#especially considering i was just using whatever i had in the fridge. the plum in particular was an enlightened choice in my humble opinion | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luvnami · 3 years

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𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - wahh it’s here! can’t believe my brainrot of osamu teaching a cooking class turned into this long fic lol... i hope you enjoy it!! it was fun crafting the story with my beta readers and i put a lot of effort into it!!! itadakimasu <3

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 - @forgetou @amjustagirl (muacks 2x) + tq to everyone who helped me with the banner!!

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 - you’re suna’s younger sibling, food, heartbreak, angst but happy ending, mentions of stabbing (joke), kita dances to ‘ice cream’ by selena gomez and blackpink, mentions of alcohol, mentions of blood (brief), suna beats (redacted) up

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 - miya osamu x gn!reader

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 - you fall in love with miya osamu once more, but you’re afraid of getting hurt again.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5535

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 | 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢

1. Cook the rice according to your rice cooker, then transfer the cooked rice to a separate bowl to cool it down.

“What ya want t’do is scorch the soy sauce.”

The class presses themselves against Osamu’s workbench as they scribble down notes on their recipe printouts. Their lips purse to ooh and aah at his cooking skills, though you’re pretty sure that they’re more interested in how his biceps flex when he flips the wok with a trained flick of the wrist.

You stand at the very edge of the group. It’s better than getting close with a group of hungry housewives, really. If grocery store and department mall sales have ever told you anything, it’s to never get in the way of what a seasoned housewife wants. Unfortunately for you, you haven’t learnt the way of being a homemaker just yet.

You’re unemployed, right in the middle of a month and a half-ish long transfer between jobs. You currently stay at your brother Suna’s place — which is really just an apartment filled with dirty laundry overflowing from its seams.

Turns out Suna himself is a bit of a gossip. He told Kita who told Atsumu who told Osamu that you’re stuck at his place 24/7 with no friends or entertainment in the lovely city of Nagano. It’s just mountains and trees as far as the eye can see all around — and there’s only so many hikes you can take each week.

“Why don’t you take a cookin’ class?”

“Cookin’?” Your face screwed up in confusion. “ What for?”

“So that you can actually pull your weight around the house and make me something to eat.”

You chucked a pillow at his head and began to list all the things you did while staying at his apartment. Laundry, cleaning the floor, doing grocery shopping (even if it was only instant noodles and snacks), finding his disgustingly sweaty socks under the sofa and many other important chores, thank you very much.

Besides, you weren’t as eager when you saw who was the one that would be holding the classes. With his picture plastered across the front of a pamphlet, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. Years of chasing his dreams and training in a kitchen had done Osamu wonders.

You had half a mind to smack Suna in the head with the yellow, glossy paper, but instead you quietly tucked it into a corner of the guest room to look at later. You were sure Suna hadn’t forgotten your history with Osamu just yet — but perhaps he assumed that enough time had passed to heal your wounds.

Either way, there’s no going back now. That’s how you ended up at Osamu’s ‘Cooking class for homemakers — you can do it too!’, except you aren’t a homemaker. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as the sound of sizzling soy sauce fills the air. Osamu pauses for a while before beginning to mix the rice with the sauce, wielding his spatula and wok expertly like weapons.

“Miya-san, you’re amazing!” someone gushes.

He lets out a bashful laugh. “This is nothing. I’m sure everyone will be able to do this by the end of class today!”

You wonder if he’s ever considered being a teacher. The demonstration on how to make shrimp fried rice is soon over and everyone returns to their benches, eager to try out the recipe. You are no different. Scurrying to your bench at the very back of the classroom, you exchange glances between the printed recipe handout and your tray of ingredients.

“Need any help?”

Osamu’s voice and looming presence makes you jump.

“Woah! Careful there,” he chuckles, his fingers gently prying a knife out of your hands.

Unconsciously, you had raised it in shock when Osamu snuck up on you. The knife now lays safely on the tabletop and you feel the eyes of the entire class boring into you.

“Sorry, Miya-san. I didn’t see you,” you apologise meekly.

“Don’t worry about it, I shouldn't have scared ya like that. And no need for the formalities! You’re my friend’s sister, afta’ all.”

Oh goodness. You half expect the class to pick up their pots and pans and run at you right this moment. You swallow back the half hearted ‘Osamu-san’ that rises in your throat. Your heart trembles in your chest and for a second, the silence that weighs heavily between the both of you turns awkward.

“Miya-san! Could you help me with this please?”

You’ve never been so glad to hear Tachibana’s sickly shrill voice before. Osamu is quick to wave goodbye to you before hurrying over to her bench, a smile still on his face. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You make a mental note to tell Suna that Osamu should just stick to placating those housewives and leave you the hell alone. The last thing you want is to have blackmail spread around the neighbourhood by these gossipy housewives, or worse, have their daughters hunt you down and chop you up into pieces.

Whatever. You’re just here to learn how to make shrimp fried rice and then go home to your annoying older brother. Besides, it’s not like you’ll be here for long. Miya Osamu just happens to be the local heartthrob, the handsome and eligible bachelor chased by anyone single and ready to mingle. You have absolutely nothing to do with someone so popular and good-looking. And for goodness sake, he’s your brother’s high school friend and your… Well, you know.

Your face burns and you pick up the knife again, grip tightening on its handle. You begin chopping at the onions with renewed determination.

(Later on, when you bring back a tupperware of fried rice for Suna, he looks you in the eye and asks “Shrimp fried this rice?”.

You shoot him a glare.

“I fried this rice.”)

2. Prepare all the fillings that you are going to use and set aside, such as pickled plums or tuna mayo. Prepare your seaweed sheets.

What you don’t expect is for Miya Osamu to show up at your doorstep the next day with boxes of food, cartons of drinks and a very noisy brother of his in tow.

“Rin, where can I leave the drinks?” Osamu yells.

“Rin, can I play your PS5?” Atsumu shouts.

You think that they are very different, the Miya twins. Suna takes a minute to finish putting on some clothes (you had answered the door, thankfully. No one wants to see Suna Rintarou in Pikachu boxers) before bursting out of his room.

He’s quick to smack Atsumu’s ‘dirty little setter hands’ away from his precious Playstation, directing Osamu to what constitutes the apartment’s kitchen — a second-hand fridge and the building-installed gas stove that works only if you hit it hard enough. You’re surprised that neither you or Suna haven't died of a house fire or gas poisoning by now.

It doesn’t take long for the other Inarizaki alumni to arrive at Suna’s apartment in a series of doorbell rings. Kita even brings along a large bottle of sake, to which everyone cheers loudly. You don’t understand why they had chosen Suna’s place to have a reunion party. Seriously, wouldn't Onigiri Miya or some other izakaya have been a better choice?

However, there’s free flow of drinks and lots of yummy snacks, so you decide to let the noise wash over you and stand by the food table to pick at the trays of pizza, fried chicken and other finger food. Aran even offers you a drink, smiling sweetly before going off to wrangle Atsumu from trying to initiate a beer chugging competition. Some things just never change, you suppose.

“Having fun?”

You jump and nearly drop the plate of food that you hold.

“You have a horrible habit of scaring people, Miya- Osamu.”

His first name comes out awkward, tumbling off of your tongue as you use a pair of chopsticks to carefully pile back some mentaiko mayonnaise onto a slice of tamagoyaki. Osamu settles into the crook of the kitchen counter next to you with a playful grin on his face.

“Do I really?”

“Don’t forget that the first time you did that, someone nearly got stabbed.”

You pop the tamagoyaki into your mouth. It’s delicious — the egg’s sweetness balances out the salty sauce. You wonder if there’s enough left on the tray for seconds.

“How’s the reunion going?” you ask nonchalantly, and shuffle a few centimetres away from him.

You hope Osamu doesn’t notice that. He does, however, but chooses not to comment on it. He brings up a hand to scratch at his neck, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. He’s close enough for you to get a whiff of whatever cologne he’s wearing. Your head spins for a second.

“Oh, none of us have gotten drunk just yet. I’m pretty sure we’ll be playing beer pong or something later on.”

You steel yourself against the urge to look at what Osamu is wearing. Don’t look, don’t look, definitely don’t look. Miya Osamu is, has been, a dangerous man to fall in love with. You can’t afford to-

Perhaps gouging your eyes out would have been a better choice in theory. Even a glance from where you stand beside him is enough to see that not only is he wearing a tight, black T-shirt, Osamu also has a pair of sweatpants on. Is it a sin to wear sweatpants? Probably so, especially with the way it makes your throat run dry.

“Beer pong, huh?” You try your best to mumble somewhat nonchalantly. “Who won the last time?”

“Kita.”

“Kita?!” you gasp.

Even that’s enough to make you forget about Osamu and his stupid (and very sexy) sweatpants.

“Yeah, right? That was the first time he participated. All of us got left drunk in the street, so we decided to do it at someone’s place this year.”

You let out a soft laugh at the thought of a bunch of grown men piled over each other on the road. You don’t particularly like the thought of cleaning up after them tonight, though.

The lack of words between you and Osamu descends into snorts of laughter that trickle in from the tiny living room. Aran throws his head back, drink nearly spilling out of his cup. Ginjima laughs so loud you see Omiomi cover his ears and Suna holds his phone up, filming every second of Atsumu��s defeat.

Osamu opens his mouth as if to ask you something.

“C’mon! Yer killin’ me, Kita-san!” Atsumu yells, socked feet and waving arms trying to match the onscreen character’s movements.

Kita, on the other hand, is scoring perfect marks without as much effort wasted. You giggle to yourself as he moves his hips, shaking them here and there. A small smile quirks his lips upwards as he finishes with a flawless ending move on ‘Ice Cream’, the Just Dance characters fading into oblivion on the screen. Atsumu crumbles to the floor in defeat.

Osamu’s lips form a straight line as he watches you laugh along, raising a hand to cover your mouth. He curses Atsumu’s birth and swallows back his embarrassment.

“Did ya see that, Osamu? Oh- Kita-san is so good at everything!” you gush.

“Atsumu just sucks.”

When you laugh, Osamu thinks something in his chest lurches. Regret makes his head go foggy and leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

3. Place cling wrap over a rice bowl. Place some of the cooked rice over the centre of the cling wrap and make a well.

“No way ya got a love letter!” Atsumu yelled.

“Ya get yer fair share. We share t’same face, why shouldn’t I get some?” Osamu retorted, rolling his eyes.

Suna watched as the twins began to gripe and argue about who was the better looking sibling again. Nothing unusual, really, given how this occurred every odd day of the week.

“S’gotta be a prank. No way someone likes a loser like you,” Suna mused.

In retaliation, Osamu threw him a stink eye. “You two are just jealous,” he sniffed.

The letter had been written on pretty pink paper, all hearts and cute handwriting as his secret admirer asked him to meet them on the roof after school. Not that Osamu wasn’t affected by it, of course. It always rubbed his ego the right way to know that someone preferred him over Atsumu. Though, it wasn’t like he was interested in anyone then. It only took a second before Osamu ripped the letter in half.

“Woah woah woah! Yer crazy! Whatcha gonna do if some pretty girl gave that to ya?”

Atsumu’s eyes widened in shock, almost reaching forward to grab the shreds of letter that Osamu had torn up.

“Does it matter? S’not like I’m interested in datin’ right now,” he replied.

“Seriously? What if she’s like, super duper hot!”

Osamu’s face screwed up. “Are ya a horndog?”

Just as Atsumu was about to shout at his dear brother again, you opened the door to their classroom and hurried in. You had a bento box in hand and a cute pout on your face as you placed it on Suna’s table.

“Rin! You forgot your bento at home again!”

“Oh.” Suna blinked. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, you gotta stop forgetting your things! I can’t be bringing them to you all the time-”

“Hey, Suna.” Atsumu perked up, referring to you. “Would ya go on a date with Samu or me? Me, right? Definitely me!”

Your face flushed with heat. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

“‘Samu got a love letter in his shoe locker this morning. Cliche, huh?” your brother said between bites of his lunch.

“Mm, yeah. Cliche,” you mumbled.

You looked around anxiously for any sign of the love letter. Was it in Osamu’s bag?

“Can ya believe he tore it up?” Atsumu laughed.

“What?”

Your heart felt like a stone in your chest as you froze, your blood running cold.

“Yeah! This dumbass doesn’t know how t’appreciate anythin’,” he replied, smacking Osamu on the back of his head.

His twin responded with a muffled growl as he continued to scarf down his absurdly large bento. You fiddled with the cuffs of your sleeves, staring down at your feet. You were quick to bid the third years goodbye as you fled their classroom as an inexplicable ache spread through your chest.

You didn’t focus on your classes for the rest of the day. The fact that Osamu had torn your love letter, written with all your heart and soul as you crumpled draft after draft last night, tipped you over the edge of your fantasies and had you plummeting straight into reality.

“Oi.”

You looked up from your feet, glancing up at Suna. The both of you were swapping your indoor shoes for outdoor ones, but you had absentmindedly stopped in the middle of slipping your right foot into a shoe. It was nearing the time where they closed the school gates, so there weren’t many students around save for the odd volleyball club member.

“What’re you doing? Put your shoes on properly,” he huffed.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, and slammed the locker door shut once you were done.

You walked a few feet ahead of Suna as you approached the school gate. Your head drooped with each step, tears beginning to mist your eyes. You willed yourself to hold it in till you got home, till you were in the safety of your bedroom to start sobbing your little heart out. Suna tugged on your wrist.

“Are you crying?” he questioned.

You shook your head quickly, rubbing your eyes with the back of your sleeve.

“Oi. Answer me.”

This time, his voice was a little softer, yet held a mixture of irritation and anger behind a crumbling wall of apathy. Who had been the one to make you cry?

“It’s nothin’,” you choked out. “Let’s just go home.”

You turned your face to the side as tears continued to roll down your cheeks, muffled cries turning into heartbroken sobs. Something inside of Suna’s head clicked.

“It’s Miya Osamu, isn’t it?”

You had to bite on your lower lip to stop it from trembling.

“That bastard tore up your letter, didn’t he?”

You gave Suna the tiniest of nods. He let go of your wrist and whipped around, eyebrows furrowed together. Not wanting to date was one thing, but treating your confession like dog shit was something else. Fortunately for him, the Miya twins were changing their shoes in the getabako.

“‘Samu!” Suna yelled.

The gray haired male looked up with a face of confusion.

“Suna? Whaddya want-” Osamu wasn’t able to say anything more as Suna’s fist collided with his face.

Atsumu jumped back with a yelp as the both of them crashed to the ground. Your hands flew to cover your mouth.

“Rin! Stop it!” you cried out.

You dashed over, tripping over your own feet as you tried to pull Suna away from Osamu as they traded blows. It took the work of you, Atsumu and Ginjima (who had been unlucky enough to pass by) to tear the two apart, and even then Osamu was still struggling in his brother’s arms to be let go.

“What t’hell, man!” he snarled.

Suna wiped his nose, glancing briefly at the crimson that stained his school uniform. The adrenaline was beginning to run low and pain began to settle into his fists and ribs. His shoulders heaved with each breath, and your hands clutched his shirt.

“Rin. No more, please,” you begged, pressing your forehead against his back. “No more.”

Suna hated the way your voice trembled as you spoke. He didn’t think it was fair for you to bear the burden of pain while Osamu got to walk away unscathed, leaving you broken in pieces. His fist curled up again.

“It’s not worth it, Rin.”

Suna took in a shaky, deep breath.

You were right.

Miya Osamu wasn’t worth it.

4. Put about 1tbsp of the filling of your choice on the centre of the rice and cover it with rice.

A week comes and goes after the annual Inarizaki reunion. You’re still finding sticky stains on the floor, as well as food wrappers tossed behind the sofa. Suna sends the group chat a video of you yelling at all of them while wielding a mop with so much fervour Aran asks if you broke it. Atsumu actually apologises and Osamu offers to come over and help clean up. The entire group chat flames him immediately.

As per last week, you walk into Osamu’s cooking class at 2p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s hot outside, droplets of perspiration rolling down your nape. The cool air-conditioning of the classroom is much appreciated and you don your apron behind the gaggle of housewives. You catch snippets of their conversation as they put their items in the cubbies provided.

“Tanaka-san, did you see the mushrooms that were on sale this Monday?”

“My son is attending this cram school this summer. Here’s the address!”

“My father-in-law keeps complaining about the heat…”

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

“Miya-san!”

Everyone perks up when Osamu walks through the door. They’re quick to surround him, asking how his day had been. You look tired, take this ginseng drink! It really revitalises your spirits! Did you get a girlfriend yet, Miya-san? My daughter is single, you know!

You watch as Osamu walks behind his bench, all smiles and “Is that so, Shigeru-san?”. Polite enough to please them, but not enough to make them think that he actually wants to go on a date with their 34 year-old daughter who’s a tired office worker looking out for potential husbands like a hawk. He lets out a heavy exhale, using his cap with the Onigiri Miya logo on it to fan himself.

“Hot today, isn’t it?” he chuckles.

You think that maybe he’s the one that’s making this summer so warm, especially with the way that his shirt clings to his figure and his flushed cheeks that make him look adorable.

Wait.

You do a double take. Ah, adorable. You must have meant that heart-print apron that Tanaka is wearing today. It is pretty cute, and you wonder if you should ask her where she got it from later on. Definitely not Osamu with his perfect smile that would make anyone’s heart skip a beat, and definitely not when it’s directed at you.

“Gather around everyone! We’re going to be making gyoza today!”

The demonstration goes as usual — Osamu impresses the housewives, they gasp and someone even touches his forearm and asks “How did you get so strong, Miya-san?”. Not that you care, of course. You certainly don’t. What you’re more concerned about is how Osamu manages to make wrapping the fragile gyoza seem so easy.

Your fingers pinch at the thick dough, eyebrows furrowed together. No matter what you do, your filling keeps spilling out of the wrapper and so you’ve opted to try out for a thicker piece this time. Not that it really matters — Suna will be the one suffering from food poisoning if it turns out bad, anyways.

“Ah, yer made it too thick,” Osamu says as he strolls over.

You tense up as he leans over your shoulder, peeking at the chubby gyoza in your hands. You pretend not be affected by how close he is and continue pinching the wings of the dumpling shut.

“They keep bursting,” you sniff.

“Maybe ya put t’much filling?” Osamu suggests. “Here, lemme show ya. Put tha’ one down and grab a new wrapper. Yeah, just like that.”

You stiffen as Osamu flours his hands and cradles your hands in his.

“Here ya go. That’s t’much, scoop out some more. That’s it. Now gently…”

Blood rushes to your face as you feel the warmth of his skin seep into yours, his hands rough from years of training and cooking. Scars adorn the tips of his thick fingers and knuckles. You suddenly feel the urge to gently trace them with your thumb, to ask him how he got each one of them.

Would he let you? Let you so close, that perhaps you would be the one to know every single thing about him?

“You did it!” Osamu says cheerfully.

He suddenly pulls away, making you plummet back to reality. A perfectly made gyoza sits in your hands.

“I’m looking forward to tasting your gyoza later on. Now keep trying!”

You’re left dumbfounded as Osamu walks away to help out the other housewives. They stammer and blush when they get too close, but he never holds their hands in his own, never smiles as gently as he does with you.

You place the gyoza on a pan and put the lid on with a little bit more force than what is necessary.

5. Wrap the cling wrap over the rice and squeeze and mould it into a triangle shape with your hands.

You try not to make contact with Osamu after that. Attending his cooking classes becomes a game of cat-and-mouse, where you try to tell him ‘I don’t need any help, Miya-san’ and watch him crawl away in defeat. In fact, you decide to skip the lesson on making hamburgs and instead spend the afternoon watching television.

After all, from what you’ve learnt in the past, Osamu is nothing more than trouble. You think it’s worth the sacrifice now to put some space between the both of you so that you don’t end up heartbroken a second time.

Though, you do feel a little bad. Just a little bit. One day when Suna’s out at training, you hear the doorbell ring and Osamu’s voice ring through the genkan. You hear his feet shuffle by the door and a heavy thump outside before he leaves. You only open the door when you hear his car pull out of the apartment building’s carpark, and find a packed bento lunch for you in front.

You try to pretend that the bunny cut apples and sakura shaped carrot slices don’t mean anything.

“Ah, Suna-san! Where were you last week?” Tachibana titters as you step into class for the final lesson.

“I wasn’t feeling very well,” you lie. “I think I caught a summer cold.”

“Oh dear, that sounds terrible!” the ladies chorus together.

You think they’re probably just glad that you didn’t get in the way of their beloved Miya-san. You tug your apron over your head, and ignore Osamu when he greets everyone. His eyes linger on you for a little too long during the demonstration — to the point that he actually burns the skin side of his salmon fillet.

Osamu skirts around your bench like a nervous puppy when the demonstration is over. You don’t seem particularly keen about talking to him, though the tips of your finger tremble when he finally plucks up the courage to stand next to you. It’s not close enough for your elbows to touch, but close enough that he can whisper to you without anyone else hearing him.

“Hey,” he begins, uncertain. His voice wavers slightly.

“Hey,” you reply, wary of what he might say.

“Are you okay?”

You take a moment to think, tipping the sake bottle carefully to measure out an exact tablespoon of it. He wonders when your hands have seemed so delicate, so small. He aches to hold them in his own again.

“I’m okay.”

“That’s good.”

It’s quiet, again. Just like that night in Suna’s apartment, with all the noise of the reunion going on around you, except this time it's the clanging of pans and utensils, paired with the chatter of many ladies.

“I was thinking…” Osamu stares down at your hands, turning the measuring spoon over so that sake splashes onto the hot pan with a sizzle. “Maybe we could get a drink together after this?”

You cover the pan and watch its surface cloud up with condensation. You hide your shaking hands by digging them into the pockets of your apron.

Osamu swallows. Perhaps he had been too direct with you; scared you off with how quickly he was advancing. Or did Suna tell you to be careful of him? That he didn’t want you falling in love with him a second time? There’s no lie about it, that Osamu had been a grade A asshole back in high school.

But he loves you now; has loved you since then. Would you be willing to give him a second chance?

“Osamu,” you breathe.

His shoulders relax slightly when you don’t call him by his last name.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Your voice comes out timid, scared. Osamu’s heart crumbles at the edges. He wonders if you would hate him if he reached out and took your hands in his once more. You’re both adults, perfectly capable of rational thinking if only your hearts hadn’t gotten in the way. Love hurts, they said. You want to agree.

“We can start it out slow,” Osamu suggests.

“I’m supposed to start my new job next month. I won't be in Nagano for much longer.”

“I’m opening a branch in Tokyo.”

“I’ll be busy settling down. We might not get to see each other often enough.”

“A little is better than nothin’.”

“You’re my brother’s friend.”

“Now, yer just picking at nothing, babe. Didn’t you have a crush on me back in high school, too? That didn’t stop ya, did it?”

Your heart wrestles with your brain, insisting on comfort and that love will always come in the form of someone that isn’t Miya Osamu. You’ll find someone, but will they be better? Will they send food to your doorstep, or send you stupid photos of dogs he saw on the street? Will they chase after you relentlessly for years, will they be Osamu?

A lump forms in your throat and you wonder if this, has been, is love. You tear your heart out from within you and let it cling to your sleeve, as pathetic and scared it is. You don’t mind if it hurts. To never hurt is to never have lived, to never have loved.

By this point, your eyes have misted up with tears and it hits you- You’re about to cry about your crush in the middle of a cooking class attended by middle-aged ladies. You’ve never been more embarrassed.

“Really?” you whisper, looking up at Osamu with glittering eyes.

He ignores the “Miya-san! I need your help!” that rings out in the background. He smiles gently.

“Yeah, really.”

A tear slips down your face. Osamu lets out a breathy chuckle as he swipes it away with his thumb, giving your shoulder a squeeze.

“We’ll talk properly after this, alright?”

You nod numbly. You watch as he hurries off to Shigeru, gasping when he sees how she had completely butchered her fillet. He turns back to you, trying to hold in a snigger.

You giggle.

Osamu thinks he wants to hear that laugh forever.

6. Remove the cling wrap and cover the bottom of the rice triangle with a nori sheet and set aside.

“One extra large bonito onigiri with spring onions!” you cry out from the counter.

Back in the kitchen, Osamu and another part-time worker scoop steaming rice out of large vats and use their hands to mould them into perfectly shaped triangles. A scoop of filling goes in and a strip of seaweed is wrapped hastily around the onigiri before it's sent to you to package. You place the onigiri carefully into a box and slip it into a paper bag with the shop’s logo on the front for a take-away order.

The shop is filled with customers even on a Wednesday afternoon. The clock shows 2p.m., past lunch time, yet you can see a queue that snakes out of the shop and down the alleyway.

Another long day ahead, you think to yourself.

“It’s our turn!” a little girl squeals as she takes the bag from you, opening it up to peer at the huge onigiri inside. “Mama! ‘giri!”

Her mother laughs and pats her head. “Don’t forget to say thank you, Haru.”

The girl turns to you, eyes sparkling. “‘Fank you, Miya-shan!”

A cheery grin almost splits your face in half. Miya-san. Four years on and it still makes your stomach flip whenever you hear that Osamu’s last name has become yours. It was an easy decision for the both of you to get married, really. You had loved each other for years and all you wanted to do in the end was to spend the rest of your lives together.

You quit your office job just before you got married to help Osamu out with the new Onigiri Miya branches. It took some getting used to, but the familiar customers and bright smiles that you see just by serving onigiri each day makes it worth it. It’s tough work, no doubt. But doing what you enjoy with the man you love is more rewarding than it ever could be.

Though, it’s not like your relationship has always been smooth sailing. There are days when you bicker over something stupid (like how you always forget to close the lid of the rice cooker), or when Osamu insists that he isn’t overworking himself (although his eyebags tell otherwise). But love’s a recipe with a few secret ingredients, and you’ve come to master it over the years.

“Come back soon!”

The shop is filled with the fragrant scent of freshly cooked rice and bonito flakes being stir-fried into furikake. Customers perch on tiny stools as they scarf down onigiri of different shapes and sizes, licking their fingers clean. A plush toy of Onigiri Miya’s mascot sits on the counter next to a potted plant that Atsumu bought (which is surprisingly still alive).

A photograph of the third Tokyo branch’s grand opening hangs on the wall. You and Osamu hold up a bouquet of flowers, smiling toothily at the camera, your wedding rings glinting in the sunlight.

“One medium onigiri with tuna mayo, coming right up!”

You jump as Osamu shouts out the order suddenly and you nearly drop the onigiri that he hands to you.

“Woah, careful there,” he chuckles, a hand ghosting the small of your back.

“You have ‘ta stop scaring me, ‘Samu,” you huff and roll your eyes playfully.

Osamu grins at you and the edges of his eyes crinkle up. You place the onigiri safely into its packaging and place it on the counter for a customer to collect, before turning back to plant a kiss on his cheek. Osamu’s face flushes pink and he hurries away, mumbling something about bonito flakes.

Your heart soars in your chest.

Yeah, it has been, will be, worth it.

7. Repeat the same steps as above to use the rest of the rice with other fillings that you prepared.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fic #miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu fluff #miya osamu angst #miya osamu fic #osamu x reader #osamu fluff #osamu angst #osamu fic #hq x reader #hq fluff #hq angst #hq fic #hq osamu

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seagreen-meets-grey · 3 years

Text

When Lightning Strikes Ch. 19

When your life is nothing but a cloudless sky, lightning can come and strike you so unexpectedly, you won’t even know what hit you.

Or: When Hiccup and Astrid meet, it is as if lightning strikes.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18] [Chapter 20]

Crossposted on ao3 and ff.net

_______________

Hiccup first brought it up on a sunny afternoon in mid-July, one year after that fateful rainy Sunday.

It was a Friday and Astrid’s parents had invited them over for a barbecue. They were both still at work, but Astrid and Hiccup were already at the house and had prepared the food. There was a green salad waiting in the kitchen, the meat was seasoned on a covered plate in the fridge, herb bread was ready to be gratinated in the oven and drinks were cooling in the minibar.

While rifling through the closet for napkins, Astrid had found an old bag of water balloons and, unbeknownst to Hiccup, had filled them in the sink before she’d attacked him in the garden. He’d just arranged the garden furniture and wiped the table with a damp cloth when something cold and wet had exploded all over his back, followed by the hearty laugh of his girlfriend.

“Hey, that’s not fair, I’m unarmed!”

She rolled a handful of balloons over the table and he had to be careful to catch all of them before they fell to the ground and burst all over his feet. He made a show of fumbling with his ammo, catching her off-guard when he suddenly hurled one right at her. It exploded on her chest and while she was momentarily distracted, he escaped from her immediate attack zone.

In no time, they were out of ammunition, with large water stains all over their clothes. Balloon shreds were scattered all over the lawn, some had hit the house wall and there was a wet imprint of a water explosion on one of the living room windows.

But Astrid was in no way done with their water fight, despite her dripping hair and wet left butt cheek. From the garage, she produced two dusty Nerf Blasters, and the battle carried on. The chairs and table were converted into shields and hiding spots, the water faucet was a safe zone to fill up on ammo, and the hammock was off-limits.

After Hiccup accidentally shot a blast in her face, she dropped her gun and wiped at her eyes. He rushed over. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

As soon as he was right in front of her, she made a grab for his Blaster, picked up her own in lightning speed, and pointed both of them at him. “Gotcha. I win.”

“Oh, you!” He tackled her and when they stumbled a few steps backwards, he steered them right into the hammock. Swinging back and forth from the momentum, he pinned her down and started tickling her sides. She writhed underneath him, tried to kick him, but it wasn’t that easy in a hammock. Tears from laughter were gathering in her eyes until, finally, she managed to free a hand and attempted to push him out of the hammock. “Okay, okay,” he relented and rolled off of her.

A light breeze was rustling through the leaves of the apple and plum trees above. Catching their breaths, they made themselves comfortable, gazing at the bright blue sky through a sea of green. The breeze was brushing through their wet clothes, providing a nice change to the summer heat.

He moved his head to the side, watching the game of cat and mouse that sunlight and shade were playing on her face. When the hammock came to a stop, she stuck one leg out to lightly kick at the ground. “Hey,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hm?”

“Do you ever want to get married again?” Her eyes widened slightly as she looked back at him. “Just a general question,” he quickly added. “I’m- I’m not proposing.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…” She wrinkled her forehead, focusing back on the ceiling of leaves. “I’m not sure. I once thought getting married was the right idea and now I’m divorced.” She glanced back at him. “I’m not saying things aren’t different this time. But I don’t know if I want to go through that again.”

For a while, he was quiet, fiddling with a loose thread on her top. He understood what she meant. Maybe it had been a bit too early to ask, anyway, even as a general question. It had only been a little over a year. That didn’t mean his stomach didn’t make a traitorous drop, though.

“That’s okay.” He reached out and played with a strand of her hair, twirling it between his fingers. “As long as I get to be with you, labels don’t matter, anyway.”

“Good.” She kissed him. “Because that’s all I need.” Then she produced a water balloon out of nowhere, probably a stray one that had rolled off earlier, and held it in a threatening way over his head. “Get merked, Hiccup!” He had just enough time to jump out of the hammock before the bomb hit and doused him. The game was back on.

Not much later, a car pulled into the driveway and soon enough, Frederick Hofferson stepped onto the patio. Astrid immediately hid behind him, using him as a human shield. Hiccup just about managed to hold back his throw. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot his girlfriend’s father with a large water gun. Especially since he felt like the man was still not quite used to him, still regarding him as the guy that ended her daughter’s marriage.

“I’m not a part of this!” Frederick shouted and ducked out of the way. While Hiccup was still mindful of the splash area of his projectiles, Astrid had no such reservations. She took her Nerf Blaster apart, dashed over and emptied the small water tank over his head. It seemed the winner was obvious this time, but he would get his revenge soon enough.

The warm weather had dried most of his clothes by the time the first steaks were ready. Frederick offered him to trade places so Hiccup could take over with the meat, but he declined. It was obvious the man was in his element. Astrid leaned over and whispered, “I think he’s trying to bond with you. He’s looking for shared interests.”

“Really?” he whispered back. “That’s great, but I’m really not interested in barbecuing techniques.”

She shrugged. “Then find something else to talk about. He’s finally making an effort. We shouldn’t let that go to waste.”

Hiccup nodded and wracked his brain for a topic to strike up a conversation with Frederick about. He’d never really been alone with the man so far, there had always been at least one other person present to save them from any awkward interactions.

He was so lost in thought, he almost didn’t catch Wilma’s announcement about the party. She and her husband would soon have their 25th wedding anniversary and wanted to celebrate it with family and friends. Hiccup was naturally invited but, after a quick check with Astrid, so was Eret. After all those years he’d been considered part of the Hofferson family, and considering he and Astrid were still on such good terms, Astrid’s parents wanted him to be there with them.

Astrid sent him a sidelong glance, asking with her eyes if he was okay with that. He sent back an answer of, Do I have a choice here?

I can talk to him and ask him not to come, she offered.

He shook his head. No, that’s stupid. We’re adults. I’m okay with him coming. He’s family.

Well, she raised her brows, if you’re sure…

“…no, I don’t think she’s listening. Astrid!”

She looked up. “Sorry, what?”

Frederick chuckled. “Your mother just asked you whether you could help her carry the dishes into the kitchen.”

“Oh, sure, yeah. Of course.” She got up and started collecting the plates, sending Hiccup a conspiratorial smile before she followed her mother into the house. That left him at the table with Frederick.

For several minutes, they busied themselves with their beers and the last pieces of bread still on the table. From inside the house, voices and the clattering of dishes carried over, not quite loudly enough to provide sufficient white noise and deeming a conversation between the two men necessary to drown out the awkwardness settling over them like heavy snow.

Whatever you do, Hiccup firmly told himself, just don’t talk about the weather. Really, anything but that. Or sex. Especially with his daughter. He gulped down the rest of his beer, looking anywhere but at Frederick, infinitely glad that mind-reading wasn’t a thing.

His fingers drummed on the legs of his chair and he couldn’t sit still, shifting around, accidentally bumping his knee against the underside of the table, grimacing through the pain. He was just about to jump up and flee into the house when Frederick spoke.

“So,” he started, leaning forward a little, “I’ve always meant to ask…”

Please don’t be an embarrassing question, Hiccup mentally prayed. “Yes?”

“What exactly is it that you do at your job?” Oh, thank god. Hiccup exhaled. “Astrid mentioned it a couple times, but I never really caught it.”

“Ah, well, I illustrate uh, books?” Why had that come out as a question? “Yeah, um… Mostly covers and artwork for fantasy novels, and I’ve done some children’s books… Uh. Do you like to read?”

“The newspaper.”

“Oh. Yeah, I don’t do that. Illustrate that, I mean. I do read it, though!” Please come back, he mentally cried, hoping Astrid would pick up the brain waves. The other man just nodded and another silence engulfed the table. Hiccup continued drumming on the chair. When Astrid had met his parents, she’d immediately gotten along with them, especially with his dad. Why couldn’t he do the same with hers?

“I’m not very artistic myself,” Frederick continued in an attempt to keep the conversation going. He really was trying.

“You’re a construction engineer, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t you need a certain level of artistic ability for that, too? Designing constructions is still designing, after all.”

Frederick shrugged. “Sure, I can think up construction plans and put them neatly on paper, but I could never draw, say, a dragon. I just don’t have the imagination or patience or creativity.”

“I’d argue you are creative. Where else would you get ideas for constructions from?”

“Well, if you put it like that… Maybe you’re right.”

Hiccup felt a surge of confidence. They were having a conversation and Frederick was agreeing with him. “When I was little, I always wanted to become an engineer. I had a whole room full of Lego Technic stuff and I would spend entire days building, taking apart, and rebuilding all kinds of machines.”

Frederick raised his head in interest. “What changed your mind?”

“Nothing, actually.” He scratched his neck. “There was this engineering school I wanted to go to, but they were full the year I wanted to start. And instead of applying somewhere else, I took their offer to start the next year. In the meantime, I enrolled in a number of illustration courses and liked it so much that I stayed.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“No, I don’t.” He didn’t even have to think about it. “I love my job. And, well… Through a chain of events it’s what’s led me here.” Frederick gave him a quizzical look. “I mean, uh, my friend and colleague Fishlegs, he… Um, long story short, he introduced me to my ex-girlfriend. And she has a brother who has this best friend and… Ah, you see, this best friend had a fiancée…”

An understanding light went on behind Frederick’s eyes. Nervously, Hiccup waited for the reaction that told him the other man wasn’t very amused by the story, taking into account that he’d probably exchange Hiccup for Eret on the spot if he could…

What he hadn’t expected was for the man to burst out laughing.

“Well, in that case, the engineering school not taking you gave me a second son-in-law.”

“Oh, ah…” Hiccup felt his face heat up at the term. He felt a ramble bubbling up in his chest, about how he’d only barely discussed that with Astrid and how she wasn’t even sure she wanted–

“Don’t worry, I’m just teasing you, son.” With a chuckle, Frederick leaned back in his chair and Hiccup exhaled. “So tell me, what machines exactly did you build as a kid?”

Once he started talking about his Lego inventions from his childhood, Hiccup lost track of time. An indefinite time later, Astrid and Wilma returned to the table, finding the two men deep in conversation. Wide smile on her face, Astrid gave him a kiss on the cheek and shared a pleased look with her mother. At the end of the day, he had to promise Frederick to continue their conversation the next time they saw each other.

Maybe he wasn’t yet an Eret when it came to being an integral part of the family, but he was getting there.

_______________

On the night of the Hofferson’s anniversary party, Hiccup found himself surrounded by several of Astrid’s great-aunts, great-uncles, grandparents, and various other older folk somehow related to or friends with the family.

He’d actually just wanted to take a break from socializing and had retreated to one of the tables in the corner while the party continued on the dancefloor and at the bar. Astrid’s cousins were doing shots, but he’d just so managed to escape. Her uncle had claimed dance after dance with her. Wilma and Frederick were moving from group to group, having a drink here and a conversation there, dancing with friends and family in-between. And Eret stood with the cousins as if he was one of them.

It had been quite a tad awkward when great-aunt Phyllis had walked past the two of them earlier, cheeks red from brandy, and said with a cheeky wink: “Let’s hope she sticks with this one.” Once she had moved on, Hiccup wanted to sink into the ground and Eret was guffawing.

Now, Phyllis was sitting opposite him, another Cognac in front of her, giggling with the group about something he’d said. He’d discovered he had a knack for entertaining the older generation of his girlfriend’s family. They questioned him about every single detail of his life, his family, and their favorite topic, the story of how he and Astrid fell in love. Even after hearing it for the third time that night, they still aw-ed and ah-ed, hanging onto his every word.

“Then what happened with Eret?”

“Larry, he’s right there,” great-uncle Greg groaned and pointed at the tall man downing tequila with cousin Beth.

“But I don’t know the details, old fart!”

“Who are you calling old?! I’m younger than you.”

Grandma Rosie, 93 years of age, lifted her walking stick and threatened to whack them both over the head if they didn’t stop bickering. The men let their squabbling go and grinned as the rest of the group watched, amused, as Rosie’s façade crumbled, revealing the humor in her eyes. Eleven wrinkly faces returned their attention to Hiccup, expectant and curious, some a little wary. They hadn’t heard this part of the story yet and they had caught on to Eret’s change of lifestyle.

Hiccup hesitated. This wasn’t his story to tell anymore. And part of his audience was quite conservative, already scrunching up their noses. Then again, Eret had come here with an official male date. He wasn’t hiding anything. And to their credit, even the most conservative person in this hall had been nothing but supportive towards Astrid’s life choices so far, first a divorce not even two years into her marriage, then bringing both her current and her ex-partner to a family event.

Also her supposed choice of having kids out of wedlock, but since she was currently drinking a glass of wine on the other side of the hall, Hiccup expected that particular rumor to dissolve during the night. Not that it hadn’t given him a minor heart attack, though, when he’d first been asked about it by great-uncle Charles. Hiccup had told her that dress looked a little baggy when she was sitting down, no matter how gorgeous she looked.

“Well,” he started, searching for the right words, “Eret’s date went great. But after a few weeks with Tim, the spark faded.”

“And then he was with that girl from the bakery, right?” Susan, one of the Hofferson’s neighbors, chimed in, leaning forward and lowering her volume just a bit, as if she was passing on a secret. “I saw them together a few times.” Astrid had warned him about Susan. That woman was probably the worst gossiper in all of Berk. That’s why he’d made sure she was the first to hear that Astrid was, in fact, not pregnant.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “he dated Christina for a short while.” He didn’t specify that this short while had only been three consecutive weekends on which they had hooked up. He also deliberately left out the part where Eret had tried to figure out the exact nature of his sexual orientation, having short flings with several women and men. “But then he found love in unexpected places and that’s been going strong for several months now. And counting.” Finally, he might add. He and Astrid had had quite the bet riding on that one. She still owed him several, well, favors.

“Aww,” cooed the group. No comments or expressions of disgust regarding the homosexual nature of Eret’s relationship. If they didn’t like it, they were keeping that to themselves. These people were here for love, no matter the manifestation. And as a bonus, they liked him. Astrid’s entire family, from first cousins to the great-aunt’s third husband, had welcomed him with open arms. Some more wary at first, some with a sassy comment, but warm and openly, nonetheless. He started to feel like he belonged.

“So Hiccup, tell me,” Susan shuffled her chair a little closer to his, expectant look in her eyes, and asked the question he’d feared would come up eventually. “When are you and Astrid getting married?”

“Ah… Um, I- I–”

“Susan, come on,” Rosie chided the nosy woman with a sharp glare that Astrid had obviously inherited from her, “it’s only been a year. This generation is different from yours or mine. Kids these days don’t want to settle down first chance they get. Let them live life!”

Susan pouted, but she listened to Rosie and dropped the topic. Hiccup smiled gratefully at the old lady, even though the truth was a little more complicated than what she’d said.

With a little wink in his direction, she added, “We old folk don’t need to understand everything the youths are up to. Our time is over. Now we just do our job keeping them humble by telling them horror stories about wars and an age before the facebooks and twittle existed.” She raised her glass of white wine spritzer at Hiccup. “Right, my boy?”

Suppressing a laugh, he mimicked the motion with his empty beer bottle. Individual discussions broke out among the table, varying from rants about kids these days to how old Florence had recently bought a 4k TV set. Susan continued to do her best contributing her share of gossip.

Hiccup was just considering leaving the table to it when he felt it. It was subtle, a twitch of his heart, a prickling in his neck, before not a moment later two arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind.

“What are you kids up to over here?” she asked, her lively voice right next to his ear coating his chest in honey. He didn’t register the following conversation, only felt the vibrations of her laughter, distracted by the warmth of her arms around him, her perfume, her general proximity. Despite being used to it by now, the rush of the feeling still turned his insides into an out-of-control carnival ride.

She shifted behind him, bringing her face closer, and whispered in his ear. “Want me to save you?”

There was no need, he was sure he could just leave the table on his own, but he would never turn down the offer to be saved by Astrid Hofferson, who he was sure was descendant from literal Valkyries… He was getting distracted again. “Yes, please,” he whispered back.

She took his hand and pulled him out of the chair. “Come on, let’s get a drink.” They waved goodbye to the table of elders and made their way over to the bar. Immediately, one of her cousins asked him what he wanted to drink, handing him a glass of rum and coke, and in no time, he found himself included in the conversation. And not just because he was Astrid’s boyfriend. He saw it in their eyes, felt it in his gut. He was part of the family.

At some point a little later in the night, the music switched to hits from the 90s and 2000s, and most people left the bar to dance. Hiccup used the opportunity for a minute to breathe, now alone at the bar except for Astrid and two of her cousins. Olive and June were busy with whatever endless row of texts June was receiving, and Astrid had leaned her head on his shoulder, watching the mob on the dancefloor. He slid an arm around her.

“Look at Hank,” she said and pointed at the crowd. A middle-aged man, her dad’s best friend Hank, was raving in the middle of the dancefloor, completely lost in the beat. His shirt had come out of his pants and there was a large beer stain on his chest. People around him were cheering as the usually so composed office worker was letting loose in their midst.

Hiccup spotted a shock of fiery red hair dancing its way over to him and grinned. “Looks like he found a friend.” Astrid chuckled as they watched Dagur join Hank with his ridiculous dance moves, and the two men took over the entire floor. “I’ve never seen anyone so passionate about the Crazy Frog.”

“I have. Dagur and Eret, at a college party.” She grinned and joked, “I really should have seen this coming when Eret ditched me half the night to dance with Dagur.”

Scanning the crowd for Eret, Hiccup found him talking to the DJ. He’d never forget the day Astrid and he had been over at the man’s place for brunch when all of a sudden, the door to Eret’s bedroom had opened and a yawning Dagur, clad in only boxers and a loose bathrobe, had strolled out, disappearing down the hall into the bathroom.

Eret had cleared his throat. “Yeah, so, when I said I had news, that’s what I wanted to tell you.” However he’d thought Hiccup and Astrid to react, he probably hadn’t expected them to instantly start haggling over winnings and unwritten betting conditions. By the time Dagur had joined them at the table, Astrid had admitted defeat and settled for an I told you so-face directed at everyone.

They really made an odd group, even more so with Heather thrown into the mix. Astrid always got a kick out of explaining to other people how they all met, watching them try to figure out the specific relations and histories between all individuals involved. Hiccup had to admit, it was kind of funny.

The song ended, fading over into a beat he loved to hate, or hated to love, accompanied by a honking sound and a distinct 90s beat. Next to him, Astrid bobbed her head from side to side to the music, and the next moment, Eret’s outstretched hand appeared in front of him.

“Hofferson, this is our song!”

Astrid thrust her drink into Hiccup’s hands. “Hold this for me, babe!” Then she pulled Eret onto the dancefloor, instantly falling into a series of dance moves clearly coordinated with Eret’s. Hiccup blinked a couple of times at the sight.

A snort next to him shook him out of his stare. It was Frederick, ordering a tray of drinks. “Whoever has an elaborate choreography to the Vengabus song figured out, deserves to be best friends. Don’t you think?”

Hiccup smirked. “Oh, sure.”

Frederick saw his expression and mirrored it. “You’re not going to let her forget this, are you?”

“Nope.” He took in every little aspect of the show. Oh, she would never hear the end of this. In perfect sync, she and Eret dragged peace signs in front of their eyes, swung their arms around, twirled, and did something vaguely resembling the chicken dance. This even blew Ross and Monica’s Routine from Friends out of the water.

“You can still run and never come back,” Frederick suggested.

“Are you kidding me?” Hiccup laughed. “Why would I ever leave a girl like her?”

“Good answer.” Frederick boxed his shoulder, then took the tray over to the table of elders. The friendly violence seemed to run in the family.

When the song ended and another took its place, Dagur wedged himself between Astrid and Eret, claiming his new dance partner. Shaking her head with a humorous eye-roll, she walked back over to Hiccup and took her glass back. Upon his grin, she asked, “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” His grin didn’t fade. “That was… Beautiful. Graceful. I- I don’t have the words.”

“Shut up, you’re just jealous.”

He wrapped both arms around her, mindful of the drink in her hand, and kissed her temple. “Yeah, totally. I wish I had moves like that.”

“Yes, you wish.” She was grinning now, too, turning her head to give him a kiss, and then another one. He would be crazy if he ever even considered leaving her.

A few songs later, the beat slowed to a Cranberries song. Astrid put her glass away and tugged at his hand. “Your turn.” She didn’t pull him onto the dancefloor, just stepped a few feet away from the bar, put one hand on his back and laid the other in his. Together, they danced on the spot, her face resting in the crook of his neck.

After a while, he mumbled into her hair, “Susan brought up the question.”

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. “What did you tell her?”

“I didn’t. Before I could say anything, granny Rosie came to my rescue. She said something about generational differences and Susan shut up. We should steer clear of her, though, I don’t think she was satisfied with that answer.”

She huffed. “I can handle Susan.” He knew she could. He just didn’t want to face that question again without feeling the need to explain Astrid’s decision to not get married again; it was none of Susan’s business. If Astrid changed her mind, though, he wouldn’t waste any time. Even if they were in the pharmacy aisle of a rundown big box store, surrounded by diarrhea medicine, and Snotlout was the officiator. Although, come to think of it, he might be able to make himself wait until they’d moved to at least the garden center.

As if she’d read his mind, Astrid lifted her head and looked up. “You want to get married, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. “I know you don’t and that’s okay. I want to share a life with you, be by your side, as your partner in everything, no matter what a document says or what last name I have.”

She chuckled. “Oh, so you’d take my name?”

“Sure! Hiccup Astrid Haddock, that has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”

She groaned good-naturedly. “You’re ridiculous.” After a short pause, she continued, “You know what? If I ever end up changing my mind, I’ll take yours.”

“Wait, really? What about your family pride?”

“Oh, I’ll make sure my kids know their roots.”

His lips stretched into a smile. “Your kids, huh?”

Hiding a blush, she buried her face in his shoulder. “You know whose kids.” Her voice came out muffled and was nearly drowned out by the next song, louder and faster than the last, but he’d heard her.

“Okay. Deal.”

#httyd #hiccstrid #fanfiction #hiccup haddock #astrid hofferson #eret #dagur the deranged #when lightning strikes #modern au #a bit of angst with a dash of drama #or the other way around #maja writes #ff #fanfic #how to train your dragon #dagret

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shortstoriesmk · 4 years

Text

Who Called The Uber?

by Massi Kabir

Of course, I could tell you now, that my natural curiosity for everything outside the walls of everyday dullness brought me here. That I love flirting with one of my many fears, seducing her, just to slit her throat during one of our first dates.

I could tell you that I think of my comfort zone as a purple ugly pajama, which, whenever my courage lets me, I happily trade for nudity.

There is certainly truth to these points, and yet, they all would undermine the immense irrational power of a man's lust in his early 30's.

So, if you are really wondering who called that Uber last night, let me tell you:

My dick did.

So this is how it went:

One last check in front of the mirror. I like what I see and tell myself silently, "You look fresh, brother".

It's probably mostly my nerves talking, but yes, I did somehow find that sweet spot between under- and overdressed. I can tell that my white button-up shirt and black leather shoes are happy to know that funerals are not their only reason to exist. I promise them something special for tonight. The casual green jeans and a black blazer add to my contentment and make me put my shoulders back. I do that because I recently read that we, humans, derive from the lobsters. Apparently, their postures tell a lot about their ranking within their dominance hierarchy. Low posture, low rank. A balanced upright posture is supposed to increase serotonin levels, which ultimately results, along with other benefits, in better mating opportunities. I believe that, and hence, push my chest out, eager to kiss the world with my nipples.

Lastly, I grab my deo roller. I tell it that I need some more tonight and that armpits ain't enough. It knows I quit perfume a long time ago and hence, complies loyally doing the extra shift while I take it on an extended trip over my body's skin.

Finally, in the Uber, I count my breaths like a Zen Buddhist despite knowing I'll never be one. I admit to myself that I'm a nervous bloke under the leadership of his lust and throw the driver a grin through his stained rear-view mirror. With every inhale, there is a hail of bravery echoing inside of me. ‘14 minutes till arrival’, says the app that managed to erase my interest in public transport forever. Enough time for me to consider changing the number of open shirt buttons from two to three.

It's a gamble, I know. But, it could pay off. I mean, they will see that my chest has not given birth to much hair yet, but, on the other hand, 3 open buttons demonstrate a sense of willingness and availability. And, in a place like the one I am about to enter, these two attributes are dominating currencies.

So, three it is.

The Uber drops me in front of number 73.

I ring the bell. 80 seconds later, a shrill tone cuts off my stream of doubts, whether this is the right address or not, and lets me open the gate. My balls are hoping it's the gate to heaven. Everything is possible right now. I feel it. I head towards the house.

A plum, too dry to open doors like that, welcomes me while I gaze at her face. The sperms I brought, that a minute ago were still arguing about who would be the first in line, suddenly start to sympathize with the idea of retreat. Within seconds, the old lady's hands swallow my €80 while her noisy décolleté goes fishing for my eyeballs. My deep Zen breathing turns all the sudden shallow and, my pulse climbs a little mountain, while my face tries its best to not give it away. Then, I stare through the second entrance door, which is out of glass. I already get the feeling that it probably does a better job of serving as an exit.

Whatever. It's too late to get my bucks back and too early to decide to remain clothed, so vamos.

I'm somewhere in the outskirts of Lisbon inside a villa that will probably never live up to that title.

The smoke in the air forms a maze for my vision. But, it's ok. It doesn't take much vision anyway to understand that pants are outnumbering skirts in this cave that smells like filth. During its amateur application process for this event, I raised the question on WhatsApp of how many people would attend.

‘100’ was the answer. Now, finding myself looking at an empty dance floor, I feel this strong urge to sue the former math teacher of whoever typed that ridiculously inaccurate reply.

The plum, sensing the swelling of my disappointment, urges me to come with her for a little house viewing before I start mingling. If her whole outfit wouldn't scream so loud, "Please, fuck me!" I might have understood her real name when she mentioned it earlier on my arrival. The syllables of her name, however, got swallowed instantly by the kanon that her different overexposed body parts sing tonight. Off-key, sadly.

I follow her walking up the stairs. Her moment to wave her ass cheeks right in my face. She knows what she is doing and does so in pride, reminding me of a patriot waving his country's flag. It has to be a patriot from somewhere within the European Union, though, ‘cause, something is telling me that the borders of her ass must be equally open. The upper floor is dark and arranged with cold walls that shape rooms that are meant to host strangers engaging in the warmest act that God has ever invented for us.

In the aisle, we pass a closed wooden door. "We can't go in here, right now," she informs me, "there are people inside, fucking!" She says that in a fashion more causal than a 'Fruit of the Loom' shirt. In particular, the word "fucking" and the way it sounds trespassing her slightly chapped lips has me irritated immensely. I mean sure, there is not much romance to the word by default anyway, never was. But her tonality and the way she lets the word roll over her tongue makes me somehow want to commit to vanilla sex for the rest of a monogamous life.

The tour through the upper floor continues. She calls it her 'dream villa'. I get introduced to Dark room, glory whole wall, various single rooms, two open fucking spaces, and a little cage. Except for the one room that was closed, it is all still empty here; no sweat yet, no moans, no ripped condom packages. She goes on about how she built it all on her own, how this is all a product of her imagination, and how it took her 6 years to bring this place to where it is right now.

I pretend caring while she keeps massaging her ego. I am too caught up to be real with her. I am still disturbed. I mean, why would she treat the word "fucking" like that? It was this cold aggression in her voice that bugged me. As if she had stored it inside the bottom freezer box of her vocabulary's fridge and made it a habit to bend for it whenever she felt like rebelling onto the world. The hobby psychologist inside me senses that trauma made her a rebel – a rebel that fights with the weapons of vulgarity, just to cover up scars of a past encounter with a cheap replica of love. We all have been there, some way or another, so I try my best not to judge her. And still, I hate her.

The f word always was something holy for me, especially out of a woman's mouth. A real lady chooses to use it scarcely, and that's where the magic lingers. Only when a man has already done the necessary, to own the right to hear her language go south, will she choose to dip her words in dirt. Nothing is sweeter for a man than having a well-spoken lady using the f word for the first time while whispering in his ear the request to penetrate her so she can lose her brain. Needless to say, this plum seems to have lost its sweetness a very long time ago.

We go downstairs again, and I drop my blazer at the cloakroom. Her "see you later" is featured by a gaze of her eyes that tells me that she has plans to liberate me from more than just my blazer at a later point this night.

With her leaving my side, I have finally arrived at my first swinging party. Officially. I welcome myself with a beer that I order from the bar. I speak from my balls while I do so, oiling my vocal cords with some fabricated confidence. The truth, however, is I am nervous.

I came alone tonight in order to not to be alone tonight. I came to let my lust off its leash. Yes. Nobody can see it, but I wear a mask at this moment, one of my favorite ones; it's called anonymity. I am leaning at the bar facing the dance floor and nervously swim in this sensation this mask provides me with, all while sipping on this lukewarm beer. Being anonymous means being a nobody to everybody. It's a chance to flip your skin and dance life with a different set of steps for a little while. You can be a dervish under the disco ball of life, at least temporarily.

But here is the downside: anonymity is a very fragile phenomenon, it cracks the longer you stick around. People get to know you, open their boxes and throw you inside one of them, without caring if you break or not. This makes life easier for them and harder for you.

Right now, however, leaning on this bar, sipping on this bottle, I can feel that I am box-free. I can be whoever I want to be, or better, whoever I am.

This sense of freedom, mixed with the alcohol that starts curving through my veins, calms me down, and I decide to make my way to the other end of the room. My chest stays out, of course, it's mingling time.

I scanned the room already for all its potential and could only find one young lady that I really desire to undress instantly. I am heading towards her, and position myself next to her, and her male companion, who could be her husband, it's hard to tell. Sure is, they are close to each other and seem to have found a nice way of throwing and catching each other’s smiles. I can tell by the way they treat each other. It looks like love that already ripened for some years. 'Their sex must be good', I am thinking. At the same time, I wonder, 'Why are they here then? Why are they not at home with some candles and a record player spinning a Marvin Gay vinyl?’ They are in their early 40's, I am guessing, which makes me wonder if they have children. If so, what did they tell them where they are going tonight? Theater? Cinema? Dinner with friends? And did they hire a babysitter? The nerd in me wants to know now how many millions have been spent in the history of the world on babysitters so parents can go and exchange body fluids with strangers in a place where glory holes adorn walls. 'The world is sick,' I am thinking, 'in a sweet way. And so am I.'

I heard once that one should always stick to the '3-second rule' when planning to approach his object of desire. That means it should be avoided at all cost to spend more than three-seconds contemplating on the execution of the approach. Now all this thinking got me already to second 42 and I am feeling how hesitation gets the better of me. What if they reject me? What if they don't speak English? What if I am not their type? What will the others think of me when they see how I am getting rejected? All these amateur questions start to vomit over my mind and leave me crippled in the corner, three meters away from the couple my dick would like to have a threesome with.

I tell myself, 'there will be another, better chance later' and shift my focus back to the poorest dance floor I have seen in years.

There is some movement happening. The light is getting dimmed and the plum tells people to make some space for what is about to come. Then she starts speaking with a man whose size reminds me of a vintage wardrobe. His arms are filled with ink and his veins tell an ugly story about steroids. All of a sudden, mid through the conversation, she starts pointing at me and explains to him eagerly something which clearly involves me and my presence. After her briefing, he promptly makes his way towards me. While he does so, he reminds me of a big dog who is going for his bone, which Mama just threw for him. His eyes are getting bigger and there is a rising amount of saliva flowing in his mouth. I dislike the fact that she chose me to be the bone in this scenario, but I guess our brief sighting-seeing tour made her believe that we have a special connection or something. My fault, I should stop being nice to people I hate.

I'll never know his name, but there is a 99% chance that his name is Joao, Pedro, or Miguel. The Portuguese are special people, very sensitive and creative. I love them. But when it comes to naming their children, it seems like creativity and originality are two players they constantly put on the bench.

The walking wardrobe, who looks like a 'Pedro' to me, reaches me and screams in my ear:

"Come! She wants you to come."

Maybe he even said:

"Come! She wants you to cum."

Not sure about it, but honestly, in this place, these two sentences point in the very same direction. His right palm eats my left arm as he tries to pull me closer towards his plum, who is waiting on the edge of her small yet still under-crowded dance floor. I brush his hand off my limb and tell him to chill, asking what he wants from me. Pedro repeats his sentence in his broken English and lets eventually go off me. There is some tension between us, I can tell, and so can the few people around us. I'm not a short bloke, but Pedro's height exceeds mine by minimum seven centimetres and he is certainly physically stronger than me. Now that he is so close, I can witness the distinctive features in his face and start reading a bit of the story that is written inside his mime. It's a story of pain, I can tell by the tension of the muscular tissue in his face and the corners of his mouth, which seem to travel more often south rather than north.

I always thought of pain as a huge house, something like a villa. And if sadness is the main hall inside that villa, then aggression is something like the entrance hall or lobby. Behind aggression always lives sadness. Behind every fist always hides a tear. Looking at Pedro now makes me believe that he somehow got stuck in that lobby of pain and that for every tear he swallowed, one of his enemies had to swallow one of his jewelry-adorned fists. I don't want to swallow his fist. Not now, not here, not in this filthy cave that he calls his kingdom.

So, I walk up to the plum with him and ask her, “What's the matter?” She tells me: "You are way too sexy to be standing there all on your own, honey. Sit down here next to my friend". She points at the small sofa next to her, right on the dance floor. Her friend is a lady in her late 30's, a couple of years older than me, who refuses to hide her crooked, brownish teeth, while she grins at me. A small wave of disgust breaks inside me. I usually feel great sympathy for people who carry their imperfections with dignity and some sort of pride because it can show confidence, and confidence has always been a sexy thing to me. But like with everything, there is a line. And unfortunately, her set of teeth is crossing that line by miles.

Despite the lack of resonance I'm feeling, I decide to sit down next to her. I guess Pedro and the plum left some sort of intimidating impression on me, otherwise, I can't tell why I would ever sit on this couch. On her right sits another man, roughly my age, who seems, besides me, to be the only man that picked a white button-up shirt as his attire for this night, which was supposed to be a glorious one. He looks happier and way more at ease compared to me. 'Why am I sitting here? What the fuck am I doing here?' I'm asking myself, while I feel this pressure inside my body. In my mind, I'm comparing this pressure, with how a woman must feel when she is pregnant. I came here, being impregnated by lust, trying to give birth to one of my shadows that lingers in a room inside of me, where society and all its conventions have no access to. But now, sitting on this damn couch, getting my thigh stroked by a woman that never believed in dentistry, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that tonight, this pregnancy is about to end in a miscarriage. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’

My pulse climbs again this mountain as I'm starting to understand what is about to happen here. The light is being dimmed, even more, a new song, even worse than the one before, is being played and the plum approaches the pole, which is decorating the center of the dance floor. Her time has come. The plum strip show is about to happen. Finally or, sadly. Depending on whom you ask in here. I stay with my opinion that she is way too old for these type of things. There should be a universal pole dance law in place, forbidding women with a certain amount of wrinkles in her face to ever touch a pole and charge money for it, I'm thinking. I reminisce about my €80 entry fee and what else I could have done with it. There was a commercial by a charity, which I spotted the other day, claiming it would cost only €40 to save a life in Africa. And here I am now, watching these two old white breasts stroking a pole in an unpopular swinging club, somewhere in Portugal, all while I could have saved two beautiful black twins, somewhere in Africa. Bravo!

The strip show continues, and I'm carefully watching her movement and the way she carries herself, sliding around this pole with her 10 cm high heels on. I need to give her some credit even though I struggle somehow finding the right words for it. Maybe for the effort. Or maybe, for the past potential that used to be there. I can imagine how, at a time, when her body didn't show any plum resemblance yet, this pole and these heels used to be her key into a world full of decadence and successful businessmen, who liked to spoil her with material things, after they got their naked part of the deal. Time took this key from her one day like it does to all pretty ladies. Time threw that key overboard into the inevitable ocean of evanescence, and she jumped right after it trying to catch it again and again, without notable success to this day. No anti-aging cream, no surgeon, and no dance pole can prevent that key from hitting the ocean bed. Thinking about this, I almost feel sorry for her. Maybe, it was not her fault. Maybe, we are to blame; we men, by tricking pretty ladies into betting all their chips on their beauty, and making them believe this winning streak will last forever. Sadly, it doesn't.

Physical beauty serves the eyes. And the eyes of humans are little hungry monsters. Monsters that like to eat only one thing and one thing only: Symmetry. Like a dog loves to chew on a bone, our eyes enjoy chewing on symmetry; the more, the better. We simply can't get enough of it. Take the face of Kate Moss, for instance. It's like a five-star dish for these two monsters inside our face, especially for the heterosexual men among us. Scientists discovered that the length and width of a face, as well as the distance between and women's mouth and her eyes, determines how attractive she is to men. Ms. Moss apparently got extremely lucky the day that God handed out facial length and width measures because the distance between the middle of her eyes and her mouth is about 46% of the width of her face, which is supposed to be the "golden ratio". The face of this pole dancing plum in front of me, however, has, apart from those oval over-sized earrings hanging from her lobes, literally nothing golden to offer any more. Time has eaten her symmetry.

As she continues to chase her younger self on this pole, with movements that were not invented for a body aged like hers, she starts looking in our direction. We, the three people on this purple couch, are having the courtside seats in this arena of filth. No one is closer to the action. I'm feeling a bit like Jack Nicholson in the Staples Center or Spike Lee in the Madison Square Garden. Probably more like Mr. Lee, to be honest, since the Knicks seem to have performed equally bad in recent years, just like the plum is now. She starts walking up to us. I'm surprised how stable her walk is, considering her age in combination with those stupidly long heels she is wearing. Personally, I never had a thing for heels; it never did much to me, seeing a girl walking around all stiff and unnatural like that. Marilyn Monroe supposedly said once, "We owe the man who invented high heels so much." I never had a clue what she was talking about until I read again about some scientists that claimed high heels make women's feet look more petite and therefore overall, more attractive to men. Well, I'm a man, and one of the coolest girls I ever dated, came in flip flops to our first date, and instantly gave birth to a butterfly in my belly. But that's maybe for another story. Sure is, I would have made Marilyn wear some Birkenstock's before starting to penetrate her.

So, as the plum arrives at the sofa, she grabs the hand of the other guy and pulls him towards a chair that Pedro, in the meantime, has put right next to the pole. A new song is being played, and she starts lap dancing on the guy who might share with me the affinity for white button-up shirts but certainly not the taste in women. Some people start whistling and yelling little sounds of excitement while her ass takes a hike up his lap, planting a little lump between his legs. I stare at the grin he parked in his face and discover, to my surprise, that it's really a genuine one. The muscles in our face have always fascinated me; they are like a lie detector. I can always tell by someone's facial expressions how close they live to authenticity in a given moment. A fake smile relaxes fast, too fast. On a genuine smile, the corners of the mouth go back calmly and smoothly, to its neutral position, it relaxes slowly. As I keep witnessing this, for me, rather tragic performance, I can clearly see that the guy is genuinely happy and pleased. Pleased by a woman that I named plum the first minute I caught sight of her; a dry plum to be exact.

I feel like an alien that is stranded on a planet that is illiterate to the language of sex and erotic. Where lust is a hyper-inflated currency, making anyone a millionaire, whipping his ass with bills whenever his hormones hand him a dose of horniness. An alien always feels lonely. A feeling of loneliness can only flourish when there is, for whatever reason, no ground or space for sharing. We share by communicating, mostly through language, which is mostly transmitted spoken or through our bodies. My genitals clearly speaks Suaheli compared to the others in here, so how on earth would I ever be able to communicate and share anything in this cave?

Next to me, still sits the lady with the crooked smile, still rubbing my thigh, still refusing to see a dentist. Just like the interior design of her mouth lacks order and alignment, I am starting to lack some patience. Nothing of what my five senses have been absorbing in the last 70 minutes has been really to my liking, and something is telling me that the worst is yet to come if I don't take immediate action. The little mathematician inside my currently confused brain starts doing his job and calculates the probability of me being next in line for a lap dance, like the one I am forced to watch right now. Considering the fact that I'm the only remaining male on this couch, which feels like a substitute bench, the chance of me being the next player on the lap dance field seems alarmingly high. So high that my heartbeat starts mimicking some dub step rhythm and I actually start feeling a bit scared. "I need to get the fuck out of here" is what my inner voice starts shouting. The thought of me sitting in the middle of this dance floor, being watched by all these horny eyeballs while a dry plum slides down my crotch, lets my heartbeat go even higher, approaching more and more the tempo territory of some ‘drum n bass’ track. This cocktail of emotions my spirit is sipping on right now doesn't taste well- I feel scared, disgusted, and ashamed all at the same time. Not good. I need to leave. Now!

I stand up, fast and assertive. In doing so, I brush off the lady's hand of my thigh, who then tries to stop me by reaching for my wrist, while mumbling some, for me, indigestible syllable salad. She is obviously trying to convince me that I should be staying. That I should be patiently waiting for this present they got prepared for me. I quickly look back at her and can tell by her surprised look that she has no clue of how I'm feeling. She must really be thinking that I'm letting go of some sort of once in a lifetime chance here.

I rush to the cloakroom, just to find out that it's locked. Fuck. I just want my blazer and escape this place. I look around, trying to find someone who could help me with my dilemma, and see Pedro approaching me. He must have seen how I rushed off the couch and also seems surprised about my sudden change of plans. "What's wrong, my friend?" he asks. For a split second, I'm considering to tell him, that we are further away from being friends than the pope from ever using a pack of condoms in his life, but then, discard that idea quickly and just reply: "I need to leave. Can you open the door? I need my blazer." He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the door, visibly disturbed by my ambition to leave his cave. He almost seems to take it personally and wants to know, "Why do you want to leave? You don't like it here? What's your problem, my friend?" As I take my blazer off the hanger, I tell him that he doesn't have to worry about my problem and that all he needs to know right now is that I need to leave. He senses that I'm serious and decides not to continue his Q&A session with me. He assists me to the exit, where I decide to turn around for one last time and give this place a final look. One last observation that shall be burned into my memory forever, reminding me what I don't want in my still young, erotic life.

I look at the men in here, who are all still excitingly following the narrative of the plum's strip show. She seems to have found another victim that she is now arousing with her clumsy movements. It's a man in green shorts and a blue tank top, who reminds me again of the fact that I'm embarrassingly overdressed tonight. He also seems to have the time of his life, receiving what is, in my view, still Portugal's poorest pole dance performance. I stare at his happy face one last time, observing this sincere, lustful joy that is being displayed in there.

A line from my favorite rapper comes to mind and I whisper it to myself while I finally walked out of my

first swinging party:

"One man's pain is another man's pleasure.

One man's trash is another man's treasure."

Outside, I button my shirt all the way up to the collar button, grab my phone, and open the Uber app.

This time, it's me who orders the Uber,

not my dick.

#shortstory #intrigue #literature

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agladman · 7 years

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BEER BASICS: how to evaluate a beer

Sometimes you just want to drink a beer. It's one of life's simple pleasures. Not every beer has to be deconstructed and captured in a notebook. There are times though when you might want to slow down and consider the beer you're drinking in a little more depth. What follows is my guide to getting the best from that experience. So, get ready to go full craft beer wanker. If you have access to a beard, prepare to stroke it thoughfully. We're going to evaluate some beer!

Before you pour

Step one. The fundamentals, yo: make sure you have an appropriate glass. It's good to have one with a stem and a tapered rim that will enhance the drink's aroma. More importantly pick one that's a good size, not too large or too small, that is comfortable to hold and to drink from. And most important of all make sure it's clean; a dirty glass can affect the aroma and flavour of a beer.

You should also get your beer to the right temperature. I'm not suggesting you get all anal with a thermometer, but as a general rule the darker the beer the warmer you serve it. There are of course exceptions but we won't worry about those just now. Most beers will do well somewhere between 7°C and 13°C; that usually means somewhere between an hour and 30 minutes in the fridge. Look for cool, but not ice cold. The colder a beer is the less you will taste in it.

Pick a good place and a good time. If you really want to concentrate on the flavours and aromas you want to be able to sit somewhere you won't be distracted or disturbed, away from any strong smells.

Pour it out

Finally, we're ready to drink our beer. That's why we're here, right? Let's get that liquid out! Tilt the glass at about 45 degrees and pour like you mean it. Don't dump the beer in, but pour with confidence and control. You want to build up a head on your beer, and this won't happen if you're too timid. Pour the beer in a steady stream onto a spot about halfway down the side of the glass and gently turn the glass back upright as it fills.

If you were simply drinking this beer for fun you'd pour until the bottle was empty and the glass was full, and what a lovely thing that would be. But today you want to evaluate this beer, so you're going to pour with slightly different considerations. You want to leave room at the top of the glass for the aroma, particularly if you're using one with a tapered rim. My advice is to fill about one-third of your glass with beer. This leaves plenty of room for a good head and more for all the swirling and sniffing to happen. This might mean you don't pour the whole beer out at once. Most of the time this makes no difference, but with some beers such as Hefeweizens pouring every last drop can affect the flavour. Keep this in mind and dispense your brew accordingly.

Before you taste

So now we drink, right? Not quite. Some people will tell you to assess the look of the beer first. I say let that wait. The colour's not going anywhere but the aroma can change quickly as volatile esters escape into the room, so have a smell first. The most common method is to tilt the glass slightly and get your nose right in there. Some of the more delicate aromas - those esters I was talking about - are best discovered a little further away from the beer. Sometimes these will be evident as you pour, even from quite far away. More often they will be found within say a hand's width of the beer. I suggest stopping to notice any smells just above the glass before you tilt it, and then going in for a proper sniff.

Long sniffs will do two things: dry out your nose and overload your olfactory receptors. Don't do long sniffs. Two or three shortish sniffs are better. It takes your nose about 30 seconds to reset, so back off a little and think about what you just smelled before coming back for more.

Start by looking for basic aromas like sweet or sour. From there move on to anything else you might recognise. Common descriptors are fruity, grainy, grassy, floral, and so on. Then you might specify further - not just fruity but stone fruit like peaches and apricots. You get the idea. Don't forget that the aroma can develop as the beer warms in the glass. Come back occasionally as you taste to see what's changed.

Usually at this point it's a party in the glass, but if things are a little bit lifeless you can give the beer a gentle swirl to wake it up a bit. You can also cover the top of your glass as you swirl to trap any esters and other volatile aroma compounds before they escape. Take another sniff and see what you get now.

Once you've done that you can assess how the beer looks in the glass. Hold it up to the light and check the clarity. Look at the colour. Notice the carbonation - how much, how fast? Look at the head: again how much, and is it hanging around or did it dissipate? If you swirl the head is any lacing left clinging to the sides? Is there any viscosity coating the glass? Beer can have 'legs' just like wine. All of these things give you pointers about the beer and its quality, and prepare you for that first taste.

Tasting

Alright! Drinking at last! But wait: we're not glugging here. Take in enough beer to coat your tongue and keep it there. Don't swallow right away. At this point some guides say 'swirl the beer around your mouth'. To me this brings up images of people rincing with mouthwash. You don't need to go that far. Just allow the beer to move around your mouth naturally, coating all parts of your tongue, and then swallow.

The taste will be similar to the aroma. That's just how flavour works. As with the aroma, the general idea is to start with the basic flavours and go on from there getting more specific as you are able. Of course if something specific comes to you right away then that's great, but this general approach can be helpful if you're struggling to describe what you're tasting. Don't worry if you don't get it all at first. Wait a few seconds then come back for more. It may take a few sips to get beyond any dominant flavour, for example the bitterness in IPAs, and start noticing any more subtle aspects. That's fine. This is fun. Give yourself time and enjoy it.

As you taste you should also pay attention to how the beer feels in your mouth. How sharp is the carbonation on your tongue? Does the beer feel full bodied or thin and watery? Sometimes it's slick and almost oily. All of this is useful information. Look out for it. It can be hard at first but the more you pay attention the more you will learn to recognise it. Congratulations, you can now discuss 'mouthfeel' with the best of them. That must be worth at least 25 craft beer points!

The aftertaste

We're not wine tasters. We don't slurp air over our mouthfuls of beer as a rule, and we don't spit our beer out into a bucket. The aftertaste is important with beer, so we swallow when we taste it. Swallow, wait, and pay attention. See what happens towards the back of your tongue, around your teeth and gums, in your throat, on your lips. Is there bitterness? Is there warmth? Is your tongue becoming dry, making you want another sip? Perhaps there are other flavours making themselves known. Notice them, get to know them.

Another thing you can do is control your breathing as you taste so that you breathe out through your nose after swallowing. Keep your mouth closed as you do this. It will flood your olfactory sensors with another burst of flavour information from beer that is now significantly warmer than it was in the glass. This 'retronasal' technique can reveal a huge depth of flavour, and it's pretty easy to pull off once you've had a go.

Is this fun?

It should be, but sometimes it's not. All tasters have off days. If you're just not getting anything, don't beat yourself up about it. If you can only pick out one or two things, don't worry. Your palate develops over time. It can take a while to reach the stage where you're picking out 'plums with a hint of liquorice' or whatever. Just enjoy the process, and keep an open mind. Remember that if you like or dislike a beer but can't describe why then it's still a perfectly valid opinion.

Taste beer often enough and you will find some you don't like. It's worth giving every beer a fair go. It can take your palate a few sips to get used to a beer - especially if you've just switched from another one. Even so, sometimes it's just not going to get any better. Don't be afraid to tip these beers down the sink. Life's too short to drink a beer you're not enjoying. Don't worry about waste - there's plenty more out there you're sure to like. Don't worry either about any money you may have spent. As soon as you opened that bottle or can all of its value is gone. The only thing that remains is any enjoyment the contents can bring you. If it's bad be ruthless, get rid and move on.

Cheers

Once again, I'm not suggesting you drink this way every day. But it can be very rewarding to taste beer in this deeper way. Beer is at its greatest when it's a shared experience. Tasting like this will help you build a vocabulary to talk about beer and share your experience with others. Give it a go, and most importantly have fun doing it.

Photo by Frederick Dennstedt used under a Creative Commons licence.

#beer #craftbeer #beersommelier #beertasting #beerlover

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