#marinating in there like a pickle

[tthelady]

Can't believe childe has been marinating in the primordial sea for like a month

#marinating in there like a pickle #hope he doesn't touch soemone from fontaine after coming back 😔 #that would be awful #childe #tartaglia #genshin impact #genshin #real talk

[picklerocket]

Happy 3rd Anniversary Little Nightmares 2!!

I have not finished my pointillism piece for the celebration, so it will have to be belated. Instead, I will share a disjointed rant about how I think Thin Man and the Signal Tower function!

In my mind, the Signal Tower from Little Nightmares 2 (pictured on the right) is a Lovecraftian Shoggoth (pictured on the left), and it crashed to the earth thousands- perhaps even millions of years before we see the game take place. This is a theory I have personally had since the game came out, but I know there is a theory video floating around somewhere about this same theory, and a few of my fellow fans also share it.

(If you have not played/watched LN played or listened to the podcast, and do not want it spoiled, be warned! Spoilers ahoy!)

I will attempt to explain how I see Thin Man and the Signal Tower having a sort of symbiotic relationship, and what exactly Thin Man is and where Mono comes from.

In "The Sound of Nightmares", we learn that children almost always get to the Nowhere in their sleep, with a few possibly having been born there (i.e. the Pretender). However, Mono seems different, and not just from Six. His abilities of walking through tv screens, and whatever other powers he possesses as he grows into Thin Man, seem to be completely natural to him- to the point that he must cover his face with a bag to keep them at bay.

I am going to take this a step further and say that Mono was not only born in the Little Nightmares universe, but he wasn't even born on their version of the earth!

This is where my theories begin to seem a bit far-fetched, so stay with me.

I have decided to call what Mono/Thin Man is, a "Broadcaster" (a name which was assigned to Thin Man by fans when he first appeared in the secret ending of the Residence DLC), and has been a populr name for him in fanfiction, as well as fanart and comics as well.

Well, now I want to take a closer look at Thin Man's powers- and how they are comprised of electromagnetic fields and frequencies of light. So why can Thin Man manipulate these things in his environment to the point where he can pretty much control reality?

Because he is part of a species- a "Broadcaster". An alien. He has these superhuman abilities because he isn't a human at all!

You may have noticed that I said "a" Broadcaster. Implying there are more- which I believe there are, somewhere, out in the universe. I personally think that they are ageless beings similar in life cycle to the fabled pheonix; Growing old and being reborn again new each time.

But where do these Broadcasters come from?

The way I think, the only way any being could manipulate the laws of matter and light could be to have it composing their bodies as well. Yes, I am indeed implying that Thin Man is a solid projection of light (yes, like a gem from Steven Universe lol). All this to say, I believe they are born amongst stars forming in nebulas. They are made of/powered by stars! Made of light!

I mean, think about it! Whenever he's seen in-game, he looks black and white and staticy just like he's on tv! Like he's made of fizzling and flickering light. But what about Mono? Mono is solid, and he can even die!

Well, we can explain Mono being more physical and vulnerable as him being a tiny baby of course! I don't think he's just trapped in a time loop by the Signal Tower- I believe the Broadcaster life cycle for Thin Man starts over when we see Mono wake up in front of the TV in the forest at the beginning of the game.

"But why is Mono 'born' as a 10/11 year old?"

That, my friend, is because the Shoggoth that composes this particular Signal Tower is garbage at approximating human anatomy! It's never seen a human baby, and therefore can only replicate what it has seen- children.

"But Pickle, what do you mean the Tower made him look human?? What???"

Well, if you were a giant behemoth that consumes entire populations, you'd need something to lure them in. Like an anglerfish! And what did I pose is made of light? Broadcasters. That's what I think so far. The Shoggoth rips through nebulas searching for a Broadcaster, and once it traps one it its body, it takes it to a planet and uses the Broadcaster's abilities to consume the populace. Make him look like them and plaster him all over their communications and entertainment.

So there you have it! My current Thin Man/Mono theories and headcanons. I may elaborate on this further, and draw up some broadcaster life cycle examples. Let me know what you think! 👁️✨

Again, Happy Anniversary Little Nightmares 2!! 🎉🎊🎁

#pickle blogging #pickle speaks #little nightmares #little nightmares 2 #this took me like 2 hours #idk how you all do this #you are stronger than any US marine #mono #thin man

[kiradical]

I think Popeyes needs to be held accountable for every other place adding pickles to chicken sandwiches. As a pickle lover and chicken sandwich lover (Wendy's spicy chicken my beloved) that is one place pickles DONT BELONG!

Idek if officially Popeyes is to blame but it wasn't a thing until that sandwich came out and everyone was going nuts over it in like 2020. Then suddenly everywhere was adding pickles.

Stop it.

And now on the chicken wraps too? NO. THOSE TEXTURES DONT GO TOGETHER STOPPPPPP

Anyway, I'm begging places to please stop putting pickles on chicken sandwiches and wraps. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

#the one where kira is very normal about pickles and chicken #like yall dont even know the depth of my love for these two things (and wraps. i miss snackwraps and kfc twisters) #i just feel really strongly that they dont belong together #i would be so upset to bite into a chicken sandwich and discover a pickle there #and this is not a judgement on folks who like the pickles! #im so happy for you! #i know pickles is a thing with nashville hot chicken and the chickfila marinates in pickle juice or whatever (idc i hate them) but like... #mayo tomato lettuce and PICKLES?! #ITS NOT A BURGER #gonna die on this hill and i dont care if its a bad take #this ran brought to you by the kfc wraps commercial where i was so excited that wraps were coming back until i saw pickles on every option #(yes im aware i theoretically can ask for them to take it off but i have Bad Luck with that at restaurants and i have Food Anxiety) #personal #rant

[0ssianic]

I want to try a chic fil a copycat recipe for nuggets but the instructions to marinate the chicken in milk and pickle juice is making my brain short circuit

#for one i dont have pickle juice cause i dont like pickles #secondly and more importantly the idea of marinating chicken in milk is so alien

[gophergal]

I just realized that it might not be that I hate pickles, I might just fucking hate cucumber

#gopher rambles #heres my reasoning. i hate cucumbers. but i like marinated mushrooms. i like other foods with salty vinegar flavor #maybe I'll try pickled beets sometime. but my dad is Anti Beet #he's also Anti Summer Squash. but i like summer squash (winter squash too tbh. which he also isnt fond of) #so maybe id enjoy them? #the flavor descrriptors i get (earthy. bitter. sweetish) sound like my thing #so the chances are good? #cause i also like cilantro (tastes like soap 💚) and cumin (tastes like dirt 🤎) #and my dad isnt fond of either of those either

[destructive-ilya]

artichoke hearts are fuckin fire dude

#every time i gettem they’re gone in a sittin #my friend mentioned like how much she loved them n if never had before so shoutout ! #mars n their pickled or marinated vegetables #yum yum i need rest or imma get weirder #that’s a threat

[silverasea]

Queen walked past me in the airport in pastel bunny slippers and a velvet blanket drapped over her shoulders like the queen of sleep.

#smartest travel outfit i ever seen #gotta do that next time i arrive at the airport at 4am #she b out here making the rest of us look like chumps #like naww man i aint dressing up for some flight that has us all marinating like some pickle jar up in the sky #releasing our stinky asses once we're back on land #absolute respect and admiration

[thewolfofthestars]

me trying to avoid rereading my fanfic for at least a full day so I can come back to it with fresher eyes and better judge what's good/what needs fixing vs me who wants desperately to reread it immediately and post it immediately

#its like trying to keep a cat from knocking shit off the table #let it MARINATE!! let it SOAK let it PICKLE C'MON #let it AGE LIKE A FINE WINE #or any wine at all #we ain't selling grape juice here bitch #me @ my brain

[petermorwood]

Sunday lunch, or - since what with one thing and another we ate closer to dinnertime, it might be more of a Sunday dinch. :->

It was Moroccan-style braised lamb shanks, and it was really good; after 24 hours or marination and about three hours of slow cooking, the lamb was literally off-the-bone edge-of-the-fork tender.

Because the spicing was so complex (though NB like most North African dishes, not hot) we went for a simple accompaniment, plain couscous with a few strips of home-made preserved lemon to balance the deep, rich flavours.

I also included a dab of harissa with mine, and a couple of pickled chillis for zing.

Meat and recipe both came from Irish on-line source James Whelan.

I think this would work well in a slow-cooker.

BTW, on-line recipes like this can change with the seasons, so I'm adding it below the cut.

*****

For a more fragrant and pungent dish, the lamb can be covered in clingfilm and marinated in the fridge for up to 24 hours to allow the spices to penetrate the meat. The accompanying couscous can be jazzed up with pistachio nuts and dried fruits.

Moroccan Style Braised Lamb Shanks – Printer Friendly Download

Ingredients

4 lamb shanks, well trimmed

1 tablesp. paprika

1 teasp. each ground coriander, cumin, cinnamon and turmeric

Sea salt and cracked black pepper

2 tablesp. olive oil

1 large onion, roughly chopped

2 garlic cloves, chopped

2½ cm piece peeled fresh root ginger, chopped

450ml chicken or lamb stock

2 x 400g cans chopped tomatoes

1 tablesp. clear honey

Squeeze of lemon juice

Serve with a bowl of couscous

Serves: 4

To Cook

Cooking Time: 2¾ hours

Preheat the oven to Gas Mark 3, 160ºC (325ºF).

Heat a large frying pan.

Mix together the paprika, coriander, cumin, cinnamon, turmeric and one teaspoon of pepper in a large bowl.

Add the lamb shanks and using your hands rub in the spices.

Add a little of the olive oil to the heated pan and quickly brown off two of the spiced lamb shanks.

Transfer to a casserole dish with a lid and repeat with the remaining lamb shanks.

Meanwhile, place the onion, garlic and ginger in a food processor or mini-blender and pulse until finely minced.

Add another tablespoon of the olive oil to the pan, then add the onion mixture and sauté for 3-4 minutes until well softened and coloured from the spices left in the bottom of the frying pan.

Pour a little of the stock into the pan, stirring to combine and then tip over the lamb shanks.

Add the remaining stock with the tomatoes and honey, stirring gently until evenly combined.

Cover with the lid and cook for 2-2½ hours until the lamb shanks are meltingly tender and the meat is ready to fall off the bone.

Add a squeeze of lemon juice and season to taste.

We hope you enjoyed reading this post by Pat Whelan of James Whelan Butchers. Pat is a 5th generation butcher, cook book author and the director of  James Whelan Butchers with shops in Clonmel, the Avoca Handweavers Rathcoole and Kilmacanogue, Dunnes Stores Cornelscourt, Rathmines and Swords in Dublin. 

#food and drink #recipes #Moroccan-style braised lamb shanks

[kookoofufu]

Every illustration by Oda for One Piece Magazine's fan-request section, "The Drawing Of Your Dreams!"

Most of these are what-if scenarios. Yamato as an oiran is stunning but my favorite has to be Croc and Doffy starting a clothing brand together (oda comments that it would be evil and expensive)

These are all super high quality because they're scans straight from the magazines, courtesy of @xbloodywhalex's google drive. Below is the making-of process of the illustrations, the requests themselves, and more comments from Oda ↓

These are my very rough translations that I either found online or ran through google translate and tried to make sense of lol. Tell me if the translation is off, I'll fix it!

Magazine Vol 4 Request: Katakuri and Captain Luffy meet again at a certain place! They have merienda together

Magazine Vol 5 Request: I would like Oda to draw an illustration of Ace, Sabo and Luffy joining the marines and being trained under Garp

Magazine Vol 6 Request: Zoro ate the Gomu Gomu no Mi, but he has trouble controlling his power, which Rayleigh finds amusing.

Oda's comment: Zoro has the gum-gum ability! I wanted to draw this in a funny way, but when I actually drew it, instead of the comical scene requested, I drew Zoro using it without a problem, now no one’s able to laugh at him. I think this is fine!!

Magazine Vol 7 Request: if Crocodile were to join forces with Doflamingo... ~entering the fashion industry~

(note: I didn't add the tilde, it was in the request!)

Oda's comment: Certainly, these two are stylish. It's not just evil, it's super evil. C & F. I guess it's expensive.

Magazine Vol 8 Request: Chopper and Hiriluk cherry blossom-viewing eating pickled radish

Comment: I have decided that this corner will never be used in the main story of the manga! I have been playing with digital, and now I really want to draw pictures without lines. I had a perfect request: a heartwarming cherry blossom viewing experience!

Magazine Vol 9 Request: Ace and Sabo's version of Wano country!

Comment: I'm in a kimono mood right now! I was thinking about drawing Wano country versions of various characters in color for this magazine, but it would be extremely difficult to hand-draw kimono patterns, so I didn't have the time. Look at Ace and Sabo!

Magazine Vol 10 Request: If Vivi were a Japanese warlord from the Sengoku period

Comment: If Vivi was a Sengoku warlord...!? Interesting! I want to draw it!! I'll include Karoo too!! I'm sure the samurai would risk their lives for this!!

Magazine Vol 11 Request: What if... Hancock, user of the Goro Goro no Mi, used X Million Volts: Beautiful Power on Luffy, who's immune to lightning?

Oda's comment: In this scenario, Hancock has become an undefeatable queen. Because her lightning is simply too powerful, no one dares approach her. But then, one day, before her appeared..!! You know, no matter what the scenario is, Hancock ends up falling for Luffy anyway.

Magazine Vol 13 Request: What if... Nami was a Three Sword Style swordswoman?

[I haven't found a making-of yet]

Magazine Vol 14 Request: What if Luffy had the power of the Fude Fude no Mi?

Magazine Vol 16 Request: What if Yamato was Wano Country's best oiran?

#one piece #one piece magazine #what do i tag this #monkey d. luffy #asl brothers #yamato #straw hat pirates #sir crocodile #roronoa zoro

[concretevampire]

Building Holes

Part One

mike schmidt x afab!reader ☆ 8.9k ☆ no use of y/n and no reader description ☆ meeting for the first time; people being humans; adult themes; no serious warnings

A/N: I’ve been a FNAF and Josh Hutcherson fan since I was in middle school so this feels necessary. updates for this story will be (mostly) regular. English is not my first language.

You can see the panic in his eyes before he probably even thinks about it.

You don’t know him. Of course you don’t, he’s just a guy who happened to be standing in front of you at the check-out line.

But you feel bad. Really bad.

The cashier: they look disgruntled. Annoyed too. You can hardly blame them though– crying children irritate people– but you can’t help but be irked. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously trying his best.

And what can you really do when something like this happens?

Some glittery, pink, thingamajig was right in the little girl’s line of sight and kids don’t like the word “no”. It didn’t help that he barely glanced at her when he told her off mundanely; quietly, eyes trained on the scan of item after item.

So, she’s throwing a fit. A torrential, hysterical, fit.

She can’t be older than nine, you think. And him, maybe a college student. An odd pair, but the world is filled with those. They’re so human it almost hurts; a gasp for air, a vase that’s older than you are; autumn leaves on concrete, the curve of a dandelion.

He’s processed his panic now, going pale as he spins to look between the girl and the cashier. Bag the groceries or calm her down?

The cashier looks more exasperated than anything else now. Impatience billows like drying laundry in their chest, wafting dew toward you.

A particularly pitiful sound shrieks from the girl and the thought that you want to go home enters your mind. It’s selfish, especially as you watch this guy bend down onto one knee, his thumbs wiping away the tears that muck the girl’s cheeks; muttering apologies and gentle pleas to quiet.

The fluorescent lighting of the store deepens the shadows underneath his eyes.

You decide then that your groceries aren’t really an emergency but the only thing you’ve got in the fridge is pickles and frozen pizza. You could make do but you don't want to.

“Do you want me to bag your groceries for you?” You ask, side-stepping past your cart and to The Guy, who’s precariously offering hushed solutions to the girl’s self-imposed grief.

He looks up; between you, his girl, the cashier, then the box of cereal on the counter that sits soundly.

Blue and unbothered.

Back to you. His eyes shine so brightly, you find yourself convinced he’s on the verge of tears. That’s just how he looks, you realize. Dark, dark eyes– condors and tarmac– and the twinkle of artificial light in them.

He nods weakly. “If you don’t mind.”

You shrug and walk past him, to the end of the cash register.

There’s Chef Boyardee, Donettes, Yummy Dino Buddies; they all get bagged– one by one– together. The Guy comes to stand next to you, now holding his girl; her ruddy, sobbing face tucked warmly into the crook of his neck. She’s clinging to his OMSI: Pacific Marine Camps t-shirt, snot getting on the printed Spicebush Swallowtail.

His dark eyes follow your hands as you set aside the eggs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you’re barely halfway done. He’s earnest about it though; gaze on your jaw as one of his warm palms rubs firm circles into the girl’s back.

You shake your head half-heartedly. “It’s okay,” you tell him.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I offered.”

He goes quiet, glancing towards the cashier a couple of times nervously. “Most people wouldn’t.”

“I dunno,” you set the eggs on top of the Donettes and whip open a new bag to place milk and Kraft Mac n’ Cheese in. “Stuff like this happens all the time.”

The little girl’s sobs have receded into hiccups and sniffles, still crying, but quiet.

The cashier picks at their nails.

When you finish bagging The Guy’s groceries, you give him a smile. Something that you hope is reassuring. Warm: the apple cider you had a week ago bubbling up on your cheeks.

Then, you return to your cart and the cashier begins scanning your items.

The Guy lingers.

A minute later he’s offering to pay for your groceries.

“You’re acting like you’re in debt,” you tease with a bewildered smile, borderline grimace.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

When you exit, he follows; pushing his cart with one hand, holding the girl up with the other. She’s not crying anymore.

The pair follow as you step over a mess of expired coupons that have been trodden into a fine paste over the parking lot’s concrete. Baby wipes: two for one.

“You’ve gotta let me repay you,” he implores.

You shrug a shoulder.

He opens and closes his mouth, struggling to find the right words. And there probably aren’t any, but you can’t tell him that. That’s something he’s gotta figure out on his own. You throw the back of your car open and shove groceries in.

He watches quietly.

“Thank you,” he then says, stubbornly. Like you’re a tornado; flightless fog and feathered ozone, a nightmare, something so earnestly destructive.

He has no clue how to approach it. You.

You turn to him fully, the air turning more yellow between the two of you as the evening deepens. The sun, a molten yolk melting and dipping into the bread of the Earth’s foundation.

He’s handsome— strong arms, broad shoulders, sharp jaw— and entirely constructed by hard-headed exhaustion.

Awfully young to be taking care of a girl like that, you think, but shit happens.

Shit always happens.

You close the trunk of your car.

“Good luck,” you tell The Guy, waving softly.

He’s quiet but he begins to step away, and the girl finally looks up– still clutching onto his shirt. Her dark, dark eyes glue stickily to yours: a gooey, feathered, glittery, arts n’ crafts project.

You smile at her, something you hope is reassuring. She sniffles.

“Thanks,” he says, moving further away, “you too.”

•---------•

“Happy Birthday.” You present the manilla folder lazily to David. He raises a brow.

“Those aren’t the divorce papers, are they?”

“Um,” you bring the folder back to your chest– an evil, rectangular teddy bear– and flip it open, “‘Complaint for Divorce’ in parentheses, ‘No Children’,” you look back at him. “I dunno, could be.”

He groans and reorganizes the staplers on his desk that have already been neatly placed at the corner. Twenty-degree angles on top of ninety-degree angles. All aligned in minimalist, careful, simplicity.

Perfect.

“I’m glad someone’s getting some amusement out of my divorce,” David groans, flipping drawers open and closed. Looking for something imaginary, something that will keep him busy. An object that will be an excuse in the future for his own failures.

“Our divorce,” you plea sarcastically, “You’re not gonna be my brother-in-law any more.” As if it ever mattered.

“Why are you here anyway?” He asks, finally straightening. One of his thick brows raises. “And not her assistant?”

“She wanted the personal touch.” You joke, setting the folder down on his desk. It feels incriminating when you hold it yourself as if you’re the one holding the gun up to their marriage, pulling the trigger. David eyes the folder warily. He reaches a skinny hand out, flipping through the papers tentatively.

His tendons swing and swell like frantic waves under his tan skin.

“I guess one nice thing about marrying a lawyer is that paperwork’s never a problem,” he mutters.

“And there are copies.”

“Oh, joy!” He exclaims, but then slumps in his chair, temples balanced in his palms. He’s awfully small like this. Crumpled at his desk. His blue and green argyle tie, a ruined knot at his neck. Gray suit, a poor stitch of used paper towels surrounding his frame.

Something about seeing a man so weak feels sacrilegous. Feels like a taunt. Feels like God is sitting on your shoulder and giggling.

It doesn’t help that his desk is so pristine. Neat where David is fucked. A nameplate sits perfectly in the center: DAVID CASTILLO VICE PRINCIPAL, it screams, confident.

“I should go,” you say when he doesn’t twitch from his hunched position for sixty seconds.

He nods, then shakes his head, then pinches the bridge of his nose as if a spider’s unfurled its legs in the cave of it. “No,” he starts, “No, um,” he glances at the divorce papers and looks away just as quickly. There’s a picture of him and your sister hanging on the wall to his left. He stares at the frame. “How about I take you out to dinner? Or something?”

“Sure,” you shrug.

“Okay.” David inhales deeply.

It’s quiet. A clock on his wall ticks, again and again, impending itself into your skin and his soul. “Do you want me to wait outside?” You ask, pointing a thumb at the door.

“Please,” he mutters.

The school is empty. The ‘Welcome Back to School!’ display is still up in the lobby, even though it’s mid-September and a chill is starting to ghost the air every few days. A janitor scoops up a leaking trash bag, throws it over his shoulder, and rolls the bin into the hallway.

You stroll past a wall absolutely littered with papers; drawings hung up like samara fruit in waxy colors. Lots of suns with smiley faces and brown, pea-bodied dogs. Theres a family of rainbow turtles and a wonky drawing of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. You recognize a dragon and a field of camels too. It’s endearing.

David wanted kids. Your sister didn’t.

That’s not the reason they’re getting a divorce but it’s one of those little microcosms that sums up why.

One little minute passed but it changed the hour. Changed the day too, maybe. Or the week. The month. For all you know, even the year. That’s what happened with them.

Just one minute. That’s all it takes.

You expect the cafeteria to be empty like everything else but it isn’t. There’s a woman sitting near the entrance with barrel hips and kinky, salt-and-pepper hair that's clipped back viciously in a bun. She smells warm, like peaches and laundry detergent; shea butter too.

A spice you only dream about.

The woman looks up at you from her book– something by Toni Morrison– and her brown and pink lips purse at you.

For a second she looks mean, but her hands seem so soft; so, so soft; the color of warm, brown egg shells. Her nails are lacquered in a hazy shade of lavender that reminds you of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the taste of milk with honey.

Sweet potato pie.

“Are you here for Abby Schmidt?” She asks, her voice low and smooth like the afterthought of a lullaby. Her eyes then turn to a girl sitting at one of the cafeteria tables. She sits alone, her dark hair hanging in rivulets around her ears and jaw, and she scribbles mindlessly with crayons on paper.

“No,” you tell her, adjusting your messenger bag a little. “I was just dropping something off for Mr. Castillo.”

The woman closes her book. Her eyebrows are thin. Neat stitches arched above wrinkles. “Are you a friend of David’s?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay,” she relents and opens her book again. You smile fractionally and nod, even though she doesn’t see.

Your footsteps echo against the linoleum as you walk deeper into the heart of the cafeteria. The girl doesn’t look up from her work, even as you approach, and you find yourself standing behind her. You’re looking over her shoulder at her art, arms clasped behind your back.

“I like your drawing,” you utter. The girl— Abby— turns to look up at you. Her eyes stick to yours.

“Thank you,” she says, trading a green crayon for a pink one. Then she looks back up, assessing you like you’re a division problem she hasn’t quite learned yet. “I like your jacket.” She settles.

“Thanks,” you say genuinely, shifting on your feet, “Can I sit with you?”

Abby nods and scoots over as you join her. She keeps coloring. Your eyes scan her drawing some more.

Two scribbled figures. Both with dark hair, and dark eyes, and smiles. One is taller than the other, and you can tell that the shorter one is herself: she’s wearing the red overalls in her drawing. The taller figure sports a green sweater— deep green.

Evergreens, ferns; huckleberries falling off the branch.

“Is that your dad?” You ask, hand waving towards the taller figure. She shakes her head.

“That’s Mike. He’s my brother.”

You nod. “Is that who you’re waiting for?”

“Mhm. But he’ll be here soon.” She checks the little purple watch on her wrist like she’s the president of the United States. “He’s usually late.” She turns to you. “Are you waiting for someone too?”

You guess you are. “Yeah.”

“Are they late?”

You shrug. “Sorta.”

Abby then narrows her eyes at your face. “I know you,” she says resolutely.

“Do you?” You ask, propping your head up with a palm as you rest your elbow on the cafeteria table.

“Yeah. You’re that lady who helped Mike at the grocery store.”

Your brows twitch upward, an interested leer wide on your lips. Abby looks suddenly familiar. Dark, dark eyes and fluorescents catching on them.

You’re surprised she remembers that at all; not only because it happened back during the tail-end of July, but because she was sobbing through the whole situation. She only saw your face for a solid five seconds and still recognized you as That Lady.

Smart girl.

“Yeah, that was me.”

She assesses you again; but more like a bird on a tree. “I’m Abby.”

“Nice to meet you, Abby.” You introduce yourself too. She beams and turns back to coloring. You watch and then ask, “Can I draw with you?” and Abby is quick to shove a paper and brown crayon in your hand.

She seems very pleased about the development.

Ten minutes later she’s frowning at your purple cow-dog-unicorn-thing and shaking her head. “I don’t think it looks like a cow.”

You look down at your work with her.

“Maybe if you squint? It’s abstract.” You narrow your eyes and bite the flesh of your cheek, doing what you think the high masters did when they made shit too.

She tries a squint and then frowns harder. “No.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe it’s my own animal.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Hmm. Wanna help me think of one?”

“Umm,” Abby tilts her head this way and that, the curls of her hair springing as she does. “I can’t think of anything.”

Before you can reply with something funny, someone runs into the cafeteria, panting. It’s The Guy. Mike. Her brother.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harris, I-“

The woman ignores him, flipping another page in her book. He sighs and swallows, turning towards Abby. Then he looks flatly at you.

Abby stares– unwavering– as he walks over, hands crossed neatly over one another on the table. Mike takes her scrutiny like it’s orange juice with pulp while glancing strangely between her face and yours.

“Mike,” she starts. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, I know, um,” he looks vaguely towards you. This feels like a routine and it feels like you're breaking it.

Abby introduces you. “This is the nice lady from the grocery store.” She supplies. His eyes widen momentarily, suddenly putting all the pieces of the past and the present together, a jigsaw falling into place. His eyes trace the slant of your nose, the curve of your eyes; linger on the pocket above your lips and the eve of your jaw.

Mike clears his throat and straightens his back. “I didn’t know you worked here?”

“I don’t,” you say, and look at your purple abomination. “A family member does.”

Mike nods and momentarily loses interest, walking around the table and grabbing Abby’s backpack. He slings it across his shoulder. It’s phenomenally tiny on his sback and you realize just how small Abby is. And the little pack is so bright against him too; shining in reds, and yellows, and deep blue cerulean against the gray-green of his jacket.

Abby stands, gathers her drawings (yours too), and grabs Mike’s hand when he offers it. There are bandaids on his thumb and pointer finger, bruises like nightshade crawling from underneath the torn brown.

But Abby doesn’t look away from you when Mike makes it for the exit. She makes an annoyed, high-pitched sound from the back of her throat and glues her eyes to yours desperately.

He stops, head knocking back to stare at the ceiling tiredly, before dropping to look at her. “What’s wrong?” He asks her gently.

“Wanna go to Sparky’s with us?” Abby asks you, with no regard towards Mike. Like he’s an imaginary presence. His eyes go wide though, catching the light like moths as he stares tight-lipped and in utter horror at the back of Abby’s head.

And then he comes to terms with it, frowning between you and her.

“Um,” you start, then scoot closer to Abby in your seat. Your eyes level with hers. “I think that’s something you need to ask Mike about,” you settle gently, hoping its the right thing to say.

She whips her head to look up at him. “Can they go to Sparky’s with us?”

Mike clears his throat; shifts his stance like it’ll suddenly root the words into his mind; adjusts the strap of Abby’s bag on his shoulder.

“Maybe later,” he decides.

“When?”

“Abby. C’mon.”

“When, Mike?”

You rise from your seat. “Are you free Friday?” You ask him, head tilting. He purses his lips at you, jaw working, and then seemingly gives up.

“After four, yeah.”

“Great. Me too.”

“Okay.”

“Friday at five then?” You beam down at Abby. “Sparky’s right?” Back at Mike. “That’s on 65th and Jefferson?”

“Yeah. Sure, sounds good.” He says, but you don’t believe him. He’s got this barely-there wince on his face like there’s a nail in his shoe.

He’s sorry, you realize. Sorry about Abby; sorry that he’s supposedly forced you into this. You shake your head at him with an easy smile.

It’s okay. But he doesn’t believe you either.

You feel like he’s the type of person who’s always on his own page. Not because he wants to be but because he’s worried that other people can’t read between the lines. Can’t look deeper, past the words and into the real meat of it all.

Or maybe Mike’s more comfortable ripping the book apart than letting anybody settle down into it with him.

He leaves.

Abby waves at you, a flutter of little fingers as she walks out the door too, trailing behind Mike.

David shows up five minutes later.

His tie is situated perfectly around his neck; firm and rigid into the confines of his freshly buttoned suit. He smiles at Mrs. Harris and she asks him how he is. David says he’s fine. You wish he didn’t have to lie but he waves you over like his life is a dream and you accept that this is the reality he wants. And that you’re, in some way, a part of it.

Dinner with him is a blur. The week is a blur.

On Friday, you almost forget that you’ve committed to go to Sparky’s but one of your coworkers mentions how her daughter has a ballet recital; and you’re suddenly reminded of Abby.

Reminded of the fact that there’s now apparently a child in your life that is affected by your actions.

You think for a moment to talk about Abby but remember suddenly that you don’t really know a thing about her. You don’t know whether she prefers apple juice or orange juice: what her favorite cartoon is: or if she’s still using kid’s toothpaste.

Abby’s not your kid or your little sister, and that fact doesn’t change even if you think she’s cute and funny.

You wonder what she’s drawn today.

Maybe she’ll show you. You think about how small she is and if her little eyes will stare into yours, hop-scotching across the strange adult sadness you can’t seem to shake off on warm, overcast days like today.

You drown out thoughts with the radio while you drive to Sparky’s.

It’s a hard place to miss.

It’s just outside the center of town, and the flat-topped building sits under a large neon sign that says “SPAKY’S GIL & DINR” because the owner can’t really afford to fix the letters that don’t light up anymore. The smiling, cartoon dog– Sparky— doesn’t light up anymore either.

He’s got bird shit on his left eye.

You’re five minutes early when you open the glass door to the diner. A bell tinkles, signaling your arrival.

Mike and Abby have already situated themselves in one of the gray laminate booths. They sit on one side together. Abby’s got her head down, already scribbling at a paper with a green, broken crayon. Mike’s looking out the window, an arm across the back of the booth behind her. Calm, reserved.

A little, yellow teddy bear is propped up between them.

Mike only turns your way when you sit down across from him. Abby looks up from her drawing immediately, her head jolting up. Her grin is palpable, like strawberry shortcake, when you say hi.

“You came!” She exclaims, grip tightening on the crayon. It might snap.

You smile. “Of course I did. I said I would, didn’t I?”

Abby nods and returns to drawing; her arm moving twice as fast as it was before you came.

Mike makes eye contact with you. His eyes then drop to linger on the collar of your shirt, reading the hem like an instruction manual, before raising again.

You’re not sure what he learned from the stitching.

Something by The Doors is droning on the speaker; fuzzy, blurry, like fog. Jim Morrison moans out “Let it roll, baby, roll~” and your foot taps along.

“Did you just get back from work?” You ask him, shrugging your jacket off.

“Yep.”

“What do you do?”

“Construction.” Something you could’ve guessed, judging by the Carhartt pants and steel-toed boots.

“Nice,” you say, authentically.

He nods, then says, “How about you?” like the words are gumming to his teeth.

“Boring stuff,” you wave Mike off and watch Abby trade for a blue crayon. She’s humming along to the music. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face and turn your head back to sit eye-to-eye. He raises a quizzical brow. “Seriously,” you implore.

“You don’t have a job,” He says simply. He’s not really bothered by the notion that you’re unemployed.

“I do,” you huff, “I just,” so you tell him about it. He looks tired while you talk, occasionally eyeing the ketchup and continuously rereading the label while actively pretending not to. But he’s an honest, good sport about it; at the very least trying to seem interested. Mike nods in all the right places, giving “yeahs” and “mhms” when he should.

In the middle of your drone, the waitress comes.

She’s fifty-something, with chalky eyeliner bleeding under her eyes; her ginger-dyed hair is pulled back in an impressively messy beehive. You easily imagine royal honey dripping from the split ends. She smells like stevia and tobacco. The name tag on her chest says “Susie”.

Susie blinks at you warmly and tiredly. “What can I get for you?”

Mike orders first, orders for Abby– who barely flinches at the mention of her name– and then you order.

Susie leaves without writing any of it down.

Mike turns back to you, tense. “You don’t mind paying for yourself, right?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you joke, but he doesn’t really smile. Abby suddenly looks up from her art and leans in your direction, a little valence electron swarming into a new orbital. Her small shoulder pushes into Mike’s bicep. He stills her with a soft look like he wants to pillow her in peach fuzz and call it a night.

“Do you like your job?” She asks, sitting up on her knees. The hand Mike has resting on the booth moves to fix her sweater to her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch.

You shrug a little. “It’s okay.”

She seems troubled. “Why do grown-ups never like their jobs?”

You stifle a laugh but shake your head. “I’m not sure about that. There are a lot of grown-ups who like their jobs.”

“I don’t know any.”

You glance at Mike.

He’s wincing at her words– scratching at the skin behind his ear– looking properly embarrassed. They’re a funny pair; like pickle relish and peanut butter. Weird fishes swimming and circling together because they have nowhere else to go. They know this routine; know the angle of each other’s currents.

“There are,” you assure her. Your eyes drift toward the drawing she abandoned. “What do you wanna be when you’re grown-up?”

She shrugs and tells you “I dunno,” like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “This boy, Jesse, in my class, he wants to be an astronaut.”

“Do you want to be an astronaut?”

“Sure. Space is cool. And the moon is pretty.” Abby looks towards the ceiling as if it’ll break apart and reveal Mars.

Your fingers reach tentatively for her art and when she doesn’t protest, you take it fully. You hold her work up with two hands in front of your face like a mask. “You don’t wanna be an artist?” You ask with a sly smile, peeking around the drawing. She shrugs again and Mike rubs her back a little.

You face the paper.

It’s a grassy scene; blue sky, yellow sun wearing sunglasses. Five figures are the subject; Abby in the middle and then two other children on each side of her. On her left; a redhead boy with a hook for a hand and another boy in a top hat. On her right; a blonde girl in a pink dress and finally, a boy in blue with bunny ears.

You put down the paper to look at Abby. Her eyes are wide, expectant. Mike’s are the same.

“Are these your friends?”

“Yes!” Abby exclaims and leans on the table to look at you closer. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” you grin, pleased.

Mike shifts awkwardly. “Imaginary,” he clarifies. “Imaginary friends.”

You give him a private, amused smile. He relaxes a little.

Abby hands you a blank paper. “You should draw your friends.”

You obey, picking up a crayon, starting with yourself. Mike watches you carefully, eyes on your hands, sometimes trailing the curve of your eyebrows and the fall of your lashes.

“You’re good,” he says as Abby hands you a pink crayon– which you take dutifully. You draw a flower while sending him a wry smile, shaking your head. “I’m serious,” he implores, but you can hear the joke behind it.

“Sure.”

Then you finish coloring your jeans in and lean back to think.

Friends. You could draw your sister. But she’s not a friend. She’s your sister, and a lawyer, and a now ex-wife, but she’s not a friend.

David isn’t a friend either.

Dinner with him was quiet and he’d broke down into tears (again) by the end of it. You paid for the bill out of pity. You think that’s probably the last time you’re ever going to see him.

The waitress drops your food off as you start to outline the shape of red overalls.

Abby chews deftly on her chicken nuggets and leans into Mike’s shoulder while he dips his burger into a heaping pool of ketchup: the two of them eye your drawing together. You’re reminded of this photo you saw once in a Nat Geo magazine of two dark-eyed owls burrowed together.

You bite a smile.

When you’re done coloring a green sweater, you straighten and pop a self-satisfied fry into your mouth.

Abby wipes her hands off with a napkin that Mike hands her and takes your drawing. She gasps when she sees. Mike’s brows raise and you reflexively hope he doesn’t hate it.

“It’s us!” Abby says excitedly, vibrating with joy. You take a bite of your food and nod. She turns to Mike, huffing, and very seriously tells, “This is for the fridge.”

And finally, Mike smiles, almost snorting. But all he does is nod and say “Sure is,” between his bite

“You even drew my overalls.”

“I did,” you say. “They’re totally cute.”

“I like the flowers you drew around us.”

“Pretty, right?”

Abby looks so happy you could scream.

By the time both Mike and you are done with your food, her eyes haven’t left the drawing. And you must be doing something right because at some point Mike smiles at you.

Quietly. Mostly unseen.

Mike is comfortably out of your reach but he flutters in and out of your grasp fleetingly; a moth seeking light, heat, maybe something more. When he lands, you don’t close your fingers; only hang your palm open and let him decide if he wants to stay.

Maybe you are on the same page but you’re not sure if he knows it.

When the check comes Mike suddenly offers to pay. You refuse, waving him off and sticking your card in with his.

Susie comes to pick it up and then returns five seconds later, wishing you a nice day. You walk out of the diner as one big group– Mike holding the door open for you and Abby– and you find yourselves stuck under neon signs.

Mike looks at Abby carefully. “Can you wait in the car for a second?” He asks. She looks immediately offended, wanting to say no.

He looks exhausted.

Abby glares at him, then looks sadly at you before walking away and clambering into the back seat of his Honda Accord.

You turn to Mike and he turns to you when the door slams shut.

“Thank you,” he says immediately like he’s been holding it in his lungs the entire time.

“It’s nothing.”

“No,” he urges, “seriously. Abby, she,” he glances at the car, “she has a really hard time with people. Shit, I have a hard time with her too and I’m her brother.” Mike takes a deep breath. “She really likes you.”

You’re quiet for a second, letting the shadow in your eyes escape and mingle with his. “I get it.” You tell him. “Kids are…” you scuff your shoe against the pavement, “hard. Big emotions, little bodies, ya know?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He exhales. “You’re good with her.”

“I was a weird kid too.” You tell Mike with a grin.

Something like a smile is offered as he shakes his head. “You, uh,” he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and glues his eyes to the ground. “You wouldn’t mind meeting up again?”

You take a deep breath. This is a lot.

You should say, “Yes, I do mind,” but honestly, you really don’t. You’re not bothered by their company. You like both of them. Mike’s got something sad about him though; constantly in the eye of a storm, waiting for the hazard to hit again. And Abby’s Abby: sweet.

“It’s just, she doesn’t really,, click. But she did with you. And I know she’s gonna wanna see you again.” He elaborates.

“Sure,” you breathe, blinking. “Do you want my phone number or something?”

Mike nods. “Yeah, that’d be good.” He gives you his phone and sniffs when you enter your digits and hand it back.

You step away, steeping yourself deeper into the night. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he nods and turns to his car. Abby rolls the window down, thin arms circling quickly, and peaks her head out.

“Bye!” She calls desperately as the engine starts. She probably thinks she’ll never see you again.

“Later, alligator!” You call back, waving.

She grins toothily and Mike asks her to roll the window up as they pull slowly out of the parking lot.

•---------•

Mike doesn’t contact you for the next two weeks. You expect it.

By the third week, you’ve settled that he’s realized just how odd this situation is and won’t call you ever. Something like disappointment aches awfully in your chest but you brush it off as a human reaction to the departure of warm summer evenings.

October is right around the corner and you’re starting to feel it.

The days are getting crisper; dirt turning to mud, dew on the grass, leaves turning orange. There’s also a bug going around at work and you’re not spared of its spread.

You wake up one morning with a scratch in your throat, an ache in your head, and a clog in your left nostril. You’re not really that sick; after a cup of coffee, you feel better. But your psyche still feels like it’s made from popsicle sticks and cotton balls.

You take it to the pharmacy before work.

There’s Nyquil and a row of untouched Dayquil next to it. Concentrated Tylenol and Cepacol. Zyrtec and Claritin. Dimetapp. You take the Aspirin and Nyquil and shlump towards the counter.

Mike is there, looking casually fatigued in front of the check-out counter, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” you say, the inflection of a question in your voice; the hesitance that maybe Mike wants to be ignored. Remain unseen. Unperceived. He jolts a little at your greeting and doesn’t relax when he turns to face you.

“Hey,” he says back. He takes a glance at your hand. “Sick?”

“Just a runny nose.”

He nods, takes a nervous look towards the empty counter, and then scratches at the growing stubble on his jaw.

“How ‘bout you?” You ask.

His eyes won’t meet yours. “Just some medication.”

You nod and look slowly toward the rack of non-prescription reading glasses. There’s a glittery, red pair at the very top– so small they could probably fit in the palm of your hand. “How’s Abby?”

Mike relents a little, shoulders going from concrete to rubble. “She’s doing alright. She asks about you sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, that drawing you did? She loves it.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s a quiet spell– the two of you looking in your own directions– and when the pharmacist finally shows up, paper bag in hand, Mike nabs it and leaves.

Then you step forward to pay, a polite smile on your lips, eyes flicking to your watch to take a mental note that you need to get to work soon.

Mike’s waiting for you outside the pharmacy; awkward and dark against the white overcast. It’s foggy this morning. You don’t know how he isn’t cold, only wearing a pair of jeans and a Foo-Fighters t-shirt that’s a little tight around the arms and chest. That makes you swallow.

You slow to a stop in front of him.

“I was gonna call you,” he sighs. “I got busy.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you wanna,” he raises a hand, then drops it uselessly, “do something with Abby soon?”

“Sure.”

“She’s got a half-day on Wednesday. We could take her to the park?”

It’s a good plan. You don’t know why he sounds so unsure. “Get her outside before it gets too cold to?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing a little easier.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Mike straightens his back a degree. “You know Marylheights Park? It���s close to the school.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Is one okay? Or are you working?” He suddenly realizes.

You shake your head. “I can come by on my lunch break.”

“Alright. Great. See you there.”

You smile, nod, step away a little, and then leave– abandoning Mike under the eave of the pharmacy.

True to your word, you show up at one o’clock in the afternoon at Marylheights Park. Mike and Abby are already there– he’s sitting on a bench, wearing a flimsy black hoodie and she’s bundled up in a pink and red jacket, a beanie knitted in a cacophony of colors on her head.

She runs over when she sees you, a heap of colors on the breeze, a smile bright on her face.

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” She exclaims, tripping a little on the bark-chip. You see Mike twitch and then falter when she catches herself.

“You okay?” You ask, reaching a hand out for support if she needs it. She grabs your fingers, tight, as she leads you toward the playground. There’s a couple of other kids with their parents playing too.

“Do you like my hat?” She asks, stopping in front of you to show off.

“I love it.”

“Mike made it for me.”

You glance at him. He’s slouched lazily on the bench, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Really?”

“Mhm.” She dawdles around you, skipping and humming as she climbs the monkey bars. “I saw a turtle today.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was really cute.” She hangs off one of the bars, letting herself swing back and forth. “Lauren brought it for show-and-tell today.”

“What did you bring for show-and-tell?” You ask, leaning against a post with your arms crossed.

“My friend.”

“Your friend?”

“He’s in my backpack right now.”

You nod like it makes perfect sense. “When I did show-and-tell I brought my big sister.” It’s not true but it's funny to think about.

Abby looks at you wide-eyed and a flock of Canadian Geese honk above you; black and white, obnoxious angels. “You can do that?”

“Duh.”

Abby drops from the bar and stares at you. “You’re lying to me.”

You grin. “Maybeeee.”

She rolls her eyes the same way that people do it on TV and suddenly walks away when she sees a round of Lava Monster is starting up. It’s a weird, convoluted game you used to play all the time. You’re suddenly upset that you forgot the rules; as if it didn’t used to be one of your favorite things in the whole world.

You sigh and meander over to Mike, sitting next to him.

Your eyes stay on Abby as she toddles along the play-structure in the middle, unsteadier than you like. Mike hands you a brown, paper bag wordlessly. You raise a brow and take it.

Inside is a white-bread sandwich in a ziploc bag, a juice box, and a folded note.

“What-”

Mike cuts you off. “You came on your lunch break.” You raise your head to look him in the eye. He’s so hard to read sometimes. ”Hope you like turkey and cheese.”

You beam, flushing between joy and embarrassment, and grab the juice box. There’s a cool guy surfing on it. “Thanks,” you say, stabbing the straw into the top. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs and turns to watch Abby. She clambers across the slides to avoid being tagged. Some of the other kids yelp and scream wordlessly.

“I owed it to you,” he breathes, his words turning to a puff of vapor in front of his nose.

The two of you split the sandwich in half and you don’t miss the way Mike watches you pick at the crust. When you eat it anyway you hear him puff a sharp exhale of laughter through his nose, shaking his head.

The game filters out and Abby makes her way to the swings, shoes toeing the ground as she sits.

Your fingers lift the note from the bag when you finish eating— unfolding to find a small, crayon drawing, no bigger than your hand.

A purple cow, better than yours, and actually tangible as a cow. Impressive.

“Abby did that,” Mike says, chewing. “She said you need it.”

You close your eyes, amused and overjoyed. Your fingers fold the little piece of paper back up and place it carefully in your bag, in a place you know it won’t be ruined. “God, she’s so sweet,” you huff, hand clenching. You’re not sure what to do with yourself.

You feel like husked corn; chipping paint in a parking lot. Like the curl of peeled apple skin.

“She has her moments,” Mike says gently, almost smiling.

Abby starts spinning herself on the swing, twisting and knotting the chains together and then letting them unravel to leave her in spirals. He frowns at that.

“Abby,” he calls, fixing his slouch on the bench, “quit it! You’ll make yourself sick!”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He grunts. She grins at you and waves. You wave back. She goes back to swinging normally; progressively higher and higher. Another kid ambles over to join her wordlessly.

Mike frowns and shakes his head, first at Abby, then at you. “I’m starting to think she likes you more than me.”

You snort at him. “I’m an adult who isn’t an authority figure in her life.”

“Still.”

“She adores you.” You tell him. You don’t really know either of them well enough to say that but you’re sure of it. You’re sure of it not only because you said it but because Abby’s a sweet, smart kid. She’s got her problems but she’s generally well-behaved. More importantly, she seems happy.

Unbothered, by whatever situation she and Mike are in. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing pretty good.

And maybe she doesn’t look at Mike like he hung the stars but she certainly treats him like it. The thing about kids is that they’re brutally honest:

If she didn't like Mike, you’d know.

He stares at you for a second longer than you’d expect him to and turns back to watch her.

The two of you stay like that for a while. Side by side. Almost shoulder to shoulder. Abby sometimes comes over to take a break, or ask what you thought of her drawing, or tell Mike what she wants for dinner. It’s peaceful. Quiet.

Okay.

Some parents leave. Some new parents show up. The two of you stay.

At some point, you glance down at your watch and panic floods your synapses.

“Shit,” you mutter, standing up. Mike raises a brow. “I’m really sorry but I’ve gotta get back now. I’m gonna be late and-“

“Don’t worry.” He tells you easily, fixing his posture so he isn’t slouched under your eye. You smile apologetically. Abby runs over from the slides, panting, her wide eyes expectant on yours.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to get to work now.”

“But you’ll come back right?”

You bend down to her level, fix the hat on her head so that it sits evenly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Okay.” She sighs, seemingly relieved, but the trace shadows of upset are still visible in the gleam of her eyes.

“Have fun with Mike?” You tell her, rising. You linger despite yourself.

“Later alligator?” She asks like a wet mutt as you start the walk to your car.

“In a while crocodile.”

You wave and she waves back. Mike keeps his eyes trained on you, raising a hand too. Your smile widens.

•---------•

Your older sister is the prettier, smarter, more put-together version of you. The version of you that you pretend to be.

She doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t smile, and you can’t tell if it’s because she genuinely can’t feel joy or is afraid of getting wrinkles. You’re sure it’s a mix of both. She lives in this big, minimalist penthouse suite that you’ve only been in twice; her heels have red bottoms. She has avocado toast for most her meals and the hoops on her ears are real gold.

In short summary; your sister has got it good. You’re pretty sure she’s miserable.

She tells her assistant, Christa, to get her a coffee and Chrsita offers to get you one too with a sweet smile. You want to say “Yes,” but she looks awfully close to having a mental breakdown. You tell Christa, “No, thanks,” smiling gently back.

When she leaves, you turn and stare at your sister’s pursed lips.

You drove into the city for once and your sister could only make time for you to come and sit in one of the stiff chairs she has placed in front of her cocobolo desk; the chairs for clients. You look around her office.

It’s neater than David’s and ten times bigger.

Vast and white. A tundra of dreams scotch-taped together.

“You were almost late.” She says, annoyed, eyes stuck to the papers in front of her.

“Sorry, I had to get cough drops at the pharmacy.”

“You’re sick?”

“Just a sore throat.”

You lean forward to poke her cheek. She squawks and slaps your hand away, scandalized and disgusted.

“That’s disgusting!”

You laugh and she steels you with a hard glare, a scoff caught in the back of her throat. “I do wash my hands,” you tell her.

She shakes her head and drums her perfectly manicured French tips against the heavy table. You tuck your own hands under your thighs. You like her nails; you want yours to look like hers but they’re inconvenient for people like you. Real people, with real lives and realistic, boring jobs.

But it's nice to look at them, especially on your sister.

“Heard from David?” She asks as if she isn’t divorcing him. Like he’s a houseplant that you’re taking care of while she takes a quick business trip.

New York. London. Shanghai. Amsterdam. Seoul. You’ve seen the photos.

“Nope.” You bite your lip and Christa comes with the coffee. A cappuccino that she places in front of your sister. Black. Tiny, little cup. Christa gives you a dazzling smile that has you grinning back at her fully, like an indulged schoolgirl. And then she’s gone; clicking off to document review in her little black heels.

Your sister glares at that.

You look her over.

Look at the way she’s curled her lashes and glossed her lips. Her shirt is buttoned straight– stiff and crisp around her neck. There’s a little permanent divot between her eyebrows and the white light of the office washes her out.

“You look tired,” you say flatly, a fairly normal thing to say to a woman who’s a criminal lawyer for an inner-city law firm.

She barely looks at you. “Thanks.”

And then it’s her turn to look you over. You’re sure she doesn’t like what she sees. She rarely does. “Have you been eating?”

“Of course I have.”

She stares for a moment longer before saying, “Just checking.”

Someone knocks on the door and peaks their head in– a young man with dark hair. Bright hazel eyes. She glares at him wordlessly and he makes eye contact with you before shutting the door quickly. You watch her scoff and then carefully pick up a pen before signing the papers gently; like hemlock and hummingbirds.

Your sister. Elegant.

You tilt your head.

She starts. “So, any luck-“

“Oh, can we please go five minutes-“

“I was going to ask-“

“-without talking about-“

“-about your job!”

“-things I know you don’t care about!” You stare at her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. We won’t talk about it.

You smile. “I like your shirt.”

“Fuck off.” She flips open a stack of papers with a fit of impressive anger, scribbling something hotly in the margins.

You know she doesn’t hate you but sometimes you have to wonder.

She’s mean and a bitch; but she constantly worries— and she worries more about you than anyone else. More than she ever worried about David. Which says quite a bit about what the two of you have done and put up with for one another.

Your sister: less of a counterpart, more of a weird black shadow of a half-twin. Not the moon and the sun; but a tree and the ferns that grow underneath.

Your sister stares at her cooling cup of coffee and looks into your eyes like they’re blurry. “Do you need money?”

Her solution to everything. A pretty good one, you won’t lie. “No.” You say quickly, waving her off.

“So everything’s good then?”

“Yeah. Good. It’s all good.”

She raises a brow but looks away to read something.

“How about you?” You ask.

She sighs heavily and stares at the wall. “Well,” and for a moment she doesn’t look like your sister. More like any other woman– any other person experiencing life for the first time. She’s thinking about her job and her home; the wonders and horrors of burnt toast and manilla folders. Of sending people to jail or keeping them out of it. Of going to bed in her 1200 thread count, Egyptian-cotton bed set.

Then she blinks, as if remembering who she is, and suddenly your sister’s sitting in front of you again.

“It’s alright. Fine. Boring.”

“Makes sense.” You tell her with a nod.

“How’s Mac?” She asks off-handedly, eyes on her work. Mac. Full name Tarmac. The stray cat that’s been haunting your house for the past couple of years. A dumb, skinny little cat who loved you with all of his heart.

“Dead.”

“What?” Your sister exclaims, wrist dropping to the edge of the table, pen still in hand. “How are you not,, a wreck?”

“It happened a few months ago.”

“God.” She finally takes a sip of her cappuccino and clears her throat. “Well, just don’t get upset one night and, I dunno, drink yourself into a sobbing mess.”

You grimace. “Says you.”

She sends you a hard glare. “Don’t.”

“I’m not the one who had to be bailed out of-“

“When are you going to stop bringing that up?” She groans. You laugh a bit now, dropping your head towards your lap and your sister looks properly embarrassed. “I passed the bar, have a Porsche, and have a personal trainer, ya know!”

You laugh harder. You can tell she finds it almost funny too but is raging too hotly to care.

“And then I had to-“

“Stop!” She exclaims.

You leave her alone but still giggle through it, fingers pressing against your lips in a complete failure to contain your amusement.

There’s another beat of silence.

She takes another sip. You watch her. Christa comes by again with a new, impressively thick stack of papers for your sister and walks out.

“Where’s your shirt from?” You ask your sister, eyeing it. “It’s nice.”

“Balenciaga.”

Pricey. The white, simple, button-up shirt she’s wearing probably cost her more than a hundred dollars.

“Is it cotton?” You ask her, leaning forward for a better look.

“Yes.” She side-eyes you warily. You lean back. “You better not steal it.”

“I’m not going to!”

“You’ve done it before.”

You roll your eyes.

Your sister finishes her coffee off in silence. It’s awfully quiet for a law firm. You wonder if her office walls are sound-proofed.

At some point, she tells you she has a meeting and that you need to leave. She’s in a good enough mood to at least walk you out herself.

In the firm’s garage building the two of you wait for the valet to bring your car.

She looks strange, sad, lonely. You love her. But you don’t know what to do about it because she gives you no place to put it. That’s just who she is. Her person. Being in a constant state of distress is part of her identity and really, there’s no escaping it. Self-imposed, mortal limbo.

“You’ll be okay?” She asks gently, like for once she means it.

“Yeah.” You tell her, tender. Human. “You?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry about your divorce.” You finally tell her. You didn’t say it at first when it was too new and too fresh. When she was more concerned with paperwork than emotional damage.

She shakes her head like the mention of it is merely a fly in her face. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to thank you for bringing those papers to David.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s just, you live nearby and it would have been easier for you to do it than Christa, and-“

“Seriously.” You cut her off. “It’s fine.”

She sighs and looks you over. It’s a long, extended look of softness. Mike looked at Abby the same way. But it’s a rarity from her; one that has you giving her a confused smile, hands going into the pockets of your jacket— the nicest, crispest one you own— as she stares.

“What?” You ask.

She steps forward, raising an arm, and you step back. She huffs, annoyed. “I wanted to give you a hug but you ruined the moment.”

You scoff incredulously. “You’re so weird.”

She glares. “Fuck you.”

The valet comes with your car.

Shitty, and old. Reliable and well-loved. Needs an oil change.

You step around to the driver’s side and the valet places your keys warmly in your palm. Your sister stays in the spot you left her in.

“Bye.” She says stiffly.

“See you soon.”

She glances at the valet. “Right.”

“Give me a smile?” You joke. You see her right hand twitch to flip you off but with the audience she contains herself. All she gives you is a deep-seated, disappointed frown and a shake of her head.

You grin and step into your car before driving off.

Even as you pull out of the garage you can see her standing still in that over-priced button-up shirt; arms wrapped around her torso, watching you go.

You tell yourself she’ll be okay but when a song from your childhood plays on the radio you doubt it.

Nostalgia will kill you before she ever does.

#fnaf #fnaf movie #five nights at freddy's #mike schmidt #abby schmidt #fnaf x reader #mike schmidt x reader #fnaf fanfic #reader insert

[makeitmingi]

The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 18]

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comedy

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Chef!Reader, RestaurantOwner!Yunho, MaitreD!Hongjoong, Waiter!Yeosang, Waiter!San, Waiter!Mingi, SousChef!Seonghwa, SousChef!Wooyoung, PrepChef!Jongho

Summary: Yunho's dream was to open and run his own restaurant. But he doesn't know anything when it comes to cooking. Until you came along and accepted the job, bringing with you a small crew. How will the black cat tame the energetic golden retriever?

Word count: 3.3K

"Hwa hwa, you know I love you the most, right?" You threw your arms around the male, hugging him with a sweetest grin that you could muster. Seonghwa raised an eyebrow as he stared at you, more like glared at you.

"Yeah right. The only time (y/n) tells Seonghwa hyung she loves him is to get out of trouble." Jongho snorted.

"Shut up, Jongho." You hissed.

"Be nice." Seonghwa hit the back of your head, making you sulk. Seeing this as the perfect opportunity, Wooyoung wrapped his arms around your waist to back hug you.

"Woo~" You squirmed. Seonghwa sighed, stroking your head. He knew that you already knew what he was going to say.

"Are you tired?" He asked.

"Not at all. It was nice and relaxing. I needed this, to keep myelf busy." You looked up at him. Seonghwa, Wooyoung and Jongho knew what you meant.

"Plus, Yunho is good company." You added. All 3 boys looked up at Yunho, who was just standing there, trying to eavesdrop and watch what was happening without being noticed. He blinked when he realised that all the stared were at him. Embarrassed that they knew he was there, he cleared his throat.

"He made sure I sat down to rest after. And you! You're interfering with my coffee drinking! Even made sweet innocent Yunho turn against me." You raised a hand to hit Seonghwa.

"I-I made her a h-hot chocolate." Yunho confirmed, a little flustered to hear you call him 'sweet' and 'innocent'.

"Good. Now let's get to work." Seonghwa said, patting your head and completely ignoring you.

"I only need to fill my pasta. I'm letting my galbi and broth simmer for as long as I can let it. My garnishes and toppings are prepared." You told them.

"I'll start on apps with you?" Jongho offered. You nodded, about to walk when you noticed Wooyoung still latched to your waist.

"Wooyoung! Let me go." You patted his back. He puckered his lips in a pout before he unwillingly let you go.

You wore your apron again and went to wash your knife. This night was slightly different. With everyone working on their own dish, there wasn't a clear sous, prep or head chef. All of you just split the shared tasks while working on your own.

"Oh, wait. Let me check on the ice cream." You put your knife down and went to churners to check the consistency of the ice cream. Once they were done, you put them in the freezer.

"What's for dessert?" Yunho asked.

"That was smoked milk and vanilla ice cream. We're serving that with red bean jelly cubes, pieces of injeolmi rice cake and an almond tuile."

"Like flavours of patbingsoo but elevated." Seonghwa informed. You nodded in confirmation.

"For Western dessert, we're doing a burnt white chocolate panna cotta with raspberry swirl meringues, a passionfruit coolis and fresh mango cubes over." Jongho added.

"That sounds really nice. But burnt white chocolate?" Yunho leaned forward on his hands.

"Well, not burnt. More caramelised. White chocolate on its own is very sweet. But cook it until it becomes brown and caramelised, the flavour is a lot better and easier to balance." Wooyoung explained. Yunho nodded in interest. You continued working on the appetisers with Jongho.

"Hweh crudo. Take the marinated fish slices and roll it up with pea shoots, scallions and shredded perilla leaf. Minari (Water dropwort) jeon." You listed.

"We need to prep gujeolpan (plate with small wraps and 9 delicacy toppings)." Jongho reminded.

"Right. Then the confit tomatoes with pickles." You checked.

"I'll do the roasted eggplant with black olive doenjang and ponzu. Almost done here." Wooyoung voiced out as he worked on his dish at his bench. The door opened, the others entering.

"We're here early to help!" San declared loudly with his arms raised. Hongjoong and Yeosang shushed him.

"You can help us with the appetisers. Get aprons and wash your hands." You said.

The 4 main kitchen crew took turns. After Seonghwa and Wooyoung stepped in to guide those that didn't know their way around the kitchen, you and Jongho could work on your mains.

"Yunho, want to help me with my pasta?" You asked. Yunho's head shot up, looking for where you were in the kitchen before leaving Mingi and his task to go to you. He smiled excitedly as he bounded over like a puppy.

"So we need to shred the meat for the pasta. This is the galbi. Take two forks and pull them apart." You demonstrated.

"I can do that! And that smells so good." He pointed to the galbi. Grabbing a tasting spoon, you let him indulge in a bite. But soon, you had others around.

"Hey!" Yunho protested as you fed San, Mingi, Yeosang and Hongjoong too.

"Alright, get back to work." He scolded them. You stayed beside Yunho, rolling out the pasta dough.

"You don't need to shred every single piece entirely. You can leave them in different size pieces." You told Yunho. He nodded with a hum, sneaking a bite before continuing.

"Stop stealing the food." You scolded him with a laugh. Yunho grinned cheekily.

"I want to do Yunho's job too." Hongjoong whined.

"No! It's my job." Yunho barked back. He liked working with you, like your personal sous chef. Yunho watched you measured the dough with a ruler and cut it. You took bites of meat that Yunho had already shredded and placed it in the middle before closing it, joining the ends together.

"Ooh, can I try?" Yunho asked with sparkling eyes. You nodded and Yunho put the forks down temporarily for you to slowly demonstrate how to fold the pasta dough.

"Not too much filling or it'll burst." You advised.

"Yeah, just like that. Press the two ends." You leaned over to see Yunho's one.

"I'll finish up here and continue that." He smiled proudly, putting it aside before finishing his previous job of shredding the meat. Once he was done, he helped you fold the pasta.

"I'm not as fast as you." He pouted.

"You just started. I would already say you're already doing a great job." You smiled.

"Thank you." Yunho blushed from your compliment. He continued to make the pasta with you. You momentarily stepped away to check the seolleongtang broth that was bubbling away on the stove, giving it a taste to make sure it was getting there.

"How is it?" Yunho asked when you stepped back into your original spot. You looked up at him and nodded, telling him how the progress of the stock has been.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, there were a few sets of eyes staring at the two of you chat in your little corner. It was like you were in your own bubble, smiling as you chatted and made the pasta together.

"That's cute." Wooyoung noted. Yeosang nodded in agreement. Hongjoong let out an affectionate chuckle.

"They're in their own world over there." San chuckled.

"They're just talking, how is that cute?" Mingi blinked, completely missing what everyone was talking about. Hongjoong patted Mingi's shoulder sympathetically.

"It's okay not to get it, Mingi ah." Hongjoong chuckled. Seonghwa stared for a second, unknowingly clenching his jaw.

"Seonghwa hyung?" Jongho called out, breaking his brain fog. The look Jongho cast him, Seonghwa knew he had been caught spiralling in his brain. He was reminding the elder that he wasn't alone in the room. Clearing his throat, Seonghwa focussed on the cutting baord in the front of him.

"We're done here. Anyone need help on anything?" You came back to the center of the kitchen where everyone was still working.

"Appetisers are almost done. Do you want to start the dessert components with me?" Seonghwa asked you in a gentle voice. You nodded your head.

"Let's get the panna cottas in the fridge to set." You both went to get the ingredients from the walk in and pantry.

"Thanks for all the help, guys. But if you need to go prepare the front for tonight. Just go ahead, we've got it handled." You said to the 5.

"We should bring in the washed plates for tonight." Yeosang said. He and San went out to bring the plates in for the kitchen crew to use to plate the food on.

"Who is working the pass tonight?" You asked.

"I can be the main. But we'll have to rotate from time to time." Wooyoung volunteered.

"Sure. Just tap out when you need someone to take over." Seonghwa and Jongho agreed. With a small crew, this was how you had to make things work. You couldn't afford to have one person just at one station the whole night.

Soon, the crew that works the front of the restaurant all were busy trying to set up for the night, leaving only a few in the ktichen to work with your kitchen crew.

"Actually, Mingi. I would love to speak with your mother about cooking eels, preparing and procuring them." You said.

"I'm sure she'll be happy to share that knowledge with you, (y/n). She loves talking about food." He chuckled.

"Maybe she can give me her eel supplier. I would love to explore it as an ingredient more. Surprisingly, I have not been that exposed to working with it." You sighed.

"My mum's the right person to go to then. I should bring you to the restaurant one day." He replied.

"I'd love that." You had a small smile on your face.

"Let's cook the staff meal first. I have feeling we might end later than we usually do and we'll be too tired to cook for ourselves then." Seonghwa suggested. You checked the clock, about to decide what to whip up quickly for everyone but San and Mingi came over, volunteering to cook.

"You guys are busy enough. We'll take over and cook something up." San smiled.

"Thanks, guys." You, Seonghwa, Wooyoung and Jongho were very grateful that they stepped up and volunteered. San and Mingi were the best cooks out of the 5 so you weren't too worried.

"Shall we make curry rice?" Mingi suggested, holding the cubes of Korean curry up.

"I know how to make that." San laughed. The two began chopping vegetables, adding whatever meat they could find.

"Is anyone using these?" San came out of the walk in with a few packs of chicken thighs and sliced pork belly in his hands. You all shook your heads.

"I'll cook the rice. You start slicing the meat." Mingi instructed and went to get the rice cooker. The 4 of you made sure to be around them in case the two needed help. But San and Mingi were confident, they didn't want to ask for help.

"Mingi, sorry. Just a few minutes. Yunho needs another tall person to help." Hongjoong poked his head into the kitchen.

"Coming." Mingi went out.

"Hi, (y/n)ie." San smiled when you moved opposite him to check on the pasta that you made with Yunho earlier. You chuckled at the casual way he called you.

"Hi, Sannie." You returned the greeting. San looked up in surprise but smiled nonetheless, his dimple popping through.

"So are you excited for your parents to come tonight?" You asked him. He nodded.

"My parents live rather far in the countryside but when they visit, it is always a treat. I hope my older sister comes too. I miss all of them." San said.

"They must be really nice."

"They are. They treat everyone like their family." He laughed. You wondered what it must be like to have such a warm, welcoming family. Maybe your family would have been like that if your mother was still around. But even then, your father was someone that never liked you and your mother to be too friendly to others.

"(y/n)." Seonghwa called you. You looked up to see Seonghwa nodding over to where he was. Shooting San a small smile, you went over to him.

"Okay?" He whispered as you stood beside him. You let out a small hum, helping him with the dessert.

-

After a quick dinner, the kitchen was bustling for dinner service. You knew the parents came when the boys were all greeting them loudly and excitedly in the dining room.

"Hey." Yunho came in with all the parents behind him. You all stood up, bowing respectfully. He introduced whose parents were whose and the family members. Yunho's younger brother looked like him.

"Please, don't let us bother you. Or interrupt your flow." Mrs Song chuckled, waving a hand. She knew what it was like working in the kitchen, owning her own restaurant. You all returend to your food prep tasks.

"I'm Wooyoung. That's Seonghwa hyung, Jongho and (y/n)." Wooyoung, who was the closest, introduced all of you.

"(y/n). The head." Even if you were not looking at them, you felt all eyes fall on you. Jongho nodded at you, assuring that he could handle it. You straightened up and walked over.

"Nice to meet you." You bowed to them.

"Omo. You're so pretty." All the mothers flocked to you, cooing at you affectionately. You grew flustered, unsure of what to do or how to react.

"Okay, ommas. Let's give her some space." Yunho cut in, separating them from you. The fathers merely chuckled, shaking their heads while the mothers scolded Yunho.

"How talented you are. I heard you've been in many reputable kitchens at your age." Mrs Jeong said sweetly, holding your hand.

"Ah, no... It's all just for experience. I'm thankful for all the opportunities given to me." You gave an awkward smile. Yunho cleared his throat and his mother pulled away, shooting her son a look. You bowed your head and went back to help, not wanting to leave the others on their own for long.

"Alright, we shall let them get back to work. Let's go back out." Yunho ushered all of them out of the kitchen. He let a sigh, hoping his mother didn't scare you too much.

"What happened?" Mingi asked.

"Our mothers were smothering (y/n)." Yunho rolled his eyes as the parents took their seats.

"Hyung, (y/n) and those guys are so talented. Why would they want to work for you?" Gunho asked. Yunho shot his younger brother a flat look while Mr Jeong nudged his youngest son.

"Because I am an amazing boss, okay?" Yunho scoffed.

"Mmm, sure." Yeosang coughed. Hongjoong handed out the menus to the parents for them to see what they would like to order.

"Omma, order (y/n)'s dish. I helped make it." Yunho leaned over, pointing to which dish you made on the menu. Mrs Jeong nodded with a hum.

"Hyung helped make it? I'm so not going to order it." Gunho shook his head. Mingi snickered, reaching over to hi-five him. Yunho threatened to hit them. But in the presence of other customers, he wasn't going to.

"Order coming in for the VIP tables." Wooyoung warned as he started to read off the order slips that were coming through.

"Let's go." You all began to work on the appetisers together that would be served first. Wooyoung, at the pass, would finish up with sauces and garnishes before sending the plate out to be served.

"Service." Wooyoung put the plates out for the other boys to bring out to the table.

"Let's start getting ready for mains so we can fire once they are done with apps. In case we need to float." You said to everyone.

"How is it going in here?" Yunho came into the kitchen. You were straining your seolleongtang stock, getting it ready to plate the mains later.

"How are the appetisers?" Seonghwa asked, setting up his oven smoker with the tea leaves for his duck.

"Oh, they love it. Every single dish, I had to stop them from ordering seconds before the mains. But at least they're all excited for the mains now." Yunho grinned proudly. When you were done, you helped Jongho with setting up his binchotan grill for the cod fillets. Yunho came over to you.

"Need help?"

"No, we're good here. You should go out and be with your parents. In case they need anything." You put a hand on his arm. Yunho pouted but nodded, obediently leaving the kitchen.

"We can start firing the mains." Wooyoung said, having observed the dining room from his position at the pass.

"Gunho looks like Yunho. A younger version." You chuckled as you took the pasta out of the boiling water. You missed the odd look that your friends shot you.

"Cuter?" Jongho asked, wanting to add fuel to the fire.

"Maybe." You shrugged.

"What?!" The door burst open and Yunho yelled in disbelief, making you all jump in shock. Hongjoong, who was outside, bowed in apology to the surprised customers before hurriedly pushing Yunho in the kitchen.

"Geez, Yunho! There are customers! You can't just suddenly yell like that." He scolded in a hiss before exiting to return to the dining room.

"Yunho, don't do that. You're disrupting customers and it's not safe where we're working with knives here." You frowned.

"Wait, do you seriously think Gunho is cuter than me?" Yunho planted his hand on the counter, blocking your way with his body. Seonghwa, Wooyoung and Jongho snickered.

"Does it matter? Now, I need to plate my dish." You said, walking around him to go to the plates.

"Yes, it matters to me!" Yunho threw a tantrum, stomping his food as he whined.

"(y/n)~" He whined when he realised that you were ignoring him. You plated each pasta on each plate, making sure the positions of each pasta was accurate and similar. He leaned down in front of you.

"(y/n), tell me I'm cuter than Gunho." He said. You rolled your eyes, patting his head to pacify him then walking to get the seolleongtang into a jug so you could pour it over the pasta. Yunho sulked, following you around like a puppy with separation anxiety. You poured the broth over, garnishing with two oils.

"Pass me the egg garnish." You instructed. Yunho sighed but handed the containers for you to put the garnishes over.

"Bring these out for service, will you?" You told him and went to prepare the other portions. Seonghwa, Wooyoung and Jongho called the others for service too.

"Yah. Don't just stand there. Keep moving." Mingi clicked his tongue as he carried the dishes in his hands.

"We might have a little lull time before dessets." Wooyoung said.

"(y/n). Tell me I'm better than Gunho." Yunho came in again, still pushing his agenda. You raised an eyebrow at him. He was seriously a pouty puppy.

"I don't know Gunho well enough to know if you're truly better than him. That's biased." You pointed out.

"True." San, who overheard, voiced in agreement. Yunho whipped around, glaring at San.

"Get out." He pointed at the door. San scoffed and rolled his eyes before going out. Turning back around, Yunho saw that you had slipped away. You were still doing the few orders for mains and appetisers that came in.

"Service." You handed the plates to Wooyoung. Yeosang came in to take them out to the dining room. Seonghwa and Jongho also served what they finished working on. Yunho brought them out.

"Let's take 5." Seonghwa suggested. You stepped out the back door for a breather. Yunho came back to find you missing.

"I'm just taking a breather, Yunho." You said when he stepped out of the back door.

"I know." He said, taking a seat beside you on the stoop. With his body practically brushing against yours, you didn't move away uncomfortably. You sat there in silence.

"Why were you so adament on me thinking you're better than Gunho? It doesn't matter what I think." You asked with a chuckle.

"No, it matters to me." Yunho said firmly.

"Why?"

"Because you can't like Gunho. I want to be the only one that you like." He frowned.

~

Series masterlist

#kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop series #ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez series #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez yunho #yunho ateez #yunho #yunho scenarios #yunho series #yunho x y/n #yunho x you #yunho x reader #jeong yunho #jeong yunho scenarios #jeong yunho series #jeong yunho x reader

[galaxycunt]

Say Yes

Buggy crashes a party. He’s not just a pirate, you’re not some townie. There’s no one else, just the two of you

@gayafsatan the clown keeps pulling me back in!!!

Your best friend was going away, finally leaving your tiny village to join the merchant marines. In your childhood, you both wanted to be pirates. Life got in the way, and he wanted a taste of the sea.

Your friend was the kind of person to invite strangers to his parties, plenty of sailors docked for supplies and wouldn’t say no to free drinks. The tiny house was bursting with noise and people, overwhelming you a little bit.

You squeezed your way past numerous bodies, stepping outside to finally breathe. A man you never seen before laughs seeing your face. He would’ve looked normal if it wasn’t for the clown makeup and blue hair pulled into a ponytail.

“I didn’t know we had a clown here. You do uh, balloon animals or something? Whatever clowns do at adult parties?”

“I’m not that kind of clown, saw a party and headed on inside.”

You stared at him, what kind of clown could he be? The man seemed a little annoyed at your attention, turning back around to gaze at the ocean. You lit a cigarette, still staring at him. You felt a little rude, but you were too drunk to really stop yourself.

“So what kind of clown are you?”

“What?”

“You said you weren’t that kind of clown. So? What do you do?”

The man scoffed, “I’m a pirate. Bounty’s worth 15 million, I’ll have you know.”

“Wow. Clown pirate. Don’t see that every day.”

“Take a picture.”

With a grin you mimicked a camera. This actually got a laugh out of him. He shook his ponytail out, letting his hair flow as he posed. The man seemed pretty pleased at getting a laugh out of you too.

“What’s your name, pirate clown?”

“Buggy. Captain Buggy.”

You said your name. He liked it, Buggy sounded like a fake name. You wondered if you should’ve said a fake one too. Something like Synthenia.

You searched his face, “you ain’t bullshitting, are you?”

“Real deal.”

“Who’s the guy under the make up and red nose?”

His mood soured, “me. It’s my real fucking nose, and no it doesn’t honk.”

You never seen hurt like you saw in his eyes, you moved to flick your cigarette, Buggy flinching like he expected you to pull his nose. Even drunk, you didn’t want to be an asshole to a stranger.

“Sorry. Small town, small mind. I guess.”

“Whatever.”

Buggy turned to move, without thinking you grabbed his arm. He didn’t look angry, just surprised.

“I’m sorry, I really am. Lemme make it up to you. I’ll grab you a drink.”

He grumbled but followed you anyway, holding hands as you pushed your way to the kitchen. Buggy was funny, telling jokes to your friends as you mixed drinks. In the better lighting, he looked a hell of a lot better. Handsome even.

“Ever had a Surprise Franklin?” He asked you.

“Nuh uh.”

“Let’s see what we got in the fridge.”

“Buggy, no.”

“What?”

“Please don’t make me drink whatever the hell is in the fridge.”

He smiled, “trust me.”

You shook your head, and he closed the fridge with his hip. You stared each other down, big smiles on your faces. You couldn’t stop giggling, man, he was handsome.

“Close your eyes. Trust me.”

You did even as the worst concoctions possible swirled in your mind, already wanting to gag.

“Buggy. I swear.”

“Sweetie, relax. Okay? Old pirate recipe, passed down by my captain from my days as a cabin boy.”

“Cabin boy? Damn, really?”

“Yes, now keep those pretty eyes closed.”

You were pretty sure you were doing a shitty job at hiding the blush. The drink in your hand replaced with the one Buggy made you. You were scared, no way did he really think you were going to drink this?

You swirled it around, ice clinking.

“Buggy, please no.”

“No? Just drink it! I’ll take a sip first.”

“Can I watch you?”

“No.”

You pouted, “that’s not fair!”

He laughed, you really liked the sound of it. Oh no, was this a crush? On a pirate? A pirate you were never going to see again? Who was going to make you drink ketchup and pickle juice?

“If you drink this, I’ll give you whatever you want. Lots of treasure on my ship, whatever you want.”

You thought a little while, “okay. Fine.”

Water. Ice cold, refreshing. With a gasp you opened your eyes to Buggy’s howling laughter, chest heaving and head thrown back.

“Oh man! I got you good!”

Your cheeks were burning, burying your face in his chest, “I fucking hate you, Buggy.”

He stroked your hair, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let’s go back outside, it’s hot in here.”

It really was, but you didn’t think it was because of the crowded kitchen. The night air was refreshing, you hoped the coolness would calm the burn of your cheeks and the beating of your heart. Buggy scanned the backyard, finding the couch to sit in.

“So uh, you’re a pirate right? You staying here long?”

He nodded, “well, a few days. My crew is around here somewhere. If I see someone I’ll introduce you. Small towns are nice for guys like me, marines don’t give a shit about the people here. I can relax and restock.”

“Oh cool. Maybe I can show you around?”

Bolder than you ever been before, but fortune favors the bold. Especially with guys who wear clown makeup.

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

For a moment, you faltered, unsure if he even liked you like that. Until Buggy scooted closer to you, snaking his arm around your waist.

“So uh,” you were nervous now, “you weren’t serious earlier, about the treasure, were you?”

For a moment his eyes drifted to your lips, “sure I was, if that’s what you really want.”

“What if I wanted something else?”

His voice softened, unlike his grip, “like what?”

Buggy leaned forward, breathing you in. He took his time, give you a chance to pull away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, his lips drawing you in. He tasted like cherries, you slid your tongue in for a deeper taste. You didn’t want an audience, suddenly remembering where you were.

Buggy looked like he was about to float away.

“You wanna get outta here?”

#buggy the clown #one piece #buggy x reader #buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader

[i-turned-into-the-stone]

Pickles!

GREETINGS!

WELCOME TO OUR COLLECTION OF PICKLES, OR AS WE LIKE TO CALL IT, "CASUAL SMUT."

WE'VE GOT A BUNCH OF THESE THAT HAVE BEEN MARINATING FOR QUITE SOME TIME.

EACH WEEK, WE'RE GONNA GRAB ONE OF THESE PICKLES, NO PARTICULAR ORDER, AND SERVE IT UP.

JUST A HEADS UP, IF I GET A COMMISSION, I WILL HIT THE PAUSE BUTTON ON CASUAL SMUT PRODUCTION FOR THE WEEK.

PLEASE REFER TO THE PICKLE JAR STATUS TO CHECK. THANK YOU.

Pickle Jar Status:

[ONLINE] - Casual Smut ongoing

[OFFLINE] - Commission Smut ongoing

[AFK] - Resting

Request is closed at the moment but questions and other stuff are welcomed.

Schedule:

❎ = Pending

✅ = Completed

🔛 = Ongoing

🔛 1. Karina ft. Winter

Plot: Bratty younger sister Karina that always threatens her brother to do her chores probably works better for the plot but we all know bitchy Karina Noona getting taught a lesson is way hotter.

❎ 2. Baek Jiheon

Plot: Hi, can you please write a mind-break non-con for Baek Jiheon, that adorable little kitten needs to experience some dick in her tight little pussy.

❎ 3. Rei

Plot: IVE Rei tricked into something else due to "language barriers".

❎ 4. Ahn Yujin

Plot: Secretary Yujin of a middle-aged Chaebol has more physical work than desk work contrary to what people think. On an average day, she starts the day warming her master's cock wrapping it with her warm holes. If there is a higher-up meeting, she serves gangbang while they talk about important business. Getting tossed from one man's lap to another one or two is her main job basically. Her boss even fuck her wherever in the office building he wants. The day ended with her all holes stuffed with cum and a wicked smile on her face getting exactly what this slut loves.

❎ 5. Shuhua

A/N plot: Please write a smut based on Shuhua's recent Instagram post where she uploaded a pic of her huge ass from behind. Please write a non-con as degrading as possible. Badass girl deserves hardcore punishment.

❎ 6. SuA

Plot: Bend over, tie down to a table, and force to take a train of men, each one’s penis bigger than the previous. Abused, pissed on, beaten, broken, and getting so far that something snaps in her mind, making her use the guys who broke her until they can't do it anymore and she gets mad for this, getting hysterical and screaming at them to give her more.

❎ 7. Swan

Plot: I see you're a non-con enthusiast, can you make me a Purple Kiss Swan smut? The twist is it's Swan who's doing the non-conning, and the reader can't help but accept the fact she's totally dominating you for being subtle about her feelings. (I don't say I request a non-con Yandere Swan but yeah)

❎ 8. Lily

Plot: Here's another idea for you if you're interested. Your daughter Haewon is behaving rudely to you and even misses Father's Day to go out partying, but her best friend Lily sees this and feels bad, and decides to make it up to you in bed, seducing you and even making you film it and send it to haewon.

❎ 9. Yoon

Plot: How about STAYC Yoon being accidentally mistaken as a prostitute by a sexpat?

❎ 10. Yeji/Yuna

Plot: For the cervix penetration I think if you choose Yeji maybe after deep penetration the cervix starts dilating, Yuna why not push it through 🫣

❎ 11. Bada Lee/Ryujin

A/N plot: Huge fan of your work! could you do a bada Lee or a Ryujin smut? (I know Bada Lee but not that interested in her so I might do Ryujin. I will see how it goes.)

❎ 12. Tzuyu

Plot: Volleyball player Tzuyu who gets injured during a game and the trainer! the reader who takes advantage of her while she can't get away.

❎ 13. Hikaru

A/N plot: What if for Hikaru, you still stand and carry, but you pass her around to other men?

❎ 14. Wonyoung

Plot: Wonyoung gets humbled by obsessed fans for acting cocky. So they put her in her slutty place by thoroughly fucking her every hole mindlessly throughout the night. And they didn't forget to stream it live either.

❎ 15. AleXa

A/N plot: Gets fucked and ruined by cocks larger than her arms.

❎ 16. Giselle

Plot: Gym rat Giselle getting mercilessly punished by real bodybuilders at the gym for teasing them with her thick ass and thighs. So they raped her using the gym equipment, to use her in deeper reaching positions. They pounded her ass until her tight hole loosened wide and she couldn't keep her shit anymore pooping uncontrollably in front of everyone. You can also add Somi in the story like she is the one who conspired against her out of her jealousy for thickness but the men fucked the shit out of both of them anyway.

❎ 17. J

Plot: StayC J getting fucked silly while drunk at a frat party in her freshman year of college. Going to a party to try and meet people but ended up drinking way too much and passed out in a random bedroom. The reader finds her passed out and decides to take advantage of her tight body.

❎ 18. Taeyeon

A/N Plot: Write on MILF Taeyeon, please. And preferably noncon.

❎ 19. Sakura

A/N plot: PLEASE DO A MIYAWAKI SAKURA FIC 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

❎ 20. Miyeon

A/N plot: Miyeon, please make non-con of Miyeon. Her big boobs are such a tease recently.

❎ 21. Ahn Yujin

Plot: You are "fixing" her transmitter pack for the in-ear monitor. She is still within visual range of the VIP crowd for the sound check but what you're doing is conveniently hidden from her shadows. That's when you unzip and non-con her from behind.

❎ 22. Karina

Plot: Karina offers herself to sponsors to save her team members from the ordeal. But then she got brutally gangbanged at a private party, all her holes abused to the point that she started to question the life choices that made her into an idol, aka rich people's expensive fuck doll. Her only solace is she saved her sisters, but how long that is the question.

This blog will be occasionally updated!

#to do list #weekly

[gintrinsic-writing]

For @cutebutalsostabby and @pokegeek151; I hope you guys don't mind that I combined your prompts!

--

Ravio knew better than to ask for much during a storm. They had a system, after all. An understanding. Ravio never showed any skin beyond his hands, and he compulsively counted his rupees at the end of every day—terrified that somehow, inexplicably, he might suddenly be without, might suddenly go without, and if he had a tendency to overeat sometimes? Well, Link never said a word. Not ever. Not even when Ravio ate all their fresh fruit in one sitting, or when he hoarded Link’s favorite pickle-flavored chips simply because the plastic crackle of the bag felt so reassuring beneath his hands. Not even then. 

So this? This was an oddity. A deviation. But Ravio thought the circumstances might warrant it. He hoped he wasn’t wrong. “Mister Hero?” he murmured, tapping lightly on Link’s bedroom door. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Ravio winced as he tapped again. “Ah, Link? There’s something…” He took a deep breath, near-queasy with his guilt. “There’s something on the shore. Someone.”

Nearly a minute passed before Link opened his door. The dark lines beneath his eyes made him look ghastly. “What do you mean?”

Ravio licked his lips. “I’m so sorry, I know this isn’t—”

“What do you mean?” Link asked again. 

“There’s a person on the beach. Or maybe… a monster? I’m not sure, it’s too far away. All I could see for sure was a body and a flash of red.”

Link flinched, but he crowded into Ravio’s space the very next moment. “Where? Which direction?”

“East, past that old driftwood,” Ravio began, jumping when Link suddenly ran past him and out the door. Link never even glanced at the sword propped up against his favorite chair (the one he sometimes sat in for hours at a time, silent and unseeing, looking for all the world like he was trapped in life’s trenches with no idea how to claw his way back to the surface). Ravio picked the sword up just in case before he chased after Link. He hoped none of this was a mistake. 

By the time he managed to catch up, the thing on the shore was moving. Twitching, to be precise, but it freaked Ravio out all the same. “W-what the hell is it?”

Link dropped to his knees beside the creature. He didn’t answer. 

“Seriously,” Ravio continued nervously, holding Link’s sword closer to his chest. “It looks like a Zora, if a Zora sold its soul. Is this some kind of mutant? I’ve never seen a Zora in the ocean before, but…” He paused, grimacing at the blood seeping between the creature’s weakly fluttering, skin-like gills. It didn’t look very alive. “What is it?” 

Slowly, hesitantly, Link reached out to the creature’s small hand. He brushed his fingers along blue-tinged skin, then took its hand in both of his. “What have they done?” he whispered. Almost as if in response, thunder boomed across the shore. 

“Who?” Ravio asked nervously. “Link? Who? What is this?”

Link swallowed audibly. “I thought… I had hoped… Marin,” he whispered. “But this is so much worse.” 

The creature gasped in a loud, wheezing breath. Its eyelids fluttered. “You’re… sage?” it asked weakly. 

The sound Link made was wounded and horrible. Ravio hoped he never had to hear it again. “No,” Link told the creature quietly. “I’m not a sage. You’re just… You’re recognizing the Triforce.” He squeezed the creature’s hand, then reached forward to stroke its thin blonde hair. “Sleep. I don’t know who you are, but… I’ll help you. You’re safe. Sleep.”

“Safe?” the creature asked, sounding so much like a child. 

“Yes,” Link whispered sadly. “I swear.”

Ravio glanced between them, wondering why it suddenly felt like his life had a timer, why the seconds inched past under imaginary duress.

Lightning flared in the distance. For once, Link didn’t seem to notice. 

#why are ravio and link/legend near an ocean? great question #zora mask gone WRONG #mask's/mm link's body so fucked up #lu fic #linked universe #i'm imagining this as a first meeting between the links #except time is actually mask or at least very young still #gintrinsic writing

[steddieasitgoes]

@steddiemas Day 17 Prompt: Accidental Kink Discovery

Tags: Established Relationship, Questionable Use Of Christmas Lights, Light Bondage? (In both senses of the word lol), Steve Harrington Is A Tease, Eddie Munson Is A Menace, Implied Smut, Italian Steve

wc: 1158 | Rating: M

Read on ao3 | ao3 collection

Steve’s in the kitchen, eyes glued to the simmering pot of sauce. He can hear his Nonna’s voice saying “eyes on sauce” over and over again, intermixed with the sound of the wooden spoon swatting through the air whenever he disobeyed. It’s been years since she passed, even longer since they stood shoulder to shoulder in her home in Italy, but the memory feels as fresh as ever.

It was a fight to get her to jot down the recipe for him all those years ago. Grumbling the whole time about how “recipes live in hearts not on paper.” But he’s glad he went toe-to-toe with her then. If he hadn’t he wouldn’t be here, christening his and Eddie’s new pot in their new kitchen with the smell of his Nonna’s famous sauce.

He’s carefully stirring the pot when he hears a crash, a slew of curses follows shortly after before Eddie’s panicked voice cuts through it all.

“Steve!”

Sorry, Nonna, Steve thinks, my boyfriend is more important than sauce.

Abandoning the sauce without even bothering to turn the burner off, Steve goes sliding into the room. He skids across the floor, spatula brandished in the air sending mariner sauce all over the place. On a path directly towards Eddie and their seven-foot tree, Steve flails his arms and manages to cling to their lamp to keep himself from knocking everyone, including their sleeping cat Bilbo over.

“What’s wrong?” Steve pants, already out of breath from his short trip and the anxiety building in his gut. He closes his eyes, hands flying to the top of his head as he tries to catch his breath.

“These stupid fucking lights,” Eddie groans. “I swear they come out of the box tangled!”

When he opens his eyes, he expects to find the traditional mess of tangled lights he’s grown accustomed to. A giant knot, a few loose strands, maybe Eddie frustratingly tugging at them making things worse. What he finds is so, so, so much worse.

Eddie’s standing in the middle of their living room. Naked Christmas tree to his left, a clutter of boxes to his right. The colored lights that are supposed to be strung on the tree, are wrapped around him from head to toe. Looped around his ankles, winding up his legs. His torso was a tangled mess with strands going every which way, creating knots here and there. There’s a strand pinning his wrists together in front of him and another that looks dangerously too tight around his neck.

“Christ,” Steve sighs, shaking his head. “Are you sure you didn’t fight them or something?”

“No!” Eddie hisses. His attempt at breaking free is thwarted, strands tightening with every little move he makes. “I was trying to untie them and then this happened.”

“If you say so,” Steve hums, slightly enjoying the sight of Eddie all tied up. It almost looks like he was trying to be the Christmas tree. Steve says as much.

“I was not trying to be the tree!” Eddie huffs, struggling against the lights again. “And if you don’t help untangle me right now. You’re going to be decorating that damn tree by yourself!”

“Alright, alright,” Steve laughs, hands thrown up in casual surrender. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, I’ll help you.”

Steve knows Eddie must be frustrated when he doesn’t make his usual “I’m not wearing any” joke. Closing the distance between them, Steve assesses the mess from his new angle. He walks around Eddie a few times, trying his best to find the end of one of the strands but there’s no use — he’s a tangled mess.

“You really got yourself in quite a pickle, Eds.” Steve whistles to himself as he shakes his head. With no clear sign of how to untangle him, he opts for plan B: start at the bottom and work his way up.

Slowly and carefully he drops to his knees to start working on freeing Eddie’s feet. His fingers barely graze one of the strands of light, fingers ghosting over his exposed ankle when a high-pitched gasp falls from his lips. Steve pulls away and leans back on his heels as he gazes up at Eddie.

“You okay up there?” he asks, brow raised as he takes in the sight of Eddie’s blushing face.

“Mhm, yep, peachy,” Eddie says, eyes closed so he doesn’t have to look at Steve.

Steve hums and gets back to work. It takes a bit of patience and clever thinking, but Steve manages to free Eddie’s foot from one of the strands. With the end free, it’s easy to untangle the other leg until he hits another knot near Eddie’s thigh.

He tries the same approach, needling his fingers under the strand before wiggling them around in the hopes of loosening in. It works for a moment before Eddie’s body twitches against Steve’s touch and the strand tightens again. When he looks up to scold him, he finds Eddie’s head tipped back, lower lip wedged between his teeth.

Oh.

“Are you… Is this turning you on right now?” Steve asks, incredulously.

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

Steve doesn’t wait for a reply and instead lets his fingers trail up, up, up Eddie’s thigh until they’re settled just above the knot that’s formed. Eddie jerks at the touch and the strand tightens. This time he’s not quick enough to muffle the moan that slips from his lips.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he groans, arms thrashing in front of him as he tries to free his wrists from their constraints. “Would you quit teasing and free me already?

Steve hums in contemplation before shaking his head. “I don’t think you really want that. I think you purposely tied yourself up.”

“That’s stupid, why would I—“ Eddie’s words are cut off by a choked-out sob when Steve moves in closer, nose nudging the hem of his sweat pants. 

“You know, if you wanted to try being tied up you could have just asked,” Steve says, nuzzling his face in the crease of Eddie’s thigh. He’s careful to avoid the bulb on the strand. The last thing they need is a trip to the ER because he got too excited and stabbed himself. He’d never live it down. “M’always down to try new things.”

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie moans as one of Steve’s hands slip under the waistband of his shorts, the other tugs at the loose end of the strand of lights, tightening it so Eddie’s body lurches forward again. “Just to be straight with you, Stevie, I really wasn’t trying to start something.”

“I believe you,” Steve says, glancing up at Eddie. “But I think we need to finish what you accidentally started, don’t you think?”

“Only if I get a turn after.”

“Deal.”

In the end, they end up with one ruined dinner (Sorry Nonna) and a new kink to add to their ever-growing list.

#steddiemas #steddie #steddie smut #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson ficlet #eddie munson smut #eddie smut #steve harrington #steve smut #steve harringotn fic #steve harrington smut #steve harrington ficlet #stranger things #stranger things fic #dani writes