#bc it’s not really fanfiction lol

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[butchcarmy]

Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link, ch 2

Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets. 

Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship

A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DON’T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!

You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.

The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.

You're sure you could’ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.

After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful. 

You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low. 

You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume. 

“When would you be able to start?” Some of the workers asked. 

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer. 

“If all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,” was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore. 

“Thanks for your time,” you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop. 

Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.

That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner was…pretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger. 

The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead. 

“Welcome,” he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on. 

“Hi. Um…” You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. “I was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.”

“We are,” he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though. 

“Thank god,” you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, and—”

“I'm the owner,” he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.

“Sorry?” You repeat. “I swear it was this guy—he had short dark hair, I think—”

“Yeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.” He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing. 

“Oh. Got it. Uh…” To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. “Here's my resume, then.”

He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back. 

“You worked as a prep cook.” He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question. 

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.”

“Right. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?”

“Uh…” They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. “They were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least it’s only half of a lie.                                                                                                                    

“How do you work under pressure?”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Well enough.”

“Willing to learn?”

“Obviously. I mean…” You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. “Yeah.”

“When'd you be able to start?” You're surprised he's already asking this.

“Tomorrow,” you say, just like you’ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign. 

Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen. 

“Uh,” he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in. 

“I told you, you have to say behind!” A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.

“How the hell did you not hear me coming?” A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. “I was in the middle of having a conversation with Tina—”

“Great, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to waste—”

“Well, who's fault is that?”

“Who's fault is that? You did not just—”

“Guys!” The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. “I'm tryin’ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.”

Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think. 

“Carmy, talk some sense into her,” the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. “All of this on the floor—”

“You didn't say behind,” the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.

“You didn't say behind,” he imitates back. “Carmy—”

“She’s right. Richie, step out,” Carmy says. “Syd, you clean this up.”

“But—” You hear her start to protest. 

“You spilled it, you clean it,” he cuts through, decisive and firm.

“I know, but Richie—”

“Clean it,” he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence. 

“...Yes, chef.”

“I told you to step out,” Carmy tells who you assume is Richie. 

“You're just gonna let her—”

“Step the fuck outside right fucking now!” Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. “Do the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!”

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front. 

“I'm sorry about that. Fucking—” He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. “What was I saying?”

“Um, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,” you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out. 

“Right. Okay. Uh—” He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. “You're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.”

“What?” You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. “I mean, I'm just surprised.”

“Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. “Y-Yeah, I want the job.”

“Good.” He motions towards the sticky note again. “Come in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.” The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. “Thank you so much.” I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you. 

“Thank you,” he echoes back. “We need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway. 

So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them. 

I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong. 

You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture. 

You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to. 

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions. 

At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.

“They’re working with us starting today,” Carmy tells everyone. “They’re gonna be on prep.”

Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.

The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide. 

Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angel—everyone seems to be pretty alright. It’s obvious they’re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. You’re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that you’re particularly unsure on.

The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didn’t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that he’s not even a chef. At least you won’t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.

Tina is next. She clearly doesn’t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and she’s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, she’s close to the rest of the staff since they’ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn she’s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to you…eventually.

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.

“You’re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when it’s done, it goes on the first shelf.” Carmy’s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, but… “You should already know this, but label everything. I don’t want to see anything without a date. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” you confirm, snapping out of it. He’s been flinging new information at you like it’s a war and he’s gunning to survive. But so are you. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect as such.” He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. “It’s just a stock, so don’t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesn’t look good.” You nod. “Been a year or so since you did this, right?”

“Yeah. I cook regularly, but I’ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,” you add hastily. “I’ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?” You ask, nudging a large plastic container. 

“Correct.” A brief smile flashes across his face. “You're already following quicker than I thought you would.” You’re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter. 

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

“I know.” His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh.  He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. “Show me a rough dice.”

The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour. 

It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off. 

“Not my best work,” you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.

“It'll do.” You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. “I'll be back to check in on you later.”

You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list. 

Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift. 

There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from it’s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

“I am trying to find this cutting board, will someone please—”

You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline. 

Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice. 

“Clean your station, chef.” Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself. 

“Sorry, chef,” you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. “So, uh, do we get 30's here?”

When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there. 

Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep. 

You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge of…something. 

“You finished the prep he gave you, right?” Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. “Yeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?”

“He didn't,” you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her. 

“Asshole.” She makes a shooing motion at you then. “Go, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.”

You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break. 

As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen. 

This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” Other than everything.

“Really?” His surprise just pisses you off further. “Well, that's good.”

“...Yeah.” You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth. 

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.” 

You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. “I didn't even notice.”

“Let's get a bandaid on that.” He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. “I have some in my office.”

That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.

“Thought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,” Carmy comments. 

“It was sharp,” you correct. “Guess I just fucked up.”

“It happens,” he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. “Let me see the cut.”

You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm. 

He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you. 

He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose. 

“Is that too tight?” He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place. 

“No, it's okay.” You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses. 

“Good.” You don’t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely it’s just to secure it further…surely.

“Thank you.” He’s still holding your hand. You’re unsure if you’re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“It’s easier if another person does it.” He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. “Did you finish prepping for the stock?”

“What you gave me, yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look at it, then,” he says, like that isn’t the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve ever heard. 

“R-Right now?”

“As opposed to?” He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. “Come on.”

You don’t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.

“I’ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, don’t fucking treat them like this,” Carmy shouts, trudging over to someone’s station. “You see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Don’t—“

“Stop going into my office when I’m not there,” Carmy hisses at Richie next. “You keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I can’t find anything! It’s enough of a mess as it is! No—I said—cousin, listen to me—“

“Everyone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!” Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment. 

The difference in sound is eerie. You’re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.

“Is this the prep you did today?” Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, it’s the one you placed there a moment ago.

“Yeah, it is.” You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

“What?” You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. “You told me to put it on the first shelf.”

“It goes on the second shelf.” He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. “I told you—second shelf.”

“You literally said it went on the first shelf.” The ice has melted, and it's boiling. 

“No, I didn't.” You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. “And you forgot to label it.”

“Shit.” That, you did forget. You’re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. “I'm sorry, I was—”

“We always need stuff like this to be labeled,” he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. “I told you.”

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

“It’s my first fucking day!” You snap, finally, and it’s like a firecracker in the dead of night. “I don’t expect to be coddled, but I’ve only been here for a couple hours, and you’re just—“

“I told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didn’t do either of those things.” This is a different type of anger. It’s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, it’s trembling at the edges. 

“You literally hired me yesterday!” You’re exasperated. “You looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and you’re mad that I’m messing up?”

“You had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?”

“It is true! You just have to give me a chance first!”

“I just gave you a chance,” Carmy snaps back, “and you fucked it up.”

“Oh my god. I just—“ You take a step back. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

“Are you quitting already?”

“I wasn’t going to.” You move towards the door. “But maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.”

You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesn’t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time. 

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. “Guys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?”

“Carmen?” Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. “It's not fuckin’ budging!”

“Fuck,” Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. “Call Fak!”

“I already did! He’s gonna be here in 20!”

“20 minutes?!” Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. “Don't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!”

“Why do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!”

“Tell him to hurry the fuck up,” Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends. 

“Just what I needed right now,” you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. “To be locked in a room with you.”

It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.

“...I do want you, y'know.”

“You—huh?” He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination. 

“We need you here.” He's still not looking at you. “This place—it's fucked.  We don't have enough hands.”

“I can tell,” you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so. 

“I want you here. I do.” He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. “I need you.”

“Can you at least look at me when you say it?” 

You’re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you. 

“I want you,” he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. “I need you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.

“Are you gonna do better?” You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?

“I’m gonna do better,” you whisper, “if you stop being such an asshole.”

“It won't happen again,” he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is. 

You don't really care, though. 

His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.  

“Okay,” you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him. 

Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important. 

“I saw you staring at my hands today,” Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. “Yesterday, too.”

“What the—no you didn't,” you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, “how did you—?”

“You're right. I didn't,” he admits with a cheeky grin. You’re really gonna punch him now. 

“God, you're just,” you mutter, “you're such an asshole.”

“I know.” At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is. 

“What're you…?” His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away. 

“Tell me you want this.” Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. “If you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.”

I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want. 

“I want this,” you murmur. “Touch me. Please.”

“Good,” Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. “That's what I thought.”

His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.

“Oh,” you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.

“You're wet.” The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. “When did this happen?”

“Fuck you is when,” you bite back, but it's all bark. “I don't know.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. “All you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?”

“I—” His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. “Don't ask me a question and then touch me like that,” you hiss, horribly turned on.

“Mm, sorry.” It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. “I didn't mean to.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive. 

“Then don't. I don't care what you think of me.” You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.

“You—why—do you want me to beg or something?” Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.

“It wouldn't hurt,” he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.

“Is that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?” 

Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm. 

You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.

“You're already begging,” he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.

That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that you’re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You can’t help the way his fingers are making you moan.

“More,” you plead, “give me another, I can take it.” Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” he says lowly when you keep moaning. “They’re gonna hear you.” 

“I—I’m trying,” you whine. You’re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. “Your fingers—“

“You’re the one who asked for more.” He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. “You said you could take it, so here’s what’s gonna happen.” His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. “You’re gonna come on my fingers, and you’re gonna be quiet. Understand?”

You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmy’s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. He’s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.

To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But there’s only so much you can do when he’s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. You’re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled.  Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingers—that’s what you listen to as you come.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing down tight,” Carmy hisses, and for an irrational second  you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.

You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. It’s too bad your orgasm is so potent you can’t think at all.

You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. It’s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat that’s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but you’re hot, far too hot. You don’t remember the last time you’ve finished this hard.

He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.

His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You're about to complain, something along the lines of “was that really necessary”, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.

“Don't,” you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.

“Good,” Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.

You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead. 

God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth. 

“Let me touch you,” you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers in—anyway. 

“It's fine. I don't need it.” He's oddly cagey all of a sudden. 

“Let me return the favor, please,” you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.

Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head. 

“Yeah, I'm still in here,” Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. “About fuckin’ time!”

“You're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!”

“It's not just me in here, Fak.” A beat of silence. “Are you opening it?”

“Am I fucking—Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!”

That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you. 

“Sorry for getting us stuck in here.” The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. “Shitty first day, huh?”

“It's cool. It's not your fault.” Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. “Kinda shitty though, yeah.”

“Yeah.” He sighs again. “If you wanna leave, I don't blame you.”

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

“You're not,” he says quickly. “But I'm—this place is a shitshow.” You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. “So if you wanna take off, just…” He shrugs. “Just go.”

Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice. 

But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.

Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that. 

Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at. 

“Almost done!” Fak shouts. “Just one more hinge!”

“Heard,” Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. “So? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?”

Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bit—that's all you would need.

“I'm staying,” you tell him. “I need to pay rent, after all.”

Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.

“Right. Of course.” There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. “After this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.”

“Okay, sounds good,” you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.

“There should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.” The door's shifting. “But before that…” He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?

“W-What?”

“Get a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.” Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. “You need to keep your apron clean, chef.”

YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.

But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door. 

“Yes, chef,” you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.

~

@zorrasucia

[rafeandonlyrafe]

country club bathroom part 4

words: 800

warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, protected sex

part one / part two / part three / part four

you feel giggly, giddy as rafe has his arm around your shoulder, walking you towards tanneyhill.

you're so out of it, so excited and distracted by the sudden public display of affection that you don't even realize there are other cars sitting in the driveway until you're inside, coming face to face with ward cameron in the entryway.

“this is y/n.” rafe says. he doesn't use any label, but it's clear from how your arm is around his waist, gripping his side, that you're more than friends.

“y/n…” ward mumbles the name, trying to place why you look familiar. “don't you work at the country club?”

“yeah.” you nod, not sure what else to say as the silence stretches, until rafe breaks it by clearing his throat.

“we are uh, seeing each other.” he leaves it at that. 

“boyfriend girlfriend?” ward asks, making you stifle a giggle as you look at rafe, his cheeks turning pink, still embarrassed at being caught by his parent, even if he is a grown adult.

“i mean we haven't worked out the labels yet…” rafe mumbles.

“yes, sir.” you stop rafes rambling. “boyfriend girlfriend.”

“alright…” wards eyes flicker between the two of you. “be safe.” he says before walking away, your eyes widening when you realize what he means.

rafe hurries you up to his room after that, not wanting to encounter any of his other family members.

“did you mean what you said?” rafe cups your cheeks, pressing a peck against your forehead, then nose, then lips.

“about being your girlfriend? i mean you haven't asked me yet sooo…” you mumble, making your intentions clear.

“be my girlfriend? ive known country club workers who have dated members before, as long as it's serious they never get in any trouble.”

your heart warms a little at rafe considering your job, not wanting you to lose what he knows is a precious source of income for you.

“yes.” you nod. “yes, of course ill be your girlfriend.”

“perfect.” rafe hums, pulling you towards his bed. you kick your shoes off before you crawl up, slotting yourself on rafes lap as he lays against the pillows.

“want you so bad.” he mumbles, grabbing your hips and pushing them down into his crotch, dragging you back and forth so you can feel every inch of his length, even through the layers of clothing.

“yeah?” you smirk, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. “because you have me.”

the words send rafe into a spiral, instantly flipping you over, and before you know it, you are both naked, rafe having ripped both of your clothes off, his cock now sliding through your folds, only willing to tease you and take it slow now that you're both naked.

“remember what ward said.” you manage to gasp out, even as the head of his cock pushes against your clit. “be safe.”

“right, fuck.” rafe has to pull away to reach into his bedside table, to grab out a condom.

you take the foil from him the second it's within reach, smirking as you place it between your teeth to rip the packaging open. 

reaching down, you slide it over his length, suddenly looking a lot bigger now that he's going inside of your cunt instead of just in your mouth.

“fuck, your hands are so good.” rafes eyes shut as he hovers over you, your hand stroking up and down his cock. you smile at his clearly blissed out expression that you've seen so many times before. you angle his cock to line it up with your entrance, hand falling away when he begins to push his hips forward.

“oh fuck.” you whine out, arms wrapping around rafes shoulders as you tug him closer. he is slow to bury his cock inside of you, wanting to make sure you have plenty of time to adjust to make up for his lack foreplay, but he just couldn't wait to get inside you.

“m… more. it's okay.” you mumble. “i can take it.”

“mmm, you sure pretty girl?” rafe asks, a smirk playing on his face. when you nod and raise your hips slightly, rafe takes it as his sign, suddenly speeding up and deepening his thrusts. 

“shh, shh.” rafe presses his lips against yours when you moan a little too loud. “the walls aren't completely soundproof.”

he knows you're probably fine, but with sarahs room next door, he doesn't want to take any chances and get caught.

“sorry.” you whimper, still moaning but managing to keep it quieter, even when rafe reaches down and rubs his fingers over your clit, already knowing just how you like it from all the times in the country club bathroom where he flipped up your skirt to touch you.

“gonna have to fuck you somewhere no one else is around.” rafe says. “need to hear your moans.” “so you’re not gonna fuck me at work in the country club bathroom?” you giggle, nails scraping down rafes back.

“oh no.” rafe shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your mouth. “i’m gonna fuck you there too.”

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid

[arcanegifs]

[ao3-shenanigans]

A curious fanfic writer here; what fandoms do you read in?

Hi! Good question! It changes over time but currently I read in Gravity Falls and Magnus Archives with a hint of JJK

Mostly GravityFalls Grunkle Stan content atm 😎

[mozzys-studio]

writing a multichap fic rn and wanted some opinions/input before i post since i've only ever posted oneshots:

any info/experience you have is helpful—just put it in the tags! thanks!!

[crunchycrystals]

Chapter 1 of 5, 8,996 words

Summary:

Percy and Annabeth are best friends working in the film industry together, him as a stunt performer and her as a camera operator dreaming to be a director. Until one day they aren't. Until one day they haven't spoken in 18 months and Percy's quit doing stunts. But when he gets the call saying Annabeth's directing a movie and it might not get finished without his help, he's on a plane back to being a fall guy.

AKA my Percabeth au based on 2024 movie The Fall Guy starring Ryan Gosling and Emily Blunt

hey so i wrote something

[conanssummerchild]

writing a fic abt rick having an ed bcs why would i recover when i can just project all my issues onto fictional old men in cartoons and pretend everythings better now ‼️

tw eating disorder, minor self harm and vomit near the end

Morty stopped in the open doorway of the garage, watching Rick who was sat scribbling down some kind of invention idea, or equation, or whatever it was he did when Morty wasn't around, for all Morty knew he might well be writing fanfiction.

An involuntary smile pulled at his lips at the idea of his almost 70 year old genius grandfather spending his free time writing silly little stories at his work bench. What would he even write? Ball Fondlers fanfic? Maybe he wrote about his stoic bird friend, Rick had always been touchy with him and Rick wasn't touchy with anyone.

When Morty focused back on Rick he wasn't writing anymore, the slightly crumpled piece of paper shoved to the side as he fiddled with what looked like a small metal box with a bunch of brightly coloured wires poking out of the sides. A small spark shot out of one of the wires Rick was holding and he cursed loudly, shaking his hand.

"Fuck, Morty, are you just gonna– gonna stand there, or are you gonna pass me the fucking, uh– the thing."

Rick waved his hand in the general direction of the shelf nearest to Morty, but there were so many assorted trinkets on the shelves, Morty had no idea if Rick wanted a wrench, or a hammer, or one of his laser guns, maybe the box was like a new battery for them?

"W-what thing, Rick?"

"The thing, Morty! The fucking– the uh, destornillador."

"What? Rick, I don't know what that means. W-w-what is that?"

"Jeez, Morty, what are they teaching you at that crap school you love so much?" Rick scowled, tossing the box to the side and getting up to grab the screwdriver himself.

"I havent been to school in like a month, Rick!" Morty exclaimed. "And even then I only got to stay for like an hour before you were dragging me out again!"

"Whatever." Rick said with a burp, "School's dumb, Morty. I'll teach you Spanish myself. B-but, uh, not now."

He turned back to his box, done with the conversation, but Morty stayed hovering in the room, remembering what he had come for in the first place.

"Okay, um, w-w-well lunch is ready."

"I'm busy."

Morty sighed, having expected that answer already. "When's the last time you ate, Rick? Or slept? Or... showered?" Morty said, wrinkling his nose a little.

Rick ignored him, pulling at a blue wire.

"Rick!" Morty frowned.

"What, Morty? J-jesus christ, what the fuck do you want?"

"I want you to have lunch with the family."

"And I said no, so screw off."

"Rick, come on, it would make mom so happy."

Rick glared at him, not bothering with an answer.

"...Wouldn't y-you do it for your original Beth if you could?" Morty tried.

Rick slammed the box on the table, causing the thin metallic shell to crack, sparks flying from it, the sudden noise making Morty jump.

"The fuck did you just say?" Rick snarled.

"S-s-sorry!" Morty squeaked. "I didn't m-mean– mean it in a bad way!"

"Get the fuck out." Rick said icily, eyes blazing.

Morty stumbled out of the room, shutting the door behind him to the sound of something crashing. Probably Rick throwing the damaged box across the room.

Morty winced. In his defense he was worried about Rick, and sometimes, depending on his mood, something like that would've gotten Rick to cave, clearly he wasn't feeling so sentimental today, more annoyed and angry.

"What was that about?"

Morty startled a little and turned to see Summer looking at her phone behind him.

"Just, y'know, Rick being... Rick."

"Mhm, pro tip, don't bring up his dead daughter to try and blackmail him into something he hates." Summer drawled. "You can only do that if he's already half convinced, or if he's feeling especially depressed sometimes.

"Summer! That's– that's messed up!"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, so only you can manipulate grandpa Rick?" Summer scoffed. "God forbid women do anything." She said sarcastically and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Morty fidgeted with his hands. "Can you... help me? To get him to have lunch w-with us? Please?"

"Yes, but not now. He's already upset so if we double down on trying to get him to eat he's only gonna clam up."

Morty nodded. "I know that– but how do you? You don't spend as much time with Rick as I do."

"Because he's like mom. Who do you think got her to stop drinking before parent-teacher conferences at school?"

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up that you had to do that, though, y'know, Summer."

"Yeah, well, we're the Smiths, Morty. Is anyone in this house not disordered?"

Morty winced at the blunt statement, Rick really was rubbing off on her. But it was kind of true.

"Guess it runs in the family." He muttered

"Guess it does."

---

Morty hadn't been planning on seeing Rick again until the next day. He knew that when Rick got upset he needed his space. Morty didn't quite get it because when he was upset all he wanted was for someone to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but Rick wasn't like him he supposed.

If he was being honest it made him nervous to leave Rick alone in those bad headspaces he got into. Rick was volatile and unpredictable and a borderline danger to himself and often others. He'd walked in on a couple... compromising situations where Rick had had to explain away why he was passed out in his chair or why there was blood on his hands and his lab coat despite being the only person in the room.

Morty pretended to believe him when he said he had been doing a messy dissection experiment or that "This isn't blood, this is Balorkian dust I mixed with red Squanchenite fluid from Planet Squanch, Morty." But truthfully those moments haunted him.

However, he didn't want to invade Rick's space, so he let him be and tried to eat and sleep until Rick emerged like nothing had happened, even though Morty knew what habits of his went on behind those closed doors.

Of course Morty's patience had it's limits, like when two hours after he had left Rick in the garage, angry, there was the sound of something smashing, closely followed by an unmistakable sound that Morty had grown too familiar with since Rick had moved in. The sound of a body thudding to the ground.

He was up from the sofa in a flash, at the garage door before Summer could even put down her phone, flinging it open.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, but the only sight that greeted him was a smashed bottle and rick lying on the floor next to it, not looking any more dead than usual, looking up at Morty blearily, cracking a smile.

"Oh, hi Morty. H-hey buddy." He slurred, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"Jesus fucking christ, Rick." Morty said weakly.

"What happened?" Summer breathed, now standing at his side.

"He's just drunk." Morty muttered, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell that he hadn't registered before between his state of panic and shallow breathing.

Summer ventured into the garage, picking up an empty bottle and sniffing it. "God, grandpa Rick, what the hell are you drinking in here, fucking rubbing alcohol?"

"Sum-Sum! 'M just having some– some fun drinks. Fun drinks just a lil' bit. Besides I only ever drank rub-rubbin' alcohol once, n' it was– tasted like shit."

"What? I was being sarcastic, why would you drink that?"

"Because I was sad... was sad 'nd lonely after B-b-blood Ridge, couldn't find anythin' else. But 'm not s-sad now."

"What's Blood Ridge?" Summer frowned, "Actually it doesn't matter right now, you need to sober up."

"Get him some water," Morty interjected. "I'll clean up the glass. I also know where he keeps all his hangover serums and stuff, but he told me not to let you into any of his drug stashes."

"Fair enough." Summer shrugged, leaving to get Rick some much needed water.

While she was gone, Morty felt along the wall until he found the small hidden panel under Rick's desk. He fished out the light blue vial of fluid for hangovers, the red one he'd forced Rick to make that would sober him up and a green one that basically equivalated to getting your stomach pumped if you took it, just in case he'd taken more than just alcohol.

He shut the panel securely and placed the three coloured vials on Rick's work bench, grabbing a purple tube-like gadget from a shelf. He pressed a button on the back of it and typed in "Broken Glass" on a small hologram keyboard that emerged, then pressed that first button again. A blue ray shot out, scanning the garage, and the pieces of smashed bottle disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Morty looked over at Rick, who was still lying on the floor, but now he was tracing his fingers along a crack in the cold ground, his expression so solemn he almost looked sober.

"Rick?" Morty asked hesitantly.

"I miss her." He said flatly. "I miss her s-so much."

His words were still a little slurred but his tone had lost all the previous levity.

"I tried to save her, Morty, I t-t-tried, but I couldn't bring her back. And no one could ever replace her." A rough sob escaped his throat. Morty felt frozen. "I'm a crappy fuckin'– piece of shit father but I didn't want to be. I was gonna fuckin' give– give up everything for them, and I would've been happy. I would've been so happy as long as I had them, but he fuckin' took that from me! I nnever even got a chance."

Rick was crying, he was crying so hard that his tears stained the concrete dark grey and snot ran down his face sideways. He was shaking like a leaf and gasping for air.

Morty crouched down next to him, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure if he should hug Rick, or if that would make it worse. What else could he do?

"Oh– oh shit, Rick, I–"

"My little girl, my baby." Rick continued between sobs. "She meant everything to me. S-so yeah, I would be better f-for her if I could, but she's gone. There's no point."

Rick's sudden fit of violent sobs was calming down, replaced by a look that Morty could only describe as pure hoplessness and defeat washing over his features.

"'S no point in anything."

Shit, this was bad. Rick didn't admit defeat, and he certainly didn't talk so openly about his feelings like this.

"Aw jeez, Rick, come on don't– don't– don't say that. we killed Rick Prime, remember?" Morty said, wringing his hands anxiously.

"Yeah, I remember." Rick said, tone now devoid of emotion. "I remember killin' him with my bare hands, watchin' the life drain out of his eyes as his blood dripped down my fists. And I remember nothing changing. W-w-what d'ya do when you achieve your life long goal and nothin's better? It didn't bring them back, it didn't– didn't give me closure or give me a reason to live. I still can't sleep, petrified he's in the fucking house, comin' for my new family, that he'll kill all of you to teach me that t-that's what happens when I-I care about people."

Rick wiped his face with his lab coat sleeve, rubbing away the snot, drool and dried tears while Morty just kneeled next to him, frozen and unsure what to say.

"Rick..." he started but then Summer stepped through the doorway and Rick's demeanour instantly changed.

"Summerfest!" he called out and Morty watched, a little shocked, as Rick's whole face changed in the blink of an eye, going back to the cheerful, goofy expression he'd been wearing when he and Summer first came in. It didn't look artificial to Morty at all, even now that he knew it was. How could Rick just switch it on and off just like that?

"I brought water and coffee." Was all Summer said, placing two mugs on the workbench. "And a cereal bar."

The second statement sounded a little more unsure and Morty could've sworn he saw Rick's jaw clench for a second.

"Gimmie coffee." Rick said, making grabby hands, still lying on the floor.

"Water first." Summer replied, handing him the larger of the two mugs.

Rick pouted a little but as soon as the mug was in his hands he drank thirstily, finishing the whole thing in one go.

"You want more?" Summer asked, taking the mug, but he just shook his head quietly.

"Okay," Morty cleared his throat when his voice came out a little shaky. "drink this."

He handed Rick the red 'get sober' vial and Rick chugged it obediently, making a face. "Tastes like– like shit." He offered.

While he seemed a little calmer after the water and serum, his eyes were still unfocused and his voice sounded thick, like his tongue didn't fit in his mouth properly, hints of his accent were slipping through too.

"Did you- are you on drugs r-right now?" Morty asked, reaching for the green vial of serum.

"Maybe." Rick mumbled. His eyelids were starting to droop a little and he curled up more comfortably on the floor.

"Hey, Rick, don't go to sleep okay? What did you take?" Summer asked, crouching down next to him, shaking him a little. He groaned. "Come on, we just have to make sure you're not overdosing and then you can sleep. Maybe not on the floor."

"'M not overdosing." Rick grumbled.

"What did you take?"

"I dunno. Just some random alien drugs I found i-in my pocket." He said dismissively with a burp. "Actually one of 'em was probably adderall. Look at me bein' all responsible an-and takin' my meds n' shit."

He of course immediately showed his 'responsibilty' by gagging and then throwing up on the floor.

Morty winced, reaching for the purple device again while Summer tried to coax him into drinking the green liquid, frowning deeply.

Finally Rick gave in, sipping from the small vial, and almost instantly his eyes began to clear up a little bit.

"Why'd I make these work so well?" He groaned. Then, "My head is killing me, I want coffee."

Summer passed him the second mug and he gestured toward the hangover serum, which Morty promptly passed to him and Rick poured it in his coffee.

He gulped down half the coffee and sighed, wiping his mouth with his already rather dirty sleeve. "Fuck, that's better."

He downed the rest of it and placed the mug on the ground, getting to his feet shakily. He swayed and nearly fell, leaning onto the wall to steady himself as the dizzy spell passed, and then stretched, his back cracking loudly.

He took a few wobbly steps towards the door but Summer blocked the way.

"Fuck– fuck off Summer I gotta– I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Could you maybe eat something first?" She asked firmly, holding up the cereal bar.

"No."

Rick tried to sidestep her but she blocked the way again.

"Summer, don't fucking piss me off right now, I'm serious."

She stood her ground. "Just eat the cereal bar, grandpa Rick. Please."

"Summer, for fuck's sake, I said no!"

"Grandpa," She sighed, the arm holding the bar dropping defeatedly back down to her side. "Do you have an eating disorder?"

The garage was deathly quiet for a second.

"Wha-What?! I'm not a teenage girl in a f-f-f– goddamn netflix drama, Summer." Rick snarled. "What the fuck kinda question is that?"

He gestured wildly, taking another step forwards, which quickly seemed to be the wrong option as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him hard, making him almost loose his balance. He blindly tried to grab onto the back of his chair somewhere behind him, but missed and fell on his ass.

"Rick!" Morty and Summer both rushed to his side, Morty's eyes beginning to well up a little from all the stress of the day.

"I'm fine, don't– don't fucking touch me." He said, shaking Summer's hand off his shoulder, which caused another wave of nausea to hit.

"Please eat this." Summer said nervously, voice shaking as she pushed the cereal bar into his left hand, his right one gripping at his hair.

"Summer, I promise you if I eat that shit right now I'm gonna throw the fuck up."

"Please?" Morty pouted, eyes big and teary.

All it took was one look at him, and with only a brief moment of hesitation Rick snatched the cereal bar from Summer, muttering angrily under his breath.

Morty only caught "Me cago en la puta." and "Maldito cabrón." which he more or less understood, more familiar with swear words than any other words in the Spanish language.

Rick peeled away the wrapper slowly with unsteady hands and took a small bite.

Morty and Summer watched in silence, not wanting to discourage him by saying the wrong thing—which with Rick could be anything—as Rick uncomfortably ate the cereal bar.

"There you fucking go." He said weakly, Throwing the now empty wrapper at Summer, but missing as it was too light to travel more than a couple centimetres, landing somewhere by his feet.

"Thank you." Summer almost whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, Morty sniffling and rubbing at his eyes and Summer shuffling a bit closer to him for both of their comfort.

Rick was sitting with his knees losely bent and his head braced in his hands, trying to overcome another hit of nausea.

He wouldn't exactly say he tried super hard to keep the cereal bar down, but it wasn't deliberate when he vomited it down the front of his shirt.

"Oh! Aw jeez..." Morty winced.

"I did warn you."

"In our defense, you had every reason to be lying to us."

"Fuck you, Summer." It sounded weak even to his own ears.

She sighed softly.

"Morty, get his shirt off. Do you have pijamas or do you sleep in jeans and a lab coat?"

"Jeans an-and a lab coat."

"...I was joking, but okay." Summer said, flipping the switch that opened Rick's garage closet and grabbing one of his sets of identical outfits.

Rick squirmed, making noises of complaint as Morty tried to take off his current shirt.

"Rick– stay still, you have vomit on your clothes."

"I'm not fucking two years old, Morty." He scowled. "I can change by myself."

Rick tried to sit up but wobbled and then slumped back against the wall, needing more time to recover. Morty reached for his shirt again and this time Rick let him pull it carefully up over his head without resisting. Morty took the new set of clothes from where Summer had left them on the floor next to him.

Summer wasn't looking but Morty still shielded Rick's body from sight with his own, pointedly not mentioning the raised scars and jagged, angry, red cuts littering his arms which he had already suspected would be there.

Rick shifted uncomfortably, seeming relieved when Morty didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay." Morty said, helping Rick pull on his clean lab coat too.

"I'm going to bed." Rick grumbled, not waiting for him to continue, just getting up slowly.

He felt weak and shaky and his brittle old bones weren't exactly helping out. Despite his thousands of cybernetic implants he was still human, much to his dismay, and he couldn't treat his body as badly as he did when he was 30. Not that that ever seemed to stop him, managing to still maintain the same shitty habits he'd had for years at the ripe age of 67.

He stumbled through the dining room, Morty and Summer trailing after him, not discouraged by the glare he sent their way.

As soon as he reached his room, he slumped onto his bed with a groan.

"R-rick?"

"Fuck off, Morty." He snapped into his pillow, a little muffled by it.

Morty hesitated, exchanging a glance with Summer, who shrugged.

"...Ookay, Rick. Uh, see– see you at dinner, today? maybe?'

"Don't count on it."

Summer frowned, Starting to say something, but Rick interrupted, "I'm gonna apply my room's Lock Protocols in ten seconds, so i-if you're still in here, I'm not letting you out until I'm done sleeping. A-a-and if you're standing in the doorway, you're gonna get fucking squashed in the doors."

"Whatever, Rick, fuck you too." Summer huffed, pulling Morty out of the doorway with her.

"Room, activate Sensory Protocol 2. And t-tell Summer to go fuck herself."

"Sensory Protocol 2 activated." Came the mechanical voice and a heavy metal door snapped shut. "Go fuck yourself, Summer."

Summer scoffed. "Dick." Followed by a sigh. "What are we gonna do?"

"I-I don't know." Morty admitted. "There's not much we can do if Rick won't accept help. And he won't."

"So what? We just give up on him?" Summer asked accusingly, putting her hands on her hips.

"No, Summer, J-jeez. I just– We're gonna have to get creative."

"Fuck."

---

thats it thats the end i didnt know how tf to end this but my goal wasnt to rewrite like the bible idfk it was just to put rick through shit and put completely unfair expectations on summer and mortys shoulders so that they could ALL suffer in this fic !! :3 also this is so mf long i sincerely apologise if u read all that

[venture-through-the-mist]

The Devil Never Slumbers

Operator Mag can’t sleep. She decides to visit the Sanctum Anatomica. Or rather, she decides to visit her mother.

TW: None.

The fic begins under the cut. I hope y’all enjoy!

I rub at my eyes tiredly as my ship lands inconspicuously near the Necralisk. It’s…so quiet. Quiet as I slink unnoticed through the halls, past the slumbering Entrati. Quiet as I slip into the tunnels that lead to the Sanctum, tunnels walked by many, but nearly deserted now. My footsteps tread lightly on the gilded floor, careful not to wake the fish, who’s mumbling haughtily in his sleep. Nor do I disturb the massive bird, nestled comfortably in his golden cage, nor the Cervulite, curled up near the entrance to the labs, though the tip of his tail twitches slightly before moving to rest atop his muzzle. No, none of them notice my presence. None, except the faithful assistant. We share a glance, exchanging words with merely a look. The exhaustion in his eyes is the very same as that which wraps itself around my bones, the very same heaviness that weighs me down but doesn’t allow me to rest. His gaze shifts to an empty space at his workbench. An invitation. One that I don’t take. Perhaps he and I could bask in our misery together. Perhaps I could even fall asleep if I simply focus on his methodical progress, the ambient scratching of pencil to paper. But, that’s not why I’m here.

And he knows it.

We reach a silent understanding, realization flashing in his weary eyes. One corner of my mouth turns upward in a soft half-smile, and he returns the look, adjusting the edge of his glasses as he does so. I continue my path, feeling the soft sands of the dunes beneath my feet. There’s no need for a Warframe out here. I hadn’t wanted to bring one anyways. I take a deep breath, my lungs filling with the still air, my senses taking in the subtle stimuli, those which I would’ve missed if I were inside that metallic suit. My ears take in the soft singing that I knew I’d hear eventually. As the dunes give way to stone, as the edge of the cliff becomes visible through the fog of the Void, I see her. I don’t say anything to disturb her vigil. I simply lower myself to the rocky ground, a few feet behind her, but enough to the side that I can see what she sees. I can see the Void, the broken, floating pieces of rubble, the glowing, gaping maw that seems poised to devour us all. She knows I’m here, even before she shifts her head slightly—likely the smallest amount she can turn in order to see me—, but her singing doesn’t falter. It can’t, I know that now. Rather, it mustn’t. 

We don’t speak, but I feel an understanding lingering in the air. One beyond words, one that has stood the test of time, of loyalties, of love. A test that has led us here, to the cliff. To the emptiness that stretches beyond its rocky edges. In the past, we had many titles. The future will bring many more. But for now, right here, we’re simply Mother and Daughter. She isn’t the Sentient, the Daughter, the Leader. I’m not the Tenno, the Soldier, the Devil. Not here. Not now. We’re simply two beings, not linked by blood but family nonetheless, solemnly staring across the Void. I allow myself to listen to her song. It’s different now…but no less comforting. The lullaby once used to comfort her children, now being used to tether herself to the present. The weight of my exhaustion gnaws at me, but my eyes don’t drift shut. My gaze remains fixed, staring straight ahead.

I don’t know how long I stay there, though eventually more Tenno begin to filter in, sitting quietly near us. Some stay for only a moment or two. Others remain longer. I find myself almost fascinated by them. As different as we all might be, as unruly, or hotheaded, or impulsive, most of us have one thing in common. Sometimes, we just want our Mother. When the world seems strange—too strange, even for us—, she’s who we turn to. She might be different now—she’s clearly distracted, and more than a little uncomfortable—, but she’s determined. She’s a calming presence, even when her own mind is likely less than serene.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s why, after tossing and turning and trying and failing to rest, my weary hands keyed in coordinates that I barely read before the Orbiter began its course. Maybe, even if I can’t sleep right now, I can still rest. I can still let my thoughts still as I stare out into the empty fog, listening to her unending song. Tomorrow, I can be the Soldier once more. Tomorrow, I can be the System’s ‘Devil’. But tonight? Tonight, I just want to be a daughter. I want to spend time with her—even if it’s only a moment—, time that’s unimpeded by thoughts of the conflict that looms over us. I just…don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to hear It laughing, amused by the torment It causes.

I take a quiet breath, and my eyelids fall shut. I can still hear the others, though their voices seem like mere background noise. I focus on the song, allowing myself to relax into this odd half-asleep state. Eventually, though it seems far too soon, I open my eyes once more. I slowly rise to my feet, a silent farewell crossing through my mind. I’ll be back. She knows, I’m sure. At least…I hope so. My limbs feel only slightly lighter as I make my way across the dunes. Even still, they should be light enough that I can fight once more.

[gncrezan]

some old @chrysanthemumgames hermes-seph sketches!!! some of it is established-relationship daydreaming but also a peek at my dark and twisted mind (sprawling intricate spidey au)

[thefrogdalorian]

From Now Until The End

Summary: After being away from you as part of his job with the New Republic, your partner Din surprises you with a trip to the Boonta Eve Classic on Tatooine to make up for it. But instead of the fun-filled day he had planned, you are overwhelmed by the many sights, sounds and noises. It leads you to finally share a part of yourself with Din that you had been hiding from him until now.

Rating: General Content Warnings: Descriptions of panic attacks/sensory overload. Word Count: 5446 Link to read on AO3 // Din x ND reader series

Authors note: After my post a few days ago about finding comfort in Din as a neurodivergent person provoked so many thoughful discussions, this fic just sort of landed in my lap today and I was not one to fight the muse. I really hope you enjoy it!

For the first part of your life, you had believed you were somehow cursed, such was the way bad luck was drawn to you like a womp rat to the sands of Tatooine. How did everything seem so simple for others when nothing ever seemed to go right for you? Had you missed out on some kind of crucial meeting that taught everyone else to be a functional human? Or were you just fundamentally broken? Getting a diagnosis of autism thanks to a knowledgeable healer that you had encountered quite by accident, had finally answered some questions for you and helped you to navigate the galaxy in a different way, allowing yourself far more grace and compassion than you ever had before. But it didn’t make all of your problems instantly vanish.

But your fortunes had changed forever on that fateful day when you had first encountered a man hunting imperial remnants for the New Republic in the course of your work in a Cantina, a job you loathed. He had strode in, seeking information that you had been happy to give him.

You were stunned when he had tried to give you some credits for it, it was just the right thing to do. You had always had a strong sense of justice. Sure, your boss probably wouldn’t be too happy if he had caught you fraternising with customers and conspiring to capture Imps with a Mandalorian, rather than doing your job. Which was, to pour flagons of spotchka and keep the peace. But the man in the shiny Beskar had been the first person in a while who had actually treated you like a fellow human being, rather than something to be leered at and ogled while you brought them more alcohol. You felt instantly at ease with him, the conversation flowing from your lips so naturally that you forgot he was a stranger. And you were usually so wary of strangers. To be as open as you were with him so quickly, it was clear that there was something special about this man.

People were usually wary of Mandalorians, they were still such a rarity in the galaxy after The Great Purge. But you realised after just a few minutes of talking to him, that there was something incredibly comforting and warm about the man beneath the armour. When he had left, you had felt so devastated it was almost pathetic. Of course he had left, he was only here in this backwater hellhole for a job, after all. It had been difficult to complete your shift without dissolving into sobs, you felt irritated and on the verge of a meltdown but if you were to try to explain it to anyone, even if you could find the words, it would not make any sense. A stranger had made you feel happier than you had in a long time? How was that normal?

Waking yourself up for your shift the following morning and dragging yourself into to face the most wretched hive of scum and villainy in the galaxy at your place of work had been one of the toughest things you had ever had to do. You loathed that cantina, that was situated right next to the starport on the formerly-Imperial planet in the mid rim. People were fleeting, passing through. It was seedy. There were secrets to be traded in and you knew if you weren't careful, you could pay with your life. But you had to keep going. The boss had taken you in and supported you when you were down on your luck. There was no alternative. 

But the moment when you had caught the familiar glint of that shiny Beskar out of the corner of your eye as you were cleaning glasses had changed everything. At that moment, when Din had strode back into the cantina with that confident gait that you loved so much, it was as though all the misfortune you had endured had meant something. All the suffering you had experienced in your life was all being made up for now, when Din had returned and saved you from a monotonous life on that dead-end planet, working in a job you loathed with a hellish boss. You had left that day and never looked back.

Crossing paths with Din Djarin had been, without a doubt, the most fortunate thing that had ever happened to you. Although you had still been wary of his intimidating presence at first, despite how quickly you felt at ease with him; you had come to learn that despite his hulking, armoured form, there was a heart of gold beneath that cold, hard Beskar. As your relationship had gotten more serious and the two of you had grown closer and closer, your guilt at hiding such a big part of yourself had increased. There was not an easy way to tell people that you were autistic, you had discovered that over and over since you had received your diagnosis. There were often painful consequences once others discovered that there was a hint of difference. You knew it was foolish to think that with Din, he had proven to you time and time again to be a patient, understanding man. Not least because of how he treated you, but also because of how sweet he was to his son, Grogu.

Surprisingly, perhaps because he had spent the first part of your relationship hiding his face from you behind his helmet, you had not felt the need to mask as much as you usually did. There was no pressure to make eye contact and Din was so quiet that small talk was not an issue. He was direct, a man of few words. When he did speak, it was straight to the point. Something that you found immensely comforting from the moment you met him.

You had not wanted to burden him with the secret you were hiding from him though. At first, you had not thought it was important to bring up. People usually ran away or treated you differently. In the past, your honesty had been met with rejection or unkindness. Your heart ached to think of the same thing happening with Din.

But unfortunately, hiding that part of you was no longer an option. As you sat there, cowering in a cave that you had found away from all the noise that was characteristic of the Boonta Eve Classic, you wondered how on earth you were going to explain it to Din. This wasn’t how you wanted it to happen. You wanted to drop it in conversation, nonchalantly, as though it wasn’t a big deal – because why should it be? Instead, your hand had rather been forced by how upset the accumulation of events that happened to you throughout the day had left you.

Din had taken a lot of jobs recently and the two of you had spent a considerable amount of time apart. But you didn’t spend your days alone, pining for him; he had secured a job for you with his friend, High Magistrate Greef Karga on the planet where you shared a cabin with him and Grogu. It was a beautiful tract of land, just past the lava flats. You felt extremely grateful that Din had wanted to invite you into the quiet life he had built for himself Grogu. So while Din was away, you had found yourself working in the Nevarrian archives and making sure everything was up to date and in order. For a detail-orientated person who loved order, it was a perfect job for you. Even better, it came with minimal human interaction, a parsec away both literally and metaphorically from that hateful Cantina. What’s more, you had an incredibly good-natured – not to mention handsome – man for a partner and his charming son, whom you had quickly come to adore. With those big brown eyes and ears that could melt your heart when they drooped downwards, there was no way you could do anything other than love Grogu. 

But with so much time apart recently, Din had wanted to do something special to make it up to you. He had arranged to take you to the Boonta Eve Classic, an infamous event the entire galaxy over which took place annually on Tatooine. He had a friend who could babysit Grogu and it would be the perfect opportunity for the two of you to spend some quality time together. Din had told you about the time he had visited Tatooine on the day of it a couple of cycles ago but was unable to stay due to commitments elsewhere. You could see how excited he was to finally experience Boonta Eve and you would be lying if you weren’t excited too. It was definitely something on your bucket list, that you had wanted to experience for a while. You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little daunted by it though, all the noise and people were sure to push you out of your comfort zone.

The heat of Tatooine was the first thing that stood out to you. Nevarro could be hot, but this was something else. It was repressive; you sweated just standing still. You wished you had dressed in something lighter, some cotton perhaps, rather than the shirt that seemed to cling to you. The bright, harsh light of the twin suns was also making your head buzz. You had felt a little shaky as you and Din climbed off the ship that had brought you here and headed for the hangar to meet Din’s friend who would take care of Grogu.

Din had introduced you to a few of his acquaintances since the two of you had gotten together and usually, you could understand why they were friends. You were about to meet the exception to that rule, though, in the form of a curly-haired, eccentric mechanic called Peli Motto. You had barely had a chance to catch your breath on this planet, which seemed determined to boil you to death, when you entered the hangar and met perhaps the most extroverted woman you had ever met in your entire life.

When you walked in, she had been conversing with some Jawas, her brown curly hair bobbing up and down furiously. Your understanding of the language was minimal at best, but it seemed to be a pretty heated discussion. Din shifted awkwardly next to you, Grogu in his arms. He cleared his throat and at once she spun around.

“Mando!” Peli exclaimed, throwing her arms up in delight. “Good to see ya, always a pleasure!”

“You too.” Din nodded in response.

“No ship today?” Peli asked, with a shrug. “Shame, I would’ve given her the ol’ once over for ya. For a good price, of course.”

“No, there wasn’t enough room. I’m here with my partner, you see.” Din said, nodding towards you, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back to show that you were, in fact, an item.

“Well look at you! Isn’t Mando punching above his weight? You’re stunning.” Peli said with a grin, her hands coming to rest on her toolbelt. Although, judging by the amount of droids she employed, it didn’t look as though she did much work herself. “You know, if things don’t work out between the two of you, you give me a call. Alright?”

“Uh… alright?” You laughed apprehensively, taken aback by how brazen she was.

Din sensed your unease and swiftly moved the conversation on, removing his hand from your back and taking a few steps towards Peli, handing Grogu to her. Grogu cooed at being passed to the woman, who greeted him enthusiastically. You just stood there awkwardly, your arms felt heavy and you suddenly felt incredibly out of place, even though you were with your boys. You just wanted to leave this place behind and finally spend some quality time with Din. That was the entire point of your trip, after all.

After Din had reminded Grogu several times to mind his manners and not eat all of Peli’s food, the two of you left the hangar behind and walked hand-in-hand as you made your way towards the area where the Boonta Eve Classic was taking place. Din had splurged on grandstand seats for the two of you and, although you had expected it would be busy, as you got closer and closer, you were blown away by the capacity of the main stand. It seemed as though it could hold hundreds of thousands of people. Din must have sensed your unease since the whole interaction with Peli, as he checked in with you.

“You okay?” Din asked, looking at you. But all that greeted you was the harsh blackness of his visor, rather than the warm, comforting brown eyes that you loved so much. “Sorry about Peli, I should’ve given you a heads-up. She’s completely harmless, but I know she can be a lot, sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s okay.” You laughed nervously. “It’s just a lot busier than I was expecting.”

“It’s Boonta Eve!” Din shook his head as though it should be obvious, which only made you feel worse, somehow. “Biggest event of the year. There are a lot of people, though.”

“Yeah.” You said quietly.

“Let’s get some food. It was a long journey, you must be hungry.” Din said as he pointed towards a stall with a considerable throng of people surrounding it. “Look, I think those stalls sell Bantha cheese hoagies, We can get a refreshing glass of blue milk too.”

“Okay.” You agreed. It was true, you would probably feel better with some proper food in your system. It had taken the better part of a day to travel here from Nevarro, on one of the ships that had been specially chartered to take people to the event. 

But the food had not helped. Nor had been crammed onto the bleachers alongside thousands of others without the comfort of Din’s face to ground you. Every time you looked at him, you were met with the unmoving gaze of his helmet, rather than his warm brown eyes that you loved so much. You had tried to maintain your composure throughout the afternoon through the many races and into the evenings, Din seemed to be enjoying himself and you didn’t want to ruin that from him. Much less could you even begin to get into why you were so upset, why you were struggling so much. He probably wouldn’t understand, he’d think you were strange. So you resolved to keep it together. It would all be over soon. You shut your eyes and took deep breaths as the final race began, knowing that you just had to make it through a few more minutes before you and Din would head back to the lodgings he had booked for the night – at great personal expense, if you had to guess.

But when the pod races had ended, after much cheering and ear-splittingly loud commentary coming from the speakers, there had been no reprieve. Instead, a fireworks display had started up, replacing one loud noise with another. If there was one thing you abhorred, it was sudden loud noises. They made you physically jump, completely terrifying you. It had been the thing that had tipped you over the edge into meltdown territory. You were trying your best to keep it together, to at least make it somewhere more private before you came apart. So you abruptly stood up, clapping your hands to your ears.

“Din… I need to leave.” You managed to squeak out before you were pushing your way along the row of bleachers and hurtling down the steps to somewhere quieter.

As you reached the bottom of the grandstand, your mind raced. Where could you go? You were somewhere completely alien to you. Plus, when you had made your way here, everything had been light. But now the suns had set and darkness had crept in. You were grateful that the harsh sun was no longer beating down furiously on you, but the lack of light disorientated you. Your vision started to blur as the tears began to fall, you were trembling, twisting your head furiously in desperate search of somewhere quiet you could get some privacy as you broke into pieces.

Mercifully, behind one of the vendors that were beginning to pack their wares up for the night, was an entrance to a cave. It was the perfect place for you to get some quiet away from the fireworks, which were still exploding all around you. Without a second thought – for your safety, for Din’s whereabouts – you darted inside the cave and found some peace. You sat there, arms around your knees, rocking back and forth as the meltdown that you had felt building pace for hours was finally crashing down with all its might on top of you. 

The sound of footsteps outside the cave did nothing to reach you, such was the distress you found yourself in. It could have been anyone with nefarious intentions, you weren’t in a position to care. You weren’t in a position to take anything in, really. But, mercifully, it was the familiar sight of the Mandalorian who owned your heart. Din had found you; of course, he had, he was not once known as the best bounty hunter in the parsec for no reason. 

“Cyar’ika? What’s wrong?” Din asked, voice full of concern as he closed the distance towards you.

He took a seat on the cold, firm floor of the cave in front of where you were currently sitting in a state of distress, unreachable as you felt the world was ending. 

“What happened?” Din asked, again. But his voice sounded slightly different this time and, as you opened your eyes and looked at him through your tears, you realised why. You could finally see the face of the man that you loved so much, the face you had been aching to see all day.

“Di- Din?” You sniffled. You respected his devotion to the Creed entirely – although he had chosen to walk a different path to the Way he was raised, he still only removed his helmet around you and Grogu.

“I’m here, cyar’ika. I’m not leaving you.” Din said, reaching out to pat your knee awkwardly, clearly scared that he was going to upset you more.

You took some deep breaths, attempting to compose yourself so you could speak to him and let him know the truth, about what had caused your sudden loss of composure and subsequent meltdown. To an outsider, you knew they looked inexplicable but inside your head, they made complete sense.

“Was it something I did? Was it the fireworks?” Din questioned, although the cave was almost entirely in darkness, you could still see the concern on his face. “I’m so sorry, I thought you knew they were part of Boonta Eve.”

“I didn’t…” You struggled for breath, “...know.”

“I’m so sorry. Were they too loud? Din asked you, you were grateful that he was keeping it to questions that could be answered with a yes or no. They were far easier to reply to in your current state.

“Yes.” You nodded your head furiously.

“Okay, okay. I think I get it.” Din said, continuing to stroke your knee gingerly. The warm pressure and presence of his hand was a welcome addition. It soothed you, rather than repulsed you as could sometimes happen when you were in a state of meltdown. “Take your time, get your breath back.”

You weren’t sure for how many minutes you sat there, trying to compose yourself so you could speak to Din and let him in. Let him know what had caused your distress. You knew what it was, but this could change everything. For a second, that made you cry harder. But then you comforted yourself with all the times Din had been understanding before, when you had returned from work upset or when he had been kind and patient to Grogu, the little boy with an immense gift.

Eventually, though, you were composed enough to initiate a conversation with the man who was so concerned about you, who you knew wanted to help you and understand what had upset you so much. You couldn’t bear the thought of him believing that it was his fault, if nothing else, you had to let him know that there was nothing he could have done to prevent this.

“Sorry for running off.” You said sincerely, struggling to meet Din’s gaze as you sat there in the cave together. “It wasn’t your fault, Din.”

“Do you want to talk about what caused it, now?” Din asked. “No pressure to but if I know, perhaps I can help you in future.”

You could have launched into a detailed history of your life, about how you knew from an early age that you were different. That, despite your human parents, you had repeatedly questioned whether you were, in fact, an alien who had been adopted, somehow. How things had not made sense until the day that healer looked into your eyes and told you those words: You are autistic. The way, even after that, things still did not make sense. How you thought that logically, having a diagnosis should make things easier to understand, that often you felt as though you understood yourself even less now.

But you didn’t. You could tell Din those things another time. For now, there was only one thing that Din needed to know. You closed your eyes and uttered the three words that could change everything for you, that could rip this man and the life you were building together away from you:

“Din… I’m autistic.” You said, shutting your eyes as though you were anticipating some kind of violence in response to the admission of your diagnosis.

When you opened them, though, there was no pain to be rained down on you. Only love and acceptance. Before you, the man you had grown so close to sat there cross-legged, his warm brown eyes widened in shock, as he nodded slowly in understanding. 

“Okay,” Din said with another firm nod, making sure that he was looking directly at you. “What can I do to help you?”

“You’ve been so understanding and accepting of me already. I just sometimes struggle to put into words how I’m feeling. It’s as though I don’t know how bad I’m feeling until I’m reduced to a blubbering mess, like just know.” You admitted. “That’s why, eventually, things were too much and I just ran off.”

“What caused it today?” Din asked, curiously. You saw no trace of judgement or a desire to pry in those eyes.

“Well, I tend to struggle with social situations, meeting new people and new environments. And also, sensory overload, when things are too bright and noisy… it makes me panic.” You admitted, fiddling nervously with the hem of the shirt that you had dressed in that had failed miserably at keeping you cool. “It was just… everything today. And I didn’t know how to say it or make you aware because you didn’t know and you might think I was ungrateful. I know how much you were looking forward to this, how much you spent on giving me the best experience. I wanted to have a good time but I just… I couldn’t…”

“Oh, cyar’ika. I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been struggling. I can see how a busy, noisy pod race with all the sounds and people would be awful for you. Plus the fireworks display you had no idea about… Boonta Eve was probably not the best place to bring you. Nor was it wise to introduce you to someone new, especially someone as loud as Peli.” Din said, shaking his head although he was upset for himself. “And all that, somewhere unfamiliar… on a planet you’ve never been to. It’s amazing, really, that you coped as well as you did, for so long today. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you, Din. But please don’t feel bad, you didn’t know. I should’ve told you sooner… but I was scared to.” You admitted sheepishly.

“Scared?” Din questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“I just….” You took a deep breath. It was difficult for you to talk about the unfortunate reactions you had been exposed to in the past. “There have been plenty of people who have not accepted my diagnosis, told me I didn’t look autistic or that it can’t be that bad. People just… they don’t understand. I was scared you’d think I was weird, that you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

“Oh, cyar’ika.” Din said, shuffling to sit next to you so he could wrap his arm around your shoulder and bring you into him protectively. “I would never think that of you. I can’t imagine how much it would hurt to feel so misunderstood and struggle with so many things that others find easy. I must admit, I don’t always notice lights and noises like others do, behind my helmet. It sort of creates a barrier between me and the rest of the galaxy. If I had to face the world in the same way you do, bearing my face… I would probably struggle too.”

“You would?” You questioned in amazement. Usually, you doubted how much people could understand, but with Din, there was utter sincerity there. He was noble and always true to his word, sometimes to the point of putting himself in precarious positions, you did not doubt him for a second.

“I would,” Din nodded. “Plus, as for the weird thing. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but when you met me I told you I was part of a Creed that meant I could never show you my face. Not only that, but I had adopted a son who was older than me. So, you know, I’m also surprised you didn’t leave me. I’m not exactly the most normal person in the galaxy.”

You laughed at that, so hard that your sides were hurting. Din soon joined you and the cave was soon filled with something other than tortured sobs. It was a welcome change for your body to be hurting rather than something other than pain and terror, for there to be warmth spreading once again in your chest.

“Good point,” You admitted. “You are pretty weird.”

“But seriously, if you ever feel yourself struggling like that again, please tell me,” Din said, suddenly looking at you seriously. “You know, if there’s anything I can do, I’ll help you. Now that I know, I can look for things that might cause you distress. I promise I’ll never put you through anything you don’t want to do. You said that today must have cost a lot and that’s true, but you know credits don’t matter as much as you do. Your happiness is my only priority… along with Grogu’s, of course.”

“Thank you, Din.” You whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

The truth was, you would never be able to thank him with words. To have someone so understanding of you… it was a debt you felt that you would never be able to repay. But Din would never ask you to repay anything.

“Just continue being yourself, cyar’ika.” Din said, squeezing you to him. “I fell in love with you because you are who you are, this changes nothing. In fact, it makes me admire you and love you even more.”

"Really?" You asked.

"Really. From now until the end... I'm by your side." Din said, solemnly.

You sat there stunned, letting his words wash over you. They were a balm to your soul, the exact thing you needed to hear. You wondered how you had ever doubted Din's faithfulness and honourability. It seemed stupid now, that you could ever believe this man would want nothing but your absolute happiness. 

"Ready to head to the lodgings?" Din asked after a few more minutes had passed.

"Let's go." You nodded, accepting Din's hand as he pulled you to your feet.

As you made your way to the lodgings Din had arranged for you that night, your hand in his, you felt as though an incredible weight had been lifted from your shoulders. He had finally learnt the truth about you and the reasons why you struggled sometimes, there was nothing to hide anymore. And he had not responded with judgement or dismissiveness, nor had he doubted how much you had struggled. He had listened, allowed you to explain and vowed to help you through it in the future.

Din's helmet was back on now, but you felt a new respect for him. To know that he found it comforting, that he liked wearing it... most people would think it was an intense personal sacrifice to wear something so restrictive, but now that you knew that Din actually found solace in his helmet, with its tinted visor and the way it made noises quieter… perhaps you would think about the steps it took to become Mandalorian.

But all those questions could be answered later. For now, it was just you and the man you loved most in the galaxy, a man who knew everything about you and still loved you as much as he had before.

You weren’t sure what you had ever done to deserve such a kind, good man... but you weren’t about to question the way the galaxy had brought you together. You were just happy that your paths had crossed at all.

*

A few days later, back at your cabin on Nevarro, you awoke in the middle of the night to find that the side of the cot normally occupied by your favourite Mandalorian was empty. You momentarily panicked when you sat up with a start and saw that Din was nowhere to be found. You placed your hand on the sheets on his side of the cot and discovered they were still faintly warm. He couldn’t have gone far. Perhaps he was with Grogu, the little boy might have had a nightmare. But as you made your way into the hallway of the small cabin, you noticed a faint light coming from the main living area of the cabin.

As you crept down the corridor, not wanting to disturb Din, you noticed that he was sitting at the small desk in the living area. Illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp, you could see his curly dark hair resting on the desk. You worried for a moment until you heard the comfortingly familiar sound of his shallow, even breaths which indicated that he had fallen asleep. As you looked even closer, you noticed that there was something open on the desk. Your curiosity got the better of you as you wandered over there to see what he had been up to before he had fallen asleep with a lamp still on. A lamp that you turned off and shut the book that was sitting just above his hand, his hand resting next to it. And then you noticed the golden writing on the red cover and your heart skipped a beat.

It read, in Aurebesh: How to Support Your Autistic Loved One

You felt a lump in your throat and tears pool in your eyes. Before you could react further, Din stirred. The sound of the book shutting with a thud had caused him to stir, his brown eyes fluttered open and he turned to look up at you.

“Hi, sleepyhead.” You said, teasingly.

“Hi,” Din said, wiping his eyes. 

“Doing some late-night reading?” You asked with a smirk, nodding at the book.

“Oh…” Din said, turning his head to look down at the book too. “I got it from the archives here. I just wanted to know how to help you.”

“You’re so sweet, Din.” You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, cyar’ika.” Din smiled at you, his eyes looking at you adoringly. “Let’s head back to our cot.”

As you fell asleep, your cheek resting on the warm, firm expanse of Din’s broad chest, you felt certain that you were the luckiest person in the entire galaxy. There was no one that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. You had not travelled far, but you knew that you could travel the galaxy many times and never meet another person as understanding as Din Djarin.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to… because he was all yours. From now until the end.

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

i made this silly little post and then just did the thing myself :)

“I would say that Steve is… relatively smart. For a human.”

“Hey!” comes an irritated yell from the other room.

Robin turns to face the doorway, turning away from the camera. “Zip it, human! I’m doing my interviews. I have important things to say. People are very interested.” She turns back toward the camera again, a smile plastered to her face. “Now, what was I saying? Oh right, Steve. He’s… passably intelligent. I mean, he’s no Einstein, that’s for sure. That guy could party.” She laughs.

“Okay, and how long has Steve, uh, been with you guys?” Dustin asks from behind the camera.

“Um, maybe a year, I think?”

“I’ve been Eddie’s familiar for ten years,” Steve grumbles as he comes into the room with a cup of tea, which he holds out for Robin to take. He turns to Dustin and the camera. “It’s really just a matter of time before he turns me.” He rocks back on his heels. “He said literally any day now.”

Robin smiles placidly, nodding at him until he leaves the room.

“Between you and me,” she stage whispers to Dustin, “Eddie is never turning him.”

“Could you explain what a familiar is?” Dustin asks.

“Well… usually a familiar takes care of you, you know, does the cleaning, shopping, finds you victims.”

“Victims?” Will, another one of the producers, asks. He looks a little anxiously toward Lucas, the camera guy, who does his best to ignore it.

“Yeah, like. Food. You know.” Robin takes a sip from her teacup, waving her free hand in some vague gesture. “Nancy and I are partial to virgins.”

“Uh, right. Better watch out, Dustin,” Lucas laughs a little nervously, nudging Dustin with his elbow.

Dustin scowls, but before he can respond, Robin says, “Don’t worry. Nancy’s forbidden us from eating any of you.” She smiles again, like that’s supposed to make them feel any better.

~*~

“Okay, Steve, can you tell us a little bit about yourself?” Dustin asks Steve, who’s fidgeting on the couch.

Steve pulls at his collar as he answers. “Uh, sure. I used to be a kindergarten teacher. I actually really loved it? But then I met Eddie at a bar. Thought he was, uh, pulling my leg, you know, about the whole…” Steve rubs his palms on his thighs. “Vampire thing? Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yeah, being a vampire. Sure,” Dustin responds.

“Right. Thought he was joking. Thought it was a line, you know. So I… this is kind of embarrassing.” Steve scratches at his cheek. “Well, I went home with him, y’know. You’ve seen him.” He laughs a little nervously. “Anyway, I found out that he actually was not lying, much to my… absolute horror really.”

“And… what made you stay?” Will asks.

“I dunno,” Steve shrugs his shoulders, eyes darting to the side of the camera, like he doesn’t really want to answer the question. “It’s an interesting prospect, isn’t it? Living forever? Being immortal?” He shrugs again.

“So,” Dustin starts, drawing out the ‘o’ sound. “Are you guys, like… more than friends?” Lucas visibly cringes at the phrasing.

Steve laughs, bright and surprised. “Uh, no. No. Just, uh. I’m just his familiar.”

“But you’ve been here ten years?“ The way the question comes out of Will’s mouth makes it sound like he hadn’t really meant to ask it. Dustin cuts him a look, scowling again.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, looking down at his lap. “Yeah, I have.”

~*~

“Tell us about how you became a vampire,” Dustin says.

Eddie, who’s sitting on the couch in front of the camera, scratches at his neck, just under the collar of his shirt. “Hmm. I was turned in the 80s. Can’t really remember most of it. Was at some concert and some guy offered me some coke or something in the back of his van. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in a field feeling like shit. Thought I’d had a bad trip.” Eddie laughs.

“And have you ever turned anyone?” Will asks.

“No,” Eddie tells them, frowning slightly. “Don’t think I’d even know how.”

“But—“ Will starts, but Lucas digs his elbow into his ribs, cutting off his question.

“What about Steve?” Dustin asks instead.

“What about him?”

“He said he’s been with you ten years. That you’ve promised to turn him any day now.”

Eddie smiles, boyish and sweet. “Well. I say a lot of things. And look at him. Who’d give that up?”

Will and Dustin look at each other. “What do you mean?” It’s Lucas who asks this time.

“A pretty little human who does anything I say based on the abstract promise that I might one day make him a vampire?” Eddie grins.

Next to Dustin, Will lets out a long exhale.

[that-was-anticlimactic]

echoing my song

“Denki.”

“What?”

Kaminari grins at him, so blinding and happy that Tenya almost recoils. “Call me Denki. You’re my tic buddy, right? I know we don’t really know each other well yet, but…” Kaminari puckers his lips as he thinks. “But I feel like I know you, dude. In a way that no one else ever will. And you know me, too.”

It sounds silly, but Tenya doesn’t want to protest.

[or, a celebration & exploration of tourette's syndrome seen through iida, kaminari, & class 1a]

🌾22,120 words | kaminari & iida-centric, ft. class 1a🌾

happy tourette's awareness month!!!

[oatflatwhite]

ok i'm flagging this byler fic idea here bc i'm forcing myself not to start writing it until i at least have a bit more free time (weeks and weeks away...) but i don't wanna forget it

byler post-canon fic, they're in their 30s. mike married a woman (her name is beth she's an icon this is unimportant but also i love her) and they've lived in nyc since college but they've just gotten divorced and mike has to move back home to hawkins bc he's broke af and also kind of. depressed. he's an aspiring author but has never actually finished a novel, just has these half-hearted attempts strewn everywhere. so yeah kind of rock bottom for mike ngl

but WHO does he run into at the hawkins grocery store when he's doing the shopping for his mum but... mr will byers. like literally mr byers he is the art teacher at hawkins high :-) mike drops like a carton of milk in the aisle and the clerk is this teenage girl who is #sodone with her job and mike is so embarrassed and apologetic and then even MORE embarrassed when will appears and the girl is like "hi mr byers :-)" and he's like "hi tayla. don't mind him he's an old friend of mine"

and then YEAH awkward reunion bc like. they're not really friends anymore? not close anyway. they send xmas cards ya know but the whole party left hawkins for college or to travel and the only one who returned after was will. and mike knows will keeps in better contact with literally everyone else but he and will stopped really talking bc of... undisclosed reasons that happened in their senior year of high school...

BUT ANYWAY will knew mike was coming back in town bc hawkins is tiny and karen wheeler is SUCH a gossip and will was always her fav of mike's friends anyway. and yeah he invites mike over for dinner and they talk and drink and mike has to stay on the couch bc he can't drive home and will's house is just as small as the byers' used to be and even tho mike's only been here like once before for a christmas it's already so familiar. it's /will/. and yeah they start to become friends again and maybe more and mike has to come to terms with the feelings he still has for will that he thought were long buried.

also beth and mike are still friends and she is the no. 1 byler shipper in this house ok i'm done

[orcelito]

Yet again hindered by the "this reply is hidden because you have the user blocked" message. It has me Almost wondering whether I'd be better off not blocking so many people. So that I can freely be a nosy bitch.

Almost, but not quite. My block list is for my sanity, after all.

[seamayweed]

- the first is an ask about mad dog, when there were still only 3 fics in english for the choi kang-woo/kim min-joon pairing, mine included (mine, actually, being the first one in english); the two characters kiss in every single one of these fics.

- the second is a conversation in the replies of an mctna post about a banghwi scene. while the ship is personally not my cup of tea, it is an excellent and strongly canonically implied pairing and it makes me angry on behalf of the amazing, extremely talented authors who do write fic for this underrepresented ship. whether the complaint is about the first few pages of bangwhi fics (which only span two pages) or the first few pages of mctna fics in general, i don't recall a single one of them being objectively 'bad' - just bc it might not be your cup of tea and some of the tags might squick you out, doesn't mean it's 'bad'. and even if it was, who's to say the fics aren't still someone's favorite, akin to a gem they've found bc they were looking exactly for a story like this for years?

i'm just... so tired. why do ppl do this? why do they love to dunk on others' fics and hard work so much? do they think that tumblr is magically devoid of ao3 fic authors and that we won't stumble on these conversations and disparaging comments about our fics, especially if the posts can be found in the very public main tags?

not to mention that the fandoms in question are already extreeeeemely tiny and the fic for them is already very rare. can't we even muster up some bare modicum of fandom etiquette and respect in small fandoms like these? i would go on to say that while it's perfectly fine to not like a fic and talk about it, these are conversations that should have been best kept in private DMs - or at least outside of the main tags.

the thing is it's super, super discouraging and does the very opposite of making more ppl feel inclined to write for your favorite small fandom or rare pair. with some ppl tending to be so harsh and judgemental (and honestly entitled) when it comes to fic, it doesn't surprise me at all that so many ppl are so insecure about their writing that they don't dare to post their fics for fear of not being 'good' enough. i find that really sad since fic is all about having fun and doing something you love and sharing that joy with others!! it's not about being objectively 'bad' or 'good'. and tbh i've never read a fic that i can't say at least one (1) good thing about.

so why don't we do more of that instead of complaining about fic where everyone can see it?