#Stranger Places

[butterflybuckethat]

Stranger Places

🦋 Masterlist 🦋

I'm back at it again trying to combat writer's block. Hope you like it!

Notes: Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader; Carmy finds you drunk in the bathroom of The Bear. (1.8k words)

Warnings: Slow burn, toxic ex-boyfriends, drunkenness

Chef Carmen Berzatto designed the restroom of The Bear as a complement to the main dining room, extending its warm minimalism to the wide sink basin, pale wood shelves and simple fixtures, all tied together by a signature scent of jasmine and oud. Not that you noticed any of this, your head being in the toilet and all. 

“Cousin!” Richie was forming a plan, which always meant bad news for Carmy. A line started forming outside the bathroom. “I told you we should’ve put in two.”

“Would you shut the fuck up, Richard?” Today was not the day. It had barely been a week since the deep freeze incident, and Carmy still felt shaky at the helm. They were half a turn behind.

“Fuck you, Carmen. How am I the only one taking this seriously?” 

“We need to focus.”

“No, we need to get whoever’s puking in the bathroom up outta there.” Carmy took a deep breath, forcing his gaze off the tickets. Richie continued, “if people think our food makes people sick...” His eyes blew wide, head bobbing, as if this were a foregone conclusion. “Okay?” 

Carmen looked at him, practically flinching when Sydney yelled “hands.” Lately, he had seriously been considering the thought that he was a bad person. He knew that Sydney was capable—in fact, he would proudly describe her as brilliant—but, after she took over for him that night, everyone else saw it too. And yet, he was reluctant to hand her his position. 

“This is big picture shit, Carm.” Richie said, softer this time, using Sugar’s words against him: some things are more important. 

“Syd,” he could barely look at her. She moved into his spot, as if it were the easiest thing in the entire world, and began arranging the tickets, yelling commands. Carmy balled his hands, pushing the air out of his lungs. He didn’t resent her, he just hated himself. “Do we still have those water guns?”

“Fuck,” you spat into the toilet. Everything was spinning. This was a new low, touching your forehead to a public toilet just to feel the cold porcelain, and you had no idea how you got here. You were drinking wine! You never got drunk from wine. At least, not like this. You hadn’t been this obliterated since college, the night Mark joined Sigma and introduced you to jungle juice. You retched again, just thinking about it. 

You tried to stand, digging your nails into the ridges between the subway tiles. But you stumbled, knocking into little decorative objects so meticulously placed on a shelf, and sunk back the floor. “Fuck.” You wanted to cry, but everything was so out of control. You tried focusing your sight on the now headless ceramic bear by your stockinged foot when there was an urgent knock on the door. 

“Hello?” It came in all muffled.

“Mark?” you responded; voice hoarse. The doorknob jiggled.

“Are you okay? Can you unlock—” the voice was drowned out by cheers in the rest of the restaurant.

“What?”

“Can you unlock the door?” he repeated louder. You crawled over on your hands and knees and turned the lock. The knob turned and the door cracked open.

“Wait!” You pushed it shut. He tried to open the door again but you leaned against it, hastily smoothing your hair and wiping the makeup from underneath your eyes. Mark had seen you worse but that was when you were still together. It’s different now. “Okay,” you slurred, scooting out of the way and letting him in. You looked up. “You’re not Mark.”

It was a hassle getting you into the office. Carmy had you by the waist, dodging the squirt guns and confetti that came with the impromptu surprise, while you stumbled and swayed in the opposite direction.

“I’ll be right back,” he reassured once he got you settled in a chair with a big bottle Pellegrino and an uneven slice of bread. Richie and the sommelier, Ernesto, were waiting for him outside.

“Nice,” Richie pointed to the puke that rubbed off from your dress onto his shirt.

“Whatever,” Carmy responded, deciding it wasn’t worth it to mention that Richie’s suit was half soaked and covered in glitter. “What’s up Ernesto?”

He looked to Richie first which made Carmen’s palms sweat. “They only ordered two bottles.” Ernesto spoke quietly, wringing a towel in his hands.

“They?” Carmy asked, patting the kid on the shoulder to try and ease his nerves.

“She was sitting with some guy.”

“Who is this guy?”

“How should I fucking know? It’s a woman’s name on the reservation.” Carmen wondered, not for the first time, if Richie was capable of speaking at a reasonable volume.

“I don’t know, ask him?”

“He left.” Ernesto added.

“Don’t you have a receipt, credit card, something?” 

“He ran.” Richie was practically giddy. “Look at this.” He carefully unwrapped two empty wine glasses from a linen napkin.

“What’s this CSI?” Carmy scoffed.

“Just look,” Richie lifted the first glass up to the light. “What do you see?”

“There’s a lipstick st—”

“There’s a lipstick stain, right.” Carmy was very quickly losing patience. “The girl clearly drank from this glass.”

“Can you get to the fucking point, please?”

“Look at his,” he held the second one up. “Notice anything?”

He squinted, searching for something to find, “No.”

“Exactly.” The glass was pristine, not even a smudge. “Thanks, Ernesto.” Richie dismissed.

“Wait,” Carmen stopped him. “You poured him a glass?”

“Both of them, yeah.”

 “And you kept pouring hers?”

 “No, he did all the pouring.”

 You felt like shit; your head was pounding. The seltzer had settled your stomach a bit but you couldn’t bring yourself to touch the bread. And, to make matters worse, you were surrounded by strangers, with puke on your favorite dress, and where the fuck was Mark?

 “How are you feeling?”

 You peeked through your fingers. Carmen. “Horrible. How do I look?” You began to stand, tentatively.

He let out a little laugh.

“Jesus, you’re laughing?” you asked, incredulous.

“No, of course not.” But he had this fucking smile on his face.

“What the fuck?” You did a little shimmy, tugging down your dress, and flipped your hair which did little more than make you woozy. “How about now?” you asked after steadying yourself on his desk.

His eyes raked over you. You watched them land on your thighs, the curve of your waist, your clavicle. “You look great.” 

You cleared your throat, hoping to mask the shiver that ran down your spine. “Great,” you said. You took a sip of the Pellegrino, swished it around your mouth and headed for the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Carmen outstretched his tattooed arms, blocking your path. Your eyes widened, suddenly understanding what a compromising situation you seem to have gotten yourself in. But he backed away immediately, taking a few steps out of your way. “I-I just meant…are you sure you’re feeling well enough?”

 “I’m here with someone,” you explained, shoulders relaxing.

“Yeah…”

How was he supposed to tell you? “I think you should sit,” he started.

“Did something happen to Mark?” Your eyes widened, “is he sick too?” 

Carmy felt an unexpected wave of rage. You were concerned for him? This fucking bastard “Mark?” “Please sit.”

He watched as you tugged the hem of your dress and sat primly. Carmy knelt in front of you, hands ghosting your calves. He was trying to be comforting which he had never really had to be before, being the youngest. He suddenly wished Sugar were around. “He left.”

“Left?” you repeated, crease forming between your brows.

“Ditched.” Carmy braced himself for your emotional fallout. But all that came was a bitter laugh.

“What a fucking asshole.”

He searched your face, looking for some kind of explanation. “First date?”

“That would be less embarrassing. Ex-boyfriend.” You leaned back, causing the leather to exhale.

“Did he do that often? Get you drunk and leave you with the bill?” Carmen didn’t mean for that to come out so bitter. He barely understood why he was getting so worked up over this. 

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry. Obviously, I’ll pay. I think my purse…” You just looked so helpless. You got a raw deal and Carmen just wanted to make sure you were okay. Big picture and all that. What kind of restaurant owner would he be if he just let shit like this happen at his place?

“No, that’s not- That’s not why I brought it up.” You looked at him. The color had returned to your cheeks, making your smudged makeup look less scary and more…hot. 

“Thank you,” you blushed. “I’ve caused you enough suffering, I’m sure. I should really get going.” There really wasn’t much he could offer you but he didn’t want you to leave.

“Are you hungry?”

Was this pathetic? To be letting the man whose restaurant you just violated cook you a grilled cheese? You had a distinct feeling you were engaging in behavior your mother warned you about.

“How do you want it cut?” Carmen asked, towel slung over his shoulder. 

“Triangles, please.”

“Excellent choice,” he mumbled. You couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders and biceps that strained the material of his perfect white shirt. He set the plate in front of you. “So, what happened with you and the guy?”

“Asking the hard questions first, huh?” You grabbed half of the sandwich, licking your lips at the stretch of the cheese, and pushed the rest of it towards Carmen.

“It’s for you.”

“We can’t share?” He picked up the other half and took a bite, making you smile. But it was short lived, he pressed the question. “I don’t know. We dated.”

“How long?”

“Five years.” You shrugged, as if it were nothing. This was a practiced movement; one you’d perfected for a while now. 

“Oh.” Carmen put the sandwich down.

“It’s been two years,” you assured. “It’s not like— It’s not like I’m still in love with him or something.”

“Then why’d you meet up with him?” 

“What’s with the third degree?” You got down from where you were sitting on the counter. The Bear had long closed and you and Carmen were the only ones left in the kitchen. “You don’t even know me.”

“Your puke on my shirt feels pretty fucking personal.” His voice was soft, not a hint of anger or frustration. He looked tired all of a sudden, like he lost something.

“You don’t even know my name.” You spoke quietly and he inched closer, wanting to hear you. You could smell the candle, the jasmine and oud, faint on him.

“I know your name.”

“Yeah, what is it?” He was taller than you; not by much, but enough that you had to tilt you head to look him in the eyes. Bright blue.

“Milly.”

You were just staring at him, for a while, a mix of shock and confusion on your face. Did he do something wrong? “What did I say?” He asked, placing his palm on your waist.

“I should go.” You pulled away from him. Carmy wanted to pull you back but you were already halfway across the room. He could’ve kicked himself.

“I’m sorry,” he followed, watching you move things around the office. You were unsteady on your heels. Carmen rushed to help support you but you recoiled, like his touch burned. He apologized again. “Can I help you?”

“No, I got it.” You said, pulling your clutch out from behind a stack of bills.

“Can I at least take you home?” He offered, now standing on your far opposite.

“Uber.” You shook your phone. You weren’t unkind. He was a stranger after all, but he could’ve cried anyways. You made your way to the front of the restaurant, your Uber came quick. “Thanks for your help, Carmen. And the meal.” You pushed the door open, a burst of cold Chicago air cut through him.

“I’m sorry, Milly.”

“That’s not my name.” And you were gone.

Part II

[rosetintmyworld84]

People watching the Acolyte

[underthecanyonmoonx]

No because why did he look so good in this scene specifically. Like all he’s doing is opening a cabinet to grab spaghettiOs and he looks unbelievable. The fluffiness of his hair? His face. I never see anyone talk about this.

[toktopus-art]

happy halloween 👻 it's haunted house time again

[kidovna]

angels, demons, and halloween through the years

For @bylerween prompts for day 3 & 5 (young and old byler, costume contest)

[hailsatanacab]

Family Dinners - dpxdc

"Holy shit, you're Bruce Wayne!" Danny gaped, jabbing a finger at the man sitting at the head of the table.

The bustling dining room goes silent as everyone turns to look at him.

"Danny, who did you think was going to be here?" Tim asks, disbelief plain in his voice and Danny feels his face flush red.

"Sorry, I, uh, I guess I just never put it together. Tim Drake-Wayne. Wayne Manor. It, uh, makes sense now." He laughs sheepishly and scrubs at his neck before slumping back down into his chair.

"Well," Tim says with an indulgent sigh, "at least I know you're not just friends with me for my connections."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry, I just never thought about it, I guess."

Danny sinks lower as everyone around him laughs. Come to dinner, he said, the food is the best, he said, ignore the family, he said. Danny really wishes he'd listened to Tim and just ignored them—almost as much as he's regretting accepting the offer in the first place—but... he's having dinner with Batman.

Ancients, that's so weird!

The last time he saw Batman was in the future and, suffice it to say, it was not going well. There hadn't really been time for family dinners there.

Wait. Family dinners?

He peers around the table, openly gawking at everyone as it all clicks into place.

"Everything alright, Danny? Now realising who everyone else is?" Tim asks with a roll of his eyes.

"Uh... something like that..." Danny mumbles as everyone laughs again.

From further down the table, the smallest Wayne scoffs and clicks his tongue.

"I thought you said he was smart, Drake?"

"So, you all do it, too, then?" he asks, ignoring the jibe. Danny's only a little bit jealous as he thinks of how much easier they must have it, how much easier it'd be if his family had been on his side, too. "You all work together?"

"Nah," Dick says from across the table with a brilliant grin. "Tim's the only one that works with Bruce, we all have different jobs. I'm a police officer in Bludhaven."

"Disgusting." Danny blurts out without thinking—because seriously, what kind of self-respecting vigilante would also be a police officer?—before clapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry."

The whole table laughs again, the loudest being the blonde girl a few spaces down from Dick. Look, Danny wasn't really paying attention to names when they were all paraded in front of him. Dick only gets remembered because his name is a joke.

Come on, Danny, recover!

"That's, uh, not what I meant, though."

"Oh?" Dick asks, cocking his head slightly to the side. Is it Danny's imagination or does his smile tense slightly?

"Yeah, I mean like, you know, in costume. It must make it so much easier to have everyone together like this."

"Costume? What do you mean?"

Yeah, Danny's not imagining it, everyone tenses up at that. It's really only now that he's realising that this probably isn't how he should bring up that he knows about their... night time activities. In fact, he probably shouldn't be bringing it up at all.

"Uuhhh..." Danny looks wildly around the table as he continues making his stupid noise. Think, think, think! There must be a way out of this!

"Danny?" Tim asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, Ancients, this isn't how I wanted it to go at all," he mutters, slipping even further into his chair. He's almost on the floor now and he so, so wishes it could just swallow him up.

His real first meeting with Batman was meant to be cool! He had planned to be Phantom, maybe save them from a tight spot, prove his worth as a mysterious and powerful ally as thanks for the help Batman gave him in the future.

"Danny, what are you talking about?" Tim starts tugging on his sleeve in an attempt to pull him back up from his pit of despair.

Eventually, Danny relents and sits up straighter, hiding his face in his hands and whining all the while.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't expect him to be here and it threw me off so now I look stupid and it's so embarrassing!" he wails, flailing his arms wide. "Why wouldn't you warn me that Batman was your adopted dad, Tim? Couldn't you have let me know?"

"I'm sorry, what? Danny are you alright? There's no way Bruce can be Batman, look at him!"

"Yeah," the blonde girl laughs from the bottom of the table, "look at him! That's a wet noodle of a man! Batman can actually do things, B is incapable of pretty much everything."

"Thank you, Stephanie," Bruce sighs, massaging his forehead.

It's... Those are the first words Danny's heard Batman say since everything went down and it's enough to knock him out of his embarrassment.

It's really good to hear his voice again. Especially now, when it's strong and healthy and full of personality—even if that personality is little more than a tired father right now—far better than how it had been, at the end.

Danny sits up, back straight, and grins. He's got this. He remembers it perfectly. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, Danny repeats his mantra to be certain that he'll never forget it.

"Gamma alpha upsilon tau iota mu epsilon, 42, 63, 28, 1 colon 65 dash 9."

Once again, the whole table falls into silence.

"Holy shit..." breathes the other D name (Duke? Danny's pretty sure he's Signal) from opposite Stephanie. "Isn't that...?"

"The time travelling code." The littlest Wayne says stiffly. "We have met in the future?"

"That's not just the time travelling code, Dami." Dick says, looking between Danny and Bruce. "That's the family time travelling code."

Danny's grin freezes in place.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"1 colon 65 dash 9." Dick explains, still flicking between him and Bruce. "It means you've been adopted into the family and we should all treat you as such, no questions asked."

"Tell you what, I'm about to ask a question." Danny says, dumbstruck. "You just told me it was a code to identify time travellers, not anything about being adopted! What the hell, B?"

Bruce looks about as shellshocked as Danny feels.

"We must have been close," he says finally, after opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water a few times.

"No! Not that close!" Danny reels back, taking a deep breath ready to refute it all, but... "Well, I mean, you found me when I first got stuck, and you helped me get better despite being... And then we fought together against the, uh, bad guy, before he, um, he... before you couldn't."

An uncomfortable beat passes while they all pick up on what Danny tried so hard not to say.

"So, you're not from the future, then, you travelled there and came back?" Tim asks, breaking the tension and leaning forward with a glint in his eye.

"Yeah, it was a whole end of the world thing, but don't worry about it," Danny says with a hand wave, "It's all kosher now, won't ever happen."

"What did happen?"

"Seriously, don't worry about it, we cool."

"How long in the future was it?"

"About ten years? You were pretty spry for an old man, B," Danny laughs, wishing they'd get off the topic of what happened and get back to the adoption bit.

Everyone shares degrees of a cautious smile as they relax out of the shock, and Dick—whose grin is the biggest—says, "No wonder you got the family code, you're already riffing on him like one of us. How long were you there for?"

"A week, before I managed to get back to my present and stop him then."

"A week? Jeez, B, that has to set some kind of record, seriously."

"Oh!" Danny says, sitting bolt upright and blinking in surprise before pointing at Dick and bouncing in his seat. "You're Nightwing!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what Nightwing said when Batman told me the code! Makes so much more sense now."

Dick laughs and claps his hands, delighted.

"You were not formally adopted?" The grumpy small one—Dami?—asks, his face pinched.

"I didn't even know I was informally adopted."

"And your parents? Are they alive or dead?"

"Damian, stop—"

"They were dead in the future, but they're alive now." Danny says, looking down. He fiddles with the tablecloth, twisting the fabric around his fingers as he fights down the pang of sadness that he always feels when he thinks of them now. He forces a bright smile on his face and hopes it doesn’t look too strained. "I just, uh, can't talk to them much, anymore."

"Damian," Dick warns, "1 colon 65 dash 9. Treat them as family, no questions asked."

"This is Damian treating him as family, the little turd has no manners." Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he gently bumps shoulders with Danny to knock him out of his funk. Danny can't help but send him a watery smile.

"I have the most exemplary manners, Drake, unlike some people." Damian spits, crossing his arms with a pout. "I was merely ascertaining his status to see how he could possibly fit into the family."

"I know this is all a bit sudden, Danny," Bruce smiles, ignoring Damian and reaching out to lay a warm hand on his arm, "for all of us. But if I felt strongly enough to give you that code after spending a week with you in the future, then you are more than welcome in this family, if you so choose it. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we'd like to get to know you a bit more."

"I know a threat when I hear it, Bruce." Danny snorts. "But, yeah, I get it. I'm sorry this is all so weird, it really wasn't how I wanted to find you again, but... I'm glad I did."

"So are we, Danny." Dick says, with a warm smile. "And formally or not, 1 colon 65 dash 9 means you're family. Welcome to the fun house! No take backs or refunds, sorry. You're stuck with us."

[swampybogg]

[anniebass]

high spice tolerance, my ass

(old man smut)

[munsongirly]

New Joseph Quinn photoshoot by Grace Difford for GQ Hype. 📷: british gq.

[definitelynotsipandshare]

nothing new just joseph quinn casually saving his costars from situations.

[hellfire--cult]

Joe and Lupita in the Glambot

[butterflybuckethat]

Stranger Places ✶ Part II

Part I - 🦋 Masterlist 🦋

Notes: Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader; Carmy finds you drunk in the bathroom of The Bear. (1.6k words)

Warnings: Slow burn

You cupped your hands against the glass windows of The Bear. This felt like a never-ending nightmare, as if Dante’s Inferno was set in Chicago, as if the sky had fallen and you were the only one still trapped on Earth. It took all of twenty minutes after you left last night to discover that you had lost your watch, but you couldn’t go back, not when you knew he was still there. You figured now, at 6:30am, was a reasonable time not to run into him.

The restaurant was spotless, no trace of the confetti or glitter you had attempted to dodge on your way out, and completely empty. If you had left literally anything else you owned you probably would have abandoned it but of course it had to be your watch, your most prized possession. So you went around back.

Sleepless nights were not uncommon for Carmy; plagued with recurring nightmares, the exhaustion often felt more tolerable. This was not the reason he didn’t go home last night. He couldn’t get you out of his head. 

He really didn’t know anything about you, not anything he could use to find you. Except for that name, Milly. 

As morally questionable as the White Pages are, they did prove useful. It turned out that there were very few Milly’s in the Chicago area under the age of 80; two, in fact. “Are you still there?” This was one.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” he said, juggling the duct taped landline and his pack of smokes. He had already been stuck in this conversation for fifteen minutes. He didn’t mind listening to her story, he had disrupted her morning after all; that is, until it turned into a pitch for Mary Kay. “I’m not really into makeup.”

“That’s alright sweetie. It has nothing to do with that.”

You froze as you rounded the corner to the back alley, there he was. You watched as he spoke into the phone, lit cigarette in his mouth. Even with the bags under his eyes and mussed hair, he looked great. You could always come back, you supposed, but there was something that pulled you toward him. A sense of familiarity, of attraction.

He nearly dropped the phone when he saw you, barely catching it as his posture straightened. You looked so different from last night in jeans and an oversized sweater. You were beautiful and fresh faced and Carmen felt a strange relief wash over him. You greeted him with a wave and a tight-lipped smile. 

“I didn’t think I would see you again,” he said.

“I lost my watch.” You held up your empty wrist as proof, sleeve pooling at your elbow, and he gestured for you to come inside. “You can finish your phone call.” It took him a second to understand what you meant.

“Oh shit!” A burst of laughter spilled from your lips and it swelled in his chest. “I gotta go,” he spoke into the phone and hung up without waiting for a response.

Carmen ignored the guilt he felt on his hands and knees as he “helped” you search for the watch, acting as if he hadn’t meticulously cleaned every inch of The Bear just a few hours earlier. The watch wasn’t there and he was stalling your journey towards finding it but he just needed more before he could officially let you go. He wanted answers, he told himself, to the convoluted mystery you seemed to be at the center of. That was all.

“I still don’t know your name.”

“Why do you need to know it?” 

His curiosity overrode your curt response, “I figure we’re trauma bonded now.”

“I traumatized you?” 

“Well, you certainly made an impression,” he teased, emboldened by the upward twitch of your lips.

You told him your name and he knew he would never forget it. 

You weren’t sure how he convinced you to stay for breakfast. Somewhere between his goofy smile and a twirl of your hair, you agreed. 

You could hear the steady chop of Carmen’s knife as you went to search the restroom. You hesitated at the threshold, dread flooding your system. 

 “Where did you get the name Milly from?” you asked, honestly just looking for a distraction. 

“It was the name your reservation was under.” You jumped, not realizing he was behind you. He must have noticed your apprehension because he wrapped his hand around the crook of your elbow, leading you away. “Your watch isn’t in there,” he confessed, explaining the nightly cleanings. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I didn’t tell you sooner…” You analyzed his face, looking for anything malicious or dishonest, but found nothing but open sincerity. “I just- I just didn’t want you to leave yet.” 

Carmy, suddenly feeling very much like an open wound, went to check his quiche. He was almost hoping for a disaster, anything to distract from what a fool he’s been, but it was perfect. “I actually might have found Milly’s number, though!” He couldn’t help himself, grabbing the home phone from where he left it, he peeled up the post-it with the second name, Milly Walker, and began dialing. He could fix this for you. You might not find the watch, but at least he could give you some answers. The phone rang in his ear and he offered you a soft smile, putting it on speaker. 

You were growing increasingly nervous. There was something you weren’t saying. Ring! Ring! It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Carmen because, weirdly enough, you did. It’s just, you left all this behind. Ring! Ring! You could practically hear your therapist's voice asking why you even went out with Mark if that were true. Ring! Ring! Your lips parted. Ring! Ring! “I actually know who she is, Milly.”

“Hello?” You lunged at Carmen, trying to get the phone. You both fell, landline skittering away, batteries popped and rolling in opposite directions. 

“Do you think it hung up?” you whispered. 

“Yeah, I would say so.” His laugh was low and breathy. Butterflies bloomed in your chest at the realization of his proximity. “You’re beautiful,” he said. 

You tentatively touched his chin, trailing your fingers up his jaw. This was all so fast and way too good to be true. “You know nothing about me.”

“I don’t need to.” His voice was hoarse, eyes locked on your lips. You leaned in, prepared to set aside all your hurt and pain for just this one moment, and—

Ring! Ring!

You jumped, startled, away from Carmen and onto the linoleum floor. You stared at the phone, batteries still removed. “It’s alive.”

“We have another one,” Carmen said, amused, helping you stand. You followed him to the second phone, further into the kitchen, next to a bunch a hanging printouts of pastries and movie stills and more. 

You watched Carmen adjust his clothes and his hair as if the person on the other end of the line was going to see him. You giggled, only a little, and he gave you a sheepish smile in return. You didn’t really date anymore, not really, not since Mark. It was just too difficult, the awkward first dates, one night stands that never turned into more, the managing of trust issues… So you decided, no more dating just to date. If you wanted to be with someone then that was who you would be with—that was almost a year and a half ago and no one seemed worthy. But maybe Carmen was. 

Carmy picked up the phone, completely unable to tear his eyes from you. He still couldn’t believe you came back that morning, like that was a sign or something—not that he believed in things like that.

“The Bear. This is Carmen.”

“Ugh, thank god you called back.”

“Is something burning?” You whispered. Carmy furrowed his brows. The quiche!

“I’m sorry, who is this?” He was distracted, rushing to pull his slightly charred quiche Lorraine out of the oven. He covered the receiver, trying to mask your laughter. 

“I spoke to Natalie a couple weeks ago about catering my wedding rehearsal?”

What the hell? Since when did they do  catering? He poked you in the side before running to grab a pen and pad.

“My fiancé loved the pasta course so we were thinking that that could be the main focus, like elevated comfort food.”

“Okay, I made a note of that and will call back to confirm.” He was not going to agree to shit until he talked to Sugar. 

“Oh, don’t you want the date?”

“Uh sure, yeah.”

“It’s in two weeks, on Saturday.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Milly Walker.”

[natpetittblog]

Joseph Quinn is the REAL scream queen, let’s be honest here

[solarmorrigan]

Saw someone mention how Steve tends to get defensive when he's anxious and it stuck with me, so here's my take on the "Steve breaks a dish and has a panic attack about it" trope

cw: descriptions of nonstandard panic attack, implied/referenced child abuse

-

The distinct sound of shattering porcelain is followed by a vehemently hissed, “shit,” and then silence.

“Steve?” Eddie calls from the couch into the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve calls back, but his voice sounds tight in the way it does when something definitely isn’t okay.

Eddie pushes himself up and moves to the doorway, looking in to see what the trouble is. The kitchen of the house he and Wayne had been “gifted” by the government isn’t exactly huge, and he has a straight line of sight to where Steve is standing by the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and to the red and white shards of porcelain on the floor by his feet.

“Hey,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t look up; if anything, his posture only gets tenser. “You’re not cut or anything, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, and his tone is still a little off, but he doesn’t sound like he’s lying.

“What was that, anyway?” Eddie asks.

Finally, Steve takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes, looking down at the mess on the laminate. “Mug.”

As soon as he says it, Eddie recognizes the colors for what the design must have been. “Shit, the Campbell’s one?”

Steve doesn’t say a word, just gives one sharp nod.

Eddie sucks a hiss of breath in through his teeth. “Shit,” he says again. “That was Wayne’s favorite.”

“I know,” Steve says tersely. “I’m sorry.”

His tone is definitely weird. “I mean, I’m sure it was an accident, Steve–” Eddie starts.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, almost snapping this time. “I’ll clean it up.”

“O-kay,” Eddie says slowly, watching as Steve jerks into motion and moves over to the corner where they stash the broom and dust pan.

“I’ll apologize to Wayne when he gets home,” Steve says as he starts sweeping up, even though Eddie hasn’t said a word.

“He gets home at, like, six in the morning.”

“I’ll make sure I’m up,” Steve says shortly.

“Steve, you can just tell him what happened later, he’s not going to stand around demanding an explanation. I mean, seriously, you think Wayne is gonna be pissed if you’re not there, immediately scraping at his feet when he comes through the door?” Eddie scoffs, but Steve remains silent. Eddie watches as he finishes sweeping in short, sharp motions, brows pulling together as Steve apparently fails to pick up on the joke. “…he won’t be, y’know.”

Steve shrugs. His expression has gone eerily blank, and he takes the dustpan over to the garbage can to dump it.

“Hey, don’t–” Eddie reaches out, and Steve jerks to a stop just in time. “You don’t have to toss it, man, we might be able to glue it back together.”

Steve sends Eddie a sharp look. “I’m not gonna be able to hide that it was broken, Eddie,” he says slowly, as though this should be painfully obvious.

“I’m not suggesting we hide it, I’m just saying we might still be able to use it,” Eddie answers in the same slow manner. “It’s not junk until you’re sure you can’t fix it.”

“Right,” Steve snaps, dropping the dustpan on the counter so sharply that the shards of porcelain clink against each other. “Can’t even clean up right.”

Eddie frowns, stirrings of defensiveness rising up in his gut at Steve’s continued sour mood. “I didn’t say that. I just said we might be able to fix it.”

“Fine. We’ll try to fix it,” Steve bites out, turning away from Eddie so he can put the broom back in the corner.

Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to engage with whatever snit Steve’s got himself worked into. “What happened, anyway?” he asks instead.

Apparently, this is the wrong tactic.

“What happened is, I’m too stupid to even do the dishes right,” Steve declares as he whirls back around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“What?” Eddie is baffled, suddenly caught in the middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized was happening. “No! Why would I want to hear that?”

Steve throws his arms up, a demonstration of giving in. “Well I already said I’m sorry, and I am, and I don’t know what else you want from me!”

The heat of Eddie’s own temper is beginning to flare, but he does his best to shake it away because he still doesn’t know what the hell is going on and he doesn’t think getting angry will help. “I don’t want anything else from you! Why are you acting like I’m yelling at you? I’m not, I’m not even upset about the stupid mug, so what the hell is your deal?”

He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, reaching out for Steve, hoping just to touch some part of him. Physical contact has always been grounding, has always been a comfort for them both; it almost seems like they can communicate better if they can just be in contact somehow. Instead of reaching back, though, Steve tenses up; it’s not exactly a flinch, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself, as if he’s waiting for Eddie to–

Eddie takes in the painfully blank expression on Steve’s pale face, the way his chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that he can’t quite seem to control, the way he’s angled himself just slightly away from Eddie, and suddenly Eddie feels cold.

It’s as if he’s waiting for Eddie to hit him.

Eddie wonders how the hell he hadn’t realized he was walking through a minefield until he was already standing in the middle of it.

(It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Steve’s anxiety, his panic, tends to look more like anger. That he tends to lash out like a wounded animal when he feels backed into a corner, hurt too many times in moments of vulnerability to do otherwise.)

(It takes him by surprise, but he’s learning.)

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, dropping his hand slowly back to his side, “I’m not angry.”

Steve stares at him, almost confused, like Eddie’s not doing it right, like this isn’t what’s supposed to come next. Eddie sort of wants to break something (he thinks, briefly, that he’d like to start with the fingers on Mr. Harrington’s right hand, and then move on to his left).

“It’s just a mug, Steve, it’s okay. No one’s upset about it,” Eddie says. “I’m preemptively speaking for Wayne, because I know he’s not gonna be mad at you. Seriously, getting upset over a broken cup? Does that sound like something Wayne would do?”

Slowly, once he seems to realize that Eddie is waiting for an answer, Steve shakes his head.

“Does that sound like something I would do?” Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head again, though he’s still watching Eddie with something approaching trepidation.

“I promise it’s fine. I’m not angry,” Eddie repeats, and chances a couple of steps closer to Steve.

Steve doesn’t react this time, no tensing, no flinching, no verbally lashing out, and so Eddie lifts a hand again, reaching slowly for Steve’s. Steve lets him.

When he gets his fingers wrapped around Steve’s own, Eddie can feel how cold they’ve gone, can feel the fine tremble of adrenaline working through them, and can’t quite choke down the noise of sympathy in his throat. He tugs on Steve’s hand.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, invites him by lifting his other arm, but leaves it up to Steve.

It only takes a moment for Steve to step in close, and when Eddie lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders, Steve reciprocates by cinching his own arms tight around Eddie’s waist. He takes one sharp breath, and then another, and Eddie can hear the way they shake going in and out.

“There you go,” Eddie says quietly, rubbing Steve’s back.

“I just dropped it,” Steve says, his voice a little hoarse. “It was an accident.”

“I know it was,” Eddie assures him. “It’s okay.”

“It was an accident,” Steve says again, and Eddie wonders how often someone has believed him – how often he’d ever even been given a chance to explain.

“It was an accident,” Eddie agrees. “You’re okay, Steve.”

Steve lets out a little noise, like maybe he’s trying to laugh, but then he pulls in another shuddery breath and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay.”

In a little bit, Eddie might lead Steve to sit down on the couch, or maybe just take them both up to bed, because fuck doing the dishes after this anyway; he’ll make sure to leave a note for Wayne about the mug (ask him not to bring it up until Steve does, to not even jokingly make a thing about it), but for now, he concentrates on holding Steve close.

He’ll stand with him as long as it takes for the shaking to stop, for his breathing to even out, for him to relax even just a little against Eddie, and he'll promise, as many times as Steve needs to hear it, that it’s okay. Things will be okay.

[Prompt: Embracing your partner]

[cheddaryouthanme]

Hockey RPF writers being known across fandoms as literary masters

When I first started reading MattDrai fics on AO3 I remember thinking “wait what the HELL is going on why is this the most consistently well-written fanfiction I’ve read in any fandom? Is this a thing? Do people know??” And apparently it is and they do.

[madelynraemunson]

joe breaking the fourth wall is so fucking funny to me PLEASE