pressing you into the bed. “... You were… distracting me.” Muriel blushed. You laughed a little at that. Muriel’s incredibly sensitive, especially there.

Muriel’s focus returned to your partially exposed body. Muriel leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your collarbone before gently sucking another mark there. He worked his way down, carefully kissing down to your chest. One hand gently landed on one side, while his mouth was on the other, tracing his tongue down to your nipple. Your hips rolled, now against Muriel’s leg, which was apparently less distracting, considering he didn’t stop.

Muriel took the fleshy nub into his mouth, his tongue slowly tracing around it. Your hands found themselves in Muriel’s hair, combing through it. “Mm… Good boy.” You praised. Muriel let out a little hum, caressing the unoccupied side of your chest with one hand, and the other slowly running down your side, stopping on your hip.

Muriel moved up a bit, leaving another mark, this time on your chest. He pulled back to observe it, gently stroking his thumb over the now discolored skin. It was definitely the biggest mark, and wouldn't be going away anytime soon. Muriel gave a satisfied smile. “Mm… That should suffice.” Muriel said, moving off of you. You let out a disappointed groan, sitting up. Before you could protest further, Muriel pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “I have to make dinner. That’s why we went to the market, remember?” You sighed, and crossed your arms, pouting. A small smirk appeared on Muriel’s lips, before he got up to start dinner. Fine. You’d let him make dinner. But you probably wouldn’t let him sleep much that night.

[woahpip]

january

i am journaling + leaving a little thing on tumblr to ~keep me motivated~ or whatever. here’s my jan 2020 check in.

i feel dumb as fuck keeping up with things i like but depression has so throughly recked me that sometimes i honestly don’t know.

likes: -lemony salads -doing more movement/walking/exercising -keeping up connections! -writing lots of fic! tons of handwriting done this month -Super Crush KO game-- the aesthetics and not being too difficult!! we love. -on days I have to work I’ve straightened my sleep schedule so i can do more stuff before bed! it makes me feel more like a human even if I’m just writing/walking or whatever for 20ish minutes before conking out. -still taking my meds! still thinking about healing!

things i’d like to do better rn: -working on my poetry/original writing. Editing and writing time. -Reading more!! books and articles and lit mags! -less phone time god esp mindless scrolling

a long-ish list of hopeful to-dos in feb: -keep walking/exercising! I’ve only done a little movement once a week but it’s more than it was and I feel good about it so far -make tentative list of sites/mags to keep up -more pitches at my job!! i haven’t met a pitch goal in a year lmao -keep up better with my mood tracker! talk w/ my therapist about how best to keep up with things -actually visit the therapist and not the psych doc. -start planning jon’s and mine trip ~tentatively~ for the summer -really dedicate time to reading a book // even if I have to time it, like 15 minutes twice a week or something. -help keep our apartment more clean! we both’ve been trying I just wanna try a little harder (esp my side of the room...) -buy a yellow blouse

fanfic specific: -work on my twoish multichaptered ideas! a big 2020 goal is publishing a longer fic. -vday rec week-- try and post at least daily for both prompts -keep tumble queue looking good -interact more with mutuals? i’m close to a 100 followers (lol) but not sure  how to ~celebrate~ that?

[anthemsreturn-writes]

To Set Aside One’s Pride

Hi!!! I’m really sorry I wasn't able to get this done by Christmas, things were hectic, no excuse for that! This is my Secret Santa gift for @forloveoflibertea for the @usuknetwork event. I went with the magical strike kiss under the mistletoe prompt combined with the optional omegaverse twist! I hope you like it!!! :))))) 

Word Count: 3,109 

Warnings: They think they hate each other at first, but they secretly have those feelings. 

Summary: The company Christmas party was coming up, and a certain Frenchman has a plan to get Alfred and Arthur together in an unconventional way. 

--- 

"Alfred, if you don't leave my office right now, we'll have a big problem!" Arthur, the quickly rising star omega of the company, bit out, venom in his voice and poison in his glare. His scent was spiked with irritation.

"HA! You know what else is big?" Alfred goaded, knowing Arthur couldn't do anything to him without getting fired, what with Alfred being the company president's son. He almost smelled more obnoxious than he was acting, their scents combining to make the room unbearable.

There was a loud groan before Arthur's fluffy blond head hit the table. "Why do you have to be such a child?" He ground out before looking up, cold bottle green eyes locking with the alpha's bemused pacific blue behind his thin-wired frames.

Simply smirking, Alfred "aw'd" at him condescendingly. "You're just jealous, baby." There was an odd spike in his scent at the end of his sentence, which Arthur completely ignored.

Twitching, he looked about ready to murder Alfred. "Do not call me that!" he growled out, the blush creeping into his cheeks saying otherwise.

Holding up his hands in a placating gesture and laughing obnoxiously loud, Alfred spun on his heels, his long, feathered black coat swishing behind him. "Whatever… sweetie."

Arthur barely restrained himself from throwing his metal paperweight at the brat's head. Alfred's only four years younger than him, and by no means unintelligent, yet he acts like an imbecile or an immature hooligan. The dyed purple stripe in his hair and a temporary purple star tattoo on his cheek only add to this effect. Convincing himself he was angry at Alfred and not at all flustered by the pet names, Arthur quickly got back into the throes of his work, ignoring the silence and not at all wishing he'd come back.

-------

Back in his private, top floor office, Alfred was feeling incredibly proud of himself. He considers his work day to be wasted if he doesn't bug the adorably grumpy Arthur Kirkland at least once. Just as he himself was about to open up some of his own work-related documents, there was a knock on his door. Fixing a professional smile on his face and wiping off the self-satisfied smirk, he called out, "Come in!"

The door opened halfway. "Ah! Mon Ami, how are you?"

Smile dropping off his face, Alfred sighed gustily. His cheerful scent mellowed. At least the man was wearing a normal three-piece suit, meaning he wasn't in the mood to be putting on a pink frilly dress and taking his department on strike.

"What do you want, Francis?"

The man came in uninvited, shutting the door behind himself. The beta strutted towards Alfred's desk, flipping his long blond hair over his shoulder idly. Then he leaned on the desk with one hand. "Oh, nothing really, I just wanted to ask you how things are going between you and Mr. Eyebrows lately," he asked, his tone suggestive.

Alfred arched a brow. "What's there to tell?" He asked dryly, ignoring the jab at Arthur's rather over-sized eyebrows. They're actually kinda cute, not that he would ever admit it.

Leaning in, Francis chuckled. "Oh, but everyone outside of his office heard the little spat between the two of you. What was that about, what was it again? "Babe" and "Sweetie"?"

Alfred glowered at him, scent and mood darkening. "I'm not in the mood, Francis." The man was ruining his good mood by suggesting there was more to his teasing Artie earlier.

He smiled lecherously. "So you're not denying calling the formidable Brit those pet names?"

"... Get out, Francis."

"Wait, wait, wait! I just wanted to make sure, now onto the actual topic at hand! I propose a bet, one that will help solve the, how shall I say, tension between the two of you?"

"... I said get out."

"Just hear me out! I know the two of you can't possibly bear to spend more than a few minutes together at a time, so this bet would be a good way to one-up him!"

Alfred didn't want to admit his intrigue. "What are you going on about?"

"Before I say anything, just know that Arthur has already agreed to this!"

"And?"

"It's simple, really. I'll handcuff the two of you together-"

"Not interested."

"Hear me out! You will both have a key to the handcuffs. The conditions are that you have to spend the entire Christmas party together on a fake date, and whoever uncuffs himself from the other first loses! And if by some miracle, you manage to go the whole party without doing so, the work environment will be much improved because you will both have learned how to cooperate!" He finished triumphantly.

Alfred regarded him warily. "And why would I agree to this?"

"Because Arthur has already done so. He bet me one hundred dollars you'd never accept."

Alfred pushed a hand through his caramel blond hair. He considered it for a minute, looking off to the side through his floor-to-ceiling windows at the busy New York streets below. It would be nice to be with the omega during the party; after all, he doesn't have a date-- it wouldn't be a date, he'd just get to tease him the entire time! Artie would get so mad and he'd come out on top like an alpha should! Hopefully, Artie won't uncuff himself at the drop of a hat though… he'll have to tone it down, but, he'd get to spend some time with him-- teasing him! That is… Finally, his resolve hardened and he turned back to Francis, nodding his head. "He deserves to lose some money," was all he said at first. Francis just smiled brightly, knowingly for some reason, because of course there's nothing more to this. "But if I win, you have to promise to not go on strike for an entire year."

An evil glint in his eye, Francis nodded. "You have my word, Mon Ami… Oh, and one more thing. If you both make it the whole party, neither of you win or lose, so expect a strike, because no one wants to work before New Years."

Alfred smiled, somehow managing to look wicked and innocent at the same time, and clasped his hands together. "Good. Now, get out of my office."

Chuckling, Francis nodded his head, beginning his retreat. "Au revoir!" he called out, shutting the door behind himself with a flourish. As he made his way down the hall, he thought, Now to just get Arthur to agree.

-------

Why did I agree to this? Arthur bemoaned, frustrated with this being the fifth time during the party a coworker asked why he was handcuffed to Alfred, of all people! Arthur was quick to reassure them it was just for a bet that he himself would be winning. Each time he had to reiterate it he got more and more frustrated, his tea and roses scent turning sour and lemony, especially with the git just grinning down at him instead of helping explain. Alfred, meanwhile, was having the time of his life watching Artie suffer, but a large part of him wished he'd smell sweet while they were together. So sweet, just for him… Uh… Alfred didn't know what to make of that thought. But as the party wore on and the gossip spread, people stopped questioning them and they were left to enjoy the party as much as they were able to in each other's immediate presence. To Arthur's surprise, however, the whole event was going rather… smoothly. Sure, he was still teased by the utter pillock he was joined to, but Alfred became less and less obnoxious as time wore on. He became almost… charming? No, not charming, just more bearable, that was it! Of course, that was it… Right.

"Oh! Hi guys, I see you two must be having fun!" Arthur's cheerful coworker and office friend, an alpha woman named Erzebet, walked up to them with a smile and a wave. Just as Arthur was about to reply he found himself gently pushed behind Alfred. He frowned, scent reflecting his confusion, about to ask him what his problem was when Alfred spoke.

"Hey, Erzebet, nice to see you! Where's your mate? You should go find him." Alfred spoke tersely and authoritatively, and Arthur was honestly quite bewildered before anger took over. Who in the world does he think he is?!

Blinking in slight shock, Erzebet smiled and took a slow step back from the two of them. "That's a good idea! I don't know where he is right now, so I'd better go. I'll leave the two of you to it then." With a nod to Alfred and an astute glance at Arthur, Erzebet walked away. Arthur turned to Alfred, livid.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" He shrieked quietly, trying not to make too much of a scene, despite his distress coloring the room.

"What's wrong with you? You were just going to let her flirt with you?!" Alfred smelled of acid and charcoal, and it was burning Arthur's nose, only distressing him further. Alfred finally noticed and attempted to calm his scent back to its usual fire smoke and sandalwood.

Calming slightly and face twisting trying to comprehend the stupidity of his statement, Arthur then pursed his lips with a frown. "Maybe losing one hundred dollars is worth it," he bit out acidly. He was reaching into his pocket when Alfred grabbed his hand and pulled it away.

Alfred quickly backtracked. "Wait, Arthur, come on, I just… I didn't mean to upset you, I--"

"Didn't mean to upset me?! By being rude to and chasing away my friend? I find that hard to believe. Do you want me to be miserable working here? Is that why you always bother me? … Do you truly hate me that much?" Arthur's rage-fueled voice quieted down as he spoke until it was almost hard to hear him over the noise of the party. Tears poked into the corners of his which he valiantly fought from spilling.

Panicking, Alfred's scent turned tart and vinegar, causing Arthur to crinkle his nose and start to panic in response. Noticing, Alfred turned it gentle and comforting, surprising Arthur, the sudden change causing tears to start to spill. "What? No! Artie, no, look, I-I just… look, can we just forget about this? I'll make it up to you, I swear! Just please sweetie, please don't cry." Without thinking, he wrapped the omega in his arms, his left and Arthur's right pressed awkwardly between them.

In Arthur's ensuing shock, the tears vanished and his scent sweetened against his will. That was the first time Alfred had ever called him a pet name that wasn't intended as an insult or to rile him up. It was… genuine? Was he honestly trying to comfort him? Regardless of the alpha’s intentions, which were obvious to everyone else in the room, Arthur was indeed comforted and, without hesitating, buried his face in Alfred's chest and felt calmed by the hand gently rubbing the center of his back. Alfred, for one, had never realized just how soft Arthur was, how delicate, and how he absolutely needed a hero like him to protect him.

Once Arthur was calmed down (a little while still after that, because the hug was… nice) Alfred led him away from the majority of the party and to a back corner where he could apologize and tell Artie why, exactly, he did what he did. He had only just realized it himself.

Arthur was surprisingly compliant as Alfred led him through the crowd until they reached a deserted niche. Then Alfred, instinctively, nudged Arthur into the corner and blocked it off with his body, keen on protecting the man he now viewed as a vulnerable, sweet, cute omega who he has the sole job of protecting. Alfred still warred with his feelings internally, but it was too late. For better or worse, the alpha inside of him wants this omega, like a light-bulb turned on in his head, or more aptly, he opened his eyes to see the light had always been on.

Arthur looked up at Alfred questioningly but unprotestingly. His emotions were going through a similar whirlwind, and he suddenly didn't hate, or rather "hate," Alfred as he previously thought he did.

Alfred sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, scent tumultuous. "Baby…" he started off, "I'm sorry I upset you, and for chasing away your friend. I know it's not an excuse, but, the thought of another alpha being, closer to you than I am, I dunno, it just, triggered? Something inside of me, that I can't really explain. No, wait, I can, I--" mustering up his courage, he sighed before smiling and looking down into Arthur's beautiful green eyes, scent evening out pleasantly. "I like you, Artie," he said wistfully. Arthur had been confused throughout his speech before his eyes widened and his heart clenched in a way that warmed his whole body. His lips trembled, and he looked the picture of a deer frozen in headlights. Alfred moved his hand to gently cup Arthur's cheek, stroking it softly, before realizing Arthur hadn't replied yet and the touch might be unwanted. He quickly removed his hand, scent sheepish, before Arthur's shocked scent melted into one of unadulterated happiness and he whined softly against his will, embarrassedly, in the back of this throat when Alfred removed his hand. Alfred let out a soft breath, his smile more relaxed and genuine than either his megawatt smile or his smirk. He returned his hand and gently cupped his cheek, waiting for an answer. Arthur didn't know what to say, so he sniffled as tears of happiness blurred his vision and his scent sweetened, smelling of tea, roses, and now rain and honey as well.

"Artie, would you like to go on a proper date with me?" Alfred asked, hoping Arthur would say something. Arthur looked down and wet his lips before nodding, looking up with a small but pleased smile.

"Yes… I would," he replied softly. "... Although, the rest of this party can be our first date?" He asked, emboldened by his budding and strengthening feelings. He mentally looked back on past meetings with Alfred and realized just how much they were holding back their true feelings, insulting each other so they could ignore how they felt, belittling each other so they could forget how they felt, and convincing themselves they hated each other so they wouldn't ache inside. He realized now the ache was completely gone, and he felt, happy. A thought struck him. "Uhm… wait. Does this mean? That we're…" his voice nearly squeaked on the last word, "boyfriends?"

Alfred's scent became stronger, more protective and proud. "Yeah, it does. I'll take good care of you, Artie, I promise. And I'll make this the best first date you've ever had, alright?"

Arthur nodded meekly, too overwhelmed by his feelings to muster up his usual attitude. Cautiously he leaned forward and Alfred immediately caught him up in a hug. The alpha buried his face into Arthur's hair, gently nosing his locks and smiling, happier than he'd been in a very long time, so long he can't remember a time when he was happier, and this was only the beginning of their relationship. Arthur looked up with a smile when he caught something out of the corner of his eye… Mistletoe. He frowned and pouted, causing Alfred to look up questioningly.

"... You led me over here on purpose," he accused. His mind raced. Alfred had probably set all this up! He purposefully upset him just so he could comfort him, then twist the knife! He had him believing this was genuine! But… it couldn't be, could it? Arthur started to pull away. "I can't believe you planned this! Did you set all this up just to kiss me? Did you honestly think you could trick me like that?! I--"

"I didn't plan this, Artie! I swear! This is all a coincidence. Trust, me, I lo- care about you so much, I'd never do this to upset you," Alfred cut him off before he could go on one of his trademark rants. He didn't even fully know what he'd done wrong this time, but the omega was obviously upset. Arthur's face was tinged slightly red with anger, but he quickly realized he jumped to conclusions. Alfred wasn't leading him on, he wasn't trying to trick him. He actually, really… does care about him. The red turned to one caused by embarrassment. Arthur looked down, pressing his forehead against the collar of Alfred's coat.

"Hey, baby, I swear I didn't plan this, but since it's there… why don't we follow tradition?" He asked with a smirk, scent strengthening. After a second, Arthur looked up from beneath his lashes with a smirk of his own.

"Well, it is tradition," he said angelically, scent spiking mischievously. Grinning, Alfred leaned down and captured Arthur's lips with his own, holding him close and tilting his head to the side so his glasses didn't press into Arthur's cheek. The kiss started out slow until they were enthusiastically moving their lips in tandem. It was sweet, and they both hummed into this kiss before Alfred slipped his tongue out and gently licked the seam of Arthur's lips. With a gasp, he parted them and Alfred tangled their tongues together, stroking Arthur's tongue and hip and the same time. Arthur moaned. He can't remember a kiss that felt this nice. No, better than nice. This felt… right.

Their lips molded together passionately, tongues tangling before they began to run out of air. Arthur finally felt the intense need to breathe and attempted to pull back, but Alfred held him against him a second longer before they pulled away, a string of their mixed saliva connecting them. Arthur wiped it away with the back of his palm, feeling out of breath as a pleased smirk came onto his face. Alfred just smiled, nuzzling their noses together, causing Arthur to involuntarily make a sound close to a giggle that was absolutely not a giggle. He looked down, embarrassed, but Alfred lifted his chin and molded their lips together for another kiss.

-------

At the end of the party, they both uncuffed themselves while Francis smiled, sighing over-dramatically. "Ah, love…" he cooed, both Alfred and Arthur snapping, "Shut it." Four years later, on their wedding day, they both thanked their lucky stars they took a bet for the sole purpose of their own pride and gained more than they could've ever hoped for by putting it aside.

[worldoflis]

6. Feed / Festival

A/N So. Ehm. Hi? I am super duper behind on EVERYTHING. Last Friday I just COULD NOT focus - the prompt words being so close to what I’d written the day before just threw me off and I couldn’t decide what to do with it. There was zero time to write on Saturday and I admit I could’ve done more with Sunday but also I had my final presentation to prepare so there was that. I won’t be able to catch up, I know that, but this was always about getting me to write again and I do absolutely want to finish the challenge. I’ll just have to do it on my own terms. Either way it’s 11 o’clock and I should really go to bed, so this will be short.

Oh, and this one basically has no Klaine. Again. Sorry. Also it’ll probably make a little more sense if you read the previous part?

I probably should also figure out a name for this verse...

1. Athlete / snowman // 2. Bury / Cinnamon //  3. Camera / Candle //  4. Deputy / Paper  //   5. Exclude / Ribbon

Kurt watches as the boy walks away -though "skips away” is probably closer to what he’s seeing- and he can’t help but smile. He absolutely loves feeding people, especially when the people appreciate being fed. Even more so when the people are cute boys around his age who may or may not have stuttered in a really cute and endearing way. And who may or may not have one of the prettiest butts Kurt has seen in a while. Not that he’s staring.

He really should’ve asked for his name.

“Kurt, I need a cupcake.”

“Oh well, hello there, Rachel, and a good afternoon to you too!” he says overly cheerfully as he turns around to see his roommate standing across from him, face on thunder o’clock. “I would love to sell you a cupcake and make your day a little brighter. Which one would you like?”

Rachel squints at him, and Kurt honestly cannot tell whether she realized he’s making fun of her and decided to let it slide, or whether the sarcasm just went way over her head and she’s simply annoyed at his cheerfulness.

“The yellow one.”

“One Lemony Cricket coming right up!”

He picks up a cupcake and a napkin, but doesn’t hand it over quite yet, instead holding out his hand. Rachel looks at it a little stupidly, until she finally figures it out.

“Kurt!”

She looks genuinely upset, but Kurt stands his ground.

“One cupcake, one dollar.”

“B-b-but you’re my best friend!”

“Your best friend who sits on the student council and is organizing their First Annual CupCake Festival so it needs to be a resounding success.”

“I helped you bake those cookies!”

Now it’s Kurt’s turn to squint.

“You sat on the table singing Streisand songs the whole time.”

“You cannot underestimate the power of proper song support,” Rachel says indignantly, and Kurt raises an eyebrow.

“Are you gonna buy the cupcake or not?”

“Fine.”

Kurt grins as Rachel slaps down the dollar bill in his palm, and hands her over the cupcake.

“BTW,” he says as Rachel bites down on the cupcake. “I had a question for you. About one of your classmates. I mean I think it’s one of your classmates.”

Rachel nods at him to go on as she mulches on her cupcake.

“There was a guy here earlier - short, gelled down hair, pretty brown eyes, cute in a dapper kind of way. He doesn’t happen to be in your class, does he?”

And then there’s crumbs everywhere. On his sweater, on the floor, but worst of all, Rachel choking on her cupcake has sent a cloud of crumbs and spit all over the freshly baked and ready to sell cupcakes in front of him.

“Rachel!”

“I’m sorry!” She’s trying to catch her breath, still coughing up pieces of cupcake, trying to clean up her mess but just making everything worse. “I’m sorry! Oh god... the cricket... it got stuck in my throat and- sorry, wait, let me-”

“Just stop,” Kurt tells her, impatient and annozed, as he swats her arm away, picking away the victimized cupcakes so he won’t accidentally sell them. “Just... don’t touch anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel repeats, and to her credit, she does look genuinely sorry. “I’m so so sorry.”

“I was just asking for a name,” Kurt huffs. “If you didn’t want to give it to me then you could’ve just said so.”

“Oh no! No, I don’t mind.” She’s not looking at him though, and Kurt’s not entirely sure he can trust her. “It’s just - you know. My classmates. They’re assholes. You don’t want to date any of them, trust me.”

“Right.”

Kurt clears the last crumbs off the table, grabbing a new box of cupcakes to fill the empty table, making sure the box of ruined cupcakes is properly labeled. He knows Rachel’s class is full of drama, but the guy he’d sold the two cupcakes to earlier had seemed nice enough. Besides, it wasn’t like he was asking her to set them up. He was just... curious, is all.

It seems that Rachel genuinely feels bad about ruining his cupcakes though, because he hasn’t even finished putting out all the cupcakes on the table, when she speaks up.

“Chandler,” she finally says. “His name is Chandler.”

7. gradual / star

[eottoghe]

Little Boxes - Three

A Jeonghceol Domestic AU where they live in suburbia with their six year old son Chan. Jeonghan is an active member of the PTA, a soccer dad and chauffeur, and a supportive parent all around. His loving husband cares deeply for his passions and will follow him to the end of the world if it keeps him and his family happy. Follow their journey as they get caught up and fun and zany adventures when they go outside of the guide lines of your average neighbor. Don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I want to see how many different domestic prompts I can get out of this AU before I run out of steam.

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

No wonder Jeonghan is always so stressed and moody after one of their volunteer days.

Seungcheol shows up after dropping Chan off at dance class and picking up a few things from the store Jeonghan swore they needed. Extra cases of water, bags of ice to cool them, and strawberries ‘cause Jeonghan just likes to snack.  He looks around at all the booths lining the school’s grassy courtyard. It looks like something out of a dream. Who knew someone would go to such extreme measures for a bake sale. The most he thought he’d see would be a couple of tables set out with some assorted cakes from the local mini mart, but this…. this is more like a pastry carnival.

At least eight different booths and tables are set up, each decorated with flamboyant details. The next is even more extravagant than the last. The colors are bright and contrast each other with a new theme each block down. Some moms manning the booths have even adorned mini costumes to match their themes. It doesn’t stop at the booths though. Trees line the sides of the field with streamers dangling from their branches. Who even climbed up all of those to hang that many fairy lights? It’s pretty. But also going to be pretty annoying when someone has to take them down.

Jeonghan shares a table with Joshua (much to Seungcheol’s chagrin). They both wear halo crowns, flowing white shirts, and washed out blue jeans. Their table is painted in all white with fluffy cotton stuffing poofed up at the base to make it look like the whole thing is floating on a cloud. The name displayed on the sign attached says “Heaven’s Gate” in curly, gold script. The feathers decorating the table cloth are soft and eloquent and everything about their set up sings “grace”. But Jeonghan’s an angel from hell, Seungcheol thinks. If only they knew.

Honestly, Seungcheol feels out of his element seeing everyone all dressed up and in position. He doesn’t really know where to go after dropping the ice and water in the coolers by the main office of the elementary school. He wants to go join his husband’s side, when Janice Park stops him from doing so. He only knows it’s her because of the snake like eyes Jeonghan is always describing (and the sticker on her shirt that says Hello, My name is…)

“Well, hi there! It’s always lovely seeing fresh faces around.” She smiles a friendly smile, but if Jeonghan was here, he knows he’d mutter it was venomous.

“Hi…” Seungcheol awkwardly begins, adverting his eyes to the side to try and get his husband’s attention. His husband’s focus is more on the mom who just walked up to make a purchase. He’ll just have to grit his teeth and bear it then.

“You know… we don’t get many dads to come and volunteer, so this is wonderful! We need someone strong and handsome on our team.” Seungcheol tries not to let his uncomfortableness show at the compliment. “Actually, we were one hand short when Sanha’s dad pulled his back this morning hanging the lights up...” Go figure. “…so I think It’d be great if you could stand in and takeover his spot for now.

“Sure. I’ll be glad to help.” Seungcheol is good at charming people with his smile. Jeonghan says he used it to trick him into marriage, but hey, he isn’t complaining now. So he grins down at the fussy lady and pretends to be a lot more interested than he really is.

And that’s how he gets roped into tugging a ridiculous red wagon around to restock the treats when someone gets low of a particular batch of something. He feels like a mule as he makes rounds to and from the school’s front lobby and the courtyard. He’s grateful it’s autumn and the weather shows some pity, but he still breaks a sweat. Quite a sweat.

It was kind of awkward having to go to each of the moms’ booths to drop off their goodies. It was odd how they’d always feel the urge to lean down slowly to help him distribute whatever pastry they needed. He assured them it was okay, but they kept insisting, batting fake eyelashes. Some liked touching or squeezing his upper arm and thanking him for all the hard work he was doing. Even more so, it felt like eyes were watching his every move. He knew his shirt was clinging to his skin from the sweat and he had to constantly push his hair back from his face so their stares only made him more self-conscious. Did he look that bad?

The “Heaven’s Gate” table was always busy so Seungcheol had to continuously grab more angel food pound cakes and lemony white powdered cookies because Joshua was apparently “such an amazing cook”. Cue eyeroll.

After everything had seemed to calm down and people were just casually strolling and enjoying whatever snacks they had bought, he finally got a break. He went over to his husband’s table where he and Joshua were chatting and instantly found himself glued to his back. He hugged his arms around his waist and let his body cool down. Jeonghan instantly convulsed, his angelic persona cracking for just a moment. He gasps in mild shock, but not from being caught off guard.

Seungcheol pulls away and doesn’t realize he’s pouting so hard until Jeonghan points it out.

“First off, you’re super sweaty and I can’t have you stain my blouse right before they come around for pictures. Secondly, there’s like 500 kids running around and PDA is strictly off limits. Sorry, hon.” He smiles sadly at his husband knowing how the overgrown child acts when he doesn’t get the attention he wants. He lifts up his hand instead for a high-five and Seungcheol can’t help but scoff at it. He intentionally leaves the other hanging as he seeks out a bench on the side to go rest on. He’ll just take his sweaty hugs somewhere else.

He was still close enough to Heaven’s Gate that he could hear the conversations being held. That is, if he wanted to hear. But he was also far enough that it wouldn’t garner any attention toward himself.

A female photographer appears with a huge camera dangling from her neck. She seems harmless enough, Seungcheol thinks. Until she opens her mouth.

“Aww! You two are so cute in your little halos. I’ll buy three extras if you do a heart for the camera.” She croons and probably winks too, Seungcheol can’t see from his angle, but he’s sure she was actually the devil in disguise. And of all the hearts they could do—hand hearts, finger hearts, they decide to go with a classic couple look. Jeonghan curves his arm over his head, while Joshua mimics him, connecting their hands together to make an arching heart gesture all while smiling into the camera. Joshua’s other hand slips a little too low on Jeonghan’s back for his taste and Seungcheol finds himself losing his patience. 

PdA iS oFf liMitS

Okay. Maybe he does get a little jealous from time to time. But can you blame him?

Making Seungcheol jealous, clingy, and pouty is so fun. The next part is going to be a continuation of the bake sale. Also tumblr formatting is so odd. Like I can’t get the phone app to coincide with the desktop web site. *sigh* I’ll be going to AO3 with this after I figure out what I’m actually doing with this story.

Next Chapter

[writeinspiration]

suggestions for a young writer? im 15 and i just started seriously writing about a year ago~ since then I've written mostly poetry but I really write other stuff like short stories or plays too! but i always have trouble making my ideas ideas into something and just deciding how or what i want to write. and i get so worried that i lose motivation! i think that i first want to tackle trying to make characters/a simple short story. advice, tips, or tricks? thank youuu!

Hi! I’m glad you’re ready to get started! Beingeager about writing is the best. Writing a poem is a lot like writing a shortstory, so you’re on the right track. Good writing is precise and almost lyrical.

It can be really difficult to maintain motivation.Most people will advise you to write every day, which is good advice, but it’sjust not always feasible. The more you write, the better you will get!

Personally, titles and concepts and characters areall equally likely to get me started on a project. A cool title might pop up inmy head, and then I develop what story and characters go with it. Or I’ll havea concept that I’ll develop and label. Other times, I start with a characterand figure out who they are and what they do.

Here’s my most popular post regarding charactercreation: https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/158687382194/how-do-you-create-characters-or-do-they-come-find

Keeping motivated can be really difficult whenyou’re unsure of your capabilities as a writer. But the more you wait to putyour ideas to the page, the harder it will be to pick things back up. Onceyou’ve gone a week without writing, one more day seems like nothing. One moreweek, one more month… where does it stop?

I’ve seen people suggest leaving off in the middleof a sentence. When you do that, you are setting up for success. You alreadyknow exactly how that sentence will end and where it will lead. So once you sitdown with it again, you can hit the middle of the sentence without staring at atotally blank page.

I have a lot of different posts and tags that mayhelp you out!

Writer’s block and depression (1), and again (2), and some pick-me-ups (3)

First drafts don’t have to be good. 

Write a whole bunch of crappy sentences if that’s what it takesto get a good one.

Don’t let it get you down. Just get it done.

Your big ideas are worth pursuing.

This post in particular will likely resonate with you and how you feel right now: https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/132168477614/ive-been-trying-to-write-for-years-unfortunately (full text included at the very, very bottom of this post)

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– writing prompts

Specific posts that address some of your concerns:

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/144610505447/if-you-see-a-need-fill-it– If you see a need, fill it.

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/152075979524/fuckyeahyoungadultlit-tachycardiia– diversity in YA lit

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/132168477614/ive-been-trying-to-write-for-years-unfortunately– starting to write

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/131428782622/cliches-in-ya-romance– clichés in YA romance

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/131034862609/lizardpeopledearreader-honestly-if-stephanie– There’s always someone worse.

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/104205593649/jetpack-johnny-rose-for-a-tenner-actually– Curiosity is important.

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/23740953643/setting– starting with setting

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/151665809147/learning-the-essentials-of-plotting-your-novel– plotting

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/149405245039/i-have-an-insanely-bad-time-writing-dialogue-any– dialogue

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/169191903744/behind-me-is-infinite-power-before-me-is-endless– possibilities

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/167418537238/startledoctopus-ronibravo-i-started-writing– any reason to start writing is a good reason

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/96119396642/cranky-crustaceans-pupukachoo– Pixar’s rules for storytelling

30THNOVEMBER 2013

QUOTE REBLOGGEDFROM BLOTS& PLOTS WITH 105,191 NOTES

Young writers should read books past bedtime andwrite things down in notebooks when they are supposed to be doing somethingelse.

— Lemony Snicket  (via blotsandplots)

14THDECEMBER 2012

The question for each man to settle is not what hewould do if he had means, time, influence and educational advantages; thequestion is what he will do with the things he has. The moment a young manceases to dream or to bemoan his lack of opportunities and resolutely looks hisconditions in the face, and resolves to change them, he lays the corner-stoneof a solid and honorable success.

— Hamilton Wright Mabie

7THNOVEMBER 2017

PHOTO REBLOGGEDFROM FIXYOUR WRITING HABITS WITH 2,493 NOTES

[Image transcript:The Rules of Writing

1: Write crappy first drafts.2: Words don’t bleed. Cut them.3: Write now. Edit later.4: There are NO mistakes–only creative opportunities.5. Don’t think. Just write.6: Rules? There are rules?]

Starting to write:

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/132168477614/ive-been-trying-to-write-for-years-unfortunately

deathtotheselfie asked:I’ve been trying to write for years. Unfortunately I’m very young and theschooling I’ve received on writing is nothing like I what I write about. I’monly 14 now, but little phrases and ideas bounce around in my head. Howeverwhen I write I feel like it’s not good or mature enough because of my lack ofexperience. I can’t tend to think of original plots as I’m just surrounded inother people’s work. Do you have any advice on plot development? And do youthink I should continue trying to write?

Hi! Your question makes me quite sad. If you liketo write, then you should pursue it. It’s that simple.

School doesn’t help much in terms of creativewriting. Over the summer, when I was little, my mom would make my sister and mewrite short stories. It kept me in the habit of writing even when school wasn’tin session.

(Wanna know a secret? I often got stuck halfwaythrough my story, so I’d coerce my sister into showing me hers. Then I wouldwrite the same events but in my own words. I did this for quite a while onesummer. Maybe two.)

Not only does school keep you ridiculously busy,but it also doesn’t like teaching creative stuff much either, because math andscience are deemed as more important than anything related to the arts.

All those negative voices banging around in yourhead along with all the good ideas you have? You need to learn to silence them.Those things are what you are being trained to think.

Here’s what nobody seems to know about writing:you have to start  somewhere. No one starts off as an amazing writer.

People expect writers to have this magical well ofintuition, but honestly, it just comes from practice.

You know that thing about practicing 10,000 hoursin order to become a master at something? It applies to writing, too.

Writers write.

You need to watch and write things down–what youobserve can be the basis for characters or plot or whatever. Eavesdrop on astranger’s phone conversation to get a peek into other people’s lives. Sit on abench in the mall and watch people go by.

Do you know how babies learn? They observe otherpeople doing things and then try to mimic them.

I don’t mean that fledgling writers are babies, ofcourse, but I mean that you can get your best work by reading other people’swork.

Figure out what you like to read, what you don’t liketo read. And then ask yourself WHY.

What is it about that book you hated? Was it thecharacters? The plot? The slow story-telling?

What did you love about that one book? How did itmake you feel? What parts made you feel that way?

I was in middle school when I began reading a Series of Unfortunate Events  (I’m25, for comparison’s sake). Do you know what my writing sounded like while Iwas reading those? Lemony Snicket. It wasn’t on purpose, but that’s just whathappened. (Also for comparison’s sake, I now have had a short story publishedin an actual anthology and completed a 60-page poetry collection as my creativethesis, as well as a book that I’m trying to get published.)

The more you read, the more you gain. If you readenough books, then you’ll have influences from all over that create a uniquewriter: you.

You are the sum of everything you have ever reador seen or thought about.

Yes, you’re a teenager. But that doesn’t stop youfrom observing the world and teaching yourself to understand other writers’work.

If you want to write something but are worriedthat it sounds too much like somebody else, then figure out why it sounds thatway. Is it just you that thinks it sounds that way? Or do other people tell youthat as well? Find out what it is that makes it sound like that. Is it thenarration? The plot? The themes?

Regardless of your answers, you are able to makeit unique to you.

You are a writer, and whatever you write will beyours and yours alone.

As far as plot development goes, I find thatoutlining helps. I don’t always keep to the outline, but askingyourself “Then what happens?” after each event that you write down is thebest thing you can do for yourself.

A plot is a series of events. If you know whathappens naturally after something, then you write that down. It also helps ifyou understand WHY something happens.

She goes to the mall.

Then what happens?

She ends up going home and crying in her room.

Why? What caused this? What physical actionscaused her to want to leave the mall? What mental actions occurred because ofthe physical actions?

She runs into someone she used to be best friendswith, and they get into a fight. This makes her feel disappointed in her friendbut also unsure of herself because she doesn’t know what she has done to makeher friend act that way. She places the blame on herself instead of on herformer friend. This is because she has been told growing up that everything isher fault and that her younger brother can’t do anything wrong.

See what I mean? And it’s okay to ask yourselfwhat you would do in that situation. But your characters are not you. Theyprobably won’t react like you would. And that’s okay and important.

As I told my students last year, ask yourself WHYand HOW after each sentence, after each paragraph, after each plot point, aftereach whatever. It will keep your story going until it reaches its naturalconclusion.

Okay, this ended up being way, way longer than Iintended it to be, haha. But I’m completely serious and obviously verypassionate about this. And I can say way more on the subject at the drop of ahat, so if you have any more questions, then just give me a shout. :)

Best of luck. And don’t stop writing.

I mean it. :)

[rfweeks]

Rune Factory: 13th Anniversary Celebration!

It’s been a pretty wild year for Rune Factory fans! First the remaster of RF4S coming less than two weeks away, and also the announcement of RF5. For real this time! And as luck would have it, the anniversary of the entire series is coming fast...and what else to do but to celebrate?

Welcome to the next RFWeeks event that celebrates the 13th anniversary of this wonderful series!

So here’s the general lowdown of the weekend: The goal is to create awesome content and talk about our appreciation of the Rune Factory series! Each day of the week will have themed days with prompts and general things to talk about. If you’re a content creator, feel free to use these prompts to create art, fanfiction, edits, playlists, or more. If you just want an excuse to talk about your love of the series, you can use the prompts as a stepping point to talk about your favorite aspects of the series or your experiences with the games!

Of course, I will be reblogging everything I see onto this blog so everyone can see a big collection of it by the end of things!

FAQ:

What can I make for the event? Anything, honestly! Fanfics, art, writing headcanons, making edits of official art…if you can think of it, you can do it for the event! Get creative!

Can I create…citrus-y content for this event? You’re more than welcome to create content of the…citrus variety, though I will not be reblogging any of that content to RFWeeks. Please make sure that any lemony-content is properly tagged just so anyone who doesn’t want to see that content can abstain. If you do create citrus content, please use the hashtag #LemonScentedRFWeeks so that it doesn’t potentially mix in with SFW content.

THEMES OF THE WEEK:

Sunday, August 18th, 2019: Morning

A crisp dawn, ready for a new day. Or, in some cases, not ready at all and sleeping right through it.

Monday, August 19th, 2019: Flowers

Countless blooms, all filled with their own certain meaning. Of course, they’re all beautiful in their own right.

Tuesday, August 20th, 2019: Treasure

Something you find hidden in a cave, or something you keep hidden away in your home. Anything can be a treasure, right?

Wednesday, August 21st, 2019: Beach

Nothing like a little fun in the sun while Summer is still here...

Thursday, August 22nd, 2019: Free Day

Whatever your heart may so desire goes here…

Friday, August 23rd, 2019: Magic

The fire at your fingertips...or the spark you feel between people. Or watching your local farmer teleport to their home repeatedly throughout the day. It’s all magic.

Saturday, August 24th, 2019, Rune Factory’s 13th Anniversary!!: Community

The people you see as you walk through town, the people who will shape your entire lives. All condensed into this small, wonderful town.

Sunday, August 25th, 2019: BONUS DAY! Ethelberd’s Day Out

What do you think that old guy gets up to between trying to take over the world? What do any other villains get up to? Let’s celebrate the real heroes of the series, the villains, with a nice little bonus day after the real party!

The hashtag for this event will be #RF13th, so please make sure to use that tag during the weekend so that I can reblog your post to the blog when you post it! Please also tag RFWeeks on your post so I am guaranteed to see it! Sometimes the tags don’t work on Tumblr so this helps me find your beautiful work!

PLEASE REBLOG TO SPREAD THE WORD, AND PREPARE FOR A GRAND CELEBRATION IN AUGUST 2019!

[tinyglowingsharks]

Answer all the asks please. If you don't have the mental spoons for it then that's ok

lmao sure, thanks friend!

moon: what is your astrological sign?

Sagittarius (not avery good one)

gingerbread: your moral alignment

Neutral good

birdseed: family or friends?

Friends,probably.  All the family I have time for are my friends anyway so

sheets: your sexual orientation

Bi if I’m with gaypeople or people who ‘don’t believe in labels’, queer with everyone else.

warm milk: when do you usually fallasleep?

About11:30-midnight, usually.  I do not function well without enough sleep so Ihave to go to bed earlier than I would like, but then it takes me an hour or soto get to sleep anyway. 

pot of honey: your gender identity

oh, it’s [loudnoise from passing truck obscures answer]. Gimme those they/them pronounsthough

snow: what is your favorite time ofyear and why

I like very earlyand very late summer.  I like the end of spring where the days arestretching out and weather starts being consistently (ish, it’s still scotland)not awful, and everything feels optimistic and brighter. And then I like theends of summer when the air starts smelling of bonfires and the days are warmbut the evenings grow cooler and everything feels like snuggling and settlingin

yarn: what are your most enjoyablehobbies?

Love me someknitting, it’s really relaxing and gives me something to do with my hands andalso you get cool stuff out of it.  Also I’m getting more into folkmusic/dancing recently - i was gonna say morris dancing but actually i don’treally like morris dancing as an art form, but I really like playing the musicand I love singing (hit me up for some filthy folk songs) and have gone to afew sessions and such which were really cool. And I really like folk danceslike ceilidh, bal and contra - I like the fact that each time I do it I’m lessshit. I am a bit of a baby on the scene but it’s still good, there’s usuallyalcohol to numb the embarrassment, and the people are really nice.

bicycle: what are you talented at?

Words. I am good atword-ing.  Writing stuff, reading stuff, copy editing, etc.  I am agood person for words.

folktale: what stories remind you ofyour childhood?

I read so much as achild and have so few memories of being a child in general that actually mostof the memories I have are mixed up with reading. But I guess some of thesignificant ones are Harry Potter (of course), Lord of the Rings, the VeryHungry Caterpillar (we did that as a school play and I was a strawberry), we’reall going on a bear hunt, His Dark Materials, the Earthsea trilogy, and Redwall.  Also the Houndsof Morrigan and the myth of Niamh of the Golden Hair.  Also, my dad was ahuge story teller.  He used to do stories more or less on demand - I’dgive him prompts and he would make them up to order.  Notable onesincluded one about a snail whose name I forget, one about the Penalty Fare, afunfair where people who committed civil misdemeanours went for punishment (ina masterful anticipation of Final Destination 3), and an ongoing series calledLittle Miss Good, Little Miss Bad and Little Miss Tries-to-be-good.  Idon’t remember any of them clearly, but they are wound firmly in with memoriesof my dad and my childhood.

woods: where do you feel at peace?

The sea. Always, the sea.  Anywhere quiet outdoors with big skies. GlasgowNecropolis.

chicken feet: what is your emotional“flaw”?

so many

red cheeks: what makes you nervous?

Was gonna say SOMANY but actually, not that much really? I draw a distinction between nerves and anxiety, which I have for daaaayyys(though not badly enough to be a major Thing). Mostly I get nervous about talking to my mum about difficult stuff, honestly.

sunflower: what do you love and cherish?

My friends, my mum, my Victorians, myPhD, my bisexuowls shawl, sharks.

bells: what sounds are your favorite or calm you the most?

The sound of the sea.  The sound of wind chimes.  The sound of the rain and wind.  I struggle to listen to music because itmakes me think too much but repetitive, soothing nature sounds shut my brain upat least a little.

turnip: what is a food you could eat everyday?

Garlic.  Doesgarlic count? it’s more an ingredient than a food but i’d happily eat it inmost things. As a first year in uni I ate so much raw garlic in a few days (cosI worked out how to make bruschetta) that I made myself sick, but these days Iwould garlic differently.  Not just eating clove after close of crushed garlic.

spit: do you get jealous easily?

Not really

mushroom:list unique things you like about yourself

This is really hard – especially the ‘unique’ bit.  I like that I’m an excellent speller and thatI have synaesthesia and that I have terrible handwriting. 

cupboard:a good childhood memory

We used to occasionally go to the Snowdon region of Wales as a family, cosmy mum’s best friend at the time had a cottage there so it was free, and weinherited a lot of their traditions, one of which was this hill that the friend’shusband used to race up and down with his friends from a nearby (now long-gone)hostel before breakfast, giving it the name Breakfast Mountain (its actual nameis Brin Brith in case any of you know it, it is a fairly unremarkable hill inall respects except it is cherished of my family).  We used to climb it whenever we visited,though not before breakfast.  I have alot of good memories of climbing it but in particular one time I rememberstanding on the top with my dad and he did that thing where you hold a child bytheir arms and spin so they like fly out, on the edge of the mountin, so Iremember the warmth of the sun and my laughter and my dad’s hands on my wristand the flashing alternation of the estuary, far below, and the mountain top grass,a few feet from my face.  I realise I’m talkingabout my dad a lot but I don’t remember a lot of my childhood and much of whatI do remember that is happy is either books or my dad.

eyebags:what do you think makes a person attractive?

God, it’s such a cliché but confidence can make a person attractive.  Being a nice/good person makes themattractive too.  So does beingfunny. 

fallenlog: something you’ve gotten over that you never thought you would

Coincidentally, I have just accidentally stumbled over an email chain ofthe aftermath of a fairly messy breakup – the end of a major, 3 year, late-teens,unhealthy, rite of passage, heartbreak and drama, serious relationship.  At the time it was a pretty big deal involvinglots of crying and a fair amount of drama, and thinking it would never end and I’d never be over it, but on looking back at the emails, Idon’t remember a lot of the gory details they allude to, and I have no feelingsabout it except relief that I ended it, albeit about two years too late. He’san MRA now so, bullet dodged

dagger:your worst fear

being completely unloved/losing everyone I love

whisper:do you have any secrets?

Yup.

wildboar: which person do you feel closest to?

I have a small collection of four people who are Very Important. Theyaren’t all friends with each other but they’re all people I’ve met in Glasgowand they are excellent in very distinct ways.  I’m not gonna name them but I like to thinkthey know who they are. The one I feel closest to at any point varies but it isalways one of those people.  

sweet:what candies or cakes are you fond of?

I like chocolate eclairs,  I likelemony things, and I like werther’s originals cos I’m a grandad

footprints:do you remember your past lives?

Not a thing, sorry

fur:name an animal you feel connected to

I feel very connected with rodents. Especially guinea pigs.  (aren’tyou surprised I didn’t say sharks)

vodka:do you drink?

Yeah!  I didn’t really drink regularlytill I got to Glasgow, then after a couple years I mostly stopped cos I was TooSad to drink and didn’t have fun drunk. But then I started again when I joinedMorris dancing because I got over the thing I was sad about and Morris is avery alcohol-oriented sport. The people I hang out with are really fun to drinkwith and it’s drinking as socialising rather than drinking to get drunk which feelslike a Better Choice.

sourcherry: an obscure tradition from your family?

We aren’t a huge family for traditions, honestly, but one that me and mymum do (mostly at my behest honestly) is get a Christmas decoration to remembermy dad every year.  He’s been dead almost20 years and we’ve been doing this consistently for about 15, so eventually thetree is going to be entirely eclectic stuff I’ve picked up over the years formy dad.

pineneedles: what is your favorite scent?

I really like rose, and I really like vanilla.  I am about as boring as can be. I do notcare.

heart-shaped:do you believe in love? are you in love?

I think it’s hard not to believe in love. There are people I love, inlots of different ways

home:where do you dream of living?

Honestly, I want to stay where I am now. While being by the sea or going to the Netherlands appeals, I love mycity and the life I have built here.

spice:list your favorite herbs

I actually tend to prefer spices to herbs – gimme all your paprika andVanilla (is vanilla a spice???) and pepper – but I like basil, rosemary,lavender, lemon balm and sage.

mud:something you’re insecure about but trying to love

My entire self honestly.

tobacco:do you have any addictions?

Nope

sock:how would you describe your clothing taste?

Predictable.  Give me a colourfulprint on a mid-thigh or knee length fit and flare or skater dress, and some blackleggings, and that is me happy.  That isalso the entirety of my wardrobe.

cuckooclock: are you a morning, a noon, or an evening person?

Depends on what youwant me for.  I’m best at productivity early in the morning, but terribleat social skills. I’m best at like, physical tasks and walks and stuff in theafternoon when I’m properly awake and feeling restless, and best at socialisingin the evening (but not too late cos my brain falls out at about 10pm).

woodenfence: a favorite memory

When I was in undergrad I fell, predictably, into the DnD crowd, and Ihave lots of really nice memories of that time. Including: sleeping over after dnd, which was basically not sleeping butstaying up talking quietly about the sort of thing you can only talk about onsomeone else’s floor at 4 in the morning, and not sleeping over after DnD, butwalking the 3 miles uphill from the town to the university, again quietlytalking, and if you timed it right you’d get to the top of the hill just atdawn and you’d see the sun rising over campus like a promise,  Seeing dawn from the ‘other’ side, going tobed after it rather than waking up before it, still feels really special to me.

[docholligay]

Pairing prompt: Rei/Usagi friendship!dinner date

Me: I’m getting so tired. 

Also me: Write a character you have no grip on! 

1014 words, written entirely to try and make @keyofjetwolf happy

Rei’s approach to eating, conceptually, was more based in necessity and social benefit than it was anything to do with enjoyment. She ate microwaved noodles and powdered macaroni and cheese, or she ate whatever Michiru bought, because it was fine and it was good and Rei knew that to possess an appreciation of the food in front of her was to get closer to Michiru’s level of refinement.

But, for her own purposes, there was no love to be had in a bowl, box, or restaurant plate.

For such needs, there was Usagi, whose love of food could encompass the world entire, and in Rei’s less grumpy moments, she might have confessed that to see Usagi happy with whatever she was eating brought Rei her own level of joy.

Usagi had, recently, taken up an interest in trying to describe her love of food with something other than “yummy,” and Rei had, in her way that she hoped came across as generously begrudging, agreed to come along for the evening, to the new noodle shop Usagi had spotted as they rode the bus, declaring that it must be good, they had a neon cat as their sign.

This wasn’t any sort of critical note that Rei was aware of, but Usagi seemed sure of it.

She didn’t have to look around for long when a voice called to her. “Rei!”

“Usagi, you’re late.” She said it before she turned around, hands on her hips, already knowing who it was.

Usagi looked at her watch. “But I’m not VERY late! Besides, I wanted to let the dinner rush pass.” She crossed her arms, nodding and smiling, as if she had just said something very clever indeed.

“It’s six. It’s the middle of the dinner rush.”

“Rei, stop!” She took out a bright pink notebook. “I brought this to record my thoughts on our meal. You have to take tasting notes, Rei, if you want to be serious.”

“You’ve never wanted to be serious about anything in your life, Usagi.” She shook her finger.

“I’m serious about this, Rei!” She brandished her matching pink feathered pen. “Are you coming with, or not?”

Rei sighed and tossed her hair, conceding the point that, for all her bravado, she had no intention of abandoning Usagi to her own devices, not the smallest reason of which was her fear Usagi might never return home, lured down a well by a marshmallow pie or some such nonsense.

They wandered along the street together, the smells of the restaurants filling their senses, Usagi babbling happily about the place they were going, and what she was going to order, and also what Rei might order, considering she never finished anything anyway and Usagi could try that, too.

There was a constancy in Usagi’s ability to forget everything bad that had happened to her and respond with a simple, naive happiness, and it grounded Rei’s life, and she was privately grateful for it.

Usagi took out her phone and snapped a picture of the sign, a cat caught up in a bowl of udon noodles like so much string.

“Isn’t it cute, Rei!?” She grinned brightly.

“How do you know it’s any good?” Rei looked skeptically at the sign. It looked nothing like the places Michiru took her.

Usagi put her hands on her hips. “How do you know it’s not?”

Rei rolled her eyes and followed Usagi into the restaurant. It was noisy and dim, the smell of udon and pork broth and tempura filling the air, the tables close and tight with bright bowls of rich soup and noodles.

Usagi cheerfully told the waitress their number, and they sat across from each other at a tiny booth.

“I’m going to get the nabeyaki udon, I think.” She studied the menu thoughtfully. “What are you going to get?”

Rei’s eyes flicked over the menu, and then back to Usagi, who was dedicatedly writing down her impressions of the restaurant, eyes studying the decor and the waitresses and the faces of the happy people.

“I guess I’ll get the kitsune.” She set down the menu, reciting what Usagi had told her on the trip over. “That’s the only thing that looks good at all.”

Usagi smiled slyly. “Sure, Rei. Sure.”

The heaping bowls came to the table, and Usagi recited the words for them all.

“Rei, don’t you think this fish cake is piquant? I think the chicken has some brightness in the mouth.”

The words were fresh and new in her mouth, and Rei couldn’t honestly tell if she was on the money or nowhere close--it all just tasted like noodles to her. But Usagi herself was piquant and bright, Rei knew for sure. It was hard not to get excited about whatever Usagi did, and she had thrown herself headlong into this hobby.

Usagi leaned over the table and slurped some of Rei’s noodles happily.

“Oh wow, your broth is so light! It’s almost lemony, don’t you think?”

Rei looked down at her broth. It was yellow. Could have been lemon, if she thought about it long enough, and she decided, in this one case, to simply trust that what Usagi said was true.

She nodded. “It’s zesty.”

Usagi smiled brightly, and wrote down the observation in her notebook.

“Do you think, Rei, that I could do this? I’ve never been good at anything before but...people write about food, all the time! And I like food! Ami has science, and Mako’s a brilliant baker, and I’m brilliant taster. I didn’t know that was something, but it is!” She looked over at Rei. “Do you think I could? Be a food critic? Maybe the school paper would let me try!”

Rei looked at her, full of hope and opportunity in a way that no other person she had ever known was, and made a mental note to ask Michiru to take her one of the places they normally went. That would be a scoop for her school, for sure, to dine with a Kaioh.

“I think you can do anything, Usagi.”

[melodymgill49801]

When It Comes to a Recipe, What’s in a Name?

Back in May, the response was swift when Milk Bar's Christina Tosi uploaded a video of what she called her "flaky bread." Instagram commenters quickly pointed out that the unleavened rounds were essentially South Asia's paratha by another name, while Tosi's recommendation to add scallions might also call to mind a riff on Chinese scallion pancakes. With neither mentioned in Tosi's description, critics on social media saw the dish as another food industry whitewashing gaffe. But this wasn't the first time "flaky bread" caused problems online.

In 2014, Bon Appétit posted a similar dish. Developed by Alison Roman, that "flaky bread" recipe was simple, accompanied by no context besides a quick prep tip in the headnote. As with Tosi's recipe, keen observers homed in on its similarity to paratha, and by May 2020, readers had begun weighing in with comments like: "Not a single mention of where this food comes from or the people that have been making it forever? This is literally just paratha." By June 2020, BA had changed the recipe's name to "Flaky Bread (Malawah)" and expanded its headnote to state that it was based on a Yemeni dish.

All over the world, different cultures have developed flaky rounds of dough—from paratha, to malawah, to cong you bing, and certainly more. That's something you'd never know from a name like "flaky bread," as accurate as it may be. Flaky bread can come from many cultures rich in culinary history; "flaky bread," meanwhile, suggests no culture in particular.

As the online recipe space grows more competitive, the names of a world's worth of dishes morph. Avgolemono becomes the New York Times' "egg lemon soup," "lemony egg soup with escarole," or "slow cooker creamy chicken soup with lemon, rice, and dill." Roti gains new life as "whole wheat balloon bread" or "Asian flat croissant," and "Korean rice bowls" are a longer, more Westernized way of saying bibimbap. "Spicy chocolate milk simmered chicken" becomes a new phrase for mole, and chana masala is revised as Alison Roman's "spiced chickpea stew with coconut and turmeric," which internet colloquialism transforms into just "The Stew." What's to be gained by changing a dish's name? But also, what's lost?

What we call a dish can either ground it in a particular culinary history, or it can remove a dish from that culture entirely. With translation comes a level of separation, as the idea of a dish's audience is shifted; calling roti a "balloon bread" or bibimbap a "rice bowl" is a choice to appeal to a specific sensibility. As platforms diversify their selection of recipes, each one is trying to sell you on dishes it assumes you don't already know how to make, and every online recipe aims to make an argument for why you should rely on it above all others. To make that case, food is packaged for "mainstream" consumption: Ideally, anyone should want to click on it.

As Eric Kim—the recipe developer and writer behind the "Table for One" column at Food52—works on his debut cookbook about Korean American food, he's been thinking about recipe names. Kim's book, currently scheduled for release in spring 2022, will be informed by his Korean background, Georgia upbringing, and his approach to pantry cooking. Writing through its recipes, some of which lean conventional and others that are entirely new, Kim finds himself repeatedly changing their names.

"It's such an interesting question because a lot of these dishes are traditional—traditional bulgogi, for instance, or traditional kalbi—and I almost don't want to call them that, but calling them 'soy-marinated short ribs' feels flattening or disregarding their inspiration. I feel like this is something I've grappled with as recipe author, but also as a food editor, for years," Kim told VICE. He's found welcome inspiration in Priya Krishna's Indian-ish, which uses names like "spinach and feta, cooked like saag paneer" to find the middle ground between innovation and tradition.

Writing recipes for the internet poses a particular challenge: Like every piece of content in the digital world, recipes must pull in readers through the quickest glance. Terms or names that are assumed to be unfamiliar might be replaced with something more widely recognizable and immediately comprehensible, and trending phrases get thrown in for the sake of appealing to what people are searching (think "bread without yeast" during the baking-crazed days of the pandemic). More and more, algorithms shape how content is presented online, and search engine optimization (SEO) dictates the best practices for giving a website a chance at ranking high in a Google search for a specific keyword. As UCLA professor Safiya Noble has explored in the book Algorithms of Oppression, even search engines can be subject to cultural bias in ways that privilege whiteness.

Casey Markee is the founder of Media Wyse and an SEO consultant who works exclusively in the food, DIY, and lifestyle space. Acknowledging that unconscious bias can play out in everything, he thinks that the renaming of recipes might be done to gain an advantage in the crowded food space. Anglicized names might have more visibility online due to less competition and more search interest for that particular term, he suggested. People creating recipes online may think: "My audience might not understand what this original name is, but maybe they understand the more English or Anglicized version here, and that's what I'm gonna focus on," he said. The idea of accessibility, however, should also prompt the question: accessible to whom?

On The Sofrito Project, blogger Reina Gascon-Lopez takes a different approach to food media's usual centering as she presents recipes for Puerto Rican dishes as well as what she grew up eating in Charleston. Puerto Rican dishes are named in Spanish, with English left in parentheses: "berenjena guisada (stewed eggplant)" or "asopao de gandules (pigeon pea rice stew)," for example. "I honestly try to stick with the traditional name for the recipes, particularly the Puerto Rican dishes," she told VICE, "because honestly... naming them something that would be more palatable for white mainstream media, I feel like that kind of takes away from the dish, at least in my opinion."

Anglicizing a recipe's name can be done out of a sense of making it "neutral" and therefore "mainstream," but as we know from the recent conversations around race in media and other industries, that version of objective neutrality is actually a stance centered on whiteness. The idea that a dish can be rendered culturally neutral still relies on the construction of a culture: one for whom "flaky bread" is assumed as more appealing and recognizable than its alternatives.

White, vaguely European-influenced food is positioned as such a default in modern American culture that it exists without being explicitly stated, as Navneet Alang deconstructed for Eater. "Only whiteness can deracinate and subsume the world of culinary influences into itself and yet remain unnamed," he wrote. With this guiding food media, figures like Alison Roman—who at the peak of Stew fame once described herself as coming from "no culture"—can then pick and profit from global culinary traditions without ever tying herself to one.

While white food culture can weave in and out of global inspirations and not lose anything, the reverse isn't true. Dishes from cultures outside the white American norm and the people who make them are made less visible, told they don't draw as many views, relegated to trend pieces, and subjected to quotas.

The appeasement of translation can seem like a self-fulfilling prophecy: If people aren't given the word "bibimbap," if it's called a "Korean rice bowl" instead, will the original term ever enter "mainstream" parlance? Food publications have the power to steer the conversation for readers and home cooks; suggesting that a dish's traditional name is too complicated or unfamiliar to include is a cop-out for platforms that dictate these trends.

"It all goes back to the othering of food, and readers are only as smart as the information they're given," said Rebecca Firkser, a freelance food writer and recipe developer. Since her official start in food media five years ago as an intern at PopSugar, which led to becoming culinary editor of the now-defunct Extra Crispy, Firkser thinks people have overall become more knowledgeable about food and cooking. "I do feel like readers are smarter; they're interested in the real dishes, and so, why do we bother dumbing it down for them?"

In their staff roles at large food publications, Firkser and Kim—who have worked together on recipes at Food52—told VICE that SEO has been a consideration in the recipe process. But according to Kim, Google is "a lot smarter than people realize," and its algorithm changes all the time. "You don't have to have to bludgeon the title with some straightforward whitewashed title just to get it to show up on Google," he said. Whether it's putting keyword phrases in different parts of the page or in the URL, "there are ways to do it without disintegrating the integrity of the actual title."

But naming a dish the way it's historically known and loved isn't a panacea, either, as tradition creates a tight box of expectations. As Gascon-Lopez pointed out, her Puerto Rican dishes have at times garnered responses that her recipe isn't how a commenter's family made it, or how they make the dish. She clarifies that even traditional recipes are her version, as dictated by the ingredients available to her in South Carolina. "I do find that there is a little bit of a line to walk when I call something by the traditional name, and I don't have something that's been in that dish for years," she said.

Thankfully, Gascon-Lopez's blog gives her flexibility. While she said it sounds "crazy" as a food blogger, she doesn't consider SEO very much. "I try to stay aware of how I need the recipe [to be] from the aspect of accessibility on the blog, and I try to keep it short and keep the title tight. But other than that, if it's in Spanish, it's going to be in Spanish," Gascon-Lopez said. "That's something that I'm willing to sacrifice to stay true to my style of cooking."

So what's the answer to fixing all of this? Multiple recipe developers told VICE that presenting a recipe online comes with a responsibility to do ample research. With constant cooking comes the ability to riff in the kitchen, but even still, said Firkser, a recipe developer should go the extra step, even if it seems like a dish just popped up in your head. The act of putting a recipe on a public platform implies authority, and while there's leeway for modification in individual cooking, the recipe itself is perceived as objective—the standard from which one can then diverge.

"Even if I independently was thinking like, What would be yummy to eat? A white bean and tomato soup with tiny pasta," Firkser said, "I would search the internet, search cookbooks, and see: Have other people have done this—white bean and tomato soup with tiny pasta? Oh, wow, looks like there is a dish, and it's called pasta fagioli and I'm going to acknowledge that."

At Food52, Kim takes a generalist approach, creating dishes like "beef short rib bourguignon with garlicky panko gremolata" and "chicken-fried steak katsu with milk gravy." When he cooks from cuisines outside his culture, Kim tries to be "as responsible as possible," he said, by citing inspirations and adding context in the headnote as to how he learned the techniques. "Coming from an academic perspective is a way to make sure you close the loops and honor every possible inspiration for a dish," he said, "and that's one way to make sure that you're avoiding any semblance of tokenization or appropriation."

With the racial inequity in food media, we frequently return to the question of who gets to profit from other cultures' foods; it is still often the case that globally inspired dishes are presented by white recipe developers. Following Bon Appétit's organizational reckoning over these exact issues, the publication has announced plans to not only address its pay disparities and lack of staffers of color, but also to re-envision its content to better address cultural biases. As part of this push into the future, the magazine's research director Joseph Hernandez announced in a newsletter last month that he would be working with Test Kitchen editors to "address many of these problems of authorship, appropriation, the white gaze, and erasure."

Referencing its past controversies regarding flaky bread, "white guy" kimchi, pho, and Filipino halo-halo, Hernandez wrote that BA "has been called out for appropriation, for decontextualizing recipes from non-white cultures, and for knighting 'experts' without considering if that person should, in fact, claim mastery of a cuisine that isn’t theirs." In response, "our team will be auditing previously published recipes and articles that may not have been thoroughly fact-checked or read for cultural sensitivity when originally authored," he announced. Addressing the most popular recipes first, the publication will add context and address past problems in editors' notes: "Do we give credit where it’s due? Did we properly credit our inspirations, or did we shoehorn in a trendy ingredient with no explanation?"

There's no clear-cut answer on how to handle recipe names, as each recipe developer has their own perspective. As tidy as it may seem for recipes to exclusively come from authors of that specific cultural background, no one person can stand-in for an entire culture's culinary history, and that approach is unrealistic in a media landscape in which there are many, many more writers than there are jobs. Further, that set of rules also ignores the ways culinary traditions meld both naturally and by force. Despite those constraints, we can at least push for more thoughtful and contextual approaches to recipe development—ones that respect the interplay between cultures, instead of stripping foods from their histories.

As recipe developers broaden the context they provide with dishes, home cooks can in turn become more conscious consumers if they choose to engage with that added knowledge. "I absolutely think it's the responsibility of the recipe developer to do that extra research, because it's only gonna help someone," Firkser said. "I don't think anyone's ever been bitten in the ass for doing the homework, right?"

Follow Bettina Makalintal on Twitter.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[carolinechanson97838]

When It Comes to a Recipe, What’s in a Name?

Back in May, the response was swift when Milk Bar's Christina Tosi uploaded a video of what she called her "flaky bread." Instagram commenters quickly pointed out that the unleavened rounds were essentially South Asia's paratha by another name, while Tosi's recommendation to add scallions might also call to mind a riff on Chinese scallion pancakes. With neither mentioned in Tosi's description, critics on social media saw the dish as another food industry whitewashing gaffe. But this wasn't the first time "flaky bread" caused problems online.

In 2014, Bon Appétit posted a similar dish. Developed by Alison Roman, that "flaky bread" recipe was simple, accompanied by no context besides a quick prep tip in the headnote. As with Tosi's recipe, keen observers homed in on its similarity to paratha, and by May 2020, readers had begun weighing in with comments like: "Not a single mention of where this food comes from or the people that have been making it forever? This is literally just paratha." By June 2020, BA had changed the recipe's name to "Flaky Bread (Malawah)" and expanded its headnote to state that it was based on a Yemeni dish.

All over the world, different cultures have developed flaky rounds of dough—from paratha, to malawah, to cong you bing, and certainly more. That's something you'd never know from a name like "flaky bread," as accurate as it may be. Flaky bread can come from many cultures rich in culinary history; "flaky bread," meanwhile, suggests no culture in particular.

As the online recipe space grows more competitive, the names of a world's worth of dishes morph. Avgolemono becomes the New York Times' "egg lemon soup," "lemony egg soup with escarole," or "slow cooker creamy chicken soup with lemon, rice, and dill." Roti gains new life as "whole wheat balloon bread" or "Asian flat croissant," and "Korean rice bowls" are a longer, more Westernized way of saying bibimbap. "Spicy chocolate milk simmered chicken" becomes a new phrase for mole, and chana masala is revised as Alison Roman's "spiced chickpea stew with coconut and turmeric," which internet colloquialism transforms into just "The Stew." What's to be gained by changing a dish's name? But also, what's lost?

What we call a dish can either ground it in a particular culinary history, or it can remove a dish from that culture entirely. With translation comes a level of separation, as the idea of a dish's audience is shifted; calling roti a "balloon bread" or bibimbap a "rice bowl" is a choice to appeal to a specific sensibility. As platforms diversify their selection of recipes, each one is trying to sell you on dishes it assumes you don't already know how to make, and every online recipe aims to make an argument for why you should rely on it above all others. To make that case, food is packaged for "mainstream" consumption: Ideally, anyone should want to click on it.

As Eric Kim—the recipe developer and writer behind the "Table for One" column at Food52—works on his debut cookbook about Korean American food, he's been thinking about recipe names. Kim's book, currently scheduled for release in spring 2022, will be informed by his Korean background, Georgia upbringing, and his approach to pantry cooking. Writing through its recipes, some of which lean conventional and others that are entirely new, Kim finds himself repeatedly changing their names.

"It's such an interesting question because a lot of these dishes are traditional—traditional bulgogi, for instance, or traditional kalbi—and I almost don't want to call them that, but calling them 'soy-marinated short ribs' feels flattening or disregarding their inspiration. I feel like this is something I've grappled with as recipe author, but also as a food editor, for years," Kim told VICE. He's found welcome inspiration in Priya Krishna's Indian-ish, which uses names like "spinach and feta, cooked like saag paneer" to find the middle ground between innovation and tradition.

Writing recipes for the internet poses a particular challenge: Like every piece of content in the digital world, recipes must pull in readers through the quickest glance. Terms or names that are assumed to be unfamiliar might be replaced with something more widely recognizable and immediately comprehensible, and trending phrases get thrown in for the sake of appealing to what people are searching (think "bread without yeast" during the baking-crazed days of the pandemic). More and more, algorithms shape how content is presented online, and search engine optimization (SEO) dictates the best practices for giving a website a chance at ranking high in a Google search for a specific keyword. As UCLA professor Safiya Noble has explored in the book Algorithms of Oppression, even search engines can be subject to cultural bias in ways that privilege whiteness.

Casey Markee is the founder of Media Wyse and an SEO consultant who works exclusively in the food, DIY, and lifestyle space. Acknowledging that unconscious bias can play out in everything, he thinks that the renaming of recipes might be done to gain an advantage in the crowded food space. Anglicized names might have more visibility online due to less competition and more search interest for that particular term, he suggested. People creating recipes online may think: "My audience might not understand what this original name is, but maybe they understand the more English or Anglicized version here, and that's what I'm gonna focus on," he said. The idea of accessibility, however, should also prompt the question: accessible to whom?

On The Sofrito Project, blogger Reina Gascon-Lopez takes a different approach to food media's usual centering as she presents recipes for Puerto Rican dishes as well as what she grew up eating in Charleston. Puerto Rican dishes are named in Spanish, with English left in parentheses: "berenjena guisada (stewed eggplant)" or "asopao de gandules (pigeon pea rice stew)," for example. "I honestly try to stick with the traditional name for the recipes, particularly the Puerto Rican dishes," she told VICE, "because honestly... naming them something that would be more palatable for white mainstream media, I feel like that kind of takes away from the dish, at least in my opinion."

Anglicizing a recipe's name can be done out of a sense of making it "neutral" and therefore "mainstream," but as we know from the recent conversations around race in media and other industries, that version of objective neutrality is actually a stance centered on whiteness. The idea that a dish can be rendered culturally neutral still relies on the construction of a culture: one for whom "flaky bread" is assumed as more appealing and recognizable than its alternatives.

White, vaguely European-influenced food is positioned as such a default in modern American culture that it exists without being explicitly stated, as Navneet Alang deconstructed for Eater. "Only whiteness can deracinate and subsume the world of culinary influences into itself and yet remain unnamed," he wrote. With this guiding food media, figures like Alison Roman—who at the peak of Stew fame once described herself as coming from "no culture"—can then pick and profit from global culinary traditions without ever tying herself to one.

While white food culture can weave in and out of global inspirations and not lose anything, the reverse isn't true. Dishes from cultures outside the white American norm and the people who make them are made less visible, told they don't draw as many views, relegated to trend pieces, and subjected to quotas.

The appeasement of translation can seem like a self-fulfilling prophecy: If people aren't given the word "bibimbap," if it's called a "Korean rice bowl" instead, will the original term ever enter "mainstream" parlance? Food publications have the power to steer the conversation for readers and home cooks; suggesting that a dish's traditional name is too complicated or unfamiliar to include is a cop-out for platforms that dictate these trends.

"It all goes back to the othering of food, and readers are only as smart as the information they're given," said Rebecca Firkser, a freelance food writer and recipe developer. Since her official start in food media five years ago as an intern at PopSugar, which led to becoming culinary editor of the now-defunct Extra Crispy, Firkser thinks people have overall become more knowledgeable about food and cooking. "I do feel like readers are smarter; they're interested in the real dishes, and so, why do we bother dumbing it down for them?"

In their staff roles at large food publications, Firkser and Kim—who have worked together on recipes at Food52—told VICE that SEO has been a consideration in the recipe process. But according to Kim, Google is "a lot smarter than people realize," and its algorithm changes all the time. "You don't have to have to bludgeon the title with some straightforward whitewashed title just to get it to show up on Google," he said. Whether it's putting keyword phrases in different parts of the page or in the URL, "there are ways to do it without disintegrating the integrity of the actual title."

But naming a dish the way it's historically known and loved isn't a panacea, either, as tradition creates a tight box of expectations. As Gascon-Lopez pointed out, her Puerto Rican dishes have at times garnered responses that her recipe isn't how a commenter's family made it, or how they make the dish. She clarifies that even traditional recipes are her version, as dictated by the ingredients available to her in South Carolina. "I do find that there is a little bit of a line to walk when I call something by the traditional name, and I don't have something that's been in that dish for years," she said.

Thankfully, Gascon-Lopez's blog gives her flexibility. While she said it sounds "crazy" as a food blogger, she doesn't consider SEO very much. "I try to stay aware of how I need the recipe [to be] from the aspect of accessibility on the blog, and I try to keep it short and keep the title tight. But other than that, if it's in Spanish, it's going to be in Spanish," Gascon-Lopez said. "That's something that I'm willing to sacrifice to stay true to my style of cooking."

So what's the answer to fixing all of this? Multiple recipe developers told VICE that presenting a recipe online comes with a responsibility to do ample research. With constant cooking comes the ability to riff in the kitchen, but even still, said Firkser, a recipe developer should go the extra step, even if it seems like a dish just popped up in your head. The act of putting a recipe on a public platform implies authority, and while there's leeway for modification in individual cooking, the recipe itself is perceived as objective—the standard from which one can then diverge.

"Even if I independently was thinking like, What would be yummy to eat? A white bean and tomato soup with tiny pasta," Firkser said, "I would search the internet, search cookbooks, and see: Have other people have done this—white bean and tomato soup with tiny pasta? Oh, wow, looks like there is a dish, and it's called pasta fagioli and I'm going to acknowledge that."

At Food52, Kim takes a generalist approach, creating dishes like "beef short rib bourguignon with garlicky panko gremolata" and "chicken-fried steak katsu with milk gravy." When he cooks from cuisines outside his culture, Kim tries to be "as responsible as possible," he said, by citing inspirations and adding context in the headnote as to how he learned the techniques. "Coming from an academic perspective is a way to make sure you close the loops and honor every possible inspiration for a dish," he said, "and that's one way to make sure that you're avoiding any semblance of tokenization or appropriation."

With the racial inequity in food media, we frequently return to the question of who gets to profit from other cultures' foods; it is still often the case that globally inspired dishes are presented by white recipe developers. Following Bon Appétit's organizational reckoning over these exact issues, the publication has announced plans to not only address its pay disparities and lack of staffers of color, but also to re-envision its content to better address cultural biases. As part of this push into the future, the magazine's research director Joseph Hernandez announced in a newsletter last month that he would be working with Test Kitchen editors to "address many of these problems of authorship, appropriation, the white gaze, and erasure."

Referencing its past controversies regarding flaky bread, "white guy" kimchi, pho, and Filipino halo-halo, Hernandez wrote that BA "has been called out for appropriation, for decontextualizing recipes from non-white cultures, and for knighting 'experts' without considering if that person should, in fact, claim mastery of a cuisine that isn’t theirs." In response, "our team will be auditing previously published recipes and articles that may not have been thoroughly fact-checked or read for cultural sensitivity when originally authored," he announced. Addressing the most popular recipes first, the publication will add context and address past problems in editors' notes: "Do we give credit where it’s due? Did we properly credit our inspirations, or did we shoehorn in a trendy ingredient with no explanation?"

There's no clear-cut answer on how to handle recipe names, as each recipe developer has their own perspective. As tidy as it may seem for recipes to exclusively come from authors of that specific cultural background, no one person can stand-in for an entire culture's culinary history, and that approach is unrealistic in a media landscape in which there are many, many more writers than there are jobs. Further, that set of rules also ignores the ways culinary traditions meld both naturally and by force. Despite those constraints, we can at least push for more thoughtful and contextual approaches to recipe development—ones that respect the interplay between cultures, instead of stripping foods from their histories.

As recipe developers broaden the context they provide with dishes, home cooks can in turn become more conscious consumers if they choose to engage with that added knowledge. "I absolutely think it's the responsibility of the recipe developer to do that extra research, because it's only gonna help someone," Firkser said. "I don't think anyone's ever been bitten in the ass for doing the homework, right?"

Follow Bettina Makalintal on Twitter.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network