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tinycheesecakedetective · 26 days

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The Night of Bitter Despair: A Fading Letters Story

Pt. 1

The Night of the Witches. An event that happens once every millennia, where witches from all across the world gather to exchange recipes and secrets with each other. Such an event had never been witnessed by any cookie before... And yet, here Pure Vanilla stood. Worn from days of travel and dwindling supplies, he looked up at the entrance to the witch's kitchen. The hard part was finally over. The answers he sought were beyond those doors. All that was left to do was walk inside. Pure Vanilla quickly gathered himself and quickly ran through the door, the heavy iron slamming behind him. The kitchen seemed dim, vague shadows littering the halls. That was, until, light flooded the room, illuminating everything in various hues and patterns.

"Oh my goodness... It's unlike anything I've ever seen before..." His eyes widened at the sight. Sugar work adorned the table as it looped endlessly into the sky, reflecting onto the table like a kaleidoscope. Palaces made with fondant and marzipan littered the table as a set of hands placed down a fountain spewing an endless amount of dark chocolate. A chortle echoed across the room as the witch's hand swept across the area, forcing the healer to hide behind one of the marzipan creations. As he peaked out from his hiding spot, more and more things were added and removed as the witch saw fit. He saw a whisk being snatched away as a tray of scones was meticulously planted to his right. Pieces of candy were spread like breadcrumbs on a forest trail. Piping bags were constantly in motion as the finishing touches were added. Just in time, too. The witch's endless decorating finally stopped as the doors burst out, slamming against her home.

"FILOMENAAA!!!"

A particularly shrill voice rang out, causing Pure Vanilla to cover his ears. Were the witches always this loud? The witch known as Filomena turned her head before giddily embracing her friends. "WINIFRED!!! BASTINDA!!! It's been a thousand long years! Glad to see y'all!" "HAH! A MILLENIA IS NOTHING IF IT MEANS SPENDING TIME WITH YOU. YOU ALWAYS THREW THE BEST PARTIES!" Bastinda huffed before haphazardly dropping her treats at the table, a flagrant grin appearing. "AND THIS TIME I CAME PREPARED! I'VE HAD PLENTY OF TIME TO COME UP WITH NEW RECIPES."

"...humph. ...even with all your effort, your sweets still look stale..." The third witch, Winifred, sulked behind before placing her items on the table, taking the time to wipe off any smudges. "...unlike you, I've been perfecting my handiwork."

Bastinda couldn't help but roll her eyes, mocking the mopey looking witch with a giant yawn. "look at me... I'm Winnie-Fred... and I make the same old desserts over and over-OH PLEASE, YOU COULDN'T PERFECT A SWISS ROLL FROM A TOOTSIE ROLL!"

"HEY. Settle down, will you?" Filomena huffed before pushing the two to their seats. "It's not a competition! Look at these! They look stunning!" The other two begrudgingly looked at each other before muttering a half baked truce. "There, was that so bad-" She was soon interrupted by a loud bell ringing from across the room. "Oh, what good timing! The main course is finished! Please, enjoy the appetizers while I go put the finishing touches!"

Pure Vanilla removed his hands from his ears, bemoaning the awkward state he was in. But he was grateful because now two witches were just sitting there, eating and talking. He could just ask them right then and there! He picked up his staff and moved from his hiding spot before-

"They're REAAADY!!!" Crumbs.

The other witch had returned, wearing a pair of oven mitts and placing down several plates of cookies. Huh. Pure Vanilla assumed she was going to grab... Well, anything else. She mentioned a main course, so why..? "PHEW! I baked a TON of cookies!" Filomena took one before shoving it in Bastinda's face. "Here, try one! You're gonna LOVE IT!" Before he even realized it, his confusion had turned to horror. Bastinda took the cookie and beheaded it in a single sickening crunch.

"W-what...? What... is this...?!" Pure Vanilla's face paled immensely. A trickle of sweat ran down his face as he froze with fear. His weak dough trembled, instinctively clutching his staff as Bastinda's face lit up with excitement. She clapped her hands with childlike glee before grabbing a fistful of cookies and shoving them into her mouth. The drool and crumbs splattered onto the table while she kept reaching out for more. "...save some for the rest of us, you glutton..." Winifred sneered before sneaking away a few of her own. "OH, YOU KNOW I CAN'T HELP IT! THEY'RE JUST SOO... DELICIOUS!!!" It was disgusting. It was cruelty. Pure Vanilla had to resist the urge to vomit as more crumbs fell from their hands. Soon, all three began to take part in this savagery. What was he doing-?! Why was he just standing there as innocent cookies were being mauled right in front of him? He had a soul gem! Pure Vanilla could save them!

Adrenaline began to run through his dough as he ran to one of the abandoned plates, casting a healing spell over those that were spared in the culling. "PLEASE-!! You must get up!! You have to help me save the others!!" But there was no response. As he took a closer look, Pure Vanilla saw those injured... smiling. They were being eaten, and they were smiling, as if they hadn't a care in the world. He didn't have time to take it in, as one of the hands came back to finish the job. He quickly ran to another plate where he tried again, trying to pull one of the cookies away, but to no avail. What was worse, these cookies were smiling as well. "Why..?" His hurt and confusion rose until it couldn't be contained any further. "Why are you SMILING AT ME?!"

SLAM.

Winifred's hand landed with a hideous thud. The plate shattered on contact, shrapnel dashing across the table as the remaining cookies broke against the wall. "...what's thiiiis? I don't remember making this cookie..!" Her head turned to Filomena, who squinted at the sight. "Well obviously, I must've made it earlier. You can have it as a treat!" Pure Vanilla began to hyperventilate. In a few seconds a target had been placed on his back. He need to leave. He didn't care how or when, he just had to. Immediately his body began to move on it's own, sprinting towards the only exit he was aware of.

"Aaah... this one's a runner."

Spoons began slamming down onto the wood. The knives that once sat idle for decoration were now soaring across the room. The constant thumping made him lose his balance constantly, but he couldn't afford to stop now. Fists came crashing down, shattering one of the plates. Run. A fork almost pierced his neck, tearing the tablecloth underneath him. Just keep running. His only instinct was to just keep going, for as long as it took. "You're so close", he kept telling himself. "You can't stop here or you will die!" So when he began flying, he was almost relieved. At least until he understood what had happened.

"...I got it."

It was so quick, and yet it felt like everything was moving in slow motion. Winifred's hand had finally caught up to him, striking him from behind and sending his tired body into a freefall. He felt his soul jam on his neck begin to loosen and slip. His staff had snapped from the force as he saw moments of his life flash before him.

"...Why..?" He finally managed to croak out. He hadn't realized his throat was so sore already. "Why would... you do this? Why would you deceive us...?"

All Pure Vanilla was met with was silence. Tears began to fall, and soon he was weeping bitterly. Deep in his dough, the answer he searched for was answered.

Cookies were made to be eaten.

Why would they ever entertain the questions of something so insignificant if they had always planned to eat him? Had his life mattered at all? He was born with a will and a soul, wasn't that enough to be acknowledged? He had friends and family. He had someone he loved so much he would walk to the ends of Earthbread for her. But to the witches... none of it mattered.

None of it mattered...

All they cared about was that they caught him.

"OOH, RIGHT INTO THE ULTIMATE DOUGH! I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD IT IN YOU, YA OLD BAT!" The all too familiar voice of Bastinda cackled as her bulging eyes stared at the cauldron in the back. "Oh, it's been a while since I used that old thing!" Filomena crooned, her gnarled hand tracing the rims of the giant bowl. "...y'know... I always wondered what might happen... if a cookie was baked into it again..." Winifred's eyes lowered, a malicious looking smirk plastered onto her face.

A thought came to them. A truly horrible thought. You could feel their collective gears begin to turn as they all stopped to look at the cauldron. They could, surely they could. What was stopping them? Bastinda's toothy grin curled up before her body trembled in excitement. "ENOUGH STALLING," she giddily gripped the table from sheer excitement, "LET'S DO IT, WINNIE!! LET'S SEE WHAT FORTUNA HAS IN STORE!!"

In unison, the three witches plunged their hands into the dough before lifting up the healer and dropping him onto a spare tray. The oven's heat had begun to spread across the room as Winifred took the honor of shoving him inside, sealing his fate once and for all. The only thing left to do was wait.

This was how Pure Vanilla Cookie was going to die; alone. His determination was greatly rewarded with indifference and malice. Weak to the wills of the creators he once revered, his body would burn to a sad, pathetic lump and be thrown out as the remnants of a failed experiment. His soul began to ache as the fire around him grew in size.

He could almost see what would happen next. Golden Cheese would be wondering where he went. She'd be the first to notice, of course, and she'd be the first to tell everyone. Hollyberry and Dark Cacao would form a search party, desperately looking in his favorite places, places that he would never visit again. He imagined them standing in front of his gravestone after it ended in failure. Hollyberry would bawl her eyes out and Dark Cacao would try and hold back his devastation in a failed attempt to remain steadfast for her. And White Lily... White Lily would never read another letter from him again. She would never know how much he loved her. He would never see her smile again. He would never hear her laugh. He'd never see the way she fiddled with her hair or the way the sun shone down on her eyes or how the world lit up when she was near.

It was a future where everything would stop in it's tracks. It was a future where everything he loved dear would come crumbling.

It was a future he could not accept.

#cookie run kingdom #crk au #pure vanilla cookie #fadinglettersau

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unicyclehippo · 2 years

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‘hey this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever said but i’m totally obsessed with your children.’

‘ok, first of all, for what’s gotta be the hundredth damn time, they’re not my children,’ steve said around a mouthful of chips. he brushes off the crumbs that land on his shirt. ‘and second of all—they’re pretty great, right? i mean henderson is certifiable but he’s also a goddamn genius -‘

‘yeah yeah, henderson’s the best, whatever. you know who terrifies me?’

‘terror is - a good thing?’

‘totally.’

steve considers that for a second. ‘max.’

‘that sweetheart? no.’

‘el?’

‘interesting that you’re only naming girls.’

‘nancy.’

‘absolutely,’ robin agrees whole-heartedly, but lifts a slender finger. ‘but not one of your kids.’

steve shrugs. ‘i’m out of ideas. all the other kids are chill. idiots, but chill.’

‘erica. i was talking about erica.’

‘oh for sure. you know, i actually thought about this after the whole mall incident—i think she’d really get on with my dad. and i mean that as a compliment, for the first time ever. she’s got that whole ruthless business woman thing going for her.’ steve’s eyes widen when robin grins, a little manic. ‘what? what? i don’t like that look on you.’

‘i was thinking.’

‘nope. uh-uh. bad idea, robbie. you know my opinion on thoughts. thoughts get us locked up and - and injected,’ he hisses, ‘and they get us dropped into the topsy turvy faster than you can say mum’s baked potatoes!’

robin lifts a brow. ‘robbie?’

‘that’s what you get stuck on?’

‘robbie.’

‘what? you can call me little stevie but i can’t call you robbie?’

robin smirks. ‘liked that one, did you?’ she laughs when he scowls, half-heartedly throws a few chips her way. she plucks one off the counter and blows on it. ‘five second rule,’ she mutters, tossing it into her mouth. she grimaces. ‘ugh. how long have these been here?’

steve shrugs. ‘dunno. couple days. it’s fine, they’re chips. you can’t get, like, food poisoning or whatever from chips.’

she isn’t as sure of that but she does know one thing. ‘these are gross. stale, steve. upsettingly stale. if i wanted a soft chip, i would not buy chips, i would buy bread.’

‘you mean, you would come over to my house and eat my bread,’ steve grumbles.

robin narrows her eyes. ‘any. way. on the topic of erica. we owe her—‘

‘owe her?’

‘—a lifetimes worth of ice-cream and i was thinking we could double up on some drinks.’

‘why would we give her more than what she wants?’

‘if you’ll wait,’

‘it sounded like you were done!’

‘i wasn’t.’ robin rifles through her pockets, finally pulling out a much crumpled piece of notebook paper. ‘i have a brilliant plan.’ steve groans. ‘it’s summer, stevie. it’s hot, everyone is unhappy, and we have a tiny genius on our hands.’

‘henderson.’

‘are you even listening to me? erica, mister pompadour. she’s got mad skills. and i’m not talking breaking and entering—i’m talking people skills, organisation, calculations, and a frankly wild fascination with the movers and shakers of the world. i’m telling you there’s not a single person in the world i trust more than erica to organise a summer shindig.’

shindig, steve mouths. ‘but what does that have to do with drinks?’

‘bribery, steven. we bribe her into putting something fun together. we give her ice cream and drinks—cold drinks, freezing ice cream, on this devils armpit of a summer day—and she organises a party for us, meaning we don’t have to do the work, and all of that amounting to a fun party that your kids and big kids alike can enjoy. it’s a win-win-win! we need this,’ she continues when he just munches on another handful of chips. ‘the kids are losing their minds, i’m boiling out of my skin, and if a random child comes into our workplace one more time today to tell us they’re bored, i’ll kill you first and then me.’

‘the way i hope to go out,’ he tells her dreamily, bats his lashes to make her laugh, which she does. ‘together.’

‘always,’ she agrees, light and ridiculous and grinning that sly, fond smile he manages to wrangle from her—and utterly sincere. ‘so? what do you think?’

‘i don’t.’ robin rolls her eyes. ‘but you do, obviously,’ he waves a hand at her scribbled note. ‘and i follow your lead. always.’

#st tag #robin and steve my bff beloveds #just a lil smth that popped into my head watching s3 #stranger things tag #tagging my stories #their friendship is so important to me

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feverinfeveroutfic · 6 months

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blood & wine | chapter three of six

ao3 link

I prided myself on the devil’s food cake, especially when I made a pair of ganaches for it, a dark chocolate one as well as a white chocolate one to make a series of rings to create a target. It was going to have a single candle right in the middle: this little gateau about the size of a can of oatmeal with three layers inside. Something devilish for my little devil.

Alex strode up to the lazy Susan on the counter with a twinkle in his eyes as if he was a young boy at one of his birthday parties again. He ran his fingers through his black curls and licked his lips.

“It looks utterly indulgent,” he declared.

“Make a wish, birthday boy,” I encouraged him. He paused for a few seconds, and then he glanced over at me for a brief second. He leaned into the candle and blew out the flame in one breath. I clapped my hands together, and then carefully, I picked up the knife and sliced the blade right into the top, right before the base of the candle. I plated him the first slice and handed him a fork, but he never ate into it right away. I gave myself a fair slice, and then he gestured for me to follow him outside.

“Here… wanna come with me to the bridge?” he offered me.

“The bridge?”

“It’s not too far from here,” he assured me. “We’ll eat our cake on the way over there.”

I was unsure as to why he would want to take a walk like that, especially when we had plates of devil’s food cake with us as well. But I trusted him, and once I had locked the door, he led me out of the apartment and down onto the street. All the while, he sank the tines of the fork into his piece of cake, and he closed his eyes at one point, even though we were walking.

“Oh, man,” he said at one point. “This is amazing.”

“Delicious?” I asked.

“Beautiful,” he remarked. “Sinful, even.”

For a moment, I thought that we weren’t going to be able to make it to the bridge in question because he was enjoying that slice of cake just a bit too much, but he led me about three blocks from my apartment complex to a cluster of trees near the mouth of Lake Merritt. The bridge wasn’t very big, even though it stretched clear across the black waters and gave us just enough room to walk along the wooden railing off to the right. Alex continued to indulge in his birthday cake all the way to the middle of the bridge, and then I offered to hold onto his plate for him.

“So, you just come here and toss some bread crumbs into the water here?” I asked him.

“Yup, and we say all the things that we did wrong over the past year. We don’t eat all day from dawn to dusk and spend the day with our parents.”

We were right in the middle of the bridge when he stopped and gazed out to the waters below us: the cold black rivulets gently washed underneath us as if we had a bit of runoff in the meantime. The wind picked up behind us, such that I shivered a bit. I clutched at the plates and held them up to my chest as if they were going to get away from me. I looked over at Alex and the way that his hair seemed to twirl around on the sides of his head: his gray streak fluttered a bit, like that of a little feather.

“Legend has it that when you meet someone on a bridge, you’ll never see them again,” he said, and his voice seemed to float on the wind. Stray ringlets of his black hair twirled about behind him.

“But we’re not necessarily meeting each other, though,” I pointed out.

“Of course,” he assured me, and he glanced over at me with a slight raise of his eyebrows. “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we did, though. I meet a guy who likes to feed me and entice me, and yet we never see each other again once we leave this bridge.”

“And then you come back here to repent for Yom Kippur,” I added.

“I come back next week with the stale bread and my parents, and we talk about our grievances and let them out of the bag, and right before we head on back home, I see the reflection of jet black hair in the black waters below. The feeling of a stout body embedded in the wood here. The ghost of a boy whom I believed would love me the way that I wanted to be loved…” His voice trailed off. I took a quick glimpse up at the sky overhead, at the cloud cover over us. I swore I felt a temperature drop right then. The talk of ghosts made me shiver even more.

“As long as we’re not going over to the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said to him.

“We could go there on Halloween,” he suggested, and all the while, he kept his voice down low. This was a side of Alex I had never seen before, and I was enticed by it, perhaps more so than his appetites. The wind blew through his hair and made his curls twirl around before him, the sunlight gently kissed his head and face to make his skin resemble to porcelain: the shadows lifted away from his eyes and eyebrows to make him look like a little doll with bright glassy eyes. Strands of his gray streak swept over his right eye and the right side of his forehead. The thoughtful look on his face never lifted away.

He looked like a ghost. The ghosts of millions of people who had graced the earth before us.

I swore I heard sirens behind him against the wind.

“What are you going to make me for Halloween?” I asked him again, and that time with a tremble to my voice.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” he replied.

“Maybe I should whip out a few calacas,” I suggested.

“Calacas?”

“Living skeletons that are big and bright and colorful,” I said. “The Day of the Dead skeletons. I could make us some cookies in the shape of them.”

“Cookies and cakes and everything oh, so delicious,” he quipped, and then he glanced over at me.

If I only knew.

“Eric, let me ask you something,” he began again. “What exactly possessed you to feed me all the delicious food in the first place?”

“I don’t really remember,” I confessed with a shake of my head, to which he squinted his eyes at me.

“You don’t remember… other than maybe giving me something nice and decadent for my appetite without realizing that I am a boy of flesh and blood, and I can, will, and have gained a little weight as a consequence. My clothes are tighter, my body is a bit rounder, fuller, and softer than usual. Sometimes I wonder if you’re a warlock at all.”

“I like dragons, I kind of am a warlock on principle,” I joked with a straight face.

“It’s like you don’t realize that there’s a monster inside of me,” he said with a hand on his belly. “Something inside me that could… dare I say, sink its claws and teeth into someone if it doesn’t get what it wants. It can get drastic if I am left unsatisfied.”

I swallowed at that.

“A devil, a demon… something along the lines of the Leviathan, the fearsome fifty-foot-long sea monster that can swallow the two of us whole at the end of the world.”

“You’re bluffing,” I quipped with a shiver. I knew he was trying to scare me, but I had to remain grounded, especially when it was that cold out there and he seemed to be in no hurry to head on back to my place. He placed his other hand on his belly: he was still so soft there, I could tell, even after he had lost most of it.

“Oh, am I?” he quipped back. “Sometimes I feel like, even after all this time, you still haven’t figured me out yet, Eric.” He slid his hands further onto his belly as if to protect himself from something. “I have noticed that when I don’t eat anything for a long time, I start to itch for… something else. It’s like this instinct that kicks in. The ‘survival instinct’ as my parents call it.” He moved his hands again, that time to his hip bones so his shirt spread over his belly to accentuate the slightly rounded shape. Still very slim, albeit with some softness.

“The survival instinct fused with a bit of the killer instinct,” he continued, and he placed his left hand right over his waist: “the two intersect every so often, you know. They come together into a foul-smelling serpentine creature, much like the Leviathan itself. It’s primal, having been around since our earliest ancestors when they were hunter-gatherers and fisherman.” He never moved his hand as he turned towards the wooden railing and the black waters down below us. “When you realize that there’s no food in the house and you’re short on money, what do you do?”

He reached into his pocket and showed off his Swiss Army knife with a sleek black handle that looked to be made of volcanic glass. “I’m sure you’ve been in that position before, Eric. Growing up mixed race in a cozy neighborhood of Berkeley, not too far from me. Some nights, there was probably very little in the house to eat.”

I swallowed at that, and I froze when he flicked open the main blade: the edge shone against the gray sunlight.

“It helps that you and I are both minorities,” he continued, and all the while, he kept his voice down low, low enough for me to hear over the winds. “To leave us without food or anything sufficient and leave us to die unless our primal desires rise from the dead. Centuries of oppression for Latin Americans, millennia of oppression and destruction for the Jews… it’s only a matter of time before one snaps and sends the side of the knife—” He switched the handle around with those long fingers so the tip of the blade pointed down to the wooden railing before us. “—into the ones trying to destroy them and rip them to shreds.” He hurled the blade into the wood before us, to which I stumbled back away from him a bit. But he never moved a muscle for a good long minute, that is until he calmly released his grip on the knife handle.

“The sands of time don’t always heal the wounds of the persecuted,” he continued. “Forgiveness never erases memories and history, and I have watched far too many people completely destroy and obliterate themselves all for the sake of forgiveness.” He raised his gaze towards me, those eyes as bright as blood diamonds. “Soft animals as we are, even as my belly still remains soft, and you yourself as thick as a mighty bull, there is a side to us, tucked away in the furthest recesses of our minds, that tells us to kill to survive. Forget fucking to survive: we must kill to survive. A severe lack of food means a desire to do something horribly drastic for our own benefit.”

I held still with my hands rested upon my chest. My heart pounded away at the sight of him, and more so when he gripped onto the knife again to wedge it out of the railing: a small slit was left behind in the wood, but it was enough for me to realize the sharpness of the blade.

He closed his knife and sighed through his nose.

“Shall we?” he offered me.

“Back home? Yes, yes, yes.”

“Besides, I promised my mom that I’d be back home for dinner,” he clarified. “I’m going to be eating more cake tonight.” He flashed me a wink, and I couldn’t help but smile back at him, albeit a nervous smile.

Alex may have been sexy but there was something more to him, however. Something he never told me.

I started to wonder what exactly happened back there at his grandparents’ house.

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rawwkfingers · 4 months

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Logopolis

One thing I've really come to enjoy from watching Classic is the way its allowed me to recontextualize events in New. This serial singlehandedly made me more on board with both the Flux and the bigeneration and it honestly baffles me that RTD didnt put that connection into The Giggle, even in passing, to help pave the way for his idea

I know WHY he didnt, because he enjoys his happy headcanon that every Doctor got a happy ending. But since thats not in the show and thus not canon (yet) I'm choosing to believe that the bigeneration was a result of time almost eroding in the Flux, akin to the Watcher's presence due to entropy here

To be fair, I'm putting a lot of headcanon of my own here since the Watcher is just not explained. I dont even know if I'd have been able to draw that conclusion if I didnt have the bigeneration as a reference point. I do think this was the writers intentions with the Watcher, just poorly explained like a lot of the science of this serial was

In general, the writing was a little all over the place this serial. Tegan is simultaneously really well written, she has an immediate energy in every scene, while also feeling slapped together. Her total non-reaction to being swept off to a new planet beyond "I'm gonna be late for work" gave me whiplash but her reaction to her aunts death was great (tho that has more to do with Fielding's acting than the writing)

The Logopolis stuff was also poorly explained until we were given a crumb of "they keep the universe together" and the Doctor's decision to fix the chameleon circuit feels like it came out of nowhere

This was not perfect

However, I did like it a lot, mainly because of the various interactions with the Master. His teamup with the Doctor was great, with the Doctor's awareness this is how he dies palpable

And then the juxtaposition of them working together with Nyssa's realization her entire planet is destroyed, because of the Master (who is wearing her father's face!!!) Again, with the context of New Who, it really brings to question just how complicit the Doctor is in all the various war crimes the Master has committed

In a way, this all is a perfect farewell for the Fourth Doctor. His era had some of the strongest writing in the entire series (Ark, Genesis, Pyramids, City) while also some of the worst (Talons, Leisure Hive, Deadly Assassin.) Having a story with confusing lore but strong character work is very fitting

Baker really was great, but there was something about him that always prevented me from LOVING him the way I do Pertwee. Part of that is that I'm not a huge fan of Baker as a person, but I think the other part of that was the way the show moved away from the explicit political stories that I loved so much. I'm sure the worldbuilding stuff that the era was so focused on was fascinating for contemporary viewers, but as a newer fan I either already knew it or it'd been retconned and wasnt enjoyable

His energy was contagious though and I loved the way he brought a levity and joy to the show while also taking the serious scenes with complete seriousness. I remember reading that he agonized over making sure to do Genesis justice because it was such a strong script

His last season started off weak, but ended strong

1. The Keeper of Traken. Just a really, really strong serial on top of introducing Nyssa, who I love and would die for

2. Full Circle. Ever since his introduction where I compared Adric to Atreyu, I've loved the character so of course his first story is this high

3. State of Decay. As much as I love this serial for helping shift the way I view Classic as a whole, its actual plot is fairly standard which prevents it from being higher

4. Logopolis. All the character work is great, all the technobabble isnt

5. Warriors' Gate. I feel like Romana deserved better than the departure she for

6. Meglos. I just find it a little stale and boring, nothing bad but nothing good

7. The Leisure Hive. It was a fun concept but the absolutely horrific editing makes it unwatchable

The companions of this era are all amazing so it'll be hard ranking them but

1. Sarah Jane Smith. There was never going to be any other choice here ofc, she's the face of Classic Who companions for a reason. She steals every scene she's in I love her

2. K9. One of the rare instances where the silly mascot character is truly incredible. Every scene he was in was fantastic and I want one of my own

3. Romana II. Cute and charming snd immensely lovable. Every time she was on screen I wanted more of her

4. Romana I. I loved Mary Tamm's portrayal, she always gave the Doctor as much sass as he gave her and the way she always carried herself as aloof from it all was amazing. But the chemistry of Ward and Baker is unmatched

5. Leela. It pains me SO much putting her this low but she was always the type of character who I loved in spite of her writing rather than because of it. She never had any of the truly GREAT stories the others did

6. Harry. He's the only companion of this era I actively disliked I'm sorry

#rawwk on #classic who watch #logopolis

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baked-hylian · 9 months

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why does each new season give me interesting crumbs in between annoying writing choices?

I finally watched the new season of tdp (didn't even know it was out) and I gotta say whatever writers left should come back please

episode one was extremely stale, maybe it's largely because I don't like how they've been writing Rayla and Callum's relationship, but it felt so forced and unnecessary of an episode all to force a "I trust her unconditionally" type of plot that doesn't even work with the information she's been hiding from Callum. Like why even hide what happened to her parents and Runaan? By now everyone is mostly aware of why the Moonshadow elves put the hit on Harrow, Rayla has been forgiven for her part in it. What purpose did that serve to the narrative other than to force the unconditional trust point that episode. A point that could have been done using the pirate town and her potentially having an arrest warrant from there, causing friction between the humans that still don't trust elves and Callum who doesn't ask her about the warrant, merely trusts that there is a good reason for it. I did really like Domina Profundis' design from the episode and I am still salty about the crap with the elf and human camp from the previous season and had to be reminded of it when Karim appeared.

episode two was better because of Claudia and Terry. Terry is great for her, love him for that, but I do dislike how much he shifts the tone during Claudia's scene considering she seems to be either being set up to stay a permanent enemy or perhaps episode nine will be her rock bottom before taking a different path. Also love all the shit going on in Viren's mind palace, poor guy needs a break.

episode three was interesting. I like the slow set up with Karim working towards taking back the kingdom via his first follower. I also really enjoyed the scenes with Amaya but it's Amaya and really hard not to like her. it does seem like tone is a difficult thing for the series to balance, and even by episode three it felt like whiplash at times between implied horrible thing and poop jokes.

episode four was probably the best of the first half of the season. It was so obvious that the book drop was going to be used as a makeshift fortress to keep out the corrupted banthers. However the episode just got laughable when the library became overrun with them. Would have been nice and cool of them to turn it into more of a zombie movie-esque situation and have corrupted elves and other animals appear, maybe even a dragon. also a little confused on how fast the corruption is supposed to work but hey, for plot reasons we need Zubeia to not become completely infected instantly, instead draw it out for several days/episodes for drama (same as the drama of whether or not Amaya and Corvus lived)

episode five was extremely predictable. Of course the first old elf ocean mage that the group meets is the one they need. We can't make this journey too complicated and heaven forbid that we take a moment to do anything, but maybe I'm still salty from the previous episode cause it seemed pretty far fetched that Zubeia couldn't just annihilate the corrupted banthers with ease and instead had to abandon Amaya and Corvus, because.... Amaya yelled for the first time on screen? BUT it did introduce my new favourite bad bitch Kim'dael, a bloodmoon shadow elf with some very interesting lore that I would have loved to see hinted at more when we were first visiting their forest.

episode six by far was one of my favourites introducing Captain Finnegrin but alas, all good things must come to an end because by episode eight he's dealt with like he was a stereotypical bully in a high school movie instead of a fearsome pirate captain.

episode seven was most interesting at two points. Janai being kidnapped by Kim'dael and the reveal of Finnegrin's ship being a giant hermit crab with a ship built around it. That was pretty sick, along with Callum literally stealing the wind from Finnegrin's ship prior to the crab reveal.

episode eight gets disappointing though with the way everything wrapped up with Finnegrin. I think I was hoping too much for that little thread of Finnegrin wanting to kill the ocean arch dragon due to wanting revenge for his first crab ship being killed by her. Really interesting, especially when he finally got the info he wanted from Callum about dark magic strong enough to kill an arch dragon. I thought it'd be really cool to see him return again, maybe even united with other antagonists at some point. BUT nope. Instead Soren uses the power of being a chill dude to convince Elmer he deserves to be treated better, and it worked somehow. Idk you'd figure a man who has been pirating over 40+ would maybe have had one or two actually loyal crew and not a bunch of essentially slaves. Seriously those kids would have been so fucked if Finnegrin had had some truly loyal men.

and lastly episode nine. Just poor Claudia, she really deserves the support she gets from Terry. Girl just wants to keep her family together. Was NOT expecting her to get her leg cut off in the confrontation, hopefully that sticks and she does some funky dark magic prosthetic for it. However the episode has left me wondering if they'll actually straight up kill Viran and use that to drive Claudia completely to the dark side, blaming Katolis and elves and dragons alike for getting in the way of her protecting her family, or will Viren live and try to walk Claudia back from the darkness? As it stands, I can totally see Aaravos forcing the dark magic spell to make Viren's resurrection permanent, but I do wonder if that was the only reason he created their freaky moth son or if there is more to that still.

#First couple of episodes I kept asking myself if I was gonna drop it #as the previous season and the sunfire elf camp actually pissed me off so much as it just was so stupid #but I made it through #because almost all the adult characters have at least one interesting thing going on still #but the kids (sans Claudia) are just getting a little boring #there was the moment in episode eight for Callum that was really good #with him breaking and giving Finnegrin the spell recipe #but I'm sorry Ezran is just boring #Rayla isn't horrible but certain scenarios with her just feel like a first draft #the whole thing with naming the baitlings was kinda meh (mainly cause I think all the names suck)#Soren wasn't too bad this season but it feels like he's hit a wall in his character arc with nowhere to go until he's reunited with his fam #I'm mildly salty about what age dragons finally start talking and why only select ones seem capable #(perhaps it's mentioned in a previous season and I forgot)#anyways I'll probably keep up with the series until the end #providing s6 doesn't dip even lower in writing for me

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gefiltefished · 11 months

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extremely inconsequential rambling incoming but the cat won't let me sleep yet so 😩

i still feel like I'm in the same rut as I was after endwalker ;_; 4 patches later and only one brief appearance in that time isn't really enough to fuel any exciting ideas for shippy shit and idk what to do tbh

because there's not really space for wholesome, sappy domesticity given they're apart for longer and longer stretches and busy with whatever project/world ending crisis has their attention and msq is determined to give me crumbs at best as to wtf the ironworks are getting up to

my own fault for getting too attached to Mr. Plot Device after getting fed all the way through to SHB I guess but still, it's frustrating me that it feels very stale rn- I don't want to ditch what's become firmly entrenched in Utha's story as the WoL now and I really enjoy them as a pair overall

but idk how to keep it moving forward anymore and it makes me sad that I seem to have lost that inspiration now, or if I do have an idea, I'm just going over/rehashing older plot points when I really would like to engage with the current storyline at the same time

sad 😔

#pls just a little morsel #another little adventure maybe #or a cameo somewhere or #idk! something!!

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memetaped · 10 months

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everybody loves raymond taken from the tv show.

laughter’s the best medicine, right? i’m keeping it loose, keeping it light.

don’t go nuts. just go.

i wish this bread was stale, i would give you a concussion.

open up the window and let some of the wrong out.

i have scruples. i’ve got scruples the size of basketballs.

do you want to kill me? because you’re killing me.

i’m on a steady diet of human suffering.

my god, talk about birthdays. your birthday gift to me finally came this morning.

i spent the night in the hospital, picking glass out of my arm.

never be afraid to pull the trigger, on your smile.

you know what, i’m tired. could you just call yourself an idiot?

enjoy your crumbs.

i don’t know why the hell i even sat down for this all-you-can-eat character assassination.

you are an idiot wrapped in a moron.

what in the holy name of crap are you talking about?

you have every right to be upset, but i will get a stepladder and fight you to the death over this.

how about reading my book? “you’re in the way”, the (name) story.

i don’t know if you’ve ever been in this situation before, but the first thing that comes to mind is run.

you know, it’s amazing i can function at all.

i tried nice once. didn’t care for it.

you know how you feel the day before you get the flu? well, this is the day before that.

maybe that’s why i like animals. woof. moo. quack. they tell it like it is.

will this lecture be available on audio cassette?

there’s a vibe over there that gives me, i can’t describe it, searing abdominal cramps.

holy crap.

i want to get mad, but i don’t think i can fit another emotion in here.

but, hey, before i get really, really, really happy, is there anything else you want to share with me?

i keep forgetting what a freak show this family is, until someone new comes in and looks at us like that.

you ever think about space? is it really endless? if you had a spaceship, could you go flying and flying through space forever?

#tv tag.#rp meme #rp sentence meme #askbox meme

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mintmutationx3 · 2 years

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@sapient-nes

Notes: Okay this is NOT my best work but it's been a long time since I wrote fiction so don't yell at me about it okay? Also I used they/them pronouns for Kaz because it's one of the pronouns you use and I didn't want to get Kaz confused with Bill. Enjoy.

It was a quiet, rainy Sunday in Gravity Falls when it happened. "It" being quite possibly the strangest thing Kaz had encountered yet--and considering where they lived, that was saying something.

The day started out ordinary enough, with Kaz following their usual weekend routine of sleeping until ten and having a breakfast of stale toast in their pajamas. When they finished wiping the crumbs off themself, they started work on their current project.

This doll was a little more ambitious than ones they had made before, with skin made of a complicated patchwork pattern. It had to be done with a lot of care, and had taken them much longer than usual as a result. They were nearing the end, though; all that was left was the doll's hair and clothes.

They did not get the doll done that day, because after only five minutes of work their home was invaded by an annoying demon in formal wear. Because of course it was.

Kaz was starting to think they had been naive to imagine they could get any sort of peace in this freaking town, even on a Sunday.

"What? Aren't you happy to see me?"Bill asked.

"Hardly. Get out of my house."

"That's no way to greet an old friend! And besides, I can't leave till I have what I need from you." he sing-songed.

"You can't possess me or my dolls. Or any of my stuff, for that matter. And I'm not going to make any kind of deal with you. Will you leave now?" Kaz asked tiredly. They did not get paid enough for this. Or at all.

Bill clutched at his heart. Or where his heart would be, anyway, if he had one.

"Do you really think so little of me? Can't I want to see a friend without an ulterior motive?"

"We've never been friends, and you already admitted you want something from me."

Bill cackled. "You're a sharp one! Alright, I'll spill. You've been extra mopey recently. And humans are always mopey, but I have to pay extra attention to you now that you know me. You're really bumming me out!"

Kaz's brow furrowed. "You want me to… stop being sad?"

"Bingo!" Bill exclaimed. "How soon can you do it?"

"Uh, I can't. Don't you think I would have done that already, if I could? It's not like I want to be sad."

"Oh." This was the first time Kaz had seen Bill surprised, or confused, or really anything other than gloatingly cheerful.

"Yeah. Welcome to my life." Kaz muttered.

"Well… why are you sad?" Bill asked, getting very close to their face.

"What?"

"If I know why you're so upset, I can target the source! C'mon, it'll be good for both of us!"

Kaz knew, logically, that trusting Bill was just about the worst thing they could do. But something about his almost childlike enthusiasm was infectious, and they found themself wanting to agree.

What the hell? They might as well try it. Maybe Bill held the secret to happiness.

"Uh… well, there's general anxiety. Like, I feel like people don't care about me. That's a big part of it, I guess…"

Somehow, Bill had a thoughtful expression on his triangle face.

"Like people don't care about you, huh? Well, that's an easy enough fix…"

Bill snapped his fingers, and suddenly they were somewhere else.

"Man, I wish Kaz were here!" Mabel bemoaned.

"They're so much better at sewing than me!" Mabel glanced at the phone sitting on Stan's desk.

"Maybe I could call them?"

"Don't bother them, Mabel. It's the weekend. They might not even be up yet." Dipper said.

Mabel pouted. "Yeah, you're right… I just miss them. We haven't had a good one-on-one hangout in ages!"

"You saw them last Thursday, Mabel."

"Exactly! Way too long!" she cried, flailing in her seat.

"Dramatic." Dipper shook his head, but Kaz didn't miss the way he looked a second too long at the phone as well.

The images shimmered away back to Kaz's bedroom, and they almost fell over.

"Are you better now? Did I do it?" Bill asked. Kaz was a little nervous about what Bill might try next if they explained that it doesn't really work that way.

"Sure," they responded hesitantly, "I'm better."

It was sort of true, at least. They were feeling better in the moment.

Bill was apparently satisfied with that answer, because he poofed out of existence a second later.

Kaz sat, dumbfounded, for a few minutes before they fully processed what had just happened.

"Okay," they muttered to themself. "That was weird as fuck."

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digital-b3 · 2 months

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My Biggest Digital Marketing Fail (and What I Learned)

Hey everyone, I'm here to confess my biggest digital marketing blunder. It wasn't a catastrophic data breach, thank goodness, but it definitely taught me a valuable lesson about understanding your audience and staying authentic.

youtube

Here's the story: I was managing the social media for a local bakery known for its delicious, homemade pies. To capture attention and attract new customers, I created a series of highly stylized photos featuring their pies in trendy, minimalist settings. Think sleek marble countertops, perfectly arranged props, and zero crumbs.

I was initially thrilled with the visuals. They were clean, modern, and aesthetically pleasing. However, engagement plummeted. Likes and comments were scarce, and the few comments I received expressed confusion. "Where's the warmth?" one user asked. "This doesn't look like my grandma's pie!" another chimed in.

The truth hit me like a stale croissant. I had gotten so caught up in creating visually trendy content that I completely missed the mark on what truly resonated with my audience. They weren't looking for minimalism, they craved comfort, tradition, and the feeling of home.

So, what did I learn?

Know your audience inside and out: Don't just create content you find appealing, but tailor it to the specific needs and preferences of your target audience.

Authenticity is key: Don't try to be something you're not. Embrace the unique qualities and personality of your brand and let it shine through in your content.

Data is your friend: Track your results closely. If engagement is dropping, don't be afraid to analyze the content and make adjustments.

The outcome? I went back to the drawing board. I focused on capturing the warm, inviting atmosphere of the bakery. I used natural lighting, close-up shots of the pies, and images of happy customers enjoying their treats. Engagement skyrocketed, and the bakery even received positive comments about their "down-to-earth" social media presence.

This experience taught me that the human element is crucial in digital marketing. It's not just about aesthetics; it's about connecting with your audience on an emotional level. So, be true to your brand, understand your audience, and don't be afraid to learn from your mistakes!

What are your biggest digital marketing lessons learned? Share them in the comments!

#digital marketing #failforward #learnfrommistakes #socialmediamarketing #authenticity #youtube #digitalmarketing #community #futureofmarketing #skills #Youtube

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jazzeria · 7 months

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16 Sep: My best 100% sourdough sandwich bread so far! Look at that delightful oven spring, and the slight curl to the ear!! You almost can't tell where the bread tore itself, the slash hides it pretty well, I think!

Even textured crumb, pleasant chewiness but still soft. Crust is a great balance of "crusty" but soft (it's meant for sandwiches, but I enjoy a slightly crusty bread).

The flavour is really great too! Long time in BF so the, like, partially digested grains taste complex lol! It has a really nice bready smell too! Toasty, sourdoughy, slightly sweet.

It turned out perfectly (for my expectations anyway)!

Here's a comparison with the previous loaf:

You can see how much more evenly-textured the crumb is now. And the impressive loft! This loaf is nearly double the previous one's height (admittedly the previous loaf has shrunk slightly from staling).

#sourdough #bread #sourdough bread #home baking #Sir Fluffybuns #Sir Fluffy Buns #food #sourdough sandwich

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plantdad-dante · 7 months

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Book #114 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe by Douglas Adams

(first time read, the comedy isn't necessarily better on the first instead of 500th time, but it's at least... something new?)

If reading this series is teaching me anything, it's that I would have found the average British person of the 1980s incredibly annoying.

Things this book accomplished: We have killed Marvin; also the villains are therapists now. Like... the actual villain behind Earth getting blown to bits has turned out to be... psychiatrists. I... I don't even know. Trillian has even less character or shit to do than last time, which is a feat. She is now on about the same level as a pot plant. Arthur has faded into the background as well, if not quite as much, and, in sharp contrast to Trillian, I hope he stays there for the rest of time.

Ford is now my only hope for getting anything at all out of these books. Zaphod has, as far as I can tell, concluded his plot, so now the only think I can hold out for are some stale crumbs of emotional investment from Ford. Which is a sentence that I did not expect to ever have to type.

See, when Ford and Arthur land on prehistoric Earth there is this bit were it describes Earth as this serene and beautiful place, and for once, the book reaches for a deeper meaning... and it's all about Ford and his need to travel, to experience the world, the galaxy, and every place he can find in it and soak it all up, to see it all and marvel at the wonders of it. Ford thrives in making every one of his days look different, and he does so by persistently moving forward, not only unafraid, but with certainty and glee in the face of the future. I like Ford now. Strange.

Also, I'm so sorry, but I have to talk about this... the last scene of the book has, and, for the life of me, I cannot figure out why, a very sudden and therefore strange no-homo vibe? Like, Ford has just been allowed a smidge of actual fucking character, and then he has this moment with Arthur when they think Arthur might have figured out the key to unlock the secrets of the universe, but it all turns out to be nothing and they lie next to each other on the ground, shaking with laughter, and the scene isn't even that gay-

and then these two women randomly show up, one of which we have literally never met before and the other we might as well not have, and Arthur and Ford each get assigned a woman, and then all four of them just... leave the scene stage right. And the book ends.

And not to offend people who actually enjoy Mr Adams' humour, but this was the only time I actually laughed.

#the restaurant at the end of the universe #the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy #douglas adams

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mylifemydiary · 1 year

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Updates

4/13/23

It has been 3 months since I took the test for a company and failed, and I retook it Tuesday. I passed. Now let’s see if I even get an interview and pass that part. I can be charming, but I am also short on sleep and patience these days so we’ll see. I still don’t even know if I actually want to work this job. I don’t want to be away from my sweet baby. He loves me a lot and the way his face lights up when he sees me is priceless. I know we aren’t supposed to have favorites, but my oldest won’t even open my texts, my 4 year old has meltdowns about as often as he blinks his eyes, and my sweet baby just adores the sight of me. So, yeah. You do the math. Not to say that won’t change, but for now I am soaking it in and trying to savor all the sweet moments of my last baby.

I have book club tonight, something that I have not been able to go to since February. It is only once a month, but it feels like forever ago since I had a kid free night out. A few hours where I wasn’t responsible for wiping someone’s butt or making sure they eat or attending to their every need. Last month the weather kept me away, and it sure was missed. And it sure has been needed.

I love my children with all of my being but it is so exhausting and I feel like my husband doesn’t get it. Yes, he will watch the kids without question and yes he is an amazing father. To that end, I could not have asked for a better man to procreate with. But when he ‘watches the kids’ that is literally all that is happening. All the behind the scenes stuff a wife is responsible for is still very much there when I return. The bottles that have to be clean, the dishwasher that needs to be emptied and filled, the laundry that needs to be washed, dried, and put away, the towels that get stale and don’t wash themselves, the floor that has to be swept hourly it seems so that the baby doesn’t put crumbs and dirt and whatever morsel he finds on the ground in his mouth. It’s endless and thankless and yet has to be done. All the time. Relentlessly. Whether the baby is screaming at me or not. Whether the toddler is melting down for the 6th time this morning or not. Probably why I can’t keep up with this diary like I want to. I need to vent sometimes. Often, even. But do I have time to sit down and write my thoughts down? No. Do I have time to enjoy a bath bomb? No. Do I have time to go to the gym? Yes. Now that I make time for. Just an hour in the mornings for me. To work on myself. Am I seeing improvements? No. Do I have to deal with my toddler on the way there, during and after? Yes. But I do it for me. For a small release. And then back to car seats and tantrums.

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snickerdoodlles · 2 years

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homecoming

@7nessasaryevils requested some patpran kisses on scars, specifically scars on pran. wound up being some light body worship because im feeling emotional, hope u enjoy friend!!

ch.4 of my open sky

Pran is Pat’s homecoming.

It’s a marvel to him, how easily they return to each other even after three years gone. Even when he’d still been feeling lost, trapped in his shell of aching lonely anger, unsure of where he’d stood with the boy next door, just seeing Pran reminds him of who he wants to be. Just one look reignites Pat’s drive to be better, to be just as good and kind as the boy who’d rescued his rival’s sister without a moment’s hesitation.

But three years is a long time. For all their familiarity, each of them has grown into different people, and nothing stands to show that age like the new scars he and Pran have collected along the way.

They lay in a tangled sprawl across Pran’s bed one Sunday afternoon, pretending their projects and schoolwork don’t exist for an hour or two. Pat’s made it his afternoon mission to find and trace each and every one of Pran’s scars, and he’s decided he’s doing it with his lips. Pran calls him ridiculous and drags his hand through Pat’s hair, tugging the coarse strands playfully. But he doesn’t stop Pat either, even acquiesces to Pat’s murmured requests for the scars’ stories with only a bemused huff.

Pat presses a kiss to the top of Pran’s left pointer and the little question mark shaped scar curled over his knuckle. “How’d you get this one?” he asks, lips catching and dragging on the soft skin of Pran’s finger.

Pran shivers and hums, brow faintly furrowed as he tries to recall that scar. “Kitchen accident. I was cutting…bread?” Pran taps his lips thoughtfully. “Mm, bread. It was stale and we were going to make bread crumbs out of it for some communal meal. But instead I bled all over them.”

Pat snorts and goes to kiss each of Pran’s fingertips. On his right hand, middle finger, he discovers another little scar. It’s old enough to have faded completely, but Pat can feel the little half moon shape against the sensitive skin of his lower lip. He presses his lips around the tip and blinks up at Pran, head cocked curiously to the side in a way he knows Pran thinks is cute.

Pran rolls his eyes in a huff and the sunlight catches in his dimple like a glow.

“Old guitar callous,” he says, wiggling his finger to press it in just a millimeter deeper. “It faded after I got a handsome face to abuse instead.”

Pat perks up with a happy wiggle and Pran laughs softly at him, eyes glowing. He pushes Pat’s face away as an overwhelmed flush overtakes his face. Pat rubs Pran’s hips soothingly, which leads to a new discovery when his thumb slips under the loose band of Pran’s boxers. Pat gasps and eagerly follows the discovery down. But Pran grunts in embarrassment, jerking one leg up to keep Pat from pulling his boxers off completely. Pat presses an apologetic kiss to the stretched white starburst of a scar curled over Pran’s hipbone, and Pran pets his head in acceptance, albeit with a mean little tug of his hair.

“Rugby accident,” Pran bites out to Pat’s unasked question, flustered. “I, ah, lost my footing and fell into the stands.”

Pran muffles his laugh at the clumsy image into Pran’s skin and Pran squirms at the ticklish sensation. Pat grins, delighted, but before he can take advantage, Pran pulls him back up until they’re pressed flush together again.

“Why do you even care about these things?” Pran mutters, cheeks hot and gaze averted. Pat just smiles sweetly and blows a raspberry against Pran’s neck. He nearly gets a knee to the groin as Pran shouts and tries to squirm away, but Pran falls back against him a minute later, giggling and poking Pat in turn. Pat hides his triumphant smile in Pran’s shoulder and gets another threatening poke to his side.

Pran nudges the side of Pat’s head with his nose. “But seriously, why? Most of these were just stupid accidents.”

Pat shrugs, as best he can when they’re pressed this close together. “They’re a part of you.”

“Hmm?”

Pat presses his lips together, struggling to find the words. How to even begin to explain his desperate need to catalogue all the ways Pran’s changed over the years, or the feeling that if he brands every detail into his brain, it just might begin to bridge the canyon of that loss?

“I like listening to you,” Pat says finally. “Hearing your stories. Each one I learn feels like another step coming home.”

Pat coughs, because that’s sappy, even for him. Pran stares at him silently, cheeks burning hot, eyes wide and dark. Pran gulps.

“You’re going next,” he mutters nonsensically, voice slightly hoarse. Then he guides Pat’s head to a new scar, and begins to tell its story.

#bad buddy #pat x pran #cookie's writing #IM RUNNING LATE AAAAAAAAAA #hope this is okay bc no time to beta now WHEEEEEEEEEEEE #ik this wasn't quite to your request but i hope u enjoy !! <3

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hedgy-hog · 3 years

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Fish Eyes

Phillip Altman x Jewish! GN reader (AFAB if you squint)

Words: 5.9k

A/N: Shana Tova to everyone who celebrates! I hope this new year brings you light and love. For those who don’t celebrate, I still hope you enjoy this!

CW/Tags : Mentions of food and alcohol, implications of sex, oral sex (GN receiving), penetrative sex, reader doesn’t practice but is Jewish, mentions of children/babies, Annie and Paul finally have a baby

Read on AO3!

“A joke is what it is,” you begin, the corners of your mouth turning upwards at the sentiment. “Rosh Hashanah translates to ‘Head of the Year’, so, for a laugh, people place fish heads on the table. Sometimes the brave eat it, eyeballs and all.” Judd shutters at the thought of an eyeball exploding between his teeth, quietly declining the offer before pulling out a chair for Penny and then himself. Phillip’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls out a chair for you, pulling you close to his side first. You fit almost perfectly; it would be perfect if he wasn’t so damn tall.

“If you were a fish, I’d eat your eyeballs,” he claims, “eat both of ‘em. Chew them real nice.” The reflex of your hand coming to whack him is abruptly intercepted by his hand encasing your wrist. You’ve smacked him enough already today, he determines, bringing your hand up to his lips to lay a lingering kiss upon your pulse. “Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t eat my eyeballs too.”

“So, why are we doing this exactly?”

Some stray breadcrumbs that linger in your hand are already slotted between your fingers, irritating your skin like the most delicious sand. The urge to drop the bread and dip your hand in the water pushes you closer to the pond. Leeds Pond was the closest and the easiest drive, so here you stand, the cool September wind brushing against your skin with a handful of crumbs.

“To cast away our sins for the new year,” you explain, feeling the friction of the crumbs almost becoming unbearable. “With the beginning of the year, it’s best to start off with a clean slate. With Tashlich, they wash away and you can start anew untainted,” you explain. You keep holding onto the piece of too-stale bread, as much as you wish for it to be taken by the water. You want him here beside you, joining you in the annual ritual you perform. The earth crunches below his feet, the first thing to come into view is his own cupped hand filled with the same bread you brought along. The same amount deposited into yours looks so minuscule in his hand, yet with his size, everything looks tiny.

“What if I want to remain tainted? What if I don’t give a shit about what God thinks?” he pesters as he always does. A huff expels through your nostrils as you try to control your laughter, shaking your head at his petulance.

“You really want God to remember Paul catching us in your car? It’s enough that Paul has to remember that,” you sigh, your brows pinching forward. It is a miracle, truly, how you two were able to squeeze into the back seat like that. Judd never returned the Porsche, remembering him cautiously driving it down the street in case Phillip had a fit. Better Judd than some asshole, he chuckled at the scene, simple as that. For now, the Prius is enough. Maybe not a babe magnet, but who would he need to attract when he had you?

“He enjoyed it, trust me, he’s not getting any action since that kid came along, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen much worse shit from me before.” He’s the one who laughs now, the smack of your unoccupied hand against his sturdy bicep sending him further into hysterics. Catching a glimpse of his pointy teeth, you give in, your shoulders shaking in time in your shared laughter.

“You’re such an ass. Come on,” you lead him further towards the water, Phillip following at your side. You halt about five feet away from the water, peering over at him from beneath your lashes. With the morning sun casting a golden glow upon his skin and the sight of his windswept hair, he looks almost ethereal. Perhaps he doesn’t need his sins washed away after all. Perhaps this is God’s way of saying he is forgiven for every whacky thing he has ever done. It’s not like it matters. This is simply a tradition in your eyes. “You ready?”

“Yup,” he nods, accentuating the p with the pop of his tongue. You shoot him a simple countdown from three. At the sound of one, you swing your arm back, letting the bread fly into the pond. The crumbs remain, continuing to irritate the skin between your fingers. The old bread soaks up the muddy water, breathing some kind of life into it once more before it disintegrates for the fish to consume. Even if it’s just tradition, you can’t explain the weight that seems to melt off of your being. A new beginning, a chance to restart. You don’t say the prayer that goes with the ritual; you don’t know it if you’re being honest with yourself. Still, being in the moment, sharing it with him, the prayer isn’t needed.

Phillip’s piece looks smaller than you remember placing in his palm previously. Your brows furrow, gaze following him once more to see him pressing the remaining piece past his lips and gnawing on the too-hard dough.

“You’re not supposed to eat it!” you shriek, your hands reaching out for him again in hopes he somehow stops his ministrations. Instead, he keeps chewing, arms reaching out to grab you by the waist and pulling you into his front. He swallows obviously, lips smacking together before releasing an exuberant sigh of satisfaction, noting how yummy it was. You roll your eyes, fingertips skirting against his arms as your hands come to join his own. “Ugh, you’re the worst.” With a hunch to his spine, he bends over just enough to brush his lips against your cheek, his facial hair prickling at your skin.

“Mmm, but you love me anyway,” he grumbles before his lips meet your skin again. You wish to act fast, to lie and rip yourself away from his grasp spewing how you don’t love him. He’s a menace, and childish, and will do anything to get a rise out of you. Yet it would kill you at this moment to leave his embrace, his arms encasing you so perfectly. The breeze subsides against your frame with your human shield wrapped around you. Your body relaxes the more he holds you, knees going lax as your head comes to rest against his chest.

“I shouldn’t, but I do,” you sigh, eyes slinking shut as his lips continue their gentle attack upon your skin. Goosebumps push their way up, the warmth from his embrace easing the urge to shiver. With the proper angle of your head, you respond with a kiss upon his jaw in return. Your nose nuzzles into the edge of his goatee. “I really do.” You have no idea how this happened, how you ended up in his arms like this, giving him your whole heart. You couldn’t stand him growing up, the too-tall and lanky immature boy he was, always pestering you and your every move whenever he had the chance. He’d push every button you had and then find more you didn’t know existed, just to push those as well. As you both grew, so did your intolerance of him. It didn’t matter how handsome he became, how he filled out all of his shirts and grew facial hair that would look creepy on any other man that you would come across.

Well, maybe that wasn’t the case. You know how this happened, as does he. The lock of eyes across the room at a party your friend took you to, the existential dread settling in your belly as he made his way across the room, drink in hand, to talk you up. Your brain screamed at you to run, to do anything to get out of his way. Instead, you stayed firmly planted in place. For once in your life, you didn’t want to knock him straight in the jaw. The first few days, you blamed the alcohol, but when you woke in the same bed night after night for a week straight, you only had yourself to blame. Awestruck by Phillip, you quickly became enamored, as much as you tried to avoid him afterward. Still, he found a way, always showing up where you least expected him. Something about him, as much as you wished to smack him upside the head, captivated you unlike anything else. His winning smile, contagious laugh, the feel of his hands. The jokes started to become less intolerable. You liked them even. Two years later, here you stay, locked in his arms, his familiar scent the only one to calm you.

“It’s a good thing I love you too, then,” he presses a final kiss into your skin before pulling away. “Come on, let’s go fuck in the car.” Now you tear away, exasperated with your jaw on the floor. His laughter booms through the sounds of nature and although you go to smack him again, calling him disgusting, you walk back to the car arm-in-arm with your heart about to burst.

Even though you speed down the road, you’re late. Thank Phillip for that, you grumble at the door as you return Hillary’s welcoming embrace, the Shana Tova still fresh upon her tongue despite not being Jewish at all. He wasn’t kidding with his offer, practically begging you with pursed lips and puppy dog eyes and his hands right where you needed them, that you couldn’t refuse. There were times you had to stop, as close as you were to your precipice because your leg was screaming at you, the muscles cramping up from being stuffed in the backseat of a car that could barely fit two. His hands massaged the muscles each time, trying to alleviate the pain as you rushed to bring each other to ecstasy on top of him. Still attentive, even in your thoroughs of passion. You don’t remember hearing that from others back in high school. Your hair is still mused, clothes still hanging off awkwardly as you feel Hillary’s shoulders shake against you in laughter.

“Feel free to tell me later,” Hillary pats your hair down, removing herself from you to be engulfed by her youngest and largest child. She yelps when he lifts her feet off the ground, flopping her around like a rag doll. His laughter can fill any space, exuberant and boisterous. It doesn’t end once he puts her down, the older woman having to pat herself down to get her clothes back into place as well. “Hope he didn’t do that with you before.”

“Mooooom,” Phillip whines, pushing past to go see who would be the schmuck to arrive later than him. The main room is booming with life, and it seems Phillip and you were the schmucks after all. The children chase each other around the room, shouting as they decide who is ‘it’ in their game of tag. The rumble of the china cabinets gives way beneath their little feet, so many of them now. The only one not in the feat of play is the youngest addition bouncing on Annie’s lap. They grow bigger every time you see them, their cheeks more cherubic with each bottle they suckle from and each spoonful of mashed whatever they eat. Today it seems to be peas and carrots, the empty glass jar discarded on the table in front of them. Cole runs into your leg, muttering an apology as you try to weave your way through the madness. Only at the Altman’s, it seems.

“Ugh, you smell like sex,” Wendy groans as you hug one another. He’s told you all about her, what she did for him growing up. To say you’re thankful is an understatement. If she hadn’t cared for him, time would only tell how much more of a mess he would have been. How much more would he have gotten under your skin? But would that have made you fall for him even harder? You pull her in further, practically squeezing the air out of her lungs with how tightly you hold her.

“What? Don’t like the smell of knowing your brother gets laid?” you jest, getting a laugh in return.

“Glad it’s just you,” she speaks through her chuckles. Unraveling yourself from her arms, your hands remain placed on each other, another moment of many that you two have shared in silence. It’s hard to explain these moments, but they ground you both. You share a smile, a silent thank you for giving Phillip the chance to grow, whether it be now or then.

“Are you doing okay?” you ask. Wendy’s lips purse, surveying the room before giving you a nod.

“As good as I can be,” she responds, her thumbs making soft circles upon your arms. You study the room as well, trying to take in all of the commotions. Paul is in the corner, glass in hand, having discussions with Judd. With the feeling of your eyes on them, both men pause and look over, shooting you closed-mouth smiles that you return. Annie is no longer in her spot, off to the bathroom probably as Phillip has taken her place bouncing the baby on his knee, cooing at them. Penny is weaving through the room with a covered tray in her hands, the aroma of whitefish permeating the path she walks. She calls your name, shooting you a smile with a hello before disappearing into the dining room.

“Barry?”

“Italy,” Wendy is quick to answer, although her tone is anything but okay. From the few times you’ve met him, Barry has never been the most pleasant person. He’s always been distant, a phone attached to his face. You wonder if he’s lost the feeling in his arm from how often he keeps his phone propped up to press against his cheek. You breathe a sigh through your nose, not wishing to push further where you may not be wanted. Your grip on her tightens, giving her arms a gentle squeeze.

Phillip watches from the couch, eyes tearing away for a few moments to blow raspberries into the baby’s chubby cheeks. The little one giggles, pressing Phillip on further to have his lips vibrate against their super soft skin. He’s never been the one to think of kids. Hell, in many people’s eyes, he still was a kid in some way. But with one in his arms, how he soars for you, and how you look upon his sister with such love in your eyes, he knows he can see a future with you. He swore off his playboy ways, it had been the first thing he promised when he asked you to be his exclusively. For the first time, the urge wasn’t there. There was no itch for new exploration with another, no pull for falling back into old habits. He wanted to be better, truly. At first, he told himself it was solely for you, but he knew it was for himself too. It took time for him to notice how he wished to better himself, but with you helping him along the way, it was quite easy to fall into new and improved ways of living. Your touch was all he needed to sate him, your voice the only one he needed to hear when he woke in the morning and fell asleep at night. It was you, only you. None of this mumbo-jumbo rush for love and marriage like last time. This was real, and he would wait as long as he needed to until you were ready, but he knew. It’s you. You’re it for him.

“I’m here if you need me, okay? If you just wanna get away and steal a bottle of booze and talk, you know where to find me,” you affirm Wendy gently, not bringing attention to the glint that appears in Wendy’s irises. She nods again, muttering a ‘thanks’ before exiting to help her mother and Linda in the kitchen. You bounce back over to Phillip, bending over to plant a fat one upon the top of his head. Looking up, his gaze meets yours, pointy canines peaking out beneath pink lips.

“Had a good talk?” he asks, continuing to bounce the baby on his knee. The tiny human grumbles and squeals, enjoying the gentle rocking of their uncle Phillip. You nod, hand reaching out to brush through his hair. You untangle a few knots you put there in the first place an hour earlier, his lips pressing against your palm during a brief pause.

“Yeah. Are you stealing babies now? Thought it was just my underwear.” You follow in his footsteps with him being unable to keep his hands off of you, taking the opportunity to continue the soft attack on his hair. He leans into your touch as you preen him, eyes threatening to shut at the feeling of your fingers on him.

“Ha ha. Very funny, babe,” he drawls, sarcasm laced with his tongue. “I’ll have you know I only borrowed this baby. I may have stolen two thousand dollars from Paul and Judd, but babies are where I cross the line.” You scoff, feigning offense as you sink into the couch next to him. With a cock of his brow, a quiet invitation, he places the baby upon your lap. You wonder how long Annie has been away as you place your hands on the baby’s hips to keep them steady. You don’t mind, though. Taking care of babies may be the most tiring thing in the world, as much as people enjoy parenthood. Annie deserves a break. With that thought, you bring them closer to your chest, letting their back rest against your front.

“Hey there, Bubba,” you coo, the baby cooing back, “Uncle Philly isn’t giving you too much of a hard time, is he? I know how annoying he could be.” Beside you, Phillip huffs, a tuft of hair blowing from his eyes with the power of the air expelled. You giggle, leaning forward to land the softest of kisses upon the baby’s temple.

You can’t lie to yourself when you say you haven’t thought of this. Of course, you have. You swore to yourself you didn’t need the hassle nor the expenses. The Altmans had enough kids for a million lifetimes and none of them had to go home with you. But these are the things you dream of when you’re not in control, the images of waking groggy at the sound of crying, only for Phillip to wake up beside you, mumbling that he’s got it. You both pad out of bed to calm the wailing child, together, like you do everything. With a sleepy smile, you watch him rock them until their fussiness subsides, hand coming to rest upon his back and rub in soothing circles.

You’re a great dad, your dream self muses. He smiles, dazed as he remains half asleep.

You’re pretty great too, dream Phillip responds, slowly placing the baby back in their crib to keep them from stirring. You blink away the memory with the baby still in your lap, sighing once your laughter ceases. No one has ever made you laugh so much. You never wish to stop laughing. The baby laughs as well and with that, you know. He’s it for you.

“What the fuck is that?” Phillip blurts out at the fish head placed on the perfectly set table. There’s enough food to feed a village five times the size of those starting to gather at the table. In the middle of the table lay the head from the whitefish being served, mouth agape and eyeballs still intact.

“Watch your mouth, there are kids here!” Judd hisses, glancing back and forth at all of the food, “but seriously, what is that?”

“I wouldn’t,” you hiss, shivering at his lips remaining on your skin. The family pays no attention, thankfully, all taking their seats and settling in. Even if they were watching, it wouldn’t deter him. He lays his cheek in your hand, nuzzling into your palm like a kitten.

“You’ve had other balls of mine in your mouth. Why would this be any different?” That seems to catch the attention of Paul, the sound of him choking on his wine.

“Jesus, Phillip. Not in front of the kids!” he chastises once he catches his breath. The youngest brother chuckles, vibrations from his mouth sending shivers up your spine. Ugh! Not now, anytime or anywhere but getting ready to sit down for Rosh Hashanah dinner. Your eyes drill into his, giving a silent warning of what he’s doing to you despite the bullshit coming from his mouth. He offers you a wink and another kiss. He waits for you to sit before taking his seat beside you, instantly joining your hands together underneath the table. You intertwine your fingers with him, the warmth from his skin soothing the slight irritation in between your fingers from Tashlich. His thumb maps out invisible shapes on the back of your hand, you giving him a gentle squeeze in response.

Hillary taps at her glass with a fork to hush the commotion, clearing her throat before continuing:

“Does anyone know the prayer?” The room is silent, eyes casting glances towards one another in hopes someone else would know. How would they know if they rarely practiced? Hillary wasn’t Jewish and Mort was an atheist, you were told. Still, tradition runs strong as it does with you. Even then, tradition and all, you’re stumped. You know the stories, the general gist, but the last time you went to synagogue you fell asleep as the songs droned on in a language you will never understand. From the corner of your eye, Wendy shakes her head. Linda purses her lips, just happy to be here besides Hillary. Paul continues to sip on his wine, Annie eyeing the food that cools more by the second. Judd quietly asks Penny, her wild hair shaking along with her head. You shrug when eyes land upon you. You know about fish heads but not about the prayer. Typical. “Alright. Let’s eat then!”

The meal is lively, the plethora of deliciousness overwhelming you quite early on. Still, you take on the hard feat of trying everything you can. Stories you have never heard before having the family's cheeks burning and looking away, begging whoever shares not to say anymore fills the space as you indulge in all of the food sprawled out on the table. Your insides hurt from laughing so hard, honey still lingering on your lips from the dipped apples you all shared. Your tongue craves the citrus that the whitefish holds in its tender flesh where your brain screams for more tzemmies, the sweetness the sweet potato brings being like the warmest of hugs upon your palette. Phillip’s hand never leaves yours, fingers toying with each other under the table as you chow down.

You manage to reach over with your opposite hand and pinch him when he mentions how the round challah “looks familiar”.

“Ow! What? It’s true!” he tries to reason, knowing he would try to ease the pain if his other hand wasn’t locked in yours.

“It’s supposed to symbolize the circle of life, not an ass, you idiot,” you grumble, attempting to hide your laughter. You swear he does this on purpose to spur you on. It used to work all those years ago. But that was when you weren’t holding hands under the table and dreaming of families. Still, he tries. He enjoys it when you snap. You ride him that much harder when you snap, your hands rougher on him than usual, the word “brat” on your tongue making his entire body quiver. He pushes down those thoughts the moment they arise, his composure collected as he shrugs and reaches for his piece

“I’m just saying it’s familiar! You were the one that said it looked like an ass,” his words are muffled halfway through as he shoves the too-large piece in his mouth, the extra bits puffing his cheek out like a hamster storing food in their pouches as he chews. Later on, you shoot him a glance when he asks whether or not he should spit or swallow the pomegranate seeds that are passed around the table, winking at you and mouthing an I know what you’d do. Your face burns at that and you squeeze his hand a bit too tight. Oh, he’s asking for it now.

Although you’re stuffed, dessert makes your mouth water. Your wide eyes wander the span of the table, taking in everything you wish to devour. The apple honey cake calls to you, the apple glaze dripping down the sponge-like the sweetest of raindrops. Although your stomach pains you, you wish to lick the plate clean. The roasted and caramelized dates are to die for and they are the first thing you reach for, the soft flesh giving way beneath your teeth and practically melting on your tongue. You fight back a groan at the flavor, feeling his eyes surveying you at such a reaction. You turn to take in his raised brows, his teeth worrying into his bottom lip to hide the hint of a grin.

“Good, huh?” he nudges, leaning forward to steal the flavor from your lips in a chaste kiss. Involuntarily, you quietly groan against him, the taste of the honey cake upon his lips mingling with the dates. You nod as he pulls away, eyes drooping as the food finally catches up to you. You can never help yourself with food like this. Too much of it puts you right to sleep, but time and time again you make the same mistakes of stuffing your face with it. “You wanna go lay down?” After a moment of contemplation, you nod again, slowly pushing your seat back to rise from it. Phillip rises beside you, your hands still joined after all this time as he dismisses the both of you and leads you to his childhood bedroom.

It’s still odd after all of the times you’ve seen his room. Each time it strikes you for someone like Phillip, how normal his room looked. Nothing changed from before he moved out, light blue walls were scattered with posters of baseball players you could only name because their names are printed on the glossy paper. His little league trophies span his windows, something you would have certainly laughed at if you had a relationship like this back in high school. He leads you to his double bed, somehow too small for the both of you. Still, you make it work. Finally, your hands unravel, palm somewhat sweaty. You don’t mind, really. A simple brush of your hand against your clothes and it’s wiped away. You kick off your shoes, letting them land wherever they do naturally, and climb into bed. Although it is his room, the sheets no longer smell like him like you expect them to, the lingering of laundry detergent given months to air out meeting your nose. Phillip slides in beside you once his shoes are kicked off, scooping you into his embrace underneath the covers.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” you murmur, although your face nuzzling into his gives way to something entirely different. His hand comes to rest along your back, thumb running along your spine.

“Well, that’s just too bad that I want to,” he responds, his chin coming to rest upon the top of your head. “Why would I wanna go back down there when I could lay here with you?” With anyone else, it would already be too hot. Phillip is a furnace and you feel the beginning of perspiration prickling upon the soles of your feet. But with him, it is the perfect shared heat, your own private sauna to soothe your body.

“I won’t be much fun if I’m asleep,” you begin to slur, eyes fluttering shut as his hand travels downwards to rub your lower back. Phillip hums, the vibration of his ribcage against your cheek.

“Then it’ll be fun waking you up with my face between your legs,” he purrs, your limp hand coming to flop against his chest in a mock smack. “Ow, that hurt real bad. Think you left a bruise.” You huff through your nose, settling further into him as the food coma begins to consume you fully. “Sleep, baby,” he whispers. You do.

He stays there for a long time holding you, his ministrations continuing even as your breathing steadies. He’s going to have to wake you up soon for the candle lighting, but as long as the sun remains crested over the horizon, you can rest. He focuses on his breathing, watching your top half rise and fall with the movement of his chest. With a bloated belly and a light amount of drool leaking into the fabric of his shirt, you still are the most stunning thing he has ever laid his eyes on. He lived to pester you in high school, striving every day to watch you storm off so he could study the way your feet stomped across the floor. He lived to see your face scrunch up as you cursed him to the high heavens. No one got a rile out of you more than he did. It was his mission in life to bug you if that was the only way he could be around you. Now you lay in his arms, trusting him as you sleep. He smiles at the realization.

“Hopefully by next Rosh Hashanah, you have something on your finger. But we’ll take it as slow as we need to. I only said ‘hopefully’ because if you reject me, I may as well die,” he speaks softly as if not to wake you. “None of this shit made sense before you. I don’t know how to explain it. I just -- I love you. I’ll tell you that every day until you get sick of me. Hopefully, that never happens.” Your lips smack in your sleep, wiggling a little to get more comfortable. “But you’re stuck with me. I’m yours.”

As the sun begins to set, he keeps to his word. You jolt awake with the feeling of his mouth on you. How he was able to remove your clothing while you slept is a wonder all in itself, but such a thought doesn’t matter when your fingers are gripped tight in his hair, pulling him further onto you as you work your hips against his mouth. You whimper for him not to stop, to keep going. Just like that, Phillip. He chuckles against you, the vibration of his mouth blinding you with ecstasy as you explode against his tongue. When he steers home, his hips pressing deliciously into yours as he stretches you, you do all you can to stay quiet. The family is still downstairs and in a few moments, you will need to join them. Your teeth sink into your lip hard enough to draw blood, the indentation of a bruise starting on the underside. You encase him in you, your arms and legs wrapping around him for dear life as he groans and pants in your ear. The bed creaks louder than you would like, your skin burning at the thought of the comments you will get once you return downstairs. The thought is torn from you when you hear him whine about how fucking good you feel, both of you climbing towards your orgasms. It hits you first, your teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle your screams as you squeeze around him, your body begging him to stay inside you forever as his orgasm blinds him with white-hot light. He, too, cries into your skin, peppering kisses along his path as his hands soothe you. Your forehead rests against his once his lips leave your skin, panting into each other’s open mouths as you gain some sense of semblance back. Your lips meet his in swift pecks, your legs dropping from his hips and splaying out beneath him.

“We should go down. The sun’s about to set,” you utter against his lips. Phillip groans, throwing his weight onto you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips latch onto your skin, sucking a mark into the flesh that is certain to leave a bruise.

“Can’t we just stay here with me inside of you?” he grumbles against your neck. Your hand moves upwards to brush the knots out of his hair, running them against his scalp.

“At home, Philly,” you reason with a kiss to the top of his head. “Once we get home, you can stay inside me for as long as you’d like.” Groaning again, Phillip lays kiss upon kiss upon you. “Come on. We gotta get dressed.”

Your back rests alongside Phillip’s rumpled front as the family gathers in the main room. They have given Cole the responsibility of lighting the candles, his mother guiding his hand to prevent any injuries. The flame flickers as it transfers from candle to candle, the starter candle being blown out by a gargantuan puff of air from the little boy’s cheeks. Your hands rest along his arms as you take in the sight, the only light in the room being from the illuminated candles.

“Do you remember the prayer for this?” Hillary’s voice breaks the stream of focus from across the room. Again, you’re at a loss. If only you went to Hebrew school when it was offered to you. You shake your head although not many can see it, Phillip’s arms encasing you further into him.

“No. I know you’re supposed to cover your eyes while you say the prayer, though. Maybe we should make one up; just talk or something,” you suggest. His lips find their way to the top of your head, his kisses feather-light against your scalp.

“I got this, Mom,” Wendy volunteers, taking a few moments before beginning. Your hands leave his frame to rest over your eyes, encasing the world around you in total darkness. You focus on your breathing, feeling how your body moves against his. Wendy speaks of what comes with a new year, second chances, thirds, fourths, millions of chances. She speaks of how newness is refreshing and much needed. She speaks of how with newness, it is still important to hold onto the good of the old, the thankfulness and loved shared that has been surrounded by everyone in the last year. She thanks whatever power above for the happy moments of the last year, begs for forgiveness for the bad, and for the chance to start anew. Phillip’s eyes close on his own, his hands not leaving your frame. His fingertips trace shapes into your hips as he takes in his sister’s words, the kisses upon your head, although slowing, never ceasing. Explaining his gratitude is difficult, showcasing his love is not.

“I’m thankful for you,” he whispers for only you to ear, lips ghosting against your temple now. “I love you.” You exhale slowly through your nose, the apples of your cheeks beginning to ache from the smile you wear as you slink further into his form. One hand leaves your eye, making sure to keep it squeezed shut as you reach for him. Unraveling one hand from your body, you bring his hand up to your lips. His palm is attacked with the gentlest of kisses, over and over and over with a silent response to his daily confessions.

I’m thankful for you too, your lips spell out, I love you too.

“Oh, and I’m stealing some of the dates to bring home.”

And if you couldn’t love him more, there it is.

You’d eat his eyeballs if he was a fish, too.

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