Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. Lightly grease a donut pan.
Combine dry ingredients in a medium sized mixing bowl. In a separate bowl, combine wet ingredients. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and mix until just combined. Transfer mix to a Ziploc bag and cut a tip off one of the corners and pipe into the donut pan. Bake for 10-12 minutes or until they are firm and spring back when you touch them. Pop them out of the donut pan and onto a cooling rack to cool until warm to the touch.
Combine the icing ingredients in a bowl and mix until creamy. Dip each donut into icing and place on cooling rack to allow icing to set in.
Summary :: Rhysand and the Nightwings were trouble with a capital T, what with their leather jackets and grease-stained jeans and cars that tore through the high school parking lot so dangerously that they left scars on the pavement.
That type of danger was intoxicating, though, and Feyre wanted to know what it was like: to feel the engine rumbling, the wind in her hair, and her heart pounding in her chest as the pedal was pushed to the floor. She wanted a taste of all of that and, just maybe, a taste of Rhys too.
Drabble request for Lance with 46. "I'm your daughter." please 😊
Pushed and crushed through a crowd surging into the stadium, you clutched tighter to the little girl who was sat in your arms, taking in the masses of anonymous human faces.
A slightly petrified thought ran through you at the prospect of losing your daughter, Willa, in the throng of people. It was the Olympic trials, open for all to come in and watch. The stadium would be packed right to the hilt. Sliding past a few people, you managed to spy your seats, tucked away in the very corner of the stadium, right next to the floor.
They had been emergency seats, and though the view of the actual gymnastics wouldn’t exactly be amazing, you’d be able to see everything you’d come to this damned place for.
You hadn’t even reached your seat when you first caught sight of Lance Tucker. His hair was slicked back with enough grease to make french fries, his infamous smile panning to the few members of the press who had turned up.
On the floor in front of him was his next young protegee, and he carefully dug his palms into her shoulders, working out the tension from her young, flexible limbs. There had been a time when you were in the same position. Now, you were simply the spectator.
It took a little while for his attention to be diverted to scanning the crowd. Willa shuffled unhappily in your lap, overwhelmed by the noise and clamour of the place. Your heart began to palpitate angrily as his eyes trained over the room, smiling and waving. He looked right at home.
That was until his eyes fell upon you. And more importantly, what was on your lap.
His smile dropped. No one was paying much attention to him and so the only eye that really focused his attention was yours. Without a word, he abandoned his trainee, who was fiddling with her leotard and stalked over, pretending to look nonchalant. Relaxation had never looked good on him.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked with a slight twinge of anger.
‘I don’t know. Can you?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What makes you think I’m here to do anything?’
Lance pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath before he turned his head back up to take in the two girls before him.
‘Who’s this? I don’t remember you having a sister.’
For a moment, there was a soft sparkle in his eye, a reminder of simpler times. When harmless flirting just meant you had something to think about when you went home, rather than a reminder of a crushed dream.
Suddenly, Willa looked up and grinned. Lance looked as though he’d just been punched. The eyes that stared up at him were almost identical to his own.
‘I’m your daughter.’
Lance stared back at the small girl with his mouth hanging open gormlessly. His eyes trailed back between your guilty expression and the soft blue eyes of his daughter, the gentle plump marshmallows of her cheeks, long eyelashes and a mop of fluffy dark hair. Just like her father.
‘And you decided now was the best fucking time to do this?’
Lance’s voice was harsh and irritated, the kind of voice you always hated to hear whenever he’d lost his temper with you. He’d never threatened you or even come close to hurting you, but the voice reminded you of countless parents and teachers before who had found something wrong with you.
Immediately, you felt as though you’d failed him. All you’d wanted was to show Willa that her father was still around, that he wasn’t this ethereal figure who had fucked her mother a few times and then bolted to the Olympics.
You covered Willa’s ears with one of your hands, hoping she ignored her father’s choice of language.
‘She deserves to know who you are. I’m not asking you to be a part of her life. Just- this is what happens when you screw someone and then run.’
Without another word, you hoisted the bag with Willa’s things in it on your shoulder, jostling the girl around. She nudged your shoulder, asking to be put down and gingerly, you let her drop.
‘Keep a hold of my hand, darling,’ you murmured, eyes still trained on the familiar sharp face that you’d once adored.
Without another word, you held tightly onto Willa’s hand and led her through the stands, leaving Lance in the corner of the stadium, watching the pair of you go. You had found a diner a few ways outside of the stadium and slotted yourself into a booth to think.
Willa was perfectly content with a handful of colouring sheets and a small ice cream sundae, even though she’d been bouncing off of the walls all evening. A half drunk black coffee sat in front of you, wishing that it was something with a stronger alcohol content.
In the caged television above the diner counter, they were broadcasting the highlights of the gymnastic trials.
Every so often, the camera would cut towards Lance, showboating for the cameras. Making it rain with invisible dollars, grinning happily towards his students, taking selfies with the girls who were probably half his age. It made you feel sick.
The television was running continuous footage by now and, much to your boiling rage, kept cutting back to images of Lance and reminding you of your, frankly, embarrassing interaction with him.
You took another sip of your coffee and took a long, slow breath, turning your attention back to Willa, who was frantically colouring a flower a startling shade of pink.
The diner door opened with a light ring. You could vaguely hear the sound of footsteps, of people talking in low voices. But it wasn’t until the footsteps approached you and something was placed on the table in front of you.
‘I remembered it was your favourite,’ a familiar voice mumbled as a thick chunk of chocolate cake was placed in front of you, the sponge so dense that the fork could stand up in the middle of it.
You started to lecture your daughter on what she should call Lance, when the man in question smiled sheepishly and reached for a leftover chair from another table. He didn’t look down at Willa.
‘You scared me,’ he muttered sullenly, ‘Next time, call first.’
You rolled your eyes, turning back to your coffee and deftly ignoring the slice of cake he’d placed in front of you, no matter how tempting it looked or how good it smelled- even from a distance. There was a soft sigh and then, hopeful, Lance turned to the little girl on the other side of the booth.
‘What are you colouring?’
Willa proudly held up the piece of paper she’d been scribbling all over.
‘It’s an Eeyore. I wanted to colour you, but Mama said a bad word and told me not to.’
Oblivious to the time bomb she’d just set off, Willa returned to shading in the donkey’s eyes a violent shade of putrid green. You glanced up at Lance, who had removed his obnoxious USA gear and now looked a little more subtle in jeans and an old grey t-shirt.
‘She’s really my kid,’ he said, half a question, half a statement.
‘She really is. I did paternity tests and everything. That little girl is Willa Tucker and always will be.’
Lance stared at his daughter for a few moments longer, utterly transfixed by her tiny movements. You remembered her early days, where you’d hovered over her tiny body, watching each thrust of her fist and kick of her tiny feet.
It was magical. And he was getting to see it for the very first time. Suddenly, his hand was pressed against yours. You allowed yourself to look up at him.
‘I can’t make up for what an idiot I’ve been.’
‘And I’m not saying that we should immediately get hitched or something…’
‘But I want to try and be…something,’ Lance ended with a gentle period. You felt the beginnings of a smile brush against your cheeks.
Picking up your mug, you drained the thick liquid from its china bottom and pushed it towards Lance.
‘You can start by getting me another coffee.’
You were interrupted by the high pitched demand of your daughter.
‘And more ice cream!’
Lance smiled. It was perhaps the first time in a long time you’d seen the smile that had made you fall in love with him.
Darcy’s working her local fast food counter because, well, interns don’t get paid. Especially ones that don’t even know where their boss is, because they’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth. Again. Darcy’s not sure how she manages to keep a straight face when she relays that one, because she’s certain she’s one of just a handful of people who know exactly what ‘off the face of the Earth’ really means.
Anyhow … It’s pretty standard fare. Grotty food, even grottier customers and she’s not planning on ever looking properly at the back of the fryer because she’s got an inkling that some of that grease is older than she is. So far, so expected.
But the new guy - well, he doesn’t talk too much. Or at all, if she’s being honest. No one else seems to care that he takes lunch on his own, or that he always covers his left arm, or even that he flicked a rubber band straight at a fly without even looking at it.
Darcy, on the other hand, is about to get her Nancy Drew on.
HEllo! It's me again and boy do I have prompts! The one fic I want written more than anything in the world is Garcy + fake dating. Just give me all the "Oh we are totally pretending and there are no real feelings her AT ALL" pretty please I will love you forever
so as noted, i couldn’t quite think of a good fake dating idea, but please accept 2.3k words of angsty bedsharing + “we need to huddle for warmth,” because i am trash and have no self control.
The wind just about rips the door out of Flynn’s hands as he
struggles to close it, swearing under his breath. The dark, howling, snowing
night rushes at him, slashing sideways against his face, but after a moment
more, he manages to wrench the latch in, and some of the tumult stills. Only
some, though. It’s still beating against the greased-paper windows, the chinks in
the logs, the tiny, sooty hearth, gasping and whining. Something in the wind
sounds so much like a child crying that it raises the hackles on the back of
This, however, is not what he has time to be presently
concerned with. They’re lucky to have made it here (a fur trapper’s cabin by
the looks of it, cruel toothed things and hooked knives and snowshoes and
drying skins hanging from the low rafters) and until the storm lets up, they
have no chance of finding the idiot and
his sidekick again. The Time Team has spent the last three days slogging
through the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest in 1805, trying to catch up to the
Rittenhouse operative planted in Lewis and Clark’s expedition, and, it goes
without saying, they do not have a Sacagawea to save their asses. They have
stuck together as much as possible, but splitting up has been necessary a few
times, and, well. They can’t put Flynn and Wyatt together, seeing as they would
probably kill each other within five minutes, and also because they can’t leave
Lucy and Rufus unprotected. No one, least of all Rufus, is keen to pair Flynn
and Rufus, and despite the lingering tension (and Wyatt’s 0% approval rating of
the idea), everyone knows that Flynn/Lucy and Wyatt/Rufus are the logical
pair-ups. That, therefore, has been the plan. As for where the latter two are
in the blizzard, Flynn doesn’t really care.
Lucy is shivering so hard that her teeth rattle. Flynn
double-checks that the bar is wedged in, then kneels by the hearth, stacking
some of the damp wood from the pile. He takes out his lighter and tries to get
it to catch, but it doesn’t. His breath is gusting silver in the freezing air,
even inside the cabin, and he swears again. “I hate the fucking past.”
Despite her shivering, Lucy arches an eyebrow, as if to say
that if so, he is really in the wrong
line of work. It takes him a few more attempts, but he gets a feeble, guttering
fire started, and they press in, shoulder to shoulder, trying to defrost their
frozen hands. When they can finally move their fingers without them being in
danger of snapping off, Lucy looks around. “Do you think there’s anything to
There are a few barrels and sacks and bunches of dried
things, a rust-bottomed cauldron on a trivet, and something that, by the smell
when they uncork it, has been there for about a hundred years. They
grimace and hastily cork it again, trying to put together an edible stew. Makes you
miss microwaves and five-minute meals, opening an app on your smartphone and getting
dinner delivered to your door. Even the most intrepid pizza guy would have
trouble making it here.
The stew isn’t that good, but it’s hot, and both of them are
so hungry that they inhale it without complaint. There isn’t exactly a lot of
washing-up to do, just stacking the bowls. Then Lucy says quietly, “I hope
Wyatt and Rufus are okay.”
Flynn could give a damn if they are or not, but he supposes
that if they get killed, Lucy will be sad, and he might get shanghaied into yet
another stupid mission to save them. “I’m sure they’re fine. You three seem obnoxiously
adept at surviving.”
With seafaring men on both sides of [John’s] family, it was natural for his thoughts to turn to the docks that still flourished along the Mersey, and the exotics worlds to which they led. One day, he brought home a slightly older boy who had followed Alf Lennon’s calling of ship’s steward and - so it seemed to John - led a life of dazzling glamour and affluence. “His hair [was] in a Tony Curtis, they called it, all smoothed down with grease at the sides,” Mimi remembered. “‘Mimi,’ John whispered to me in the kitchen, 'This boy’s got pots of money. He goes away to sea.’ I said, 'Well he’s no captain and he’s no engineer- what is he?’ 'He waits at tables,’ John said. 'Ha!’ I said. 'A fine ambition.’”
Shortly afterward she stumbled upon a pact between John and Nigel Walley to enroll together in a training course that would have turned them into junior stewards. “We just thought we’d like to see the world while we were still young,” Walley remembers now. However, when John tried to sign up for the course, he was told that at his age he needed consent from a parent or guardian. “I was rung up by this place at Pier Head- some sort of seaman’s employment office,” Mimi remembered. “'We’ve got a young boy named John Lennon here,’ they said. 'He’s asking to sign up.’ 'Don’t you dare even even dream of it,’ I told them” The main enticement of going off to sea for young men those days was the unlimited sex it promised.
“Men are rats, listen to me, they’re fleas on rats, worse than that,
they’re amoebas on fleas on rats. I mean, they’re too low for even the
dogs to bite. The only man a girl can depend on is her daddy.”
the last 45 seconds of Those Magic Changes from Grease Live
Jordan Fisher and Aaron Tveit
remember when grease live happened and we were all suddenly hit with jordan fisher’s golden voice and he started singing a love song with aaron tveit who was wearing booty shorts and it was the only good thing that happened in 2016