waffle master

When the kids graduate high school and part ways for the first time in all different directions and life paths, Mike and El go to colleges with hours and miles between them. They don’t get to see each other as often, aren’t able to enjoy the warmth of the other’s presence or see the other’s face when they tell a bad joke or give the other a comforting hug and shoulder to cry on when the weight of the world is too much to bear. El’s weekends are filled with tutoring kids at the local elementary school and working on her art pieces in her spare time, so Mike takes a familiar train ride every Friday evening to visit her. The first time is a complete surprise, shyly knocking on the door to her dorm room while carefully balancing a mountain of Eggos boxes in his arms. The entire night is spent quietly cuddled in each other’s embrace, munching on still-frozen toaster waffles and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. The staff at the train station on either end of Mike’s route slowly get to know him; they always ask him what she’s planning for this trip and give him a cup of coffee with an encouraging smile after a laborious week and remark on whatever token of affection he’s brought this time. One day, there’s a handmade photo album for the birthday of the master photographer herself filled with carefully developed pictures and hastily penned captions that’s fondly pored over and reminisced upon for the entire journey. Some days, there are bouquets flourishing with only the brightest of sunflowers and tulips and lilies and daffodils held in shakily nervous hands over the romantic gesture. One day, there’s a plush lion with a raggedy mane and velvety fur and glossy button eyes sticking out of his backpack—it’s her favorite animal, though she’s never said why. Some days, there’s a small cardboard box neatly taped across the top to contain the stacks upon stacks of mixtapes that he’s crafted and records that he’s picked up at the shop where he works during the week. One day, after many flowers and printed photos and snack foods and records had exchanged hands between the now-grown dungeon master and waffle-lover, there is simply a small velvet box that never leaves his hands for the entire trip as his entire frame is jittering with energy and his throat goes dry as he rehearses the words


Loth-cat Padawan AU

“Ezra…  Let’s talk about this later.  I want you to enjoy your space waffles.”

Ezra’s face fell and he stared down at his space waffles, dejectedly.  Kanan placed another plate of space waffles on the dejark table for himself and the pitcher of blue milk.  “Ezra…  I’m not going to say no.” He ruffled Ezra’s hair for good measure, hoping to bring back that smile to his face.

Ezra looked up at Kanan and grinned again before cutting into his space waffles with renewed gusto.  “This is so weird.  I’m sitting at the table like a person and using a knife and fork, Kanan!” 

“Ah, Ezra, you are a person.”

“I know.”  He took his first bite of waffle and made a face.

“What’s wrong?”

“No, the space waffles are fine.  I’m just not used to it.  The sweetness of the muja sauce is sweeter than I was imagining, I guess.”  Ezra took another bite of space waffle.  “It’s good, though.  Really good.”  Kanan reached over to the pitcher and poured them each a glass of blue milk.  “I think what I missed the most about meal time was the ability to share a meal with others.  I don’t think I’ve had a sit-down meal with someone else since…  Since my parents were taken by the Empire.”

“How long has it been?”

“Um…  I’m not exactly sure.  They were arrested on my seventh birthday.  It was Empire Day.  I was born on the first one.”  Ezra reached for his glass and took a long drink of blue milk.  “Wow, that’s good.”  He took another bite of his waffles, chewed and swallowed.  “I don’t know the date of when I…  transformed, but I know it was before the next Empire Day.”

Kanan took in a sharp breath and did some quick mental math.  “Ezra…”

“Yeah, it was longer than I let you believe.  I’m sorry.  I just…  I was afraid.  Afraid that you’d think I was a lost cause, so I didn’t correct you.  It was wrong of me.”

“I’m not mad.  You didn’t know me, Ezra.  We had just met and you were looking out for yourself.  I get it.”  Kanan took a sip from his glass, thinking.  “When I was a kid, I was suddenly on my own one day, because of the Empire, and on the run.  It was also on Empire Day.  The first one.”  He looked to Ezra and briefly put a hand on his shoulder.  “I get it.”  Ezra nodded.  “Though, if you’re going to be my padawan, you can’t keep things from me.  This isn’t for my benefit, either.  It’s for yours.  I need to know what’s going on with you, so I can guide you.”

“Okay.”  Ezra took another bite of his space waffles, savoring the taste.  He could tell that Kanan wasn’t lying.  He really would have his back and it would be safe to allow himself to relax and rely on him.  This was yet another happy first in a long time.  He looked up again at Kanan and smiled genuinely.  “I trust you…  Master.”

anonymous asked:

My current favourite headcanon is Scott & John teaming up to make a pile of pancakes the size of Tracy Island in an attempt to feed all 5 bros. But they should know better honestly because Virgil is just like 'challenge accepted'

John Glenn Tracy is master of the pancake pan. They come out crisp and thin and even and somehow magically, perfectly round every single time. The batter he makes is light and slightly bubbly at the edges and they cook to a warm golden brown colour; soft and perfect.

Scott does the toppings (because his pancakes in comparison come out lopsided and blobby with weird clumpy bits of flour and they taste nearly as good as Grandma’s). There’s lemon and sugar for him and maple syrup for Virgil and sometimes he does honey or jam or a little sprinkle of walnuts and chopped fruit to keep them all happy. On rare, treat occasions though, the eldest brother brings out the smarties and the chocolate sauce and the toast sprinkles and John scowls at his brother from across the kitchen, all narrowed eyes and pursed lips because that much sugar is doomed to make Alan and Gordon completely and totally hyperactive and that’s the last thing they ever need.

Plus that much sugar is bad for you and John fidgets nervously, his hands twitching over the strawberry he’s neatly slicing for his own pancakes, as he watches his little brother’s shoveling large forkfuls into their mouths, grinning like squirty-cream-smudged madmen because Scott won this time. The eldest brother just rolls his eyes and takes the knife from John; he doesn’t want their spaceman to cut himself by accident while he’s distracted by the terror twins and their mountain of sugar and his worries about the boys cardiology. The muscle under one of John’s eyes spasms sporadically as he laments the ruination of his perfectly good pancakes to the death-by-sucrose they’ve been subjected to. Scott has to tug him away by the elbow to get him to sit down and actually eat his own before they go cold; the idiot.

Virgil, however, is master of the waffle iron. He’s whipped cream and walnuts and chocolate mousse on hot, crispy waffles. Strawberries and blueberries and a drizzle of honey or coulis, cocoa shavings. Sometimes it’s hot, melted mozzarella and tomatoes, pesto and basil leaves on hot-pressed wholemeal slices. Crumbly bacon pieces and olives and feta and grumbling as Gordon splatters his artwork-on-a-plate with ketchup.

And Virgil makes enough waffles to feed a small island, which is really just as well because their small island has Gordon and Alan on it and those two just never seem to be full. Tiny bottomless pits for older brothers to stare at and despair and wipe crumbs away from sticky, baby-bird mouths.

Later though. When the pan-fried or ironed goods have been consumed, the two youngest boys regress back to toddlers; they get very sleepy when warm and full and, as they’re all curled up in front of the TV in the evening, it’s pretty much guaranteed that both of them will have fallen asleep pressed against their brothers. Virgil carries Gordon and Scott takes little Alan off to bed, and John trips along behind them and is the one to fetch each boy a glass of water encase they need a drink in the night, and who checks that they’ve brushed their teeth, and who makes sure that the landing light is always left on.

When John eventually gets shot into space, it’s not just his perfect pancakes they all miss.

Inspired by my friend naming her new G. rosea Captain Hotdog, and equally inspired by my waffling back and forth about purchasing this little fuzzball and now waffling back and forth about its sex, I present to you…

Commander Waffle.

Commander Waffle is a master strategiest and architect.

The Commander is currently munching away on a cricket, which was swiftly caught in a expertly dug trench.

I salute you, Commander.