#At least if I was in the reader's place

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Lisichka

Request: Hii ! I hope it's okay to request Tartaglia and (a very shy) childhood!reader reuniting after many years and pining for one another? Reader knows him very well so they're not rlly shy around him...until they developed a crush on him. Which makes them timid and mildly awkward around him, and it really shows more and more. I had a thought of what if Tartaglia also has a crush on them around the same time? I hope this is okay and have a good one! ♡

Summary: Tartaglia returns home after fighting the narwhal. You try to avoid him, unwilling to face your crush after so many years, but he manages to meet with you anyway.

Note: Lisichka means little fox

cw: none

Word Count: 1081

Tartaglia x gn!reader

“Have you heard? Ajax is back.”

You’re walking around the local market when you catch wind of the first rumors. The speaker--one of the old women who spend every market day discussing everything from local drama to the contents of this month's delivery of various newspapers--speaks in a hushed voice.

“That’s only news, Marya. My husband has already been to Lev and Anya’s place. Ajax looked pretty beat up.”

If Marya’s question hadn’t caught your attention, the second speaker would have. 

You lift your groceries and approach Marya and Elizaveta.

“Ajax is back?”

Elizaveta gives you a measuring look. “I’m surprised you didn’t know. You spent so much time with the boy before Lev sent him off to join the Fatui.”

“You mean until they started avoiding him.?”

“Yes, yes. And blushing like---”

“I’ve been helping around my grandparent’s house,” you blurt. “So no, I hadn’t heard.”

Elizaveta chuckles. “In that case, yes, Ajax has come home. You should go visit him. I’m sure you’ll make his day.”

“I’m not sure he’d remember me.”

“Nonsense. I’d put money on the opposite being true.”

You sigh and tighten your scarf around your neck. “I’ll think about it. But I still have shopping to do. Have a good day, Mrs. Marya, Mrs. Elizaveta.”

Several days later, you walk up the path to Ajax’s home, a heavily wrapped pot of soup cradled in your arms.

A boy with a shock of red hair sits on the porch with a toy ruin guard in hand.

“Good day, Teucer. Is your mother around?”

Teucer looks up and grins. “Big Brother! Y/N is here!”

“Teucer,” you groan, “I’m not here to see Ajax. In fact, please give this to your mother. Tell her Katia sends her regards and that we hope Ajax gets well soon.”

You place the soup next to Teucer and hurries back down the path.

This was such a bad idea, you think to yourself. I can’t ever keep a straight face when he’s concerned.

Ajax steps out of the house, smiling into the collar of his thick, woolen coat.

Unbeknownst to you, the young harbinger watched the entire thing.

He picks up the soup and looks down at Teucer. “Did you say thank you?”

“I didn’t have a chance,” Teucer pouts. “Why are they acting so weird?”

Tartaglia laughs. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

A few days later, you find yourself sitting on the bank of a lake. 

You keep your eyes trained on the hole you made and the line disappearing into the water.

This is the only place in town where there aren’t curious looks and questions about Ajax’s health. It’s the one place where you don;t have to be reminded that after so many years of being his friend, you’re now too cowardly to meet him face to face.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t hear the snow crunch behind you, though the footsteps are soft enough that it could be any small animal.

“Lisichka, Lisichka. Are you done running from me?”

The familiar nickname startles you out of your reverie.

You turn, ever so slowly, to find a pair of bright blue eyes twinkling at you.

“I never ran from you.”

Ajax sits next to you. “Are you sure about that, Lisichka? I recall that before I left to join Fatui, you wouldn’t look me in the eye. And I saw you run from my house the other day.”

“I---”

“Got a bite yet?” Ajax changes the topic of conversation, much to your relief.

“No. Not yet. Though I might not, now that your pretty face is here.”

“If a pretty face is all it takes to scare off the fish, you must never catch a thing.”

You open your mind to reply, only for your brain to finally register your words and his reply.

“I--- How are you feeling, Ajax? I heard you were hurt.”

This time you’re the one to change topics, though you’re certain he’s aware that it’s a desperate attempt to keep from addressing the proverbial bear in the room.

Tartaglia holds out a hand and you frown at the clear tremor. “Fontaine was a little rough,” he admits. “I don’t recommend fighting a whale for a couple months.”

“A whale? How do you fight a whale?”

“Not easily. And I lost miserably. I don’t like Fontaine’s Iudex--though I want to fight him again one day---, but I’m not sure I’d have survived if he and the traveler hadn’t intervened.”

“You were never careful with yourself,” you comment. “Even less so after your three day disappearance.”

Ajax huffs. “This wasn’t my fault. There was a lot of weird stuff going on.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure. You know you go looking for trouble and when you aren’t it has a habit of finding you.”

“You know me so well, my Lisichka.”

“I thought we were too old for pet names like that, Ajax.”

“Says who? You were my Lisichka when we were kids. Why can’t you be now?” 

You raise your eyes to the sky, where the constellations lay hidden.

“Because if you keep using pet names like that, I’m going to get the impression that you’re not just a childhood friend.”

Ajax reaches over and cups your cheek, turning your face so that your eyes meet his. “If you did I would be awfully happy. I’ve been trying to get your attention for years.”

“You mean…”

“Silly fox, I have liked you for a while now.”

“I bet I’ve liked you longer.”

“You wanna bet?”

Tartaglia tosses your fishing rod to the side and opens his arms to you. “Will you be mine?”

You let him pull you close, brows furrowing when the movement makes him stiffen. You rest a hand on his shoulder, feeling the bandages that deform his sweater.

“Of course, but please, please be more careful.”

“I love you, Lisichka, but I can’t make that promise.”

“I know. It was worth asking.”

As you start to doze in the safety, you can’t help but ask, “Why Lisichka?”

Ajax laughs, smiling into your hair. “Because, a teenage me had no other way to flirt with his best friend and you looked so cute playing in the snow.”

You join him in laughter. “I guess you win.”

“Oh?”

“I started running from you because I realized that I wanted it to be more.”

You yawn, eyes fluttering shut.

“Sleep, Lisichka. I will be here when you wake.”

[buqbite]

My thoughts here mainly revolve around YSA as the mary sue/female lead type character:

She goes from being this perfect woman to. just being a woman. And my idea is that the weight gain isn't there to make her "unconventionally attractive," or whatever other dumb phrase you wanna use to avoid calling someone ugly, but to make her conventionally attractive, yet realistic.

Instead of looking like a skinny waifu character, she looks like a skinny human woman. Her hair swaying in the nonexistent wind isn't as perfect, her magic blush is missing and she has eyebags. She's still hot, just more human.

[hajimeseyo]

(part 1 here! it's not required for reading this piece, but they are connected!)

The second time you meet Izana is completely unexpected.

You hadn’t expected to see the pretty boy from the convenience store anytime soon after your first meeting; sure, he had gotten your name and you had gotten his. But besides that, there wasn’t really any way for you to find each other, and it’s not like you were the type to go around to every high school in the vicinity looking for an ‘Izana’. You just figured that you’d see him when you see him.

You definitely weren’t expecting the next time you see him to be right outside your school gates, however.

“Izana?!” The exclamation draws the boy’s attention to you, along with the attention of nearly all the students nearby. You clamp your mouth shut, face reddening at the feeling of the curious glances sent your way.

“Hey, [name].” He greets you casually, as if he didn't just completely show up out of nowhere, at the place where you least expected him to be.

“What are you doing here?” A sudden thought strikes you. “You don't…go here, do you…?”

“No. I don't go to school at all.”

A snort of laughter escapes you before you can stop it.

He sends you a sharp smirk at that, pushing himself off where he was leaning against the bars of the school gate. “I'm here to pick up a certain someone from school.”

“Oh.” Disappointment flares up inside you, but you push it down. “I see. I didn’t know you knew anyone from my school! What a coincidence.”

“...”

“...?”

You tilt your head in confusion as he stares blankly at you, gaze unreadable and unmoving. Why was he staring at you? Did you say something wrong or–

“Oh!” The realization hits you all of a sudden. Your hand flies up to point at yourself. “Did you mean me???”

He finally moves again at that, nodding his head with a wry smile on his face.

“Oh!” You feel your face heat up again. “Sorry, I don't know why I thought it was someone else.” You rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I guess I wasn't expecting it to be me.”

He lets out a chuckle, hands smoothly swiping your school bag from your hands and slinging it over his shoulder before you can stop him. “If not you, then who?”

You roll your eyes jokingly. “I don't know, literally anybody else?”

“There's very few people that I would willingly make an effort to pick up.” He bends down slightly to your eye level, and your breath stutters a little at the sudden close up of his beautiful face. “You should consider yourself lucky.”

Recovering, you decide to play along, sending him a teasing smile. “Sure, whatever you say, pretty boy.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lips curling upwards. “Oh? I'm ‘pretty boy’ now?”

You giggle, a little bashfully. “Can I call you that?” You ask timidly, unsure of his preference towards the nickname.

His playful expression softens into something gentle. “You can call me anything you want, [name].”

Your heart skips a beat at the soft expression on his face, eyes never leaving yours, almost as if the look was meant for you and you only.

“Now,” He straightens up, snapping you out of whatever daze he put you in. “Let’s go.” He begins walking away, your bag still in his hand, and you hurriedly chase after him.

“Wait wait wait, go where??”

“There's this café I've been wanting to go to for a while now.” He casually replies, not paying your confused look any mind. “So we're going today.”

You could feel butterflies in your stomach.

Was this…?

His way of asking you out on a date…?

You quietly study the side of his face as the two of you walk alongside each other, eyes tracing over every line and bridge of the ethereal features that had captured your attention since the first time you caught a glance. His face is relaxed, almost peaceful.

…Well, whether it was or not, you suppose it doesn't really matter at the moment.

You fake a heavy sigh, although you can't help the smile creeping onto your face. “I suppose I don't have a say in the matter now, do I?”

He grins smugly. It's surprisingly cute.

“No, not really.”

After all, time will tell.

For now, you'll just enjoy this afternoon by his side.

("Wait a minute...how did you know which school I go to?"

"..."

"I-Izana???"

"...Don't worry about it 😁."

"IZANA???")

[popponn]

sometimes, you wondered if the 'i love you's you had said were enough. if he understood how much you mean to them. if he truly ever heard and took them with him, tucked in a secret corner in his heart.

you wonder, if he knows that you regret not saying it more to him.

"i..." you tried to tell the empty space in front of you. a space that had come to place itself in your life in a presence that resembles a puzzle's hole more than a crack.

something should have been there and you know more than anyone what it is—who it is. yet, it remained unfilled no matter how much you wish to reverse time back to a happier time.

you wish it was all meaningless. that all these thoughts are mere hauntings built up by your own fantasies and when you blink, he will be there. maybe he could smile, maybe he could feign a cool mask, but all the same, his finger would intertwine with yours.

maybe, he would take a step closer to you, bumping your shoulder. maybe, his eyes would stray and look around, while the heat from his body remains just next to you. maybe, full of concern, full of care, he will ask you, "what's wrong?"

but, it is mere wishful thinking.

from somewhere, the strangers' footsteps resounded in the distance and he was not by your side. it would have been like a penitence, like an admittance to no one. so, in the end, you swallowed all your words down.

"i love you," you wanted to say, "i truly do."

sae, ISAGI, nagi, chigiri, VIL, jack, deuce, cater, jade, cyno, al-haitham, zhongli, NEUVILLETTE, wriothesley, diluc, KAEYA, XIAO + your faves.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Obsessed with how pathetic you make Jim Guangyao look. The hat. I love it.

Don't let the smile and sweet words fool you, Jim Guangyao has lost everything in the divorce, and continues to lose.

[butchcarmy]

ALEXITHYMIA CH 3: nightmares, pepto, and fire

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 1 ch 2 ch 4

Chapter Rating: M (7.9k)

Chapter Summary: Carmy can't run from how he feels anymore. His dreams, his conversations with his coworkers and friends, everything is forcing him to face reality. Upon being pushed to his limits, he will finally have to start to speak the truth.

content tags: wet dreams, repressed carmy (as per usual), self deprecation, mental illness

A/N: Carmy gets a wet dream AND a nightmare this chapter! I'm putting him through the ringer babes… I had a lot of fun with the drama, interactions, and imagery this time. Also fun fact, this is the end of what I refer to as "Act 1" in my notes! Act 1 consists of repressed Carmy to the max, barely even acknowledging his feelings… but that's gonna change after this chapter :) enjoy!

After a torturous day at work, one that makes his limbs feel like lead, Carmy is more than relieved to see the door to his apartment. 

Surprisingly, though, it swings open without him even touching it. He's too tired to think twice about it. He steps inside, and the first thing he sees is his roommate. They're dressed exclusively in a black apron, just like they were that other night.

“Hi, Carmy,” they say quietly, and their makeup is messy and dark just like that night they were trashed. He remembers how he felt the first time he saw them like that, because he feels it now. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he hears himself saying. 

They walk up to him, and suddenly, they're on top of him. Their hands press gently against his tense shoulders. His back hits his bed, pillows under his neck. 

“You snooped through my stuff, didn't you?” Their hands move behind them to drop their apron, revealing skin, skin, and more skin. It goes on forever. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles half-heartedly, distracted by their nakedness. 

“Hm. I don't think you're all that sorry, but…that's okay.” They drag their hand down the center of his chest, slowly, teasingly, lovingly. “I wanted you to see.”

A bottle of lube materializes in their hand. 

“You did?”

“I did,” they whisper. They uncap the lube with a low pop, and suddenly, their skin is shiny with it. Carmy runs his hand down their chest, squeezing, and it's slippery to the touch. “You wanna see what I like to do with this?”

“Please,” he whispers back, breathless, desperate for it. They smile, and it doesn't quite look like them. Heat circles in his gut nonetheless. 

“You're so sweet,” they say quietly. “I love that about you.”

He can't respond, not with the way they're touching him. Not that he can come up with a response to that. The pleasure is like fire under his skin, hot, alive, and painful.

“Don't say that,” he pleads, and it feels so good. 

“Why not? It's how I really feel about you.”

Their mouth is on his neck now. He can barely breathe. A part of him worries that there's gonna be lipstick marks he'll have to get off again, but he honestly couldn't care less. He'll go to work covered in lipstick marks if he has to. 

“Shut up,” he tries again, but it's even weaker this time. 

I'm gonna end up hurting you, he wants to say, but he can't.

“Don't you like how good I can make you feel?” They lean up to seal their lips against his, and smoke fills his mouth. He takes it in like water. The high hits him immediately, along with the spike in pleasure.

“I'm close,” he whispers, bucking against their hand.

“Me too.” They straddle his waist then, a playful look in their eye. “I know just the thing…”

Just as they go to unbutton his jeans, an alarm screams into his ear, and his eyes fly open to see his bedroom ceiling. 

Stunned, he slams his hand down to shut up his alarm. He lays there in the silence, slowly processing everything. From the moment he woke up, his heart's been racing.

He moves to sit up, get a sip of water, and that's when he feels how sticky his boxers feel. 

“Motherfucker,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn't even have any water on his nightstand, and he just came in his sleep for the first time since highschool. “Shit.”

The shame is too much. He has to sit there for several more minutes in silence before getting himself clean. 

There are no words to express the emotion he feels as he changes his boxers and wipes himself down. It's a strange mixture of guilt, shock, and lingering arousal. He needs to make sure he doesn't think about it at work unless he wants to walk around with an obvious bulge in his pants. 

You need to head into work so you can stop thinking about it, he tells himself, to which he agrees.

He does his best not to think about it on his way to work, which only garners minimal success. In other words, it's a spectacular failure. It's a miracle he doesn't clock in with a poorly concealed boner, but there are other factors. 

For one, his nausea. It crept up on him soon after waking up, and it looks like it's here to stay. It's fine, though, because he's used to his stomach being fucked. His brain is on fire and so is the rest of his body—just as usual. He'll just take some pepto when he gets to work.

Except that when he reaches for it on the bathroom shelf, there is no pepto bottle. That's when he remembers the way he chugged the rest of it the week before. So the nausea remains.

When he arrives, the comments about the lipstick mark being gone is unavoidable. His irritation is also naturally unavoidable. His sour mood does him no favors. However, in a twisted sort of luck, he realizes they're behind on far too many things, and he hones in, focuses on nothing else. Everyone else is too swamped with work to keep up the teasing. 

The lunch rush is expectedly awful, especially with the swelling tensions in the kitchen. Everyone gets through it with minimal screaming. 

Staying busy is supposed to help. Keeping himself occupied is supposed to help, but the moment the lunch rush ends, the nausea hits him at full blast.

“You look like shit,” Richie kindly tells him. A ‘fuck off’ sits on the tip of Carmy's tongue, but so does the feeling of bile, rising in his throat. “Wow, you really are sick, aren't you?” He remarks at Carmy's lack of response. 

In as little words as possible, Carmy relays to everyone he'll be in his office. 

He keeps the lights off and the door cracked as he falls back onto his chair. The world around him seems to settle like sand. It's been a while since he's dealt with nausea this bad. He counts that as a blessing in itself. 

The darkness and the quiet is nice. It relaxes his body. On the flipside, though, there's no noise to overpower the thoughts he's running from. 

He closes his eyes, and he sees imprints of his dream. He feels their mouth on his neck, their voice in his ear, their hand on his—

Carmy slaps a hand on his forehead. Then, he sighs, dragging it slowly down his face. His stomach twists inward into itself. 

He thinks about seeing his reflection in the mirror last night. His skin was free from the lipstick mark that everyone was relentlessly teasing him about. And yet, he was struck with a profound sense of disappointment. 

You liked seeing it there, a voice somewhere hidden in him whispers. 

Carmy really feels like throwing up now. 

He settles in the darkness for a while longer until a notification lights up his screen, briefly illuminating the room with a low white light. 

His first instinct is to groan and flip his phone face down, which he follows about halfway through until he sees the contact name. 

The text message is from the person haunting his dreams and his waking life. 

- hey thinking abt cooking chicken and rice tonite or something. u want some??

Just when he was able to get a break from thinking about them. Just like that, they're orbiting his brain again. 

Visions of them jacking him off aside, he's unsure what to say. He doubts he's gonna be able to get anything down today. This isn't the first time something like this has happened on his end.

> maybe tmrw, stomach is fucked today. ill take leftovers if u make some

- oh no :( feel better man. u got medicine?

> no but its ok, ill take some after work

- but thats so far away!

He can't help but smile, even if looking at the screen isn’t making his nausea any better.

> ill be ok. ill make it

He’ll make it because he has to. No one else is gonna run the place for him. That’s a part of what makes him stand up, take in a breath, and return to the kitchen. The other part is the familiar distant sound of arguing. He slips his phone in his back pocket, stands up, and gets back to work. No matter how begrudgingly it may be.     

A number of problems quickly make themselves clear to him. First, the toilet’s busted again. Two, the plumber won’t be here for another three days. Three, the cash register isn’t working. Four, the meat order got delayed. Carmy doesn’t even wanna start worrying about that last one yet with how awful it’s gonna be.

“When is Fak gonna get here?” Carmy asks Richie. They’re stationed at the front, taking the lack of customers while they can.

“He said he'd be here soon.” Richie's fucking with the aforementioned cash register. Carmy’s leaning against the counter, watching him aggressively jam receipt paper into the machine out of the corner of his eye. It's refusing to print receipts again. “He said to tell you to not get your hopes up. He's not a plumber.”

“I know, but he's got the best chance of fixing the thing.”

“I'm telling ya, if you just let me fuck around with it—”

“You don't know how to fix a toilet by watching youtube tutorials,” Carmy mutters.

“So you wanna have to keep going across the street to take a piss?”

“Cousin—this is my restaurant, not your goddamn apartment—”

“Alright, then be my fuckin’ guest—”

He's so in the middle of arguing that he doesn't even hear the bell on the door ring when it opens. 

“Look, Fak's gonna be here in a couple minutes,” Carmy says, pinching his eyebrows together, “and then you can fight it out like alphas or whatever the fuck you were saying. Okay? God—”

When he straightens up, pushing himself off the counter and turning back towards the front, the last person he expected to see stands right in front of him.

They've got this bashful smile on their face, and their cheeks are flushed from the cold. Their hair sticks out from their beanie in a way that Carmy insists is not cute at all. Not one bit, not even the way it's messy when they yank it off. 

He also insists to himself that the color on their cheeks doesn't remind him of his dream. Not at all. Not even a little bit. No way. No matter how much the visuals are rampaging in his brain. 

“I was sorta worried I wasn't in the right place,” they admit. 

“What're you doing here?” Carmy blurts out, even though he immediately recognizes it for how rude it is. 

“Uh—” Nerves flash across their face. They hold up a little paper bag. “Sorry for just showing up, I just wanted to bring you some things.”

“No—don't apologize, I shouldn't have just…” He trails off, unable to find the words. He studies the bag in their hand. “Sorry. What did you bring?” He asks, softer this time. 

“I know this might be a bit much,” they clarify nervously. They walk up the counter and set the bag down before him. “It's just, you were saying that you weren't feeling well, and I was in the area doing some shopping…”

Carmy reaches inside and pulls out several things. The items reveal themselves to be a small, green bottle of papaya pills, a little bag of ginger candies, and most importantly, a bottle of bubblegum pink pepto bismol.

As he stares at the items, a tiny flower blossoms in his chest.

“You really didn't have to get all this,” he says softly after a beat of silence. He stares at the items for a moment longer before looking up at them. There's an odd feeling in his chest. 

“I wanted to. Seriously.” They still look oddly bashful, and it's captivating. “I mean, you helped me out a ton the other night, so…”

“You didn't owe me anything.” 

“Then consider it a gift.” Their smile so effortlessly dazzles him. “Unless I can't give you gifts?”

“Yeah—I mean, no, you—” Carmy fails to stifle a quiet laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. They so easily fluster him. “Thank you,” he says finally, remembering himself. “This is…really nice.”

“I hope it helps,” they reply, and he tells himself the color on their cheeks is still from the cold. He tells himself that they're the one that looked into his eyes first, so it's okay for him to look back. “If you end up not liking it or needing it, though, it’s fine. Do whatever you want with it.”

“No, I appreciate it. Thank you,” he says again. 

They're beautiful, he thinks all of a sudden, and the thought is so potent he can't hide from it for a single second. His anxiety tells him that they're gonna hear his thoughts if he keeps thinking so loudly. The bliss of tracing his eyes over their features is worth it. He's not sure if he feels any less nauseous, staring at their darling face like this, but he can't deny he likes the way this feels. His chest aches.

Then, the obnoxious noise of someone clearing their throat reminds him that they're not alone. 

“Cousin.” Carmy's head whips around. How could he forget that Richie was right there? It's incredible how silent Richie could be when he wants to. “You gonna introduce us?”

“Shit, right, uh—” Carmy fumbles, making a hand motion with no words to match. “This is my cousin Richie. And Richie, this is, uh, my roommate.”

Oh, how he's dreaded saying those words for reasons he will see in just a matter of seconds. 

“So you're the roommate!” Richie makes a big show of it, eyebrows raised in dramatic shock. 

“Yeah, that's me.” They shrug. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise. Can't believe you're roomin’ with this guy,” Richie says, slapping a hand on Carmy's shoulder. It is promptly shoved off. “Carmen's not an easy guy to be around, I know.”

“Oh, not at all! He's a great roommate.” Carmy feels the tips of his ears growing warm. 

“Really?” Richie gives him a skeptical look. “Who would've guessed.”

“Fuck off,” Carmy snaps, but the way he mumbles makes it lack any intensity. 

They don’t stay for long. Something about needing to run some more errands. A part of Carmy wants to keep them there somehow, although there’s no logical reason for that. If anything, the faster they’re out, the better. It gives Richie less time to say something scathing that ruins their perception of Carmy. 

Not that you need any help fucking yourself over, Carmy thinks to himself distantly. 

“Well, I hope the stuff helps.” They readjust their beanie on their head, pulling it over their ears. “I’ll see you at home?” 

“Yeah, I’ll see you,” he replies. “Thanks again.” 

“No problem. Bye!”

They wave to him and Richie as they leave. As soon as the bell above the door rings and they’re out of sight, Carmy feels Richie’s eyes on him. 

Actually, he feels a number of eyes on him. 

He turns around to see his fellow chefs peeking over the deli counter, standing in a row like a line of matryoshka dolls. They freeze when they see him, but they don’t make any move to run away. Absolutely remorseless. 

“Back to your stations, chefs,” Carmy scolds them, but his meak words are quickly overtaken by noise. 

“If the two of you aren’t dating, then what the fuck is this?” Richie picks up the paper bag full of medicine. “That was some sappy shit the two of you were pulling!”

“The two of you? What the fuck did I do?” Carmy spits back. 

“What the fuck did I do,” Richie imitates, rolling his eyes. “Fuckin’ goo-goo eyes over here wants to know what the fuck he was doing.” Carmy snatches the bag out of his hand.

“You were makin’ goo-goo eyes at them,” Marcus agrees. His elbows are propped up on the glass counter. 

“And if they’re bringing you medicine, it’s serious,” Tina adds with a sly grin. 

“There’s nothing to be serious about,” Carmy insists. He feels like a broken record. “We’re just friends.”

“Friends that kiss each other,” Sydney comments. “Right. Of course.” 

“We don’t—I’ve never—” He’s a tea kettle, and the lid on him is starting to rattle. “Chefs—”

“Cousin, loosen up already. Why you always gotta make shit so serious?” Richie throws an arm around his shoulder, but Carmy shoves it off. 

“Because this shit is none of your fuckin’ business. That goes for all of you!” Carmy whips around, gesturing accusingly with his hand at the line of chefs. “Get back to work! Now!”

A sad chorus of “Yes, chef” resounds, and everyone despondently trickles back to their stations. All except for Richie, who is not a chef. 

“They’re obviously into you,” Richie tries, and Carmy’s glare could burn two perfect circles into his face. 

“Drop it,” he hisses. 

“Why’re you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like a little bitch? You’re a pussy, Carmen. That’s what you are. A pussy—”

“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“No. Y’know what? I actually do have a clue, because I know you, Berzatto. You act like all that shit’s above you, but it’s not. And I’m tryin’ to do you a favor—”

“A favor? What fucking favor?” 

“I’m trying to help you get a fucking clue! That’s what! Because you’re too dense to see what’s right in front of you!”

“Richie, I happen to be doing just fine without your help. I don’t need whatever the fuck you think helping me is!”

“Then explain this to me. Explain this little thing to me, Carmen fucking Berzatto. You and Claire—”

“Richie. Don’t.”

“That could’ve been a good thing. A great thing. The two of you—”

“I told you—”

“You were obviously into each other, and yet—”

“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit!” 

There’s a rage threatening to spew out of him, lava coursing under his skin and in his head. Richie’s looking at him like he knows he’s right, but he’s not. He’s not right about Carmy. He’s not right about anything. Not about any of this. 

“Fak is on the scene! What is up, guys?” 

With comedic (or arguably tragic) timing, Fak bursts through the front door with his heavy tool bag on one hand. Carmy and Richie’s heads both snap to him when he arrives. Fak freezes in his steps. 

“Fak,” Carmy says. 

“Finally,” Richie mutters. “Slow ass.” 

“Uh…I’m getting the impression I shouldn’t be here right now. Should I be here right now?” Fak takes a step back towards the door. 

“Yes, I really need you to look at the toilet,” Carmy says. Richie is uncharacteristically quiet, but Carmy can’t stand to look at him. 

“If you say so.” Fak shrugs. “What’s the damage?” 

“Mild to severe, depending on how you look at it,” is Carmy’s dry response. 

The rest of the day, Carmy operates on autopilot. When he finally remembers to open the bottle of pepto, nausea surges in him at the sight of it. He manages to force it down. Miraculously, the toilet gets fixed, and even more miraculously, no one mentions the roommate again. Not even Richie. Although Carmy does sense how badly he wants to bring it up again. 

His stomach continues its incessant rampage throughout the rest of the day. Despite improving since the pepto, it’s still generally upset. This nausea leads him back to his care package again and again throughout the rest of the day. 

The ginger candies have a sharp flavor, maybe even a bit too much, but the sharpness grounds him. It also does admittedly dim the nausea. He wonders why he’s never bothered to keep him on his person. 

“Chef?” Carmy’s cleaning his station when he hears Syd next to him. It could only be her, anyway—the sun has set, and everyone else has gone home for the day. He perks his head up to see her concerned expression. 

“Chef,” he acknowledges back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Nothing wrong with me, I mean. I was actually wondering if, uh, you were okay?”

“Me?” The question surprises him. “Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Stomach’s better, so…”

“Oh, good.” She nods. “Stuff your roommate gave you working?”

“Yeah. It is.” He rolls the candy around on his tongue. “Hand me my knife?”

“Yeah.” She slides it over to him. “And, uh, I just wanted to say—I don’t mean to be nosy. I really don’t. Earlier, everyone was just gathered over the counter, and—”

“It’s fine.”

“I just wanted to see what the commotion was about—”

“Really, it’s fine,” he repeats, firmly. “They’re just like that, anyway.”

“I—Okay. Okay.” She exhales. “It’s just—y’know. I don’t wanna be an ass. I just…”

“You weren’t. You’re not.”

“I’m just…wondering about one thing.”

“...Yeah?”

“Why have you never invited them to family?”

“Family?” This question surprises him even more than the last. “Well, family’s for…family. Just the workers.”

“I mean, yeah. But, like, sometimes it’s not, right? Like, you let Marcus’ roommate come last week.”

“Marcus was on family anyway.”

“Sure. Right. You let me bring my friend recently, though.”

“You wanted to show her where you worked, didn’t you?” 

“And Fak has family with us almost, like, all the time.”

“Fak is Fak,” Carmy reasons, and Sydney can’t argue with that. 

“I don’t mean to be an ass,” she repeats. “I’m just curious.”

Right, he thinks. She asked a question. Why have I never brought them to family?

He’s never even considered it before. Bringing them to family. It’s not a habit to bring outsiders in, for lack of better wording, but it’s not necessarily off-limits, either. He doesn’t actually  mind when others bring people in. He trusts them not to bring in anyone stupid. Mostly. As for himself…

He’s never had anyone in his life to bring before. Ever. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I guess I just never thought about it.”

“Huh.”

“Wouldn’t it be…weird?”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I don’t know,” he says again, “I just…I just thought…” He sighs. “I didn’t wanna deal with Richie, but…”

“Little too late for that,” Sydney notes in amusement. 

“Little too late,” he echoes. 

“Well. I was just curious. Sorry if that was weird.”

“Why would it be weird?” He jokes, imitating her from earlier. 

“Shut up,” she shoots back with a grin. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s fine. It’s not weird.” He pauses for a moment, thinking about Richie. “Everyone else is an ass about it. Not you, though.”

“I try.” She grins. “I…I think everyone just gets excited because…it’s different. Seeing you with someone else like that.”

“Mm.” Carmy nods, and then pauses again. Lets it sink in. “Do I…” I shouldn’t ask this, he thinks, but he’s already started. It’s too late. “...Do I act differently?”

“Around them? Yeah. A little.”

“...” Carmy straightens up, taking a step back from his station. This is starting to feel weird. Really weird. “I do?”

“Kinda. You just seem…calmer, I think.” Sydney’s expression seems uncomfortable. “I dunno.”

“No, it’s fine. It was a dumb thing to ask.” Carmy’s making the executive decision to stop talking about this. “I gotta stay and sort through some stuff in the office, but you should head out for the night.”

“What, can’t afford to pay me overtime?” Sydney teases. Carmy rolls his eyes. 

“Partially,” he jokes back, although it’s not much of a joke. 

Nevertheless, it is almost 10 pm, so Sydney does indeed head out for the night. The whole place is eerily silent without anyone else there. There’s the sound of the rattling AC unit, noisy plumbing, and passing cars, but there’s a distinct lack of sizzling pans, knives against cutting boards, and shouting. It just feels strange, is all. 

Carmy barely remembers to replace the bottle of pepto in the bathroom before heading out. He puts the new bottle there on the shelf, and as he stares at it standing there, he considers putting other gifts there too. 

He returns to his office where the small bag of ginger candies and bottle of papaya pills sits. They’re seated on the corner of his desk. He goes to grab them, but for some reason, he doesn’t. They look like they belong there. 

Then consider it a gift, he remembers them saying earlier. Unless I can’t give you gifts? If you end up not liking it or needing it, though, it’s fine. Do whatever you want with it, he hears them saying again.

A certain possessiveness grips him then.

It was a gift, he tells himself. For me. No one else.

He decides to leave the candies and pills on his desk. Those will be just for him. 

When he finally gets home, it’s almost 12 am. He does his best to open the door carefully, but it’s as squeaky as ever. 

He’s greeted with a surprising, although not unusual sight. His roommate is curled up into a sleep ball on the couch, snuggled into the pillows and blankets. The tv is playing some youtube video essay about lost media from the early 2000s. All the lights in the apartment are off, leaving the only source of illumination to be the tv screen. 

Carmy carefully moves to turn the tv off. After he does, he turns to see if he’s woken them up. He hasn’t. They’re still in deep sleep. Very deep sleep, rather, with how they’re lightly snoring.  

That familiar ache he gets in his chest when he sees them makes itself known. It’s the ache that pulls him in, forcing him to sit on the floor next to the couch. It’s something beyond his will that makes him gaze at their peacefully sleeping face. 

His eyes trace their features like he was earlier when they stopped by The Beef, except this time, much more unabashedly. He takes note of the faint blemishes on their cheeks, the loose strands of hair in their face. The squish of their cheek against the pillows. 

Cute, he thinks to himself, not for the first time, and he’s too tired to push the feeling away. 

You’re different around them, he hears Sydney saying. Calmer.

I don’t know about that, he thinks. He absentmindedly brings a hand to brush their loose hairs out of their face. I don’t know how I feel when I’m around you. 

A part of him wonders if he should wake them up. The part of him that wins is the part that doesn’t want to disturb the peaceful look on their face. He wouldn’t want to upset them. 

He trudges into his bed instead, flopping wearily onto his mattress. It’s been a taxing day, right down to the moment he woke up this morning. His mind and body were both in shambles, and now, he’s exhausted.  

As he falls asleep, he distantly hopes for a dreamless night. 

. . . . .

“Where’s the olive oil? The pan’s heated. I need to start cooking the beef.”

Carmy stands before a pristine stainless steel pan. Next to him on the counter sits stuffed beef carefully wrapped in twine—beef braciole. 

“Guys,” he repeats, annoyed. “Guys, have you seen the olive oil?”

He turns to see Michael and his roommate sitting at a kitchen island. They’re both opening cans of San Marzano tomatoes, although it’s definitely not a two person job. 

“We haven’t seen it, Carmen,” Michael says. “Anyway, like I was saying—you should’ve seen his face. Really! When I told him I couldn’t work at the restaurant, it’s like I told him our dog died or something.”

“What I wouldn’t give to see that,” his roommate remarks, snickering and shaking their head. “Such a baby.”

Next to them, Carmy spots the bottle of olive oil. With a scowl, he snatches it. 

“Hurry up on those tomatoes, guys, I’m gonna need it real soon,” he reminds them, irritation growing. 

With the bottom of the pan coated in olive oil, he carefully places the beef into the pan. The sizzle is strangely whistle-like and high pitched. He inhales, searching for the smell of cooking meat and garlic, but he can’t seem to smell anything at all. 

“Did he cry?” They ask. 

“No, but he looked like he was going to,” Michael sneers, and the two of them are laughing again. 

“You wouldn’t wanna work with a guy like Carmy, anyway.”

“Exactly. Exactly. He doesn’t really get it, y’know. How much of a colossal fuck-up he is. I can see it in him, though. I didn’t have the heart to tell him then.”

“That’s okay. I don’t blame you. He probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

“He has no idea! And he thinks he’s fooling everyone so well, but the thing is—”

“He’s not.”

“He’s not! He’s really not.”

“Chefs, I need the tomato puree. Hand it over,” Carmy interrupts abruptly. When there’s no response, he turns around. They haven’t even opened one can of tomatoes yet. “Are you two fucking serious?”

They look at him, eyes wide, and then they’re laughing so hard they’re crying. They’re doubled over the counter, cackling and kicking their feet. 

“You’re too easy to fuck with, Carmen,” Michael gets out between chuckles. “You’ve always been like that.”

Carmy ignores him and reaches for a can of tomatoes. 

“Give me the fucking can opener,” Carmy snaps.

“Oh, you won’t need it,” his roommate answers.

As soon as Carmy grabs a can, it explodes in his face.

Puréed San Marzano tomatoes fill his hand and drip from his hair into his eyes. He steps back, staggered from the red explosion. Somehow it got all over him and  not on anything else.

“Fucking shit!” He wipes his eyes, and that’s when he remembers the beef. He rushes back to the pan. It needs tomato purée now. He lets the splattered tomato drip from his hands into the pan, filling it with sauce. It sizzles and smells like smoke.

“I could always see you for who you really were, y’know. I always knew,” Michael goes on. “I could always see it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Carmy snaps. The growing anxiety in his stomach is tightening his body and ejecting the words out. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s saying that you’re just not a good person. That’s all,” his roommate reasons. Carmy tries to keep his eyes focused on the beef, hastily spooning tomato over it. The pan’s still filling with puree. It’s overflowing. “You’re just the sort of person who will never change. Once broken, always broken, y’know what I mean?”

“If you’re not going to help, then fucking leave!” Carmy snaps, finally. He whirls around and wipes all the cans onto the floor. They explode in glorious unison, staining the floors red. “Just get out and stop getting in my fucking way!”

“But you don’t want me to leave, do you?”

“I don’t care what you do, I just need to finish this—“

“No, you care. You care if I like or hate you. You care if I stay or leave. You care about me, Carmy. You really care about me.”

“I don’t fucking care about you. I never have, and I never will.”

The beef’s burning on the pan. It’s all burning.

“Oh, Carmy…” Their arms are wrapped around his torso, squeezing him in a gentle hug. “It’s too late for you to say that sort of thing. Not anymore.”

All of a sudden, there’s a gush of wetness that soaks through his shirt. He pulls back, and their mouth is oozing tomato puree. In an instant, Carmy knows they’re dying.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses. “Fuck!”

“This is what happens,” they say, gargling through mouthfuls of puree.

“Why?” He asks.

“Because it’s you,” they answer, and Carmy wakes up.

He wakes up stumbling back from the stove by someone pulling on his shirt. The stove has pots and pans filled with flaming frozen food. He can feel the blazing heat against his skin. The orange flames are flicking off the steel pans and arch towards the ceiling, reaching. As Carmy stumbles back, he falls to the floor, barely managing to steady himself with the palms of his hands.

There’s the familiar sound of the fire extinguisher, spraying out into the base of the fire. Propped up on his elbows, Carmy watches the fire shrink with a thumping heart. His heartbeat marches in time with the tune of the fire alarm, piercing and high-pitched throughout the apartment. 

Carmy finally takes notes of his roommate, looking about as distressed as someone who just woke up to a fire in their own home. Their hair sticks up in several different directions as if they just woke up, which they…probably did. With a displeased grunt, they march over to the window to slam it open. The cloudy smoke compacted near the ceiling begins to trickle out. 

“Fucking hell,” they mutter under their breath, coughing from the smoke. They turn around to look at Carmy, expression twisted with stress. “Dude. What was that?”

“I,” Carmy starts, but the words just won’t come. He tries to move to get up, but his legs aren’t moving. 

“Carmy. Hey.” They lean down next to him, staring him in the eyes. He still doesn’t respond. “Carmen!” They snap, and he jolts. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he gets out. They help him up, wrapping his hand in theirs and yanking him upwards. 

“We should step outside while the smoke clears.” They cough as they move to grab their coat. 

“It’ll be fine, it’ll be gone in a couple minutes,” Carmy hears himself saying. He’s met with a blank stare. 

“So this has happened to you before?” They open their mouth, as if they’re about to say something else, but they shake their head. “No, we’re not staying in here. We may smoke everyday, but this isn’t good for us. C’mon.” 

He doesn’t quite feel his body moving as he grabs his wool jacket. He doesn’t feel it as he walks down the stairs, not even when he steps outside and the chilled night air whips at his face. He feels far, far away. 

After leaving the awful song of the fire alarm, the quiet of the night is uncharacteristically loud. If he listens closely, though, he can pick out the sound of their fire alarm, distantly ringing. Or maybe that’s just his tinnitus. 

The clicking sound of a lighter is what recenters him. He looks to his side to see them shakily holding a lighter up to their cigarette. After a couple more sparks, the flame lights.

They take a slow pull of it before wordlessly handing it to him. An olive branch of sorts. He takes it. They let the pool of smoke sit in their mouth, and then they exhale with a heavy, heavy sigh. 

“What happened back there, man?” They ask quietly. “That was…” They sigh again. “That scared the shit out of me,” they whisper, and that’s what makes it all finally settle in. 

Fuck, Carmy realizes with a pang. The realization starts in the pit of his stomach and drops lower and lower. Feeling returns to his body, and he feels cold inside and out. I really fucked up.

He can just imagine it—him, dead on his feet, sleepwalking into the kitchen. Grabbing the frozen food out of the freezer and turning the stove on high. Cooking nonsensically with plastic-wrapped chicken breasts and frozen peas. Too fucking asleep to stop the fire from starting, to stop the fire alarm that woke up his sleeping roommate on the couch.

“I used to sleepwalk, sometimes. When I was at culinary school,” he clarifies nervously. Shame douses him, coating him evenly like oil on a pan. “Or, sleepcook, I guess.”

He passes the cigarette back to them. They take it. 

“Shit,” they mutter. “Never heard of anyone doin’ that before.” 

“...Yeah. Me neither.”

The two of them are silent for a while before they speak again. 

“Carmy—why didn’t you tell me? That you—” They laugh dryly, full of irritation. He doesn’t like seeing anger on their face, hearing it in their voice. He doesn’t know if he’s ever heard them sound like this before. “That you’re prone to cooking in your sleep? Don’t you think that’s something I should know? As your roommate?”

“I—I didn’t mean to hide it,” he protests, even though he did.

“We could’ve really gotten hurt, y’know.”

“You’re right, I know, it’s just—it hadn’t happened in so long, so I just thought that I had, that I was…”

I thought I was getting better, he wants to say, but it’s stuck in his throat. It won’t come out. As per usual, he can’t get the words out. 

It always stays the same. 

“...” Strangely enough, their face  softens. “Must’ve been scary the first time.”

“What?” He wasn’t expecting their anger to dissipate so easily.

“The first time you caught yourself cooking your sleep. Were they all like this? With the fire and stuff?”

“Yeah. All the fire and stuff,” he confirms bitterly. A beat of silence. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. You shouldn’t have had to…put out a fire I made.”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay you almost burned our place down, but…” The end of the cigarette sizzles, bright and orange as they inhale. “It’s not like you did it on purpose, did you?” 

“Of course not,” he rushes to say, “I would never—”

“I’m just kidding with you,” they laugh. They exchange the cigarette again. “I know you didn’t.”

Impossible, Carmy thinks all of a sudden. The nicotine usually calms him, except not today. Not right now. This is impossible.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Carmy blurts out. He can’t compute seeing a smile on their face right now. 

“I am,” they say calmly. 

“Then why? Why are you—” There’s static in his head, fuzz filling his mouth. “Why aren’t you—you should be—fucking, I don’t know—why aren’t you yelling?”

“Do you want me to be shouting at you?” 

“No! I don’t want that, I just—I just don’t understand.” There’s blood rushing in his ears. “I fucked up, so just—just get it over with already!” 

“I—get what over with?”

“Just tell me that I’m a worthless piece of shit and that you were wrong for ever seeing anything good in me,” he spits out. His eyes feel hot. He doesn’t know where all these words are coming from. “I know you want to say it, so just get it over with. Please.”

A moment of silence, broken by the drive by of a car.

“...Is that really how you think I see you?”

“How could you not?” He laughs bitterly, shakes his head. Images of Michael flash in his head. “I’ve just somehow managed to convince you that I’m worth your time. I don’t know how, but…” Frustration surges inside of him. “But now you know,” he says, finally. 

So this is how it ends, he thinks to himself. I knew it couldn’t last. Nothing ever lasts. 

We’ll call it The Bear, he hears himself saying. Michael and him at Christmas. The drawing he made of the restaurant. 

Michael’s dead, he hears Sugar sobbing over the phone. Her voice is crackly and broken through the speakers. Please come home. Please.

You didn’t even show up for your brother fuckin’ funeral, he hears Richie screaming. Your own fucking brother, Carmen! What the ever living fuck is wrong with you?

This is great, Carmy, Michael says softly to him, the gifted drawing of their restaurant in his hands. The house is on fire. There's so much fire. Thank you.

They don’t say anything for a while, opting to instead smoke their cigarette and stare distantly across the street. When they finally turn to look at him, their gaze pierces him. It’s that look that strips him bare, lays his soul out open for them to pick apart. 

“You’re allowed to mess up on onions,” they say. 

“...What?” Is all he can think to reply. 

“When I was drunk, you told me about how you dropped some onions.”

“No, I remember, I just—why are you saying that now?”

“Because this fire is the same.” They tap the ash off their cigarette, the gray dust shattering in the wind. “People make mistakes, Carmy. It’s okay.”

“This is a lot worse than spilling some onions,” he reasons weakly. They just shrug. 

“Objectively speaking, sure. I can’t deny that. But that’s not really what I’m trying to say…” They hesitate. “Can I speak plainly?”

“Please,” Carmy begs. 

Two cars whiz by before they speak again. 

“I can’t change how you see yourself,” they start. “I’m the same way. I think almost everyone is. I know I can’t make you less hard on yourself. If anything, that’s part of what made you into such an incredible chef.” They exhale shakily. “But this…with me…I don’t want it to push me away.”

“...I don’t want you to get hurt,” he confesses, messily. This isn’t like him, but he can’t seem to stop talking. I care about you too much, he thinks painfully.  

“It’s impossible to go through life without hurting others. Look—I consider you a friend, Carmy. A good friend. And I thought you felt the same, but…”

“I do,” he interrupts urgently. “You’re one of the closest friends I have,” he confesses, and their smile is beautiful. 

…I didn’t mean to say all that, he thinks, startled by himself. That was supposed to be, “I think of you as a friend, too.” 

“Then fuck up some onions. You don’t have to be a perfect person. No one can be, and I don’t want you to be. Besides—I’m not stupid. You’re not tricking me about anything. I’m pretty good at making sound judgments of people.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were stupid,” he says quietly. 

“I know you didn’t.” They keep being gentle, so gentle. 

“I…I’m not used to this,” he admits, finally. He needs to be honest with them, regardless if saying the truth is  like coughing up glass. “You're a good person. Really good. More than I'm used to, to be honest. I think…I think a part of me doesn't wanna believe it.”

“Oh.” Their pink cheeks could very well be from the cold, or from something else. “I—well. Thank you. That's nice to hear. But, ah, do you think I have some dark alter ego or something?”

“No, not like that. It’s just—there’s always another shoe, isn’t there?”

“Another shoe…” They hum. “Yeah. Unless there isn’t.”

“That’d be a first,” he says, and they laugh. 

“True enough.” The distant sound of the train. “I'm not a perfect person, Carmy.”

“I know. I don't expect that.”

“Then stop expecting it from yourself.”

“...” He blinks, staggered by their bluntness. A million arguments begin and die on the tip of his tongue, but all of them feel as cheap as the last. He knows they're right, and there's not much room for argument there. “I'll try,” he says finally with a nod. It's all he can say.

“I say it like it's an easy thing to do. I know it's not.” Their smile is knowing, rueful. “I certainly haven't gotten over it myself.”

“You also…?” The implication lays silent in the air. They nod. “I’m sorry for starting a fire,” he apologizes again, because he feels like he has to. “And for…freaking out.”

“You are forgiven. But you don’t need to apologize for, like, having emotions. That’s fucked up.” They let out an abrupt bark of a laugh, and it makes him laugh, too. “Is it, like, a stress thing? The sleepcooking?”

You’re worthless, he suddenly hears a familiar voice saying. The head chef. You’d be better off dead. You don't deserve any of this.

“Usually,” he says simply. “I can’t really…predict when it’s gonna happen, though.”

“Unfortunate. I guess it’d be too easy if you could see it coming.” They put out their cigarette on the back of their lighter, flicking off the ash. “How are you doing now?”

“I’m fine,” he responds  instantly, all on instinct. “I’m…better,” he amends, and they look happy with that. “I should be asking you that. Are you alright?”

“Not gonna lie, it was pretty scary, but I’m okay. I can look back at it as a bonding experience.”

“A bonding experience,” Carmy mutters, half out of amusement and half out of disbelief. “I guess you’re not totally wrong.”

“Nobody got hurt, right? And next time, I'll be ready.”

“There shouldn't be a next time.”

“No, I suppose not. But there might be, and that's okay.”

“But—“ He stops. “I'm sorry.”

“I know.” They pat his back. 

“Do you wanna come to family tomorrow?” He blurts out. 

“Huh?” They say, which is a pretty reasonable response. “I mean, probably. What is it?”

“Right, sorry. It's, uh, a thing we do everyday at work. One of the chefs cooks dinner for everyone, and we eat together. It's a way to, ah…have everyone get along, I guess.”

“Oh, cool!”

“And I'll be the one cooking tomorrow,” he adds hastily. God, why is this so embarrassing? “So. Yeah. If you wanna come, then…”

“You mean I get to have your cooking? Of course I wanna come,” they reply, their expression brightening. Carmy's stomach twists inward, giddy. “Oh my god, yeah. As long as it's not weird that I'm there?”

“Not weird,” he promises. “We bring people all the time. Not too many, of course.”

Except for me, he thinks. I barely even eat family enough as it is, let alone ever bringing everyone. You're the only one.

“Okay. Okay!” They make a pleased noise, stepping excitedly in place. “Then I accept. What time should I come?”

“We eat before opening, so come in around 2. The door should be open.”

“Sounds good.” They stop then, fixing him with a puzzled, amused look. “You're not just doing this because of what just happened, are you? Although I guess it'd be cool if you were—”

“I'm not, I'm not. I just…wanted to.” He's not being very convincing. To be fair, it's only half of a lie. “But I will. Make this up to you, I mean.”

“I'm just teasing. You don’t have to, but I won’t stop you. And…thanks for inviting me, I'm looking forward to it.” They yawn suddenly, eyes scrunching shut. “Think we're good to head back in now?”

“Probably, yeah.” He checks his phone. It's 1 AM. “Sorry for keeping you up.”

“It's fine, really. Besides, I did this to you the other night. And, uh—Carmy?”

“...Yeah?”

“I'm really glad you think of me as a friend,” they say, and it sounds like a confession. “I feel super lucky to have a roommate that I can call my friend, too. I…just wanted to say that. 

There are countless unspoken sentiments that Carmy wishes he had the courage, the faith to say. I didn't know how important you were going to become to me, for instance. I don't know if I can go without your company anymore. I’m not sure if I've ever liked someone so much, and that terrifies me. I never wanted to admit how much I like you.

It's too much, far too much to say aloud, but at least, finally, he can admit it to himself.

It does not always have to stay the same.

“I feel really lucky, too,” Carmy says instead, and the words come easy, easier than they ever have before.

~

@zorrasucia

[viperwhispered]

I don't know about you, but I find shared baths deeply intimate. Mostly cause first you have to be very comfortable with the person you're bathing with and there's an intense feeling of safety that you boundaries will be respected.

Apply this to Jamil who is arguably the most paranoid man in all of TWST. Imagine he and his s/o are getting serious and Jamil is finally starting to really open up. It's also the stage where things are getting steamier, so to speak.

As both a sign of trust and a way to get used to each others naked bodies, the couple starts bathing together. The physical vulnerability of it since their both nude is further amplified since they have to wash/touch each other. That in itself requires a lot of trust.

Just imagine this: gently applying shampoo into Jamil's silky hair while he rants about his day, slowly revealing more about his past and insecurities. Then they switch and now the reader is the one opening up about their struggles while Jamil massages the soap onto their back. Kissing any scars they might have, talking about the most random things, playing with the water, and just enjoying this moment between Jamil and his beloved. Jamil is just so busy that he relishes being able to just enjoy their presence close to him.

There's also a strong desexualizing element. Jamil and the reader likely grew up with a notion that nudity is embarrassing and should only happen with a sexual partner. While this statement is technically true, they aren't in a sexual situation. They're trusting each other to respect their boundaries in such a way that the way they view each other goes from "potential sex object" to "a body that so happens to belong to my dearest".

Which further adds to my hot take of the "If evil why hot" route with OB!Jamil being pre-relationship.

Also, fun concept: washing away blot.

Imagine they're at the very end of the overblot Jamil boss fight. The phantom is defeated but there's still some blot left. So the reader pushes him into the river created by Kalim and holds him there as the water washes away the blot. When he starts calming down, they gently start rubing the blot off. Slowly trekking their fingers through his hair as the snakes dissappear. By the end they're left with an exhausted sulky wet Jamil. The reader then kisses his forehead as they wrap a towel around him.

Aww there definitely is a lot of potential for sweetness with stuff like this. I mean, having someone wash your hair, cleaning up together… It really can feel so intimate and vulnerable.

Now, I feel like I should add the caveat that I'm Finnish, so I'm fairly used to seeing other people's bodies in the sauna, for example, and the whole concept of nudity = sex is not quite so strong for me, personally. (Though personally I'm not likely to go to a mixed sauna, especially with strangers, but still.) So my perspective for the nudity aspect may be a little bit different, though I do definitely agree with these scenarios being intimate and potentially vulnerable. Like, you really do need to let your guard down to let someone see you bared like that, no hiding behind your clothes (or status) or anything else. Just, people, together.

Which definitely ties into that whole opening up for each other. We always tend to say that people are equal in the sauna, and it (perhaps surprisingly) is a good place for those deep, intimate conversations. So I can definitely see that same vibe for this bathing together, too.

Also just, the thought of squeezing into the tub together, trying to figure out how to adjust everyone's limbs and bodies so that you're both comfortable in there (and covered by water enough to actually get to enjoy it). One of you wrapping your arms around the other, holding them close, it's just… So sweet, and intimate, and also you kind of have to be “normal” about it to make it work (I don't really have the words for these vibes, just, yes it's intimate and vulnerable but at the same time you kinda just have to treat it as a normal thing if it's gonna work).

Just eugh I love this concept so much.

(Also now I'm definitely wondering how the twst guys would feel about sauna, perhaps even with the whole “run off naked to the lake to cool off a bit and then go enjoy some more heat” extra shebang.)

Oof that washing off blot, though… Oh it's going straight for my heart 😭 Just the whole I'm still here for you, I'm here taking care of you, let's wash away what happened (both literally and figuratively). Oh boy what a concept ripe for being picked apart.

(Also for some reason it's making me think of like washing off bodies for funerals, but in this particular case more in the sense of washing off the old self / what happened, something to allow rebirth or something. Or like, this could've destroyed him, but didn't. Idk, there's just so much one could do with this. Maybe it's just the talk of being washed in a river specifically that's making me think of like Lemminkäinen’s mother and all sorts of stuff.)

[maenjiro]

cookiE and cream 𖦹 headcanons

ft. wakasa x afab!reader

synop + cw: wakasa and his oral fixation aka pussy drunk wakasa is the best wakasa. oral (reader receiving) and everything that may come with that

a/n: hmu if this is any good

old news but this man has THE oral fixation

so he dives in, he takes without asking. anywhere, anytime no matter what.

the gym, mostly the changing rooms otherwise he knows his friend would give him shit for it also he really is trying to be more mindful of other people but again, he has no shame when he's hungry

his house, your house, any place you can have some alone time

he makes you wet with all the shit he’s saying about eating you out

might not even be something extremely dirty but he’s so straight forward he can make you pretty flustered.

gets all frantic when he needs his mouth on you but you're wasting time talking

might pin you against the wall and just get on his knees

lift one of your legs on his shoulder to have more access, closes his eyes and the first moan he lets out is pure bliss

your legs shaking will never be enough for him to stop

or on the bed when he's on top of you, this bitch would lower his head down to kiss you and stop abruptly smirking “whoops, wrong lips”

next thing you know he has your legs on his shoulder and is worshipping your cunt

the rare times he's not in a frenzy to have his tongue make circular motion between your folds he will spread them with his fingers and smile at the sight

low breathy moan against your pussy

moves his tongue like he's starving, he is pussy drunk and he shows it

makes sure his tongue is keeping you all wet and hot

he's messy yet very precise, he knows where to lick and how much pressure will make you see stars

also will prod at your hole with his thumb and keep teasing you around your entrance with feathery touch that will make you clench around nothing (the bastard will smirk against you)

soo i bet he has some tooth rotting nicknames for you and i swear i know he would non ironically call you oreo... and you would tell him to stop calling you that

and he looks at you almost offended “not when i have your legs spread open for me and i’m about to lick your cr-” either you cover your face with the pillow or push his head against your core

endless cycle of him sucking on your clit and poking it with his tongue

overstimulates you and he doesn't even do that on purpose he just loses tracks of time (will make you cum at least three times i'm sorry but i don't make the rules, he does)

you can't even pull away cause his grip on your legs is tight, holding onto your thighs for dear life not to spiral

i wouldn't be surprised if he ended up falling asleep between your thighs

[becca-e-barnes]

Hiii I have nothing to do at work so of course I have to day dream about different dark!Bucky scenarios (I do not condone cheating but this is really hot to me aaaa)😩 like imagine your husband and Bucky have always had an ongoing rivalry, They worked together, went to college together, hated every ounce of each other. One night you’re at the bar with your friends when Bucky comes over to you and buys you drink after drink after drink, taking you back to his house. He’s throwing you on his bed and ripping your clothes off, kissing you hungrily. “Get ready baby, this is gonna be much tougher than you’re used to.” “Please.” “Yeah? Is he not satisfying you baby? This pretty pussy deserves to be treated right, luckily I’m here now.” He’s so rough with you, fucking you harshly, the dirty talking is driving you crazy. He’s so cocky and cruel, bending you in several different positions and pounding into you for hours. If only you had seen the camera… (part 2??? Bucky making your husband watch the video 😭) -💒

This, a thousand times over 😵‍💫 and I can just imagine throwing all the stuff at him that you wouldn't dream of doing with your husband. Maybe your husband really doesn't let you explore your fantasies and if you've got one chance to do that, you're determined to take it.

Especially if Bucky is quite a bit rougher than you're used to while still being so respectful. He got the impression that you're not being fucked how you want to be and he wants to give you everything you dream of when you touch yourself. He's not necessarily rough with you because he wants to be. He's rough because that's what you want.

If he's feeling extra filthy too, he'd fuck you in the bed you share with your husband. You're on your hands and knees on the bed, presenting your glistening pussy to him, enjoying the sensation of him smearing your arousal over the tip of his cock.

"Fuck, do you know how bad I want this?" He hums quietly, trailing his leaking tip over your slick folds. "Do you know how badly I want to press inside you? You've made such a mess. Bet you feel like fuckin' Heaven and he doesn't even appreciate it."

With his free hand, Bucky grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing just enough that you feel it hurt.

"Don't want to rush this though." His tip lines up with your entrance, teasing the little fluttering hole and God, you're desperate. "I want to take my time. Want to make sure every time your head hits this pillow, you remember how it feels to have every. Last. Inch of me slip inside you."

You can't have him wait any longer though so you press your hips back onto him, feeling just the tip slide into you. "Good girl, that's it. Fuck yourself on me. You need this, don't you? You need to be fucked right for a change."

He's not wrong. You couldn't stop now, even if you wanted to so you keep going, taking all of him. The weight of him inside you is delightful.

"Oh God, you're perfect. You feel like you were made for me." He doesn't dare move. Instead, he takes a second to just enjoy the wet heat of your body and the snug fit of you around his cock.

"You are. A fucking. Dream." He tests the water with a few shallow thrusts, rutting his tip against the sweet spot inside you. You're so wet, you're convinced you must be dripping onto the sheets and your eyes roll back in your head at the very thought.

This is how sex is supposed to feel. You didn't think you could crave anyone the way you do now. "Buck, please." You whimper, rolling your hips back against him, pressing him as deep inside you as possible. "Don't be gentle."

You hear him groan and feel his fingertips trail down your spine, making you arch your back into the bed. "Is that what you need, sweetheart? Can tell just by looking at you that you need it hard and fast and rough tonight. I'll be gentle with you tomorrow morning, I promise. Gotta work some of that tension out of you first. Bet you haven't cum in months."

You don't like that he can tell so easily but you're not surprised either. The first sharp thrust knocks the air from your lungs but all you hear is a pathetic sob, followed by the crack of a hard spank to your ass and the blossoming, stinging pain he's inflicted.

You're not surprised that it only makes you wetter.

[nostalgia-tblr]

i nearly anon'd the thorki non-con fic out of SHAME but in two weeks it's become my third most clicked-on fic of the year, behind only a multichapter fic and a bit of angsty sifki porn lololol

[andersdotters]

Oddly enough, in terms of love languages, I don't think Diluc would have physical touch ranked at the bottom.

[cyarskj1899]

This was what made me the angriest because not one, not two, not three but FOUR of these men mentioned have been violent against women. Of COURSE they would get Tory to stand behind him because they believe he should still be afforded the public support they receive too. I want to ******* them all

[theskullkid]

HEY, BITCHES, LISTEN TO ME IF YOU’RE IN THE FUCKING MARKET FOR MAKING NSFW ASMR OR CONTENT ON YOUTUBE.

EITHER A), DON’T, AND MAKE A PATREON OR ONLYFANS AND DO IT THERE

OR B), AGE RESTRICT YOUR FUCKING SHIT.

I KNOW DOING THIS IN ALL CAPS MAKES ME SEEM EXTRAORDINARILY UNPROFESSIONAL BUT THIS IS A TOPIC IM VERY PASSIONATE ABOUT SO SIT YOUR FAT ASSES DOWN AND LISTEN FOR ONE FUCKING MINUTE YOU FREAKY BUFFOONS

YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THERE ARE MINORITIES ON YOUTUBE, RIGHT? YOU MAY THINK, “THEY CAN KNOW NOT TO CLICK ON THE VIDEO!” WELL, MAYBE SO, BUT CONSIDER THAT IF YOU HAVE AN ELEVEN OR TEN YEAR OLD THAT DOESN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK THE TITLE MEANS AND CLICKS ON IT OUT OF CURIOSITY, THEN WHATRE YOU GOING TO HAVE?

ITS THE FACT OF THE MATTER THAT YOU SHOULD WANT TO AGE RESTRICT YOUR SHIT. YOU WANT TO ENSURE THAT YOU REACH YOUR TARGET AUDIENCE AND NOT MINORITIES. EVEN IF YOU SAY 18+ IN THE TITLE, THATS NOT GOING TO CUT IT, ‘CAUSE THEY CAN STILL WATCH IT.

AGE RESTRICT YOUR SHIT. PLEASE. THIS IS COMING FROM A MINOR THAT DOESNT WANT TO SEE IT. WHETHER THE VIDEOS ARE LONG FORM OR SHORTS. BUT IF YOURE INTRIGUED IN MAKING THOSE KINDS OF CONTENT, YOU SHOULD REALLY GO IN THE WAY OF A PATREON. PLEASE. I BEG.

[pttucker]

To get this far, they had lost many things. "Joonghyuk-ssi! We leave it in your hands!" "Master! Hurry!" However, it wasn't as if they had been losing things only. Yoo Joonghyuk extended his hand out. The distance of just one person. The distance that couldn't have been bridged without the presence of just one person was finally being closed in. Yoo Joonghyuk's hand reached out while breaking past the letters. The sentences protecting Kim Dokja fell away one by one. The hand that experienced thousands of regressions tightly grabbed hold onto Kim Dokja's collars – as if to yank out the oldest memories from within. "It's time to go back, Kim Dokja."

AHHHHHHHHH!

Oh man, I love that Sooyoung had her own "I'm not the protagonist" realization moment just like Dokja had all those chapters ago. Just realizing that she's the writer, Dokja is the reader, and the best way for the writer to speak to the reader is through the character.

And so she summons Yoo Joonghyuk.

[stargazer-dreamer]

It’s on the Tip of My Tongue Chapter 1

character: yami sukehiro

content warnings: misunderstandings

reader: gender neutral; ring magic user

chapter list: 1 [you are here], 2

notes: also on ao3. 2k word count. pre-relationship (but we’re getting somewhere). part of the stoprewind verse

Your room, when presented to you, was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It took you a considerable while to feather and air it out—but you just couldn’t find the time to roll up your sleeves and get down to the dirt and grime of it all. Between that, imprinting locations with Finral, reviewing all your past and future responsibilities, and preparing for the transfer into the Black Bulls, you found little time to settle into your new home within the base.

You didn’t even get the chance to mingle with any of its other members, much less the captain himself. He talked real big, but you’ve hardly seen a glimpse of him all week. This frustrated you—he wandered in, in the middle of your day-to-day operations, uprooted your entire lifestyle, demanded you work under him specifically, yet he has not greeted you once. If he was going to be this sort of captain, he would have to earn your respect.

You, however, were finding a quick friend in the spatial mage—going from location to location got boring fairly quickly and, as polite as he was, he seemed to drop the act when Yami wasn’t looking.

“He works me to death! You know how hard it is managing funds while having to pay out property damages every other day, in between having to joyride him around the country? I have to do paperwork on the road!” Finral stepped through his own portal and waited patiently on the other side for you. “It’s the worst, really.”

There must have been a change to your expression, since he seemed to backtrack a little bit. “But it’s not so bad! Really! Now that you’re here, I’ll have more time to work through it!” He scratched at the back of the neck as his gaze traveled. A tilt of the head—like he was debating on saying his next words. “And he seemed pretty sincere when he said you’d only be doing the transportation thing. He usually leaves me to my own devices until he’s ready to head back or move locations, so you’ll probably get a lot of downtime…!”

He smiled at you, good-naturedly. “Lucky you.”

This did not help improve your quickly souring impression on the captain. You spared a moment to mark the area before moving on to the next. It turns out, Finral had well-over a hundred different locations he had imprinted upon, not including the local area—and the captain wanted you to retain all of them! The nerve!

Hardly ever having left your hometown, the sudden increase to your mental magic map took a little while to get used to; and with it rapidly expanding every day, it was a bit overwhelming, to say the least. Finral must have realized this early on, dividing up his list into digestible sections throughout the week—but the two of you were far from done yet. First came the important locations, then the common ones, next were the useful areas, followed by the more niche places…

Despite Yami’s command of all of Finral’s impressions, the two of you found no need to share his more personal locations, such as his family home and room back at the base. Those were for Finral specifically, and there was no need to hand over such keys.

As a seasoned spatial mage, his senses were naturally more adept at managing a mental map of the world; for you, it was far from the case. After going at it for a few hours, you found that you developed headaches that could only be mended with proper rest or mana-regaining methods, such as specialized drinks or medicine Finral would graciously provide. It was more of a nuisance than anything else—all you wanted to do was finish this first task, but you couldn’t handle the load.

That’s something you admired about Finral; he was a pretty capable mage.

The day finally arrived when the documents were properly filed; Captain Yami Sukehiro stood you in front of the rest of the squadron and introduced you properly—as properly as it seemed he could manage, at least—followed by a multitude of questions from everyone in the room.

Instead of navigating through the sea of voices yourself, the captain made short work of it for you. “No fighting, no hazing, no eating; you just ate, no looking at pictures, no one can hear you, no shopping—we’re busy.”

“We are?” you asked before he handed you, rather unceremoniously, the infamous black robe.

“Yes,” he replied, short, before addressing the squad once more. “This is my new ride, so I won’t be sharing. Finral’s still here, if you need quick transport.” You sputtered at his choice of words—his ride? Sharing?

“Oh! So you use spatial magic too?“ A starry-eyed boy inched closer. “That’s so cool! Can I see?”

“Oh, no,” you shook your head, but at his continued interest, showed him the band encircling one of your fingers anyway. Haunted by the memory of your shoddy escape the week prior, you started wearing multiple rings on both hands, in addition to keeping one tucked away in your grimoire pouch, just in case. “While I do use a form of spatial magic, I’m actually—”

“What did I just say?” You didn’t need to turn around to know who was towering behind you, the mana in the air stirring like crazy.

Despite that, the boy carried on, unfazed. “But sir! The use of any teleportation magic must take an incredible amount of control—”

“Which is why I need you to bugger off, so my ride can be in top condition for me. C’mon,” with a glance in your direction, he gestured with a jerk of the head and walked towards the front door.

Stepping outside in the dancing shadow of the trees, you were struck at the difference in lighting, how striking he really was. Out in the morning sunshine, you forgot the words you held for him for over a week. The blue morning glow of the waking sun didn’t do him justice, if this is what he truly looked like, underneath the new warm hue. The thin undershirt he wore did little to hide anything—especially since he chose to wear nothing over said shirt—skin all but bared to the world, in all it’s severe beauty.

He was a warrior alright and had the scars to match, crisscrossing his skin in rough patches; down his arms, across his shoulders, and up higher, to the one bisecting his brow, and the one set at the corner of his mouth.

To keep from staring at his lips, your eyes lowered to his jaw, and focused in on the stubble, down his neck, evolving into the hair leading to the peek of his toned chest underneath it all.

Suddenly, you felt the need for a cold drink. You spun a band circled around a finger. “Um,” you began. “Captain Yami Sukehiro?”

“Just Yami’s fine,” he said, and went to light a cigarette.

“Captain Yami,” you said instead, resulting in a click of his tongue and quirk of his brow. Actually just Yami, I guess. You’d work on it. For now, you were trying to remember what it was that you had been meaning to say to him.

He led you out here with some type of purpose. You stopped fretting with the robe in your hands. You had to speak your mind, first and foremost.

“Yami,” you met his eyes. Steel. Like his blade, you did not know how much power it hid. But you were not afraid. “You said you wanted me for my magic. You may be my captain now, but I do not intend to be taken advantage of. I will not be overworked.”

His reply was instantaneous. It was different than before, when he walked out of the alleyway; instead of his entire being, this laugh came from the chest—throwing his head back with the force of it. Your eyes widened, before it clicked. Before, you felt as if he was laughing at you—now, it was something different entirely.

He smiled at you, big and proud, and declared—“I like you.” Warmth welled up inside as a weight seemed to lift itself off of you; like the smoke rising from his lips. He lifted a hand and before you knew it, he was ruffling the hair atop your head. “I don’t give jobs to people who can’t handle it.” You blinked. “Don’t sweat it—you’re my ride. Simple as that.”

So what Finral told you was true. You were so lost in that thought, you didn’t notice Yami’s hand go to smooth out your hair, running down, until it stilled, cupping the side of your face. You felt warmth once more, but not from the inside. “What—what are you—”

“Getting to know one another, like I said we would.” Before you could piece together what he meant, he pinched at your cheek.

“Ack!”

“You’re too serious,” he said, like a statement. “You’ve been running around all week. Every time I tried to find you, you were off doing some other thing. When you were here, you were either off with Finral or busy in your room. When was I supposed to be with you?”

It sounded distinctly like a pout. You stood there, rubbing at your cheek, staring at him. Yami Sukehiro, with a plume of smoke surrounding him, trying to wave it away. Like a distraction. He shifted his feet. Put his hands in his pockets. Removed one to scratch at the back of his neck.

He clicked his tongue. The robe you had resumed fretting with was snatched from you, and before you could even process it, Yami’s hands were at your front, doing up the button and straightening up the hood around your shoulders. “You’re a Black Bull,” his eyes were downcast, focusing on his work. And then, quieter: “I said I wanted you.”

You remembered the alleyway, and the sun eclipsing him; his touch, and the way he held your hand. “Oh,” was all you could manage. The transfer was busy work. He must have not realized that. And when he gestured to your still fretting hands, all you could do was stare harder.

“You have more this time,” his hands went back into his pockets. “That’s good, for you.”

The subject change nearly gave you whiplash, despite the pause between. “Um, thanks?”

“Yeah. Anyways, mark this one too.”

It was a simple band. Black, with no embellishments; and when he tilted it in the light, it seemed to swallow the sunshine whole. Dark and—when you got a closer look—incredibly inviting. As you held it in your hand, you noticed it was lightweight. Sturdy, with a smooth finish. Whichever material it was made of felt powerful where it sat. Indestructible. It would not shatter so easily.

It was only after you marked it did you realize you’ve never imprinted upon a ring that didn’t belong to a family member.

After you were done, he slipped it on—left hand, ring finger. His non-dominate hand. A good choice, for his fighting style; he wouldn’t have to worry about changing the way he handled the grip of his sword. It would be out of the way, but at the ready if he needed it.

“There,” he said, with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You tried not to stare. “Had it made. Figured I’d need one for myself—your hands are puny.”

You sputtered. “Not everyone is as big as you!”

He carried on as if you didn’t say anything. “Thought maybe, if you gave me one of yours, I could wear it on a chain or something. But that seemed like a hassle, so this was what I got instead.”

He held his hand up to the light. One of the things Yami was known for was his magic attribute—it seemed fitting that he would choose an accessory that physically matched the aesthetic; though, you never would have guessed he cared about that sort of thing. A black hole, it claimed space for itself; tugging you in and pulling you within his reach. His hand was warm, when your fingers intertwined.

“It’s beautiful,” you told him. The compliment, however, got drowned out by another, more pressing noise.

“Attaboy, Captain!” someone cheered from an open window. Then, from someone at the front door—“I’m happy you found the perfect ring!”

You turned to see what seemed like the entire base crowded around each other in windows and the entranceway, making no effort to hide themselves as they watched the two of you.

“That’s the man’s way!” The man with the mohawk pumped his fist in the air. “Straightforward!”

The witch held up a bottle, “Let’s celebrate!”

The short one next to her nodded enthusiastically, “We’ll have a feast!”

The man with the hair covering his eye looked surprised. “So this is what they meant when they said Yami was after someone…”

It appeared, where you stood, that there had been a major misunderstanding. Rumors are already spreading in the workplace—on your first day, nonetheless! Involving your boss. Your mother had warned you to stay out of Black Bull scandals; but there you were, in front of the entire squadron, probably ruining Yami’s reputation even more. You dreaded the headlines already—the immigrant Magic Knight captain, abusing his position of authority. Alternatively: the rookie mage, a golddigger.

In your horror, you spotted Finral in the back. Meeting your eyes, he gave you a thumbs up.

“What are you bums doing standing around for?!” Yami charged forth. “Go find some work, all of you!”

Scrambling out of sight, the group dispersed rapidly. Based on the shielded grins and fading laughter, you did not think that reaction cleared up anything at all. What a start to the day.

[orcelito]

While I was amassing the word count estimates I ended up rereading some parts of discacc. Couldn't help it. I got distracted.

I reread the part where Goro pretends to be Ryuji while talking on the phone with Akira's sister. Still laughed out loud at that part. GOD I miss writing Goro so much.

I admit I did grow disillusioned with the fic given its large kudos count yet comparatively pitiful number of comments per update. Not the fault of the people who Did comment, obviously. I still treasure every comment that I did get. But idk it was just hard to write 15k+ word chapters for a fic that has 1.4k+ kudos... but only get Maybe 7 comments per update. If I was lucky.

With some exceptions. But overall it just felt like the vast majority of my readership was reading it thanklessly. And so I lost my passion for it. It just didn't feel like my work was appreciated enough (minus the handful who Did comment, you guys are lovely)

I've had to do some soul searching since I stopped updating. I'm going to be a different person entirely whenever I start writing again. And I WILL write again. Even if it takes me time.

I just need to write from a place of love and passion for the story Only. I need to not let the wish for recognition get into my head. Bc that's what killed my passion before. And I don't want to let that happen again.

I truly do love Discordant Accord. Someday, I'll continue it. And I will be writing it for *me.*