#celery fic

[4th-make-quail]

Took some pictures around Krauser's tent! I was especially interested in this after seeing someone post a pic of the title screen which had an ashtray on it, so I wanted to see if that was actually in his tent!

The fact that it is... Is fucking me up big time. Krauser smoking? Hello???

Some of the other items here are interesting too. Obviously there's all the dogtags from his men, which make a complete lie of his words to Leon about how his seeking power isn't for revenge - why would he keep those tags, and out on his desk at that, otherwise? He's taunting Leon, trying to get a rise out of him.

The cream of celery soup cans are hilarious and depressing, poor guy. There's a few of those old books scattered around too, which makes me wonder if they're from Los Illuminados. No obvious symbol on them, but they look old enough to be that.

Ofc lots of military gear: webbing straps, bandages neatly folded in a tin with some hydrochloric acid (plus lots of bloodied bandages on the bed which is also interesting, I wonder if they're from his own transformations?), a battered old leather bag, and then two large weapon cases which must be for his bow since the smp he uses is very small.

All the tools scattered on the table near the first box are good, they imply that he really did spend all that time setting up the Ruins arena just for Leon - look, he even made all the traps and things himself! Anything for the pretty boy!

However my main takeaway from all this is still..... Krauser smoking...... Hrrrrghhhhhhh

[teddybasmanov]

I'm pretty close to writing a self-indulgent self-insert hitman smut based solely on the asmr roleplays of him.

[secret-library-of-tracy-island]

Another one by @gumnut-logic that somehow I hadn’t come across before.

Heck it’s a roller coaster. It’s cliche to say it but it genuinely had me giggling and enraged and wanting to cry within moments of each other. Apparently I gasped “NO YOU DID NOT!!” At one point…

I think what makes it so compelling, apart from how well the characters are drawn (as always) is the grim sense that this is an entirely realistic scenario when power is involved and politicians and the press swing against somebody.

Absolutely brilliant.

Warnings

- much swearing. Gordo in particular fulfils that military stereotype in places 😂 and I don’t blame him.

- may well induce genuine rage at fictional characters

- do not start reading this if you have anywhere to be in the next few hours, including asleep in your bed as I, at least, could not put it down.

[the-celery-stalks-at-midnight]

Title: this could've been an email

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Pairing: Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken

Summary:

He takes a deep breath. This is why he’s here. This is why he responded to Derek’s poorly worded classified with little more than his junkyard truck, a haunted look in his eyes, and a bullet-pointed list of buzzwords hastily scribbled on the back of a gas station receipt. Theo’s good at compartmentalizing, good at storing his tragic past in neatly labeled boxes in a locked closet in his head but he’ll always be a self-destructive bastard in the place his heart used to be, and this is why he chose the beach. The waves crash, and crash, and crash and crash and crash—and he’s not dead.

The ocean is always there to remind him: After everything he’s done and that’s been done to him, he is not dead.

[randofanficrecs]

Today's random fic is brought to you by the Ready Jet Go!(cartoon) fandom, When It Rains by bluffscove

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 912 Fandom: Ready Jet Go! (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Jet Propulsion (Ready Jet Go), Sydney Skelley, Sean Rafferty, Mindy Melendez, Carrot Propulsion, Celery Propulsion, Sunspot Propulsion, Face 9000 Additional Tags: Rain, takes place during early season 1, a little bit after Jet arrived on Earth, One Shot Language: English Summary: Jet experiences Earth rain for the first time.

[hazelmaines]

Bible camp is back!

just what i needed ch. 19: i found god (nsfw, 6k words)

[mister-celery]

do you like steven universe?

do you like bob burger?

heres a crossover i wrote yesterday at 1am that nobody asked for! you are welcome

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ the "dying" wolverine ]❜

ft. logan howlett x gn! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ taking care of logan when he’s sick┊0.8k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, established relationship

➤ author's note: i’m feeling like shit so i’m making him suffer with me

what part of regenerative healing don’t you understand? it’s impossible for him to get sick in any capacity as his immune system is stronger than the adamantium in his body, so feel free to read any of the other logan fics written by all the amazing writers on this platform!!

but let’s say that he somehow contracted a special bug that managed to get past all that and managed to make him fall ill, requiring you to take care of him while wade goes on a mission to figure out what’s wrong with him…

this headstrong two-hundred-year mutant who can take stab wounds without flinching and is an invincible tank in battles will be the whinest son of the bitch. he always lets his guard down around you, but he’s the most vulnerable and immature that he’ll ever allow himself to be around anyone since he can’t remember the last time (or if he has ever in his life) felt so shitty. shivering despite being feverish and covered up in blankets which just made him sweaty and uncomfortable, an itchy nose that wouldn’t sneeze when he needed it to, coughing his lungs out every two minutes— it’s so alien to him.

when you finally show up to look after him, he’ll have uncharacteristically big puppy eyes as you gently place your hand on his forehead to gauge how bad it is. “how are you feeling, lo?”

“i feel like i’m going to fucking die.” there are several discarded tissues and water bottles overfilling the nearby trashcan, but it was clear that he had no idea how he was supposed to make himself feel better and suffering.

“i can tell,” you chuckle at how dramatic he sounds and it makes him frown, but he’s just so thankful that you’re here to take care of him (he doesn’t exactly trust al to do it, that woman is a bit too mysterious and cryptic for him, and the medicine she offered smelled funny even to his dulled senses). “let me go make you some soup.”

he doesn’t want you to leave at first because your cold skin feels so good against him, but he’ll lightly doze off for a bit now that he’s more comfortable and feels safer. don’t expect him to stay asleep for long though, he’ll get up from his little while you’re in the middle of cooking chicken vegetable soup to wrap his arms around you and rest his head on top of yours until you finish.

“why are there barely any vegetables in the fridge? i could only find half a carrot and wilted celery.”

“i don’t think anyone here eats that stuff.”

“logan, you need to eat your greens— all you guys do, how are all three of you in such good shape then?!”

“eh.”

he can’t make anything more complicated than butter noodles, wade sets nearly everything on fire, he feels slightly guilty eating the food made by an elderly blind lady when he’s already freeloading at the moment, and constantly ordering take-out becomes expensive. you’ve given some food in tupperware for him to eat up, but it isn’t quite the same. as if being sick didn’t make him miserable enough, he’s so fucking pissed that he couldn’t properly taste your freshly-cooked food and will make it known.

you scoff that it’s just soup and pour it out in a bowl for him to eat, but you’ll quickly find yourself spoon-feeding him. yes, his hands still work with perfectly fine motor functions. no, you’re not passing up the opportunity to baby him while he rolls his eyes (he’ll grunt at most and doesn’t say a word of protest, claiming that he’s merely allowing it since he’s too tired to fight with you over it and very glad no one could see it happening).

“here comes the airplane~”

“i’m a grown-ass man, don’t be ridiculous.”

“a grown-ass man without an ounce of whimsy in his life, open your fucking mouth and eat.”

this is one of the lower points in his life where he doesn’t quite understand why this is happening to him yet, so you obviously have give him as much affection as possible! keeping a cold glass of water nearby and a wet rag to dab on his face, he rests his head upon your thighs and you swear that you can hear him purring like a kitten. there’s not better pillow than his lover, soft, warm, and full of love as you hum a song to lull him to sleep.

“let’s get married one day…” he not sure how that slipped past his lips, it might be the fever talking for him, or the fact that he’s completely relaxed without any tension in his muscles and feeling himself falling in love all over again when you smile so sweetly at him

“okay, but you need to sleep and get better first.” you place a gentle kiss on his forehead until his eyes slowly drift shut, “i love you, logan.”

[lovebugism]

steve request for adjusting back to normality with him after the upside down ends? however much u wanna write 🤭🤍🤍 ur writing is gorgeous btw

ty angel! hope you like it!! — steve helps his agoraphobic gf leave the house for the first time since the world ended (established relationship, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of agoraphobia | 1.5k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

You sit on the stairwell and tie your shoes, trying desperately to ignore the trembling of your anxious fingers. The thin laces threaten to slip from your tremoring hands as you knot one loop into the other. You couldn’t hide from your worry if you tried.

Steve’s heavy footsteps sound behind you in a steady, even rhythm as he walks down the stairs. You can hear the dull clapping of the boy patting his pockets to ensure his keys and wallet haven’t yet fallen from them. You know he’ll do exactly that another ten times before you step foot out of the house. He’s just as anxious as you are these days.

“Almost ready?” he says, huffing, though a smile is evident in his voice.

You nod to yourself and make careful work of fastening the laces. “Mhm,” you hum.

“Did you make sure to pack those Ants on a Log things? ‘Cause Dustin’ll kill me if we don’t bring ‘em,” Steve frets, for the second or third time that morning. He stills on the step just behind you and crosses a pair of golden arms over his chest. “Because, you know, he’s the only kid in America who actually likes celery.”

You tilt your chin to look up at him, smiling despite the fear pinching your chest. “Everything’s in the basket, Stevie.”

“Including the—”

“Yes, including the drinks. And the sandwiches. It’s all in the fridge,” you finish for him. “And the blanket’s in the car, so… Everything’s ready.”

Steve’s chest deflates with a distant sigh of relief. He’s been so used to doing everything on his own — carrying the load of that burden entirely by himself — that he forgot what it meant to have someone else to lean on.

“God, I’m so in love with you,” he murmurs fondly, mostly to himself, as he bends at the waist to kiss your hair. The plush of his lips brush your temple in a warm touch you lean instinctively into. 

With a wide hand on your shoulder, Steve feels for the first time how tense you are. All rigid, muscles taut, like cradling a rock in his palm. You’ve kept a brave face for him all day, but there’s only so much hiding you can do.

“You’re still okay with this?” he wonders aloud as he stands to full height again. 

His scruffy face is all twisted with concern, but you’re not looking at him to see it. You tie your right sneaker with a pair of graceless hands, where you seem to hold most of your anxiety, and scoff at the silly question. “Am I okay with the… picnic?” you echo.

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, lips jutted, as he walks past you down the steps. He turns and leans against the railing, trying hard to be casual. “‘Cause, you know, if you weren’t, we could just have it in the backyard or something. Make all the little shits come here.”

It takes you a moment too long to catch his meaning.

Sometimes you forget that you haven’t left the house all year. You’ve fallen into such a routine here, at Steve’s house (which you’ve come to see as your own), that you’ve forgotten there’s a whole world outside of it. A whole world you shut yourself out of after it nearly ended — after it chewed you up and spat you out again.

You tell yourself that you survived. You tell yourself that you lived in spite of the unfavorable odds. But sometimes, when you feel like shards of flesh and bones instead of a real-life human being, you wonder if you’re alive at all.

“I’m good, Steve,” you assure despite the waver in your voice. Your hands fumble with the laces, and you have to start all over again. “It’s just the park, babe. I can make it to the park.”

Steve nods in response, raking an anxious hand through his hair. He swallows down any attempts to remind you that you’ve barely made it out of the garage, let alone to the park.

“Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to be this pale in the middle of July, anyway,” you joke with a forced laugh. 

The only time you really see the sun is when you’re sitting out on the patio — sipping at your morning coffee or watching Steve languish in the pool. You hardly last more than an hour, though, before a plane rumbles overhead or a car engine thunders too loudly. That’s all it takes for everything to come rushing back to you. The monsters, the soldiers, the blood. Then you lock yourself away all over again.

You hope this time is different.

Steve nods again, always hopeful, if only for your sake.

“Okay. Just… Just making sure, you know?” he trails off, then scrunches his nose. “Should we have a codeword, anyway? Like, for when the kids annoy the shit outta me, and I wanna get the hell outta there?”

You squint to yourself, pretending to ponder the question, as you rise from the stairs. You take a few steps downward until you’re standing just ahead of Steve — a few inches taller than him now. 

“How about… Get me the hell outta here?” you offer with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

A wide, pink grin blossoms on his mouth. “That’s perfect, actually,” Steve muses sarcastically, then meets you halfway when you lean down to kiss him. 

It’s a chaste and very innocuous peck that tastes faintly of Steve’s mouthwash and the peanut butter you licked from the spoon after making Dustin’s Ants on a Log. 

Despite its fleeting nature, you hang onto the simple kiss your entire way through the front door.

The first step out of the house is the hardest. 

You struggle to feel the ground beneath your feet as your mind threatens to wander. Thoughts of death plague your mind despite your attempts to push them away — roaring demogorgons, exploding guns, screaming teenagers. You have to fight the urge to cover your ears when a helicopter whizzes overhead, hidden somewhere in the clouds but sounding much closer than that.  

Steve holds your hand the entire way. “Almost there,” you hear him mumbling beneath the heartbeat woosh, woosh, wooshing in your ears. Your eyes squeeze shut. He leads you to the car and squeezes your hand. “You’re doing amazin’, babe. Just a couple more steps.”

You’re at the car in five seconds flat, though it had felt like five minutes at the time — and took approximately five years off your life. You feel eons better when you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Steve’s 733i. You feel more grounded there — with the tires against the asphalt, and Steve’s hand on your thigh, and the radio cranked all the way up.

You’re still a shaking mess when you get to the park, but the kids are a good enough distraction. 

You opt to busy your anxious hands with the picnic — handing out food, protecting drinks, and ensuring the emptying basket doesn’t blow away. You sit in the shade in the center of Steve’s quilt as leaves rustle in the warm breeze, allowing bits of summer sun to peek through and glitter on your skin. 

You keep a watchful eye on the kids around you as they scatter mindlessly about, making sure no one ventures far enough where you can’t see them. Steve yells at them for it so you don’t have to — shouts at Max and El for getting too close to the tree line while he tosses a ball to Lucas. 

He’s slowly mastering the art of throwing with his left hand. He hasn’t been able to lift his right one over his head since Starcourt. There’s a persistent ache in his shoulder he hasn’t been able to get rid of.

He walks over to you when the distance grows too much to bear, twisting his arm with a screwed-up face as he tries to find the root of the pain. “Whaddaya got for me, sweet thing?” he asks with a lopsided smile.

You reach into the basket beside you and pull out the last sandwich of the bunch, which you kept aside especially for him, wrapped neatly in plastic.

You hiss playfully through your teeth, then squint faux apologetically up at him. “All that’s left is tomato-avocado…” you joke, feigning horror.

Steve’s face twists. “Ugh. Seriously?” he huffs in disappointment.

“No,” you hum in response, smiling as you pass him his favorite sandwich. “Here you go.”

It’s a simple turkey, ham, and bacon number with all the fixings, but he particularly likes how you make it. (You argue that it can’t taste any better than a diner-made sandwich, but Steve always insists otherwise.) 

Your fingers brush when it takes it from you. Steve finds it difficult not to melt for you entirely, and not just because of the sweltering summer heat. 

He’s spent half of his life believing that no one ever gave him a passing thought — or that, at the very least, he was only ever an afterthought. But you remind him every day that he’s so much more than the nothing he often sees himself as. You remind him, through silly picnics and sandwiches made with love, what it means to be truly cared for.

“I love you,” Steve hums quietly, adoration melting in his honey eyes. “You know that?”

You nod once, hiding a smile as you squint one eye from the beaming sun. “I know.”

[rosesradio]

Probable Theorem Ch. 18

<<Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Summary: Do you remember what even happened last time? In the last chapter, Patton confronted his mom(Maggie) with an ultimatum to help him or he'd cut her out of his life. Roman was kidnapped, Virgil was stressed, Roman's mother Liz was there and kinda chillin' and Logan was with Thomas who wanted to learn how to use his powers again. Word count: 3.2k

Patton stared out the window at each building that passed, keeping note of every turn and every street to their destination. He glanced at his phone to the map he had pulled up, his GPS helping him keep track of where he was. He definitely didn’t expect to find himself so deep into the city where the population would be so dense, but he supposed that any building could be hiding a number of secrets. He kept glancing out the window and at his phone, hoping it would calm his nerves. The longer the drive went, the more the silence taunted him. He kept bracing himself for the inevitable. He knew it was going to happen, he just wasn’t sure exactly when.

Then he heard his mother sigh. There it is…

“Back at the house,-”

“We’re not talking about this.” Patton squeezed his phone in his hand as he felt the car roll to a stop.

“I just think it’s a little unfair how you jumped me with all those questions!”

“And I think it’s really unfair how you’ve been invalidating my feelings my whole life.”

“I have done no such thing!”

Patton huffed and looked over at his mother driving the truck. “Then what do you call what you’re doing right now?” Maggie scrunched up her nose but kept her eyes on the road. He could tell she was thinking of something to retort with. Make her seem like it wasn't that bad. That it wasn't her fault. That it came from a place of love. “I know what you're thinking; you feel like you’ve done something wrong, because you have, so you’re getting defensive. But that doesn't mean you can tell me how I feel is wrong because you didn't mean to."

"Now you're just twisting this around to make me look like the bad guy! I'm trying to help you!"

"Pull over."

"What?"

"I said," Patton balled his fists and braced himself, "pull over!"

"You need me to help find Roman!"

"No, I don't!" Patton finally turned and looked at his mother. The shocked expression on her face as she finally glanced away from the road for a split second before turning back was enough for him to know that she was listening. "I don't need you for this. I can find him without you!"

"No! You don't know where he is and I do!"

"And my boyfriend can read minds." Patton glared as he spoke. "I already told you back at the house. This is the last chance you have or you won't see me again. Ever."

The car grew silent with nothing more than the muffled noise from the city around them.

“Patton-”

“I’m not trying to be the bad guy here, mom. But I can’t just let you do this to me anymore.” Patton’s voice grew softer as he spoke. “I can’t handle it anymore.”

He heard his mother sigh from the driver’s seat, refusing to look at her. Not wanting to lose his resolve if he saw how upset she was. “You’re father would miss you.”

Patton immediately tensed in anger. “Using dad against me won’t work. He already said I could reach out to him and that he would love me no matter what. I don’t need you to get to him and we both know you could never take him away from me.” 

“I wouldn’t-”

“Don’t. We both know what you meant by it, so just don’t.”

Patton watched as the car pulled into a parking lot and the truck slowly came to a halt. His mother turned the car off and sat in her seat, making no attempt to exit just yet. “Do you still want me to show you where he is?”

Patton glanced at his phone, looking at the GPS app he had opened up to see where downtown he was. Technically, it was enough information to give to Logan and they could probably continue here on their own. 

He sat up and looked at her. “Depends. Do you think it was unfair? What I did back home?”

Maggie stayed silent for a bit before turning back to him. “I do, but maybe it’s because I’m being defensive. I just need to think about it and think before I act.”

Patton stared at her, not completely satisfied with her answer. Her emotions were a mess, they were swirling so much and wouldn’t settle on one solid feeling. She was emotionally charged right now, enough that he felt it was the truth. He was also an emotional person, it’s probably where he got it from. It probably explained why he started to become a bit of an empath. Possibly. He could bring it up to Logan who would go on and on with theories about how that would be probable. 

“That’s a start, I guess.” Patton turned and reached for the door handle before getting out. He closed the door and looked back down at his phone while waiting for his mother to follow. 

She hopped out of the car and paid the parking for their spot before heading to a nearby building. The streets were already filled with people going about their day in the early morning. She walked a few buildings down before she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Patton looked up at the unassuming building before his mother continued on. People passed by the front desk and headed for the elevators which Patton could only assume were all filled with offices for all different businesses. 

This is where Roman was? In some office in a giant building? Patton glanced around at the people in business attire going about their day, unaware of what was happening to his best friend inside. 

“Margaret?” Patton turned as someone approached his mother with a confused expression on his face. “I thought you left a while ago.” The stranger’s gaze slowly looked up at Patton. “And who is this?”

Wait a minute.

“This is my son! He works at the city library. I thought he could help us with our project. Maybe he’ll shed some light on the subject.”

Isn’t that…?

The man seemed super friendly. He smiled down at Maggie and shook his head. “Thank you for thinking of us but we’re gonna try to keep eyes off of that project for now.” 

Patton immediately got the hidden meaning. ‘We’re not letting people look at Prince Charging right now.’ Why? Why the sudden change? Did they figure out Roman’s identity already? Looking at the older man, Patton immediately knew this wasn’t the first time he saw him. He shoved his phone into his pocket.

This is the guy Clyde told me about.

“I’m sorry,” Patton stepped up and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “She hasn’t really told me what this was about. Just something urgent. Is there no way I could help, Mr.-” Patton hesitated for a moment, hoping the man would respond.

He smiled and reached out a hand. “Call me Bruce.” 

Patton grabbed his hand and shook it, repeating his name in his head so he didn’t forget it. “Nice to meet you. Are you sure there’s nothing I could do to help? I came all this way and I’m already late for work.”

Bruce let go and seemed apologetic. “No, I’m sorry. I put a hold on it for now due to a few things beyond our control. I thank you for wanting to help.” Bruce looked back to Maggie. “This is your son you’re always talking about, right? You raised a fine young man, Margaret.”

“Thank you, Bruce. Are you sure there’s no way we can’t just look?”

Bruce shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Sorry for making you come all this way again.”

“It’s fine,” Patton shrugged. “Whatever it was, if my mom really thinks I can help then we can try again another day.” He patted his mother on the shoulder. “Come on, I’m already late enough. You can tell me about it another day.”

“But, Patty-” Patton wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulder and turned them towards the front door. 

“It was nice meeting you, Bruce! Come on, mom, let’s go. Other people are trying to work.” 

Patton waited until they were outside before he pulled out his phone and sent Logan a quick text. “Mom, what floor do you go to when you come here?”

“Oh, um… the fifteenth floor, why?”

Patton punched in the address and the floor number before pressing ‘send’. “That was all the proof I needed.” Patton immediately went into his contacts and started a call. The phone rang a few times before it picked up. “Clyde, listen. We need to meet up. I just met Bruce.”

—

“You’re absolutely sure about this, Thomas?” Logan asked again. 

“I’m sure.” Thomas nodded. “There’s a lot going on right now and I want to help.”

Virgil walked back in, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. “On one hand, I’m not sure how much training is gonna get done with everything going on.” Virgil blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “On the other hand, he’s already learned it before so maybe he’ll be faster this time. Besides, not sure how else we’re gonna find Roman so fast. It’s worth a try, especially since the fan club is helping look.”

“Then maybe you should put down the coffee and get some rest.” Virgil looked over to Elizabeth, Roman’s mother. “My boy is strong and you’re no help if you’re too tired.”

“Tell that to my brain,” Virgil grumbled and took another sip of coffee. 

“Tell me more about these recipes, Liz! I’ve never tried Puerto Rican dishes before.”

“Oh, honey. We need to go food shopping together.” Liz seemed excited at the notion. “I know this grocery store that would be perfect to get you stocked up.”

“Perfect! Logan and Virgil can help!” 

Virgil almost choked on his coffee as Logan gave Two a confused look. “I apologize if my inquiry seems a bit rude. We are getting brought into this how?”

“Well, Virgil is Roman’s boyfriend and Roman’s your best friend!” Two spoke as if it weren’t the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wha, wait, Roman is not my best friend!” Two kept smiling at Logan. “He is not!” Logan stood his ground for a moment before his face fell. “Oh, Roman’s my best friend.”

“That’s rough, buddy,” Virgil patted Logan on the back sympathetically. 

A strange noise rang out and everyone looked at Logan as he pulled out his phone. He tapped on it a few times and froze. 

“What is it?” Virgil peered over Logan’s shoulder and looked at his phone. His eyes shot open as he reread the screen. 

Logan looked across the room toward Two. “It’s from Patton. It’s an address.”

“Logan, hold this for me, thanks,” Logan put up his hands to catch Virgil’s hot cup of coffee, dropping his phone in the process. Virgil was already scrolling on his phone and walking away. 

Logan blinked before he reached a hand outwards, “Wait, Virgil, we should talk about this-” In an instant, Virgil was gone. “-before we do anything…” Logan finished and let out a sigh.

“He’s gone,” Liz stared at the spot Virgil vanished from. “He just disappeared.”

“Oh boy, it’s okay!” Two reached over to comfort Roman’s mother. “I guess we have a little more explaining to do.”

—

“Patton, wait,” Maggie cried out as she chased after her son. “I can drive you!”

“Go back home, mom. I need to meet up with the others so we can come up with a plan.” Patton looked around to find the nearest bus stop. He could figure out which line to take him closest to home from there.

“I want to help, sweetie!”

Patton stopped and spun around quickly. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough to help?”

“Wha, but I thought you forgave me! I thought we were getting along again.”

“This doesn’t erase the years of damage you’ve done, mom.” Maggie froze and Patton felt a pit in his stomach. “I appreciate you helping me now but as it said, this was a start. I can’t forgive you for years of you making me feel bad about who I am just because of one good thing you did.” The bustle of the city drowned them out and no one even gave them a second glance. “So this is where I ask you to stay out of it and let me know if you get any updates. Otherwise, leave this to me and my friends.”

“Wait,” Maggie reached out and grabbed Patton’s arm. “Please, just… Let me at least take you where you need to go. No questions, no talking. I’ll bring you wherever you need and I’ll leave.”

Patton stared down at his mother and sighed. He felt his anger slipping away immediately though not completely. This was his mother and despite it all, he did still love her. “Okay, you can drive me.”

“Good! Excellent! Let’s get back to my truck.” Maggie kept her grip on her son as they walked arm and arm back to the parking lot. “You spoke with someone on the phone, right? Where do they live?”

“Oh, um, actually, just take me home.” Patton pulled out his phone and immediately dialed a number. They picked up almost immediately. “Logan. Hey. I’m on my way back home.” 

“Alright. Just a warning, Virgil’s already gone.”

“I’m not surprised. He didn’t reappear there?”

“No, we're not quite sure where he is right now.”

“Alright, no problem. I have to make one stop before I come back but I’ll explain everything then, okay?”

“Alright, please stay safe. We’ll see you soon.”

Patton and Maggie walked into the parking lot. Maggie reached to get into her car before she looked over at her son confused. “Do you need me to stop somewhere before I drop you off back home?”

“No.”

 Maggie stared at her son for a moment before she pulled her door open. “Right, I won’t ask. Back home it is.”

When Margaret pulled up to her son’s building, she watched as he ran up the stairs of the porch and knocked on his neighbor’s door. He turned around and Maggie immediately turned her eyes away from him and back to the road. She pulled away from the curb and gripped her steering wheel as she drove off, wondering just how much she messed up her relationship with her son.

—

Roman was… Fine.

Except he was bored. Completely stir-crazy and stuck in an empty office in some random office building. In an empty conference room with no table or anything. The floor was carpeted and there was an outlet and Roman could feel it. He could feel the static from the floor and the charge running to the outlet. He could feel the electricity on his fingertips itching to be used. He wanted SOME sort of stimuli, anything to keep his mind off of the power itching to come out. Any distraction other than the faint pang of pain in his head. Though it was surprisingly feeling a lot better than it was just a few hours ago. 

Roman knew he could break out but there was a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Logan telling him it was a bad idea and he knew it. He had convinced them that his powers weren’t real and he was sticking to it. It wasn’t worth the risk to everyone else. This was HIS mess and he was gonna think his way out of it. 

Although hearing that Bruce guy knew someone with powers had him curious. And maybe Roman could have Clyde disguise himself as someone else so none of them REALLY had to reveal themselves. Though getting Clyde to agree would be difficult maybe this guy would understand if they didn’t want to meet him.

Roman sat up and groaned, rubbing his head. Okay, now he was pretty sure he was thinking too much and it was making his headache worse. But he didn’t know what else to do! And he couldn’t really burn off the energy he had, moving on the carpet only made it worse and-

POP

Roman was immediately tackled to the ground which caught him completely off guard. He didn’t think he was so distracted that he hadn’t heard the door open. He grabbed the person on top of him and looked at the door and, there it was, open and unguarded. Roman pushed with all his might but whoever had him wouldn’t loosen their grip around his neck. Roman shoved again, the stench of coffee filling his nose. 

“Let go of me!” Roman leveraged himself and spun around, pinning the person beneath him, although they still didn’t let go. They also weren’t fighting either. Roman gripped the old sweater they were wearing, grabbed the hoodie, and pulled. “I said let-”

“Shut up you moron!” Virgil’s voice rang out loudly against his ear. 

Roman froze and glanced around. The sound of nothing but their breathing filled the air. Then Roman pieced it together. The quietness, the pop, Virgil. Time must have stopped.

With a sigh of relief, Roman sat back and Virgl fell into his lap. “You found me.”

He could breathe. He was fine! In an entire city of people, his friends had found him. In only a few hours to boot! Roman was sure he’d have to plan an escape later tonight.

Roman hugged Virgil closer and felt the stress he had been holding disappear. “I’m so sorry I made you worry.” Roman waited for a response before nudging Virgil a bit. “Hey, please. I really am sorry!” Virgil’s arms fell down a bit and Roman nudged him again. “Uh, Virge?” Still no answer. “Virgil, are… Did you fall asleep?!”

—

“Just you?” Clyde looked at Patton through the screen door. “Fine by me. Come on up.”

Patton tugged the door open and made his way to the second-floor apartment Clyde and Leslie shared. “I didn’t talk to him for long so I don’t have much to say.”

Clyde vaguely motioned to the couch for Patton to sit before he began pacing the floor. “You’re absolutely sure it was him?”

Patton sat down on the couch and nodded. “Yeah, a few more grays in his hair but that was him.”

Clyde stopped pacing and faced Patton. “Where were you? What were you doing?”

“Well, you remember the APC thing? That club that’s against Prince Charging?” Clyde nodded. “Well, turns out my mother was a part of it? She sort of revealed it on accident but I got her to bring me there to see him. This guy, Bruce, stopped us at the door.”

“And?” Clyde marched over to the couch. “What was he like?”

Patton frowned and shrugged. “He seemed nice?”

Clyde scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re an empath and all you can tell me was he seemed nice?”

“Oh,” Patton became a bit stoic. “That. Well, he strangely seemed a bit,” Patton struggled to find the right word. “He seemed excited about something.”

Clyde seemed irritated by this news and let out his frustrations. “Auugh of course he was! Still so full of himself! Gosh, I hate him sometimes!”

“Clyde, who is this guy? Should we be worried?”

Clyde quickly fell into a sitting position on the floor. “I had hoped that he would have stopped this by now but I guess I was too optimistic.” Clyde huffed out a laugh. “Imagine, me? Too optimistic?”

“Clyde?”

Clyde shot an annoyed look at Patton. “As much as I loathe to admit this,” Clyde spat out. “That jackass is my father.”

[lunammoon]

Some Death Was A Temporary Inconvenience chapters that I've got cooking (note, cooking here means that I have actually begun writing them in the google doc)

Doctor: Probably 5, but could work with an Doctor after (and possibly including) 4. Something to do with the fact that one of the most common reasons a companion (mainly female ones) would leave is that they fell in love with someone they met on their travels and worries that sooner or later Marion is going either leave or want to leave and be unable to and later resent him. He wonders if he and Marion should fall in love so that doesn't happen. He tells a companion about this who quickly tells Marion who quickly says "he's spiraling and doesn't need to do that" Idk if this one will ever get posted because I'm worried people will get the take away that the Doctor actually has romantic feelings towards Marion or that he's directly trying to manipulate her when the side story is actually a result of me thinking about how while I don't know that I necessarily headcanon the Doctor as being aromantic, the whole "long term companion leaves after spending two (2) hours with a guy she just met and deciding she wants to stay with him and stop traveling with someone she's known for Much MUCH longer" thing feels aro-coded to me.

4 +1 involving the Doctor napping on Marion and Marion napping on him that is in FACT an excuse to discuss Marion’s relationship with the Doctor from various POV's including Two, Romana I, the TARDIS, Amy, and Marion herself for the +1 [this one is probably closer to being done than the others. I just need to write Amy and Marion]

The one where Marion is the TARDIS. OR Maybe the TARDIS is Marion. It's very much a Distortion type thing where I make Marion vaguely weird, unsettling, and eldritch. Will mostly involve a series of 100-200 word interactions with various characters

Marion settles an argument between Six and Peri. (It’s a very dumb one)

One and a half person POV involving "the Mysterious She" as I, addressing the woman with the star speckled skin as "you" concerning the events on October and November's chapters.

One just titled "sorry is it OUR stab wound?"

[d3add0vedonoteat]

Chicken Soup for Carmy

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ harsh language, sexism and violence in one scene (not from Carmy). Hurt/comfort, fluff.

A/N: I’m literally feral for this man. I’m sick atm and I started thinking about taking care of Carmy while I was making chicken soup. Bonus combo with Carmy protecting you from an asshole customer. Not proofread bc my brain is rotting. Plz be nice this is my first time posting a fic 🥺

-

It was cold. You braced yourself against the harsh Chicago wind as you made your way briskly down the street. After a late night phone call from your brother sent you into a spiral, you couldn’t sleep. You’d been tossing and turning all night until finally, at 4am, you flung off the covers and got dressed. It wasn’t a surprise that you’d come here. This place consumed all your mind and your heart since you started working here a few months ago. You used your key to unlock the door in the alley, sighing with relief as the warmth of The Beef welcomed you inside. It was quiet, the lights were down, it was peaceful. You slipped off your sneakers trading in your kitchen clogs and tucked your things safely away in your locker. You tied your handkerchief on your head as you moved. It was so comforting, the routine of The Beef’s prep work. You felt so at home, moving from the prep area to the walk in, diligently beginning the tasks that didn’t need to be started for a few more hours. He would understand. You thought to yourself as you began to prepare fresh stock for the day. He was a man after your own heart, your boss, Carmen Berzatto.

Avoidant, chaotically emotional, one wrong thing away from a complete meltdown, that you both disguised as workaholic tendencies. As you finely chopped onions, your mind quieted. Everything was shut out except for the task at hand. Your brother’s angry voice on the phone accusing you: “you never come home! You don’t even care about us! You can’t take come take care of your own mother?!” was drowned out by the rhythmic pound of your knife on the cutting board. You were in the zone.

Until a voice startled you out of your bubble. “Chef?” You jolted, looking up at the man before you. Carmy’s hair was messier than usual, the bags under his eyes were deeper and more purple. His lips were parted with each soft breath he took. He gave you a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”

“I uh-” your mouth felt dry and you tripped over your words, as usual when he set those intense blue eyes on you. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Carmy nodded, not pushing you any further. All he said before moving toward the office was a simple: “Heard, Chef.”

You watched him go, noticing the slump of his shoulders and the labor of his normally spry step. There was no mistaking it, Carmen was sick. You stared at the office door for a long moment before you made up your mind.

You set a heavy bottomed pot on the stove with some olive oil. Your hands moved with well practiced efficiency as you chopped garlic and onions, celery and carrots. The garlic and onions went in first. Then the celery. A sprig of thyme and a dash of white wine. While that simmered you quickly seared some chicken breast and chopped it into perfectly bite sized pieces. All into the pot with chicken stock and water, tightly covered to develop the flavors. Next came the pasta. You cracked eggs into the well of flour, mixing and kneading until it became a smooth golden dough. You carefully, tenderly rolled the dough and cut it into thick, short noodles. A bath in hot water to cook, then they too joined the pot. In no time at all, you were ladling a generous portion into a bowl. You set a toasted piece of chibatta on the side, grabbed a spoon, and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves. Softly, you knocked on the office door.

“Yeah?” His voice responded.

“Chef?” You entered, nervous. Words failing you as they so often did in his presence, you set the bowl before him. Carmy’s eyes widened. The aroma made his mouth water. He looked to you, gaze softening. “You made me chicken soup?”

Your cheeks grew warm. “Y-yeah, I mean chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

Carmy couldn’t believe you. You noticed? He smiled at you. You were so beautiful. You were always so confident and sure on the line, delegating with efficiency, respect, and authority. He had hired you the second you stepped into The Beef. Your resume was impressive but there was something in the way you carried yourself that truly earned the golden reputation you had in the culinary industry. But you were different with him, in the occasional moments like this where it was just you and him. Shy, almost bashful, gentle, and soft. He loved it. He wanted more of it. He lifted the spoon, bringing a bite to his lips.

“Gotta get a little of everything.” You muttered, eagerly awaiting his response.

Carmy shot you a sideways smile. It was good. No, it was better than good. The warm broth slid down his throat and each bite exploded with a depth of flavor he couldn’t believe. It was pure comfort. It reminded him of being a little kid staying home sick from school. Curled up on the couch while Jerry Springer played, eating crackers and ginger ale until his mom would bring a bowl of chicken noodle soup. But this soup, your soup, was more than that. People always talk about cooking with love but he swore he could taste it. Each ingredient had been so carefully handled. Perfectly chopped vegetables, moist and flavorful chicken. The warm feeling in his chest grew as he inspected the bowl.

“Did uh, did you make this pasta fresh?” He asked, eyeing you.

“Yeah, it’s better that way.” You blushed.

“Thank you, chef.” He said. “It’s really, really good.” Carmy looked down, suddenly feeling heavy. The fear of closeness set into him and all he could think about was how he’d fuck this up. “You-you didn’t have to make this for me.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” You insisted. “It was no big deal.” You began to leave, giving him one last truthful smile. “I like taking care of you.”

“I like taking care of you.” Your words rattled through Carmy’s mind all day. Throughout all of lunch, prep, and dinner he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said. The soup you had made was the first thing he’d eaten in too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him and you’d just done it because you noticed he wasn’t feeling well. No motive, no games, just tender love and concern.

Love.

Carmy shook his head to try and shake the thought from his mind. No, no, no there was no way you actually cared about him. Not like that. You were just being nice.

That’s just who you are; nice. You were always so kind. The way you’d help Marcus workshop pastries, the way you’d make Tina laugh and listen to her talk about whatever trouble Louis had gotten in, how you’d encourage Sydney and remind her that she can do this. Even the way you’d throw snark right back at Richie or how’d you’d always set aside a portion of Family for Fak and Sugar, even Pete. You were always thinking of others. Carmy wasn’t special.

Yeah. Not special.

Carmy insisted the thought as he scrubbed the grill. Not special. Not special. Not special.

“Carmy?” There you were. You were always there. You had a thick denim jacket on, bag on your shoulder, knit beanie pulled down over your hair. Your brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carmy shook his head. “I’m fine… you uh- you heading out?”

You shrugged, hoisting your bag a little higher on your shoulder and eyeing him skeptically. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah, in a bit.”

You chuckled, more exasperated than humorous. “No.”

“What?” Carmy asked, confused.

“No, you’re leaving too.” You insisted. You were feeling bold. Months of long looks and his hand on your lower back every time he passed you had culminated tonight.

You had taken over the front for Richie while he ducked out to take a call from his daughter. You’d insisted. It was slammed for dinner but everything was going fairly smooth until an irate customer approached you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He’d asked, slamming his plate onto the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean are you retarded or something?” He continued. You were stunned into silence. You had never had anyone speak to you like that. “How hard is it to make a fucking sandwich? I know your tits are bigger than your brain but Jesus fucking Christ it’s not hard!”

“I-I…” you were shaking. “I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied, sir. If you like, we can-”

“Not satisfied?!” He screamed. “How can I be satisfied with this piece of shit!”

He hurled the sandwich at you. It hit you in the chest, toppings and sauce splattering everywhere. Before you even knew what was happening, a blur of messy curls shot past you. Carmy launched over the counter, tackling the man. His fist collided with the man’s face over and over while Richie and Fak rushed after him. There was a cacophony of yells as Richie pulled Carmy back. “Get your girl!” Richie yelled. “Cousin! Go get your girl!”

Fak and Richie dragged the man out and threw him into the street. Carmy’s hands grasped your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He wiped the sauce splatters from your brow. “Look at me.”

Carmy burned with anger as he watched you shake. Your white shirt and blue apron were covered in the sandwich. He imagined what you would do for him if he was in your position. How you’d care for him, how you’d tend to him… so he tried to do what you would. Gently he guided you to your feet and wrapped his arm around your waist. He practically carried you to his office where he sat you on the couch and quickly went to grab a clean shirt from his own locker. You were in the same place he left you when he returned. Carmy knelt before you, taking your face in his hands once more.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tears welled in your eyes and you collapsed into his arms. He smoothed his hand over you back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over again. He felt like he was on fire. The feeling of you clinging to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, the smell of you, how you fit in his arms… it was too much. He wanted to run away and never speak to you again. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to find the piece of shit that yelled at you and rip him to pieces. He wanted your chicken soup every time he was sick.

All those feelings were closing in on Carmy once again as he stared at you across the kitchen. You still had his t shirt on. You were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, uh… what did you say?” Carmy’s voice was softer than he expected.

“I said I’ll walk home with you.”

“Oh, no that’s okay. Ive got to-“

“Carmy,” you stepped closer. Your voice was firm but so tender. “You need to get some rest. Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”

He couldn’t help but smile back at you. “Alright…” he conceded.

The two of you braced yourselves against the cold and hurried down the sidewalk side by side. You argued about who would walk who home. Carmy insisted on walking you to your apartment but you protested on the grounds that he’d just go back to the restaurant once he dropped you off.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But you have to call me when you get to your place so I know you made it home!”

Carmy looked at the ground, smiling. The warmth in his chest from your soup was steadily turning into a molten pool of lava.

“Heard.” He grinned. You wanted to know he’d made it home. You wanted to make sure he rested. I like taking care of you.

“Well, I’m just up here.” Your voice stopped his thoughts from spiraling before it could even start. Carmy’s brow furrowed. “What?” You asked, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

“You live over there?”

“Yeah? Like a block down?”

There was a beat of silence before Carmy let out a breathy laugh. “I live right there.” He pointed to the building on the other side of the street.

“No shit!” You laughed in earnest. Your hand came to rest on his arm. “Guess I’m gonna be walking you home more often.”

Carmy’s entire body was on fire. He could imagine the tingle of your soft hand on his skin through all the layers of clothing. He wanted to hold you close again like in his office, but this time you wouldn’t be crying. A deep pit opened in his stomach. How long before he made you cry? How long before he fucked it all up? Until you hated him and quit the restaurant and everything fell apart because he-

“Hey,” your voice. Always your voice that brought him back. When he looked over at you it was like everything but your face faded into a blurry background. You were all Carmy could see. “Do you want to come to mine? I haven’t eaten and I KNOW you haven’t either.”

Carmy’s heart fluttered. “O-okay.” He started, his confidence rising when he noticed your hand was still in his arm. “Only if you let me cook you something.”

“Ooh,” you smiled. “I’d never turn that down!”

Carmy chuckled, feeling lighter for the first time in years as he walked so close beside you that your shoulders brushed. “It won’t be as good as your chicken soup.”

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share the Space with Simple Living Things - Hozier x Fem!Florist!Reader

Chapter Three: Chrysanthemums - Joy

Summary: You and Andrew meet outside of your workplace for the first time for a completely platonic coffee on him.

Word count: 2385

Author's note: i am so sorry that this took so long 😭 last week of school combined with finals combined with life i guess hindered me from writing. but i'm back on track!!! hopefully you all enjoy and if i don't update again soon happy holidays <3

tag list: @celery-grace @gayandfairycore @deathmybride @harry-bowie-mercury @hodgepodge-musings @blue-eyed-bug @secretttytttttttttt @dinner-n-dxatribes @padfootblackswh0r3 (if you want to be added just let me know!)

fic below the cut <3

This is not a date.

That was your affirmation all of Friday morning, repeating it to yourself.

You muttered it under your breath as you fixed your hair. It was mumbled as you laid out your outfit, specifically chosen to be fashionable but casual: your favorite sweater and a nice pair of jeans. You whispered it before spraying your perfume, a scent you had to dig through your closet for five minutes to find. Ironically, the scent was nothing close to floral. You said it to each of your houseplants as you watered them. They remained unconvinced.

Slipped on your shoes. Locked up your flat. Walked down the stairs. You repeated your mantra every time, because maybe if you said it enough times, it would become true.

By the time you made it to your car, you had said it so many times it felt like breathing. Your hands gripped the wheel. You locked eyes with your reflection in the rearview mirror and whispered your phrase of the morning one more time for good luck.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

Stepping down on the gas pedal, you began to drive.

On the drive there, you prepared yourself for all possible scenarios. This kind of thinking came naturally — it always did, especially in situations like these. You ran through what your reaction would be if he showed up, what it would be if he didn't. What you would do if he had an insanely complex coffee order, or if he ordered a drink with six shots of espresso. What if he tried to order for you, or if he made some backhanded comment about another woman at the cafe? You doubted he would do any of these things, but you believed it's better to be safe than sorry. This thinking only paused when you parked in front the coffee shop and caught a glimpse of Andrew waiting inside. All of your previous repetition and fretting had made you ten minutes late, a fact you weren't fond of and hoped Andrew wouldn't chastise you for.

The moment you stepped into the coffee shop, all of your previous affirmations were thrown out the window. It wasn't a date. But after seeing Andrew you wished that it was.

It wasn't any particular factor. It wasn't the black denim jacket he was wearing, or the way he'd tied half his hair up, leaving the other half down. It wasn't even the smile on his face, reserved like he wasn't sure how to react properly when he saw you. It was a combination of everything; his presence alone was enough to make you flustered. So flustered that you were very close to forgetting to say anything when you walked up to him. Thankfully, at the last moment, you actually spoke.

“Hey! Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long,” you greeted him with a small smile.

“Oh, no. I just got here, too. You're alright.”

You walked inside together, and you looked around at your new surroundings. It was a small business, quaint and cozy, with framed photos of artworks by local artists; it was exactly what you would imagine a coffee shop that Andrew picked to be.

Because all of your overthinking (or what you preferred to call planning) on the way there, you ordered your coffee with ease. Andrew recited his order, a black americano, a surprise to you. You watched as he paid and gave his name for the order, the barista already recognizing him. He turned his head towards you and offered an explanation:“I’m a regular. I always come here whenever I need a pick-me-up.”

“I’ll have to come here more often, then,” you replied.

You found a small table in the corner and sat down to claim it for the both of you while Andrew stood by the counter, waiting for your coffee. What a gentleman.

You had yet to notice any flaws in him, only making your self-imposed rule of this not being romantic harder to follow. There had to be something about him that was off. There was no way he was so caring and endearing and funny all at the same time; he had to have an imperfection eventually. You didn't find it in the few minutes you watched him stand around, occasionally fiddling with his hands or putting them in his pockets. Your efforts grew even more futile as he walked over with the coffees in hand, setting them down on the table.

He shedded his jacket and carefully placed it on the back of the chair before sitting down in the chair opposite you. This simple action caused the fact that you barely knew Andrew to pop up in your head. Despite how connected to him you felt already, you had only met him twice before. On both occasions he wore long sleeves, so seeing him without a jacket for the first time gave you a much appreciated surprise.

His right arm had an entire sleeve of tattoos.

He had turned his arm into a mural for myths and legends. A portrait of a falling Icarus, wings disintegrating beneath a red sun. A tortured Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back. Dante and Virgil arm in arm wandering through a circle of hell. Writing in script filled the empty space, seemingly verses from poems. It was all centered around two words placed across his bicep: Noli Timere. You’d be lying if you said it didn't make you even more attracted to him than you already were.

You could've spent hours just looking, analyzing every line of ink. It felt as though you did, though it's much more likely it was only for a few seconds. You were brought back to Earth by the sound of his voice.

“It's rude to stare, y’know?”

There was no real annoyance in his voice, but it caused you to attention like you had been caught. An explanation mumbled its way out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I just- I like your arm. Tattoos. Your arm tattoos. They're…”

Beautiful? Enticing? Very attractive?

“…cool.”

You took a sip of your coffee, finding it the perfect time to cover up your embarrassment, as well as the flushed face that came along with it. Luckily, Andrew didn't notice (or if he did, he didn't mind) and continued the conversation, accepting your compliment with a crooked smile.

“Thanks. I try to put a lot of thought into them, give them some meaning, so they're all based on these stories that are important to me.”

“Makes sense. I’d hate to get a tattoo just to regret it a few years later. Even worse, a few months later.”

“Too many of my clients have had that exact issue. Come in a year after and ask for a coverup. Makes me question my work sometimes.”

“Clients?” You asked with a tilt of your head.

“Oh, right. I never mentioned it.” He paused to take a drink from his cup before continuing. “I’m a tattoo artist. The parlor I work at’s only a few blocks away from your shop, believe it or not.”

“Wow. Small world, I suppose. Maybe I could stop by someday and say hi.”

The boldness of your statement didn't fully process in your brain, and you quickly backtracked.

“If you’d be okay with that, of course.”

“Yes. Absolutely. You can come by whenever I don't have a client.”

“Call me over if anyone gets a tattoo of a flower and I’ll be there to explain everything it means. There is always the very dangerous possibility of someone getting a flower that means jealousy or a rejection.”

He didn’t reply, just flashed a smile, and the silence between you seemed… awkward. Combined with the way he was fidgeting with his hands, it almost made you think he was nervous.

“I’m actually thinking about buying a bouquet to put on the front desk,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah. A lot of people, they get nervous before their appointment, whether it's their first tattoo or their tenth. Having flowers right when you walk in might ease some of the tension.”

“That's a great idea. I know I’m biased, but flowers do tend to brighten my day."

“Do you have any ideas?”

You bit at your bottom lip as you thought, finally speaking again once you racked your brain for what could work.

“Chrysanthemums are a favorite with customers. Those mean joy and optimism. I could start with those and build from there.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“That's all I’ve got right now, but I’ll see what else I can come up with later. After coffee, I’m much more… insightful.”

As if to prove your point, you took another sip of your coffee, a longer one that left only a quarter of the cup left.

“So… this is official? You're placing an order?”

He nodded.

“If that's how this works, then yes. I’d like to place an order of one chrysanthemum bouquet for the purpose of making my customers happy. Please,” he replied genuinely.

“Your order will be marked down as soon as I get to the shop.”

“Feel free to take your time, by the way. I don't mean to pressure you. It's not like I have a deadline, and I know you probably have a million other things you have to do.”

You considered reaching for him, your fingertips flexing in his direction, but you restrained yourself, choosing words instead.

“You're not pressuring me at all. You made your order. Now you're asking me to do my job. My job that I love, by the way. If anything, I’m thrilled that you're so interested.”

The real question is whether you're more interested in my job or me.

You weren't bold enough to say what you were thinking, but you never had been. You had gotten so used to biting your tongue it was a miracle it was still in your mouth. You spoke again, but selected a much safer option of what to say.

“It's gonna take a few days since there's some orders before yours, but I have your number on file so I’ll call you when I finish it up.”

“I’ll be there. With my wallet, this time around.”

You thought about your proposition before realizing there would be a much more effective, though maybe you just wanted to visit Andrew’s job for a change.

“I mean, you said your place is only a few minutes away, right? I could always deliver it. Gives me an opportunity to get some fresh air during my day. Besides, you're probably much busier than I am, so it might be harder to find the time. Meanwhile, I can deliver it as soon as it's done, and everything works out.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know. I want to, though.”

He sighed and shook his head, a reaction you originally feared was out of annoyance, but you felt a small amount of relief when you noticed the smile that accompanied it.

“You need to stop doing nice things for me. Otherwise I’ll go bankrupt from buying you so much coffee to compensate.”

“I also accept gratitude payment in compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks.”

“What about credit cards?”

“Ooo, sorry. Compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks are your options.”

He chuckled, a deeper and richer laugh than before.

“Fine. You want a compliment? You're incredibly kind for doing all of this for me, and I sincerely appreciate it. Thank you.”

Another sip from your cup to hide the flush of your cheeks, though no amount of caffeine could calm the butterflies in your stomach.

“That covers your gratitude payment for now. I still need real money, of course,” you muttered. “And you're not getting your way out of it this time.”

“I would never. You can't pull the same con on the same person twice.”

“Oh, so it was a con? Did those flowers even go to your mother?”

“Nope. Underground flower smuggling ring.”

“Ah, I should've guessed. Tell your flower-loving crime boss that I’m thankful for all that you've done for me, but I unfortunately need to get going, because it's 9:30 and the shop opens at 10.”

Andrew complied. You two wrapped it up, and he put his jacket back on, covering up his tattoos much to your dismay. Your coffee cup, now empty, was discarded by the door.

“Thank you so much. For the coffee, for the company. Everything. Especially for the coffee, though, considering you barely even drank yours,” you commented, pointing at the half-full cup still in his hand.

“You’re welcome. And trust me, I was going to drink it, but I found myself much more engrossed in the conversation.”

Andrew grabbed the door and held it open for you, and you walked past him and thanked him. Both of you stood on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, unsure of how (or if you even wanted) to say goodbye.

“This is where we must part ways,” he said with a sigh.

“You say that like we're never going to see each other again.”

“A lot can happen in a few days, Y/N. You have no idea what the universe has up her sleeve.”

“Do you have some kind of knowledge about an apocalypse that I don't? Because when it comes to that kind of stuff, sharing is caring.”

“Just… prepping for the future, I suppose. If there is no apocalypse, I’ll see you when my bouquet’s finished.”

“I’ll see you then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

You walked to your car, only a few footsteps away, the smile slowly fading from your face as he walked in the opposite direction. You sneaked a glance over your shoulder at him before opening the car door.

Sitting down in the driver's seat, you took a deep breath to bring yourself back to reality. Your mantra had been proven right: that was not a date. It just felt like one. A very successful one at that. He was a gentleman, listened to what you had to say, gave you a compliment, and you even set up an incentive to meet again. This not-a-date went better than most of your actual dates, and it was with a guy who, to your knowledge, had no romantic interest in you.

You were totally and utterly screwed.

[hazzabeeforlou]

i had a question and i hope that it doesn’t sound rude. do you feel ashamed being in the fandom and being a shipper at 32? i ask because i am 27, and have been in the fandom since 2012, off and on. i haven’t rly been in it actively for the last two years or so, but when i want to come back, i feel embarrassed. i also don’t think i could handle the stress of it tbh! lol. i hope you are well <3

I was going to answer this yesterday but then remembered I had a 7 hour drive today and didn’t want to stay up later than I already was. Because I’m an adult, with (now one) previous multiple jobs, a pet, rent, vehicle, three post high school diplomas, and student loans, and there are many things in my life I get ashamed of, like when I answer “you too” when a cashier tells me thanks for shopping or when I let a whole bag of celery go bad in my fridge without ever cleaning or eating it. Shame? At my tax dollars funding death weapons and family members voting for strong men? Sure. Latent homophobic internalized shame from my upbringing? Yeah, sometimes.

But life is too fucking short to be embarrassed or hold shame about a FANDOM. Listen, I “ship” Johnlock, or Merthur, but Larry wasn’t a ship for me it was a discovery of queer joy. Like I’m so sorry but baby Larry was real. 100%, actually, seriously legit, like how else do you fucking explain any or all of that. We watched two boys fall in love with each other and okay we don’t know the devil or the details but we have how many albums and interviews, jokes made by media personalities etc, plus the fact that now, this many years later, their solo stuff is still haunted by a nauseating back and forth, these odd lyrical choices that are echoed in the other?

Yeah it’s not a ship. It’s a thing that happened, that we witnessed, and by virtue of it happening and us witnessing it something about gay love became dreamable, reachable, attainable, soft and puppy and exciting and wild. Their secret sign language and mimed blow jobs and jealous looks and touches when they thought there were no cameras, all those things made queerness not just something you saw on Glee. Not just something your parents talked about while wrinkling their nose up about ‘those people.’ It’s a generational thing, the world has moved on, we don’t NEED Larry anymore. And that’s okay. But we don’t need it because it happened. Not to be a brat but you exist in the context of all in which you live and what came before you.

And yeah, we wrote fics about highly characterized and publicized versions of Larry, often inserting our own traumas or fantasies, creating a kind of gay mythos around this witnessed event from the periphery, from the lens of the consumer, the only lens we have. But I’m not ashamed of that. You think stories are only ever written about people that don’t exist? At some point you have to acknowledge that in our world, celebrities are the deities of our popular imagination. I could write a thesis, but before I get into the weeds, suffice to say Harry and Louis have created a world of what can be, unburdened by what has been.

Yk? Anyways. Hope this made you feel better. And hope you come back to visit from time to time. I’ll be here.

[lunammoon]

ANOTHER ONE!!!! IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS?????? OH YOU ARE A GEM!!!!

Marion is in my head and on my heart this week. @lunammoon