#mustard bologna sandwich

[smash-pansy]

Recipe for Air-Fried Bologna Sandwich The air fryer cooks this crispy air-fried bologna sandwich in less than 15 minutes.

#start #dijon mustard #air fryer #bread #sandwich bread #bologna

[fieriframes]

[TOASTED BREAD AND A LITTLE BIT OF THAT SPICY DELI MUSTARD. NOW THAT'S A BOLOGNA SANDWICH. YOU'RE TELLIN' ME. BUT IT IS LIFE, MORE THAN DEATH, WHICH HAS NO LIMITS. THAT'S CARAMELIZED CARNAGE OF GOODNESS RIGHT THERE. THAT'S IT. AMAZING BOLOGNA SANDWICHES.]

#s04e09 cookin' it old school #guy fieri #guyfieri #diners drive-ins and dives #spicy deli mustard #more than death #amazing bologna sandwiches #toasted bread #little bit #caramelized carnage #goodness right #now #which #limits

[jareofficial]

My hungry ass could NOT be at sanwich factory

#the joke is i would eat a sandwich with bread lettuce mustard mayo tomato turkey bologna provolone pickle and bread

[cultureoflosing]

Deer Bologna Recipe This lean venison bologna works great in sandwiches, or simply served sliced as an hors d'oeuvre.

#bologna #mustard powder #brown sugar #deer bologna #sandwiches #recipe #cups

[smallgodseries]

[image description: An animated sandwich smiles as it high-steps toward us. It’s brown bread is filled with luncheon meat, tomatoes and pickles with 2 olives on toothpicks for eyes. It  juggles avocado, egg, bacon, swiss cheese, cherry tomato, anchovies, bok choy, onions, and shrimp in a perfect arc overhead. Text reads, “52, Homeslice ~ Small God of Sandwiches”]

He is so much older than they dream, although never beyond his expiration date.  He is so much more crucial than anyone gives him credit for. They paint his origins in misty watercolors, call him a gambler’s dream, son of the fourth Earl of Sandwich, as if no one had ever thought to place a thing between two other things and call it whole before one man wanted to keep the mustard off his cribbage cards.

As long as there have been breads and bread-like things, there have been people using them to contain other things that would leave more marks upon the hand that eats them, meats and cheeses and sauces of all kinds. As long as there have been things to contain, he has contained them. Whatever can be placed between two halves of a whole belongs to him, and is delicious in his sight.

Peanut butter and jelly.  Peanut butter and banana. Turkey and stuffing with cranberry sauce.  Bologna and cheese. Sliced strawberries and roast beef. Cucumber and mayonnaise. Even, in more adventurous times, whipped cream and fruit and nothing savory to be seen.

He can be a breakfast, croissant sliced in two and filled with egg and cheese and crispy bacon, a slice of tomato perched jauntily atop. He can be a lunch, turkey and ketchup and cheese, a piece of lettuce for contrast, a smear of spicy mustard. He can even be a dinner, although that is rare anymore. He stands at the center of a million debates. No, he says, a hot dog is not a sandwich, it is food served in a bun; the two pieces of the bun are not distinct, and being enveloped does not a sandwich make. A hamburger, though…a hamburger is his to have.

There are no bad sandwiches. Sandy is overjoyed to bless them all, to see them coddled and consumed, crown to crust, and not a crumb forgotten.

#small gods #lee moyer #seanan mcguire #smallgodseries #icons and stories

[tawaifeddiediaz]

of reassurances and reflections

idk why i wrote this coda but, enjoy

[AO3 Link]

Word Count: 2345 words

Buck’s thinking about something.

Eddie can’t stop looking at him from across Christopher’s lunch box, over the bologna sandwiches and bottle of energy drink and pouches of applesauce. 

Part of him still doesn’t believe that Buck’s here, in his house. Alive, whole. Undamaged.

Well. Almost undamaged.

He can see the cracks in Buck’s composure clear as day, can see the fissures that drove him out of his apartment into Eddie’s house. He can see the fragile thoughts underneath, built up behind a mask that would fool everyone but Eddie.

On a normal day, they’d be racing to see who could finish making Christopher’s sandwich first. On a normal day, Eddie would have to slap Buck’s hands away from the extra pouches of applesauce. On a normal day, Buck would wrinkle his nose as Eddie spread mustard over the bread.

Today is not a normal day.

Buck watches him make Christopher’s lunch with a stillness that isn’t him, not even reacting when Eddie accidentally puts a little too much mustard on one side of the bred. He’s almost blank, watching Eddie go through the motions. Eddie can’t help but watch Buck from across the table as he sips his water leisurely, crossing his arms over his chest as if bracing himself for something.

His next words are both expected and unexpected.

“Hey, what do you remember about getting shot?”

Eddie brain screeches to a halt. Absently, he knows he’s still busying his hands with something, he knows he’s peering back at Buck, but the rest of it...the rest of his mind is filled with nothing but the imagery of that day.

The screaming.

The blood.

The splatters.

The ruined white shirt.

The shock.

The fear.

Eddie remembers the agony first, and his shoulder twinges with the phantom memory of the bullet tearing through his flesh. But he also remembers the stark fear that Buck had gotten hit, too, the idea that Buck’s pale skin could be marred too unfathomable for Eddie’s pain-soaked brain.

There’s something fragile in Buck’s eyes right now — something curious, tentative. They haven’t broached this topic before, in the two years or so since. It’s just one of those things that lives between them quietly, laying roots that tug them together and root them in place.

Sometimes, though, those roots scream. They spit emotions, they drag up memories, they remind Eddie of all the things he, Buck and Christopher have gone through — but they also remind Eddie of the things they’ve have gotten through. 

Right now, Buck doesn’t need the reminder of how Eddie thought he was dead two years before he actually died, and he doesn’t need to see the tremble in Eddie’s fingers as he thinks of those horrible, horrible days waiting for Buck to wake up.

So he rips the crusted edge of the bologna off, steadies himself and says, “There was a searing pain. It felt like I got hit by a bus, and I was still standing.”

It takes every ounce of his courage to keep looking at Buck as he talks, only breaking eye contact to grab the rest of Christopher’s lunch ingredients before he forgets. “I remember falling, and everything got dark. And I thought…this is it. This is the last moment of my life.”

He meets Buck’s eyes, sees the residual grief in them from what he’d been through while Eddie was under. But he also remembers Buck’s face being the only thing visible in the sea of darkness, his voice tugging Eddie up before he could sink. He remembers Buck shoving his St. Christopher’s medal into his hand. He remembers Shannon’s words, about how Christopher needs him. 

He remembers seeing Christopher’s life flash before his eyes — the life they’ve built together, and the future Eddie didn’t think he’d ever get to see. He remembers the sound of his son’s laugh, of his stubbornness, of his wild hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. He remembers seeing his happy kid, and wanting to make it back to him.

But he remembers Buck most of all. 

And in that moment, I saw you. 

You were the last thing I wanted to see before I died, and I thought I’d gotten my wish.

Somehow, thankfully, Eddie doesn’t say that. 

He forces some levity in his tone as he finishes, “Then I woke up in the hospital.”

It feels like he’s paying some sort of penance when Buck looks up at him with a furrowed brow. There’s disbelief in his eyes, almost like he can sense that Eddie’s not telling him the full truth.

The conversation stretches, emotions flying across Buck’s face too quickly for Eddie to pinpoint. 

Something happened in this coma of Buck’s. He hasn’t told Eddie about it, but Eddie can tell when Buck holds something back from him, and right now, the questions alluding to the trippy mind puzzles speak volumes.

He collects his penance by asking for a truth in exchange for him sharing that memory, and when Buck gives it to him, his hear soars.

“Honestly, Eddie, I-I don’t know.”

Eddie tries to coax him through it, even though the reminder of Buck dying is still too painful for him.

“It’s not the physical thing, is it,” Eddie says, moving to gather ingredients for another sandwich (without mustard this time). “There’s something bothering you, something that you can’t really explain.”

“Not without being tossed into a psychiatric ward,” Buck mutters, petulant. He reminds Eddie of his son when he thinks he’s gotten away with something.

Eddie has eyes at the back of his head when it comes to his family, and he can see the toll that this is taking on Buck to hold it all in.

“Hey,” Eddie starts quietly, stacking lettuce and tomato on top of the bread. “I will always believe you, okay? You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready, but…but you can, is what I’m saying.”

Whatever he’s expecting Buck to say, it’s not: 

“You keep saying I died.”

Eddie’s eyebrows crawl into his hairline, even while those words send a sharp lance of pain through his chest. The cheese nearly slips from his fingers at the reminder, and Eddie has the thought that it would hurt less if Buck had just shot him. “Because you did, Buck.”

Buck’s already shaking his head. “Yeah, I know. But since I’ve woken up, you’re the only one that…I don’t know. You were the only one that trusted that I could move forward with it. Everyone else is…making schedules and setting up a routine, and filling my fridge with stuff. And don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for it, but I just….why? Why aren’t you doing that?”

There’s something embarrassed in Buck’s gaze, as if he’s afraid to take too much, but Eddie doesn’t know how else to explain that he’s already given everything he has over to the other man — his son included.

Eddie’s quiet for a second, mulling over how to explain this to him without revealing his whole hand.

“When we…when we rolled you into the ER, we didn’t even have your pulse. You were…” his throat closes up, but he moves past it, staring at his hands. “We managed to get you back, but it was touch and go for way too long, Buck.”

The terror at never getting Buck back swamps Eddie again, and he has to turn towards the sink under the guise of washing his hands to take a second for himself. His voice trembles, and he prays Buck doesn’t hear it as he continues. “It wasn’t like any of the other times. You were unconscious before I even got to you, before anyone could reach you. So everyone making these schedules and getting groceries and trying to help you out with things even when you’ve been cleared for those things, it’s just our way of making sure you’re still here. Making ourselves useful in exchange for some reassurance that we’re not going to feel your heart so still again.”

“But not you,” Buck repeats, just as soft.

The words hang between them, and Eddie looks out of his kitchen window as pressure builds behind his eyes.

“If it were up to me, Buck, you would never leave this house.”

It’s too silent. Buck’s shock hangs in the air right with Eddie’s confession. He thinks he owes it to Buck to be honest, too, but something about those words feel a little too honest. They feel like Eddie’s stripped the flesh from his bones and presented it all to Buck, wrapped in a lace of shaky emotion.

“Eddie,” Buck breathes out, and if Eddie listens closely, he can hear the press of tears in his voice.

“I took my turn, too, remember?” Eddie turns back to him, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. He can’t look at Buck directly, the memory of his blank eyes hovering too close to the surface. “I showed up when Maddie put me on the schedule, too, but honestly, Buck, the truth of the matter is that I know you. You were overwhelmed before you even left the hospital. You didn’t need me piling on that, even though I can’t close my eyes without seeing...without seeing you gone, sometimes.”

“You knew I’d come here.”

Eddie smiles. “I was hoping,” he corrects gently, gesturing to the couch outside. “I, at least, have a couch that fits you.”

He knows the metaphor, knows what the thinly edged meaning of his words will do to them. He thinks there’s a reason Buck feels comfortable enough to swing his feet onto Eddie’s coffee table, feels vulnerable enough to knock out the second he sits, feels safe enough to be sprawled out when he does so.

Buck turns his head, looking in the direction of it like he’s pondering the fit of two puzzle pieces, and Eddie takes advantage of his distraction to catalog every last detail about him, the way he’s started doing since Buck woke up.

“Here,” he says, sliding him a sandwich. He grabs the Brita out of the fridge and fills up the water cup, reaching for the grapes and setting those in front of him, too. “Eat.”

Buck’s still watching him like he’s looking for whatever Eddie’s hiding, but he complies, taking a huge bite out of the sandwich. Eddie watches him wolf down half of it before he sighs.

“I’ve never felt fear like that before,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t know if you would come back to us. And if I’m honest with you, sometimes, I’m terrified that I’ll look away from you and you’ll be gone again, just like you were that night. That’s why I didn’t want to hound you — I was afraid I’d never let you leave my sight again.”

Buck nods like he gets it. “But I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Eddie agrees, smiling despite himself when Buck grins around a mouthful of his sandwich. “Here and still grossing me out with your eating habits.”

Buck swallows his bite before letting out a small laugh, peeking up at Eddie from between his lashes. “It was…I saw something in the dream that was terrifying. I like it better here, anyway. With my family.”

There’s something haunted in Buck’s eyes when he talks about the dream, in the way that he trails his eyes over Christopher’s lunchbox, over the calendar on the fridge, complete with photos of Chris. There’s a raw grief that flashes in Buck’s eyes when he looks at Eddie sometimes, too, and Eddie knows that whatever the dream was about, it was something too horrifying to put in words.

Eddie knows a little bit about the horror, and while he’s desperate to get the conversation back to a place where it doesn’t feel like it’ll drag them under, he can’t resist offering one last hand.

Before he can stop himself, the word leaves his mouth. “Stay?”

Buck looks at him quizzically. “Really? I just knocked out on your couch after coming here to hang out with you. Why would you want me to stick around?”

Eddie shrugs, reaching for the zipper of Christopher’s lunch box and securing it closed. He doesn’t want to admit that it soothes him to have Buck in his line of sight. “Maybe I need the company, if you don’t.”

“I’ll tell Maddie to make you a schedule — or better yet? You can have mine,” Buck teases, but there’s something grateful in his voice, too. Something that feels a lot like the relief spreading through Eddie’s chest with warm fingers.

“So…you’ll stay? There’s still more beer if you want it,” Eddie says, jerking a thumb towards his fridge.

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

It’s not until they’re seated on the couch, mindlessly flipping through the channels with their shoulders pressed together, that Buck elaborates.

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Hm?” Eddie looks over at him, arrested by the gleaming blue of his eyes, blazing with some unknown emotion.

“You remember what I said about safe spaces?”

My therapist says everyone needs a safe space. A place where you can fully be yourself.

“Your apartment was that place,” Eddie whispers.

“It was,” Buck agrees. “It still is, sometimes. But sometimes, that’s a person and here…”

The words trail off, leaving an open-ended blank for Eddie to fill in. 

It’s obvious, in the way Buck had come to him, had dropped into sleep immediately on Eddie’s couch, and had stayed asleep for nearly an hour. It’s obvious in the way Buck had looked towards him for answers, any answers. 

It’s obvious in the thrumming tension between them, the one that stretches her arms as they grow closer. Buck’s hand twitches where it’s pressed against his knee, a bare millimeter away from Eddie’s own.

He musters up the last bit of his courage and drops his hand over Buck’s, entangling their fingers together.

If he’s Buck’s safe space, he needs Buck to know that he’s Eddie’s, too.

“Yeah, Buck. Me, too.”

Buck smiles and squeezes his hand once.

For Eddie, that’s more than enough.

#zee writes #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #911 fic #911 on fox #911 on fox fic #911fic #911fanfic #911 spoilers #episode coda #oneawkwardcookie #usernymika #userisha #userdahlias #alielook #maystag #userrin #laurenlook #useralie #usersmia #userabs #usernicolo

[waiting-eyez]

The dog approached again, cautiously. I found the bologna sandwich, ripped off a chunk, wiped the cheap watery mustard off, then placed it on the sidewalk. The dog walked up to the bit of sandwich, put his nose to it, sniffed, then turned and walked off. This time he didn't look back. He accelerated down the street. No wonder I had been depressed all my life. I wasn't getting proper nourishment.

(Charles Bukowski)

#Charles Bukowski

[stealingyourbones]

This week on (possible) culinary crimes, might I offer you a personal favorite: dill pickle chips with sour cream and onion dip for an appetizer and a fried bologna sandwich with mustard and peanut butter for the main course?

I find these delicious but my entire family finds the mere existence of such combinations just as revolting as seeing me eat them.

The dill pickle chip choice is quite tame but I have never heard of peanut butter, bologna, and mustard being even remotely in the same dish. Fascinating…

#culinary crimes #<<I guess that’s gonna be a new tag now #bones replies

[veemo4]

#poll #polls

[bad268]

Snack (CC! Dream X Reader)

Fandom: RPF

Requested: Day 27 of Writing Inktober prompts instead of drawing!

Warnings: none.

Pronouns: None used

W.C. 352

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

Writing Inktober 2022 Materlist

~~

It’s been a couple of hours since Clay has come out of his recording room. From what I remember, he was filming some kind of lore with Tommy, but it’s been at least three hours since then. Usually, he doesn’t stream for longer than two hours, but maybe they were too caught up to realize. I took it upon myself to make him a snack since I didn’t know the last time he ate.

I made him a mustard and bologna sandwich and put some chips on the side before grabbing a water bottle to take to him. I approach his door (only after running into Sapnap and him stealing a few of the chips before retreating to his room) and knock on it. I hear Clay say something to Tommy before he opens the door.

“I brought you a snack!” I said with a smile, holding out the food for him to take. However, instead of taking the food, he pulls me into the room. “What are you doing?”

“I’m grabbing my snack, duh,” he says as if it’s obvious. He pulls his chair out, grabs the plate and bottle from my hands to place them on the desk, and he pulls me to sit in his lap. I just laugh and go along with it. “Ok, I’m back, Tommy.”

“Who was that and what did they want?” I heard Tommy respond through Clay’s headphones. Clay gestured for me to respond as he took a bite of the sandwich and put his headphones on my head.

“Hi, Tommy!” I laughed into the microphone, adjusting the band. “I was bringing Dream a snack.”

“Oh, Y/N!” Tommy gasped. “What did you bring him?”

“A sandwich and some chips. Why is it so important?” I chuckled. Clay held out a chip for me, so I took it. “Don’t you wish you had someone to bring you snacks?”

“And being the best damn snack ever,” Clay whispered into my ear, lightly biting the skin.

“Hey, that was uncalled for,” Tommy groaned. “And that was gross, Dream. Don’t ever say that again.”

“He heard that?!”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2022. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

#dream x reader #writing inktober 2022 #bad268 #dreamwastaken x reader #cc dream #thing268 #ship268

[just-a-carrot]

What are the OW casts favourite foods?

oh i think i answered this before lemme go find it

here they are alkdjfalkds

Iggy: Lemons, tuna, cheese and broccoli soup

Genzou: Pizza, mac n' cheese, mayonnaise corn bread

Orlam: Cheese, bologna sandwiches with mustard, fettuccini alfredo

Gidget: Burritos, sushi, baked potato soup

Bucks: Fried chicken, steak, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream

Hunar: Peppers of all sorts (stuffed peppers, grilled peppers, fajita peppers, jalapeno poppers), blueberry muffins, blue cheese salads

#ow: asks #char info asks

[zoethebitch]

oh my god a fried bologna sandwich sounds so good right now dude with a little mustard and a little slice of grilled onion throw a lettuce leaf on there while I'm at it god

[noneedtoamputate]

Every Beautiful Thing - Chapter Six

My first BoB fic. Inspired by Where the Pieces Go by @almost-a-class-act

Rating: Teen (for now)

Characters: Chuck Grant, Original Female Character(s), Joe Liebgott, Bull Randleman (mentioned), Original Male Character(s), Carwood Lipton (mentioned), Pat Christenson (mentioned)

Tags: Postwar, Slow Burn, Non Canon Realtionships, San Francisco

Summary: A girl walks into a tobacco shop.

August 1951

When Chuck told Ellen he was taking the day off work for routine appointments at the VA clinic, she suggested they meet for a picnic lunch afterwards.

She brought a blanket and a basket filled with food Chuck liked: a bologna sandwich with mustard, lettuce, and tomato, homemade dill pickles, fruit salad, and her chocolate chip cookies.

“This is so good,” he said, after taking the first bite of his sandwich. “I remember sitting in a foxhole, and all I could think about was eating a bologna sandwich.”

“You’re an easy man to please,” she said, taking a bite of her sandwich, a peanut butter and jelly.

Read the rest and leave a comment on AO3.

Tag list: @coco-bean-1218

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #fanfic #chuck grant #every beautiful thing #ellen thompson

[smallgodseries]

[image description: A gigantic 3-eyed green monster looms over the Golden Gate Bridge and obstructs the Marin Headlands. Its right hand holds the bridge tower – its left holds the Navy ship it’s just taken a huge bite out of. A fascinated/terrified crowd looks on from Fort Point as a small sailboat with an image of Boudicca on its sail attempts to turn away. Text reads, “51, Stinkweed Sam ~ The Small God of the Munchies”]

An ordinary man stands before an open refrigerator, filled with pieces and potential.  He could make a sandwich, yes, a sandwich would be lovely, ham and cheese perhaps, or bologna with Miracle Whip, or peanut butter and jelly, or—

Tuna fish and onion with squeezy mustard whispers a voice, unfamiliar but oh so tempting, alluring, even, filled with confidence and yearning.

Still, he hesitates.  Surely that is…abnormal?  Surely, that would be a strange combination, not something an ordinary man like himself would eat?

Crush up some Doritos and put them on top whispers the voice.  Wash it down with a can of Fanta.  Doesn’t matter what flavor.  Fruity and sweet.

And it’s tempting, it’s so tempting, and he’s already reaching for the squeezy mustard.  He won’t realize what he’s done until the stomachache wakes him at two o’clock in the morning, and when it does, the voice won’t be there to comfort him.

The voice won’t be anywhere at all.  Stinkweed Sam will have long since moved on.

He comes most often to those who have indulged in other sacraments, because their clouded minds are clear to his specific form of prayer.  They have shed their inhibitions and their misconceptions at the same time, and see nothing wrong with dipping Girl Scout cookies in fast food barbeque sauces, or with scraping the filling out of Oreos and replacing it with sardines, the crunch of the bones perfectly complimenting the crispness of the cookie.  He blesses them all, the inebriated, the stoned, the hormonal, the exhausted.

He whispers recipes to them, and when they listen, he is with them for every terrible, glorious, unbearable bite.  He will be there for you, if you allow him to be.  If you take the first sip that welcomes him in.

Would you like to make a sandwich?

#small gods #seanan mcguire #smallgodseries #lee moyer #icons and stories

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by @kyber-infinitygems​​​

tagging: @direwombat​​​ @adelaidedrubman​​​ @poetikat​​​ @derelictheretic​​​ @roofgeese​​​ @confidentandgood​​​ @marivenah​​​ @detectivelokis​​​ @strangefable​​​ @passinoutpieces​​​ @inafieldofdaisies​​​ @locustandwildhoney​​​ @voidika​​​ @purplehairsecretlair​​​ @shallow-gravy​ @kittiofdoom​​​ @clicheantagonist​​​ @josephslittledeputy​ @baldurrs​ (no pressure of course) and anyone else with anything to share consider this me tagging you :)

So now that I’ve finally reached the point where Kit’s in the Whitetails, expect a lot more Kit and Jacob stuff for these WIP Wednesdays. Here’s a bit from chapter 19 of American Beasts, set around the time of her 2nd trial shortly after the fun visit from Joseph:

“Kitten?” Her eyes flashed with anger, unimpressed by her own nickname. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that now.”

“Got a problem with that, Deputy?” He dragged his chair over, metal scraping against the floor. He swung his leg over the seat and sat down in front of her, leaning back and taking her in. His crossed arms drew attention to his broad shoulders, pulling at the worn canvas of his army jacket. “Look at ya. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. You’re methodical, precise. You strike hard and fast, you’re not some blunt object that beats until the job finally gets done. You’re sharp, like a knife, every cut you make is damn near surgical. Frankly, I'm impressed. You’re on the path of the Chosen now.”

Her eyebrows flicked up gently, surprised considering everything he’d said about her previously. “So you don’t want to kill me?”

“No, that would be a waste.” With a quick shake of his head, he unfolded his arms and pressed his hands to his thighs.

She couldn’t help but have her eyes follow, dragging over the denim material and noticing how it bunched up around the holster on his thigh. Noticing the very large blade he wore there, along with his handgun. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit she was growing fond of his legs. 

“I can help you, Kit, I can help make you strong.” He tilted his head with a smug grin.

“I am strong.”

“Oh, I am well aware of that.” He grabbed at the cougar pin on her jacket, his thumb brushing off a drop of blood that had dried on it. “The brutality inside you, just clawing at the surface, I can use that.”

She scoffed at his insinuation, “I’m not some fucking tool for you to use. Why don’t you get your own hands dirty?”

He sneered and then reached over towards the table beside her, in amongst his files and maps was a tarnished metal plate with a sandwich. White bread, crusts still intact, mustard dripping over the edge and clinging to what looked like bologna. He pulled the plate towards himself and placed it in his lap. 

She hadn’t eaten in some time and she could feel her stomach growl. It was hardly the most appetizing thing she’d ever seen but beggars can’t be choosers and right now she didn’t have many options. 

His eyes flicked up to notice where she was staring, a cruel grin spreading across his lips. “You came here because of Peaches, right?”

She was hardly going to refer to Staci using that stupid nickname. She rolled her eyes and brought her eyes back up to look Jacob in the face. “You mean, Pratt?”

“Potato, potahto.” He said with the shrug of his shoulder. 

Picking up one of the sandwich halves from the plate, he held it in front of her face just out of reach of her mouth. Another form of torture. 

“I’ll fucking bite you if you try and feed me.”

He pulled the sandwich back and grinned. “Then I'll have to grab ya by the scruff of the neck and toss ya back in your cage like the feral little kitten you are. Won’t I?” His pale eyes stared into hers. “Open up.”

His voice seemed to have a power over her now, she was tuned into the tone so when he gave an order she felt forced to obey, whether she liked it or not. She licked her chapped, wind-bitten lips and then opened her mouth. His hand shot to her jaw, fingertips stained with nicotine, gun oil and dirt pressed into the meat of her cheeks as he placed the corner of the sandwich into her mouth. She tore into it and began to chew all with a scowl on her face. 

“Why are you doing this?” She asked, her mouth full of bread.

“In the general sense or do you mean me feeding you?” She gave no answer to his question. He knew damn well what she meant. “I know how to treat my weapons, how to look after them, and how to care for them. And you, Kit, you are my weapon now. I intend to keep ya in fighting shape.” He answered with a wink.

“Tell your people to stop fucking shooting at me then,” she swallowed. 

He chuckled, “Maybe you should stop your war against us.”

“I’m just supposed to let you win?” Her brow furrowed, one thing she was not was a quitter, she was sure he already knew that too.

“Or you could join?” 

“You’re fucking crazy if you ever think that’s going to happen.”

His hand slipped from her face as leaned back in his seat, enjoying the little game they were in the middle of, the back and forth. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You let John live after all. Maybe you have a bit more sympathy for the devil than you think?”

“Or maybe you should put a bullet in my head for having a moment of weakness.”

“I was meaning to ask ya why you left him alive. After what he did, to you, to your friends. You could just have easily killed him. So why didn’t you?”

She couldn’t help but laugh, she could tell he was taunting her. Goading her into giving him further invitation into her thoughts than he had already stolen from her.  “You think I'd ever tell you something like that, give you more access to the inside of my head? I don't fucking think so.”

His eyes narrowed, but the smirk remained. “Smart girl.” He brought the sandwich up to her mouth once more. 

“I don't need to explain myself.”

“You don’t. Not to me.”

She bit into the sandwich, tearing another chunk off like she was ripping into his jugular with her teeth. “You think you know me, Seed?”

“I know you better than you know yourself. You follow the rules that society has deemed essential, you hide what you really are because it makes it easier on everyone else. You’d rather be alone somewhere far away where you could do as you please, where your instincts are all that matter. When you’re out there fighting you feel a rush, don’t you? You like the blood and the violence. It makes you feel strong, powerful, in a way nothing else seems to match. When the world comes to an end, you’re one of the few who could survive it.”

She sat there chewing with a cocked eyebrow as she forced the food down her throat with a heavy swallow. “Just me and the cockroaches, huh?”

“You already spend all your time with insects, would things really be so different?”

She shook her head, “There is nothing you will ever be able to say to me to get me on your side.”

He placed the plate back on his table and stood up, pacing around her seat. “You know I'm right, Kit. Ignoring the religious side of things, you can see the empire is about to crumble and fall. It’s a matter of when, not if.” He sat back on the tabletop, leaning his weight against it, watching her as her eyes cut their way up his middle, traveling over him. 

“Then let it end. If the resistance is so weak, let them fall. Stop attacking them, just let them live and when the end comes they’ll go down with the rest. I didn't ask to get dragged into this.”

“No. But it makes you feel alive for the first time in a long time, doesn’t it?” He waggled his finger, pointing at her. “Joseph thinks this is meant to be, he believes you can see sense.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I believe you deserve to be saved.”

She looked down at her lap and snorted, glancing back at him from her periphery. “Big leap from wanting me dead.”

“It all comes from the same place. You’re a thorn in the side of the enemy, I’d just prefer you were a thorn for the other side.”

A smile crept across her mouth, looking up at him through her brow with her cat-like eyes. “You trying to call me a rose, Jacob?”

“No one’s ever going to confuse you for some delicate flower, honey. The best you’ll get from me is kitten.” He leaned over her and stroked the corner of her mouth with his thumb, dusting away the bread crumbs that had accumulated. “I want us to be friends, a mutually beneficial relationship. I give you what you want, you give me what I want.”

Looking up at him, her icy eyes seemed to sparkle, growing large as she pretended not to know. “And what is that?”

“The Whitetail Militia gone,” he rasped.

The way he said it made her shudder, a vibration traveling down her spine and into that dark pit inside her. She bit back on her molars and tried to steady herself once more. 

“That would certainly make your life easier, wouldn't it?”

“You have no reason to show any loyalty to Eli. What has he done for you?”

“Freed me from the room you left me to rot in.”

“That’s all he’s done, otherwise he will take and take and take like the parasite he is. Expecting you to do his dirty work while he hides and plays general from the safety of his ivory tower. You deserve better, your efforts should be appreciated. You deserve to be rewarded.”

“Is that what these dry ass sandwiches are supposed to be? My reward?”

He walked back to his seat, easing himself back down into it, making himself eye level with her once more. Equals.

“They’re a peace offering. No more cages, no more torture. All you have to do is agree to not get in my way. To pick the right side when the time comes.”

“Become a Peggie?”

“In time. Once you prove yourself. Maybe.”

“I thought Joseph said it was a sure thing? You suddenly don’t trust him and his word?”

“I trust Joseph with my life. Who do you have on your side like that, Kit? Who can you say you feel that way towards?”

Kit rolled her eyes away from him. Unimpressed by his efforts to get inside her head.

“It’s all well and good to play at being the hero, the warrior. But at the end of the day what does it matter when you could fall and the resistance will pick someone else out of the crowd to lift them up. You’re not their savior, or their messiah, you’re another piece of meat they’re ready to toss into the flames at a moment’s notice.”

Her eyes landed on his chest, focused squarely on the dog tags that hung around his neck. “Why do you still wear those?”

He looked down at his chest. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Just what are you trying to prove and who are you trying to prove it to? Do you think your army only listens to you because you wear the trappings of a soldier?”

He fell silent. Taking a deep breath, he leaned in towards her, his eyes narrowed, his voice so low it was barely audible. “Don’t try and play mind games with me, angel. I’ve been around the block more times than you have.” 

Kit’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening, she tilted her head and sat forward in her seat as best she could. “Do you think I’m scared of you?”

He cut the distance between them, his voice a deep rasp, “You should be.”

The corner of her lip curled, she could feel his hot breath against her lips. “Why?”

His eyes drifted back down to her mouth, breathing in and out of his nose. He was fighting against himself. She could see the cogs turning inside his head as he tried to persuade himself from doing something rash. Something he’d regret. Something that might give her the upper hand in their dealings. 

His hand flew to her jaw, holding her steady as his eyes returned to stare at hers. “I don’t have time for whatever the hell this is.”

“Whatever the hell this is? We’re supposed to be enemies. You wanted me dead, I wanted you dead, and around and around we go. Blame your stupid fucking conditioning.”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“Then I guess we’re both just fucked up. Seems a good a reason as any, it’s certainly the reason why John had such a hard on for me.”

“Jesus Christ.” He dropped his hand from her jaw and stood up, walking back over to his desk he picked up the package of smokes and slipped out a cigarette. Grabbing the lighter he lit the cylinder with shaking hands. Inhaling the tobacco smoke and rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not going to be your pet like Staci, if that’s what you want it's never going to happen. So either kill me now or let me go.”

He puffed from his cigarette once more as it hung from the corner of his mouth, he picked up one of the manila files on his desk and started flipping through its pages. “I’m not gonna kill ya, i’m not in the habit of wasting those who are strong. If I let you go, you know I can have ya back here whenever I want.”

“So I just have to wait until you call me back home for dinner?”

He tossed the file down on the table and placed the cigarette into the ashtray in front of him. “Something like that. Yeah.”

#wip wednesday #far cry 5 #fan fiction #american beasts #chapter 19 #jacob seed #oc: kit cross #ship: the wolf and the wildcat

[boyplushie]

fried bologna sandwich with mustard officially declared white boy meal of the month

#jem rambles