#gesture of kindness

[tears-that-heal]

While DoorDashing…..🚘

[stark-lord]

DEAD BOY DETECTIVES (2024)

1.05 - The Case of the Two Dead Dragons

Or,

Edwin. I saw that.

[itseghost]

collection of some molly sketches :] im obsessed with drawing him smiling hugely looking mischievous

[lemongogo]

i just like his long hair ok 🧎

[mipexch]

what else would you expect a literal blood machine to gift you besides a coin lodged directly into your chest. happy holidays

[nellasbookplanet]

I've been thinking about Mollymauk, as I'm periodically wont to do, and the fandom discussion about him as a moral compass. Because the interesting thing here is, Molly wasn’t a very moral character. He was an unrepentant scammer. He had no respect for interpersonal boundaries and would deliberately push and break them. Generally, he was an asshole. As far as actually having a strong moral stance I would say Fjord was the standout of early m9, and to some extent Beau.

But here’s the thing: almost all of early m9 thought of themselves as horrible people. Fjord had been bullied so bad growing up that he still dealt with self-hate from it, and now suffered from survivor's guilt to boot. Caleb had killed his own parents. Beau, while she hated her dad, also had internalized self-hate and on some level thought she’d been such a shitty daughter she deserved his treatment. Nott was stuck in a body she considered monstrous. Yasha had survivor's guilt and knew she’d done bad things in her blank spots. Even when they did good, they didn’t think of themselves as good. Most of them were suspicious and asocial and faced the world with the same kind of distrust they expected to be (and were experienced in being) met with. (Jester was an exception, an agent of neither good nor bad but of amoral chaos)

But Molly was different. He was outspoken about loving life and people. He wanted to spread joy, even to people he didnt know or had even met: he slipped coin into people's pockets, hid a silver in a tree just so some stranger would one day be happy to find it. He openly cared for the party early on; was one of the first to step in and help Caleb when he went catatonic in battle. Above all, Molly had rules: where everyone else would agonize over what was the right or wrong or smart thing to do, Molly loudly proclaimed we don't leave people behind, and we leave every place better than we found it.

But the thing about Molly’s rules was, they were largely a cover. While the rest of the m9 thought they were bad even as they did good, Molly thought of himself as good even as he did bad. He scammed people, but made it a good and memorable experience, therefore thinking he gave more than he took. He charmed Nott and Fjord without consent, and when confronted would claim it was to help them. Out of the group, Beau saw through this, not because she was a better person but because she was a cynic. She saw that he caused harm, just as she did, and was personally affronted that he still thought of himself as good and tried to leave people happy, whereas she deliberately left every place worse than she found it.

I see Molly as a moral compass of the group not because he was actually any more moral than them, but because they made him their template. He was joy and brightness and he died trying to save them because it was the right thing to do, and they all chose to honor him by emulating his rules more than Molly himself ever did, because to them it was more than just a cover, backed up by genuine moral thought and discussion rather than small gestures. He taught them that it was possible to be kind of a shit person and still be good, to still love yourself and others. The idealized Molly they created never existed, and finally died for good when they resurrected him in the end and were met with a stranger, who they welcomed with the same love and care they would've expected Molly to show them.

[catcze]

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

"What flowers do you like?"

Wriothesley asks one day, trying to seem nonchalant. Trying to make it look not as obvious that he's already mentally running through a list of Fontanian florists.

But you hm to yourself, frowning. "I... don't know. I've never really received flowers before," you say with a shrug, acting like it's no big deal. Wriothesley, though, has to catch himself before he drops the pen in his hand.

"Never?" He asks with wide eyes, head snapping in your direction, jaw dropping the slightest bit. "None of your past relationships ever got you flowers?"

You shake your head, not really bothered by the fact, and although you're nonchalant about it, Wriothesley immediately feels the gears in his head turn. That mental list of florists runs through his mind at double the speed. His finger absently taps on the wood of his desk, mind racing as he does some rough estimations. Unaware and unsuspecting, you merely go back to perusing the books in his office, running your hands over their worn spines, oblivious to the clench in Wriothesley's jaw and the determined glint in his eye.

A week later, and Wriothesley returns from the surface with a bouquet in his hands. It's nothing too big or ostentatious— that's not really his style. Instead, it's simple in its beauty and easy on the eyes. All sorts of flowers have been included, even ones not native to Fontaine. Cecilias from Mondstadt, Glaze Lillies and Qingxin from Liyue, Padisarahs from Sumeru, and even Fluorescent Flowers from Inazuma's Chinju forest, among others. All arranged by hands more skilled and talent more honed than he could ever hope to achieve.

Wriothesley knocks on your door, heart stuck in his throat, and can't help but laugh a little at how cliche it all looks. Him, standing in front of your door with a bunch of flowers in hand, desperately trying to fight down his blush when he hears a 'coming!' faintly behind your door.

When you swing it open, your greeting is caught in your throat, eyes wide as they behold the blue and white blossoms Wriothesley brought for you.

"What... what's this? What's the occasion?"

But he shakes his head, and at his behest you take the bouquet into your arms, holding it carefully. When you bury your nose among the petals, they smell sweet but not saccharinely overpowering. It's enough to make you want to cry.

"No occasion," Wriothesley says, one hand going to scratch at the back of his neck, his smile shy and bashful. "I just wanted to get them for you. Wanted to be the first person to ever get you a bouquet of flowers, you know? But importing them took longer than i expected and, well, I told the florist that I was giving it to someone very special so they spent some extra time on the arrangement..." He trails off, clearing his throat nervously. "...Do you like it?"

And that sets loose the tears behind your eyes.

Wriothesley panics a little when he sees how you blubber, sobs making your shoulders shake as you hide your face in the flowers. His eyes widen, a frantic apology on the tip of his tongue while he fears that he messed up somehow. But then you tackle him into a hug, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close until you can bury your head in his chest and cry. His arms wrap around you almost hesitantly, but when you nuzzle closer into his embrace and they tighten around you.

You're barely able to speak through your tears, words muffled around his undoubtedly ruined shirt.

"I love it." I love you, you really mean.

And how can you not? This sweetheart of a man bought you flowers just because he wanted to. Because no one else had before, and he wanted to be the first person to do so. All his sporadic trips to the surface for the past week make sense— you doubt procuring so many imported flowers so quickly was an easy task on top of troubleshooting the various hiccups of the fortress and sorting through some documents that found themselves on his desk. But he did it anyway, just because he thought it'd make you happy.

"I'm glad," Wriothesley murmurs. He rocks you back and forth in his embrace until your happy tears begin to subside. Then he clears his throat. "So, can I buy you another one next week, too?"

[ #Taglist registration here !! ]

[shepscapades]

Had to do a little doodle of the purple panda skins >:]

[antiadvil]

Hey so I just watched PJ’s side channel video about how he and Sophie got stuck in traffic trying to deliver something to Dan and Phil. Great video, super funny. No one warned me that when PJ and Sophie realized they’d have to stay in London, Dan and Phil booked them a hotel?? There are at LEAST three bedrooms in their house what kind of rich person bullshit is that??

[madeofjules]

Quietly one of Katniss and Peeta's best kisses. They're in their "real friends/fake lovers" phase but here she kisses him because she genuinely wants to, not because she has to.

[tragedy-of-commons]

To put it lightly, Kaveh is incensed.

Sat at the dining room table, seething with a tick to his square jaw, all of his thoughts scrambling for some semblance of purchase.

Just who do you think you are? How did you find out about his debt, and more importantly, why did you pay it off in its entirety for no good reason? Most importantly, who are you? Taking the moral high ground by wiping all of his financial troubles clean anonymously is...

...is a wonderful thing. He's so grateful that there are tears in his eyes as he fights the urge to stand up from his mandated breather to hunt you down himself. If you know about his issues, who's to say that you don't know about his living situation too? He'd been so careful - well, save for the time he'd gotten a little tipsy and blabbed to the whole tavern - but that's neither here nor there!

But what is he supposed to do, really? His hands are idle, and no work is getting done because for once he doesn't have to crunch any commissions. There's nothing to pay off, nothing glaring to make up for because that's all he's been doing for years and years. Running in circles, dragging his own feet - so much so that he truly thought he was fated to be miserable. He can breathe a bit easier, and he actually tastes the humidity seeping into the house.

You are horribly audacious, but Kaveh can't even express it because you are philanthropic to boot. It's humiliating, thinking of himself as a charity case, even if it's true; he lives rent-free in his sort-of-friend's home, hanging off of Alhaitham's back like a leech, struggling to find work that he actually likes. But now? Now there is one less monumental burden obscuring his creative vision for the future.

Archons. He's crying, wiping away the beading tears with his coarse palms. Kaveh can't even thank you or give you anything in return. He knows it's petty to be bitter about a miracle such as this - so many have it worse and hope for this everyday - but it stings. It stings like a scorpion, venom spreading slowly to every limb before lulling him into a delirious fever dream. It stings because he couldn't pull himself out of the mess that he made.

He rises from his chair with a vengeance before realizing how silly he looks with his hackles raised. He has to do something... try to track you down, maybe. He could try to get some more information out of Dori, narrow down the list of suspects. Yes, that's what he'll do next.

The logistics of this plan contribute to Kaveh's (oddly painless) headache that he's nursing. It's too late in the day to interrogate anyone right now, though it doesn't stop him from imagining doing so as he goes about doing pointless chores to keep himself occupied. The dishes are surely going to get scuffed with the force of his scrubbing... sometimes he forgets he slings a claymore around.

What will he say when he finds you? He could try and convince you to ask for a refund, if that's even possible. Surely your sizable wealth could be put to use somewhere better - an actual noble cause, perhaps. If that doesn't work, he could always do some work for you off the books. That's what got him into this mess, after all - passion and his craft and whatever else other scholars would turn their noses up at.

Would you even accept his service? It's the least he could do. Kaveh's mind can't help but conjure up all sorts of ideas of what you might be like, images of foreign dignitaries on vacation to juggernauts of old money flashing before him. No matter, he'll pay you back no matter what.

Before he truly he goes to bed that night, Kaveh is struck by the epiphany that debt truly controls his life. If he is not in Dori's, he is in Alhaitham's. If he is not in Alhaitham's, he's in yours - whoever you may be. No kindness offered to him will ever belay the guilty bite of his lip, but only worsen how deep he drives his teeth in. As always, he pushes that thought deep down into the recesses of his mind.

Instead of acknowledging that he is cruel to himself, he will paint you as the cruel one.

It's what he does best, artist that he is.

[sycamorality]

genocidal rat who i hate

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Sharing is Caring!

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[ruporas]

pet names

[ID: Black and white comic of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. Vash overhears a conversation from a nearby table at the restaurant they're seated at, the unnamed character saying, "Honey, can you pass me that?" Their partner says, "Sure thing, angel." The unnamed character begins again, "Say, did you hear the news from earlier?" In response, "Haven't got the chance. Tell me about it?" Vash smiles fondly, listening in as the conversation continues, "You'd never guess, babe! The runner--" Abruptly, the conversation is cut in by a "Needle nogging", Vash's expression changing instantly and no longer smiling. The panel cuts to Wolfwood who smiles lop-sidedly, pointing at Vash's plate and says, "If you're not going to eat that. I'll take it." Vash grabs the plate and holds it away and says, "Mine" while Wolfwood clicks his tongue. He pauses for a moment before asking slowly, "Hey, is there any reason you don't use cute names with me?" Wolfwood lifts a cup of water up to his lips, looking confused. He says, "I do though." Vash cuts in, "Spikey and needle nogging aren't cute!"

Vash continues with a shy expression, "Since we're together now..." he trails off and Wolfwood picks up, taking a sip of water as he says thoughtfully, "Together, huh..." Vash pauses in his sentence with a look of confusion before reaffirming, "We are together, right?" Wolfwood nods, "Right." Vash says, "Right", before continuing, his shy expression returning, "Then you can use stuff like... honey or-" Wolfwood cuts in this time and says casually, "You're not a honey though." A panel cuts of Vash's expression changing again, shocked. He asks, "Huh? Then who is?" Wolfwood says immediately, "Milly." Vash exclaims, "Milly?!" Wolfwood continues, "She's sweet, just like honey." A bubble pops up of Milly smiling as Wolfwood speaks. Vash continues, "Okay, true... What about sweetpea?" Wolfwood responds, "Kids. Kids are sweetpea. And pumpkin too." Vash continues, "Okay... What about baby?" Wolfwood says without hesitation, "Meryl." Vash exclaims again, "Meryl?!" Wolfwood explains," Noisy, like a baby." Vash mutters, "Hey, that's a bit mean..."

Vash continues persistently, "Then what about babe?" Wolfwood shrugs with a grin, "You are not a babe." Vash looks at him, slightly frustrated before exclaiming with flushed cheeks, "Then what am I?!" Wolfwood points at his hair and smiles softly, "I told you. You're the one and only needle nogging." A panel closes in on Vash's widen eyes, cheeks still red, pausing before he ultimately resigns, planting his face into the palms of his hands and muttering, "I give up..." At the same time, Wolfwood sneaks and grabs the plate of food that Vash left unattended, saying in response, "You get up cuaght up about the dumbest things, y'know that?"

The comic then picks up again to a jump in time, after they've left the restaurant. Wolfwood muses to Vash, "You said all that about the names earlier, but I don't hear ya using them for me." Vash looks to him excitably and asks, "Did you want me to?" Wolfwood looks at him with an uncertain expression, "Not really, but I guess I am curious..." Vash beams, "Then let's try some, okay... dear?" He fingerguns Wolfwood with a grin, little hearts surrounding him. Wolfwood just looks at him neutrally and says, "Okay," while thinking to himself, "Cute..." Vash exclaims, "So unenthusiastic!"

The next comic picks up at a different time, but on the same theme of pet names. Vash hugs Wolfwood and says to him, "Thank you, my love." A panel close up of Vash steadily opening his eyes before he sees Wolfwood's reaction up close, his eyes glancing away, cheeks flushed, and the smoke out of his cig forming soft hearts as he mutters, "Sure..." In a smaller, cartoonish style, Vash has a comedically exaggerated expression of shock and widened eyes as he grips Wolfwood by the shoulders while Wolfwood still wears a shy expression. He then nudges his head to the side of Wolfwood's with a close eyed happy smile, hugging him close and says, "So, there WAS one you liked!" Wolfwood, still looking away, but now with an irritated and embarrassed expression, grumbles, "Shut up..."

The final image is a short sequence. Wolfwood is working on something, spacing out as he does, while Vash from off screen calls for him, starting with "Babeeee? Babe? Beautiful? Honey? My love?" All of which gets no reaction from Wolfwood. Vash pauses for a moment before piping up again, "wolfwood?" Wolfwood turns around, finally noticing that Vash was calling for him and asks, "What?" A box at the bottom of the page says, "Unresponsive to anything other than his names." END ID]

[nonpoppie]

played the space train anime game . guess who i fixated on

[l4long-winded]

so, i received the following comment on archive:

"it went from sweet, to sensual, to smut in just one short chapter. which i love.

"i like to think that carmen is an acts of service kind of dude, he expresses his affections through things like making meals for reader. i think it’d be cute if reader like forgot they're lunch at home or smth, and then carmen would deliver it to them in person–just a cute lil thought." - topostapocalyptic

so, here is my version of that. i tried so hard and i just can't look at it any longer!

o.s. basil, monterey jack, and the simplicity of a kind gesture

summary: you're late for work, rushing out the door, and carmen notices you've left your lunch behind. he can't help but interject his talents (carmen berzatto x afab!reader)

reflection: this took me so. so. embarrassingly long. i am not super proud of it. i feel like i needed to finish it in order to get out of my current rut in writing, though. i finished school up and graduated recently, on a lighter note! please enjoy and feedback is always appreciated!

warnings: stress, worrying, temper flares, cursing, shirtless!carmy, established relationship, journalist!reader, commentary on nutrition, poor eating habits, inner dialogue (just a little), nature's own slander, anxiety depictions, original characters, moody!reader, some longwinded descriptions (as always), awkwardness, fluff, kissing, carmen's nervous tick, domesticity, implied (like one or two instances) smut, humor, an act of service, laughing while kissing, a small flashback, no use of pronouns for reader (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 3,207

( this work has been cross-posted to ao3 )

“Stupid shithead,” you mutter.

You’re frantically grabbing items into your hands. Your keys, your purse, the wallet that goes into the purse, your phone. Anything covering the counter. It’s the same counter your knee knocks right into as you turn the corner. Immediately, you bite the inside of your cheek as pain floats throughout your kneecap, a harsh sting that floats into warm pressure down your calf. You’re so self-aware of your blood’s rising temperature in this instance that it nauseates you.

“Motherfucker,” you blurt, sucking in a sharp breath through your nostrils. You lift your foot from the ground and lean a majority of your weight onto your opposite heel, elbow pressing onto the counter you envision your stupid boss’s face on. You would punch it if it didn’t mean breaking your knuckles on ceramic in your growing agitation. No, that’s irrational. You need that hand to type.

“Really hoping I’m not the motherfucker you’re talking about,” Carmen mumbles groggily as he emerges from down the hallway. His curls are tousled, somehow despite sleeping on your satin pillowcase his head continued to slide off. He’s not used to sleeping over here, but he’s willing to learn, if his tossing and turning and eventual spooning didn’t illustrate that to you already. There’s something to be said about the way he adjusts the front of his boxer shorts. Despite the adjustment, the briefs hang low on his hips, the v-line of him greeting you as happily as the trail descending to his waistband does. His shirtless form sleepily walks towards you to place a kiss onto your forehead.

“No, no, not you,” you say, gracious for his forehead kiss, but still rubbing your knee to alleviate the issue. He glances at it in concern, an eyebrow lifting. Before he can ask, you stand tall and give him a quick peck on the cheek. Your knee aches, but the less Carmen worries, the better.

“Stay as long as you like, spare key’s in the bergamot out front, I gotta get the fuck out of here two minutes ago,” you rush out in one string of words.

Carmen’s blinking sleep from his eyes, watching as you stomp out of the front door. He craves a longing kiss goodbye, but he’s not daring to request it seeing how urgently you’re behaving. He heads to the window, two fingers plucking the blinds open to observe you hop into your vehicle and speed off too fast for him to feel secure. He frowns. Carmen’s hand scrubs down his face, a migraine pounding in his temples that feels an awful lot like that worry you didn’t want to implement within him.

You’re working more than usual. He admires your work ethic, he does as it resembles his own, but he can’t stop from thinking about how tired you are when you visit him at the restaurant, or when you stay over at his place. You’re snapping consistently, and it may be at inanimate objects like your broken toaster, or the squeaky hinge belonging to your closet door, or your recent victim, this counter you have apparent beef with. The stress is collecting rapidly and Carmen unfortunately is starting to see the patterns interwoven in his skin stitching up your neck. He doesn’t want that for you. He knows you don’t want it for him either, so he’s trying to think of ways he can bring a smile to your face, or at least ease some kind of method to relax the both of you.

Carmen glances around your kitchen and he notices the brown bag sitting in front of your microwave. Curiously, he maneuvers to grab it into his hand. He opens it up and finds a sandwich there, lunchmeat stuffed between two slices of wheat bread. No condiments, no vegetables, no other ingredients. Just bread and turkey. It’s… it’s such a sad sandwich. He wishes you would’ve at least slabbed on some peanut butter and jam if you were going with the easiest route. Two slices of simple turkey breast are hardly nutritional.

Hypocrite. You drank a Coke and ate a bowl of off-brand Froot Loops the other night for dinner.

Carmen shakes his head free of his intrusive thoughts, picking his phone out of his pocket as he plans to text you that you forgot your lunch. You shouldn’t be too far down the road. Then again, as his thumb hovers over your messages together, he recalls how you’re already late. You don’t have time to turn back around for a shitty sandwich you probably won’t even eat. He’s seen you come home and dump these brown bags, still full of whatever meal you threw together in three minutes because you didn’t bother to take your lunch break.

“Not today,” he mumbles under his breath. He retrieves the sad sandwich and takes a bite, chewing it as he washes his hands in the sink. Then, he opens the fridge, scanning through what’s available. There’s not much to work with, but he’s efficient if anything.

“Blegh,” he scrunches his face, the flavor of the bread thick on his tongue as he smacks his lips, “Nature’s Own.”

You’re typing a storm in your cubicle. The deadline for your story is in a day. A day. You didn’t even have time to gather the interview materials and are still waiting on an email from a supervisor from whoever the fuck knows. The name is written somewhere on the clutter of sticky notes hanging precariously off the frame of your desktop. But then again, who has time to crane their neck to check in the middle of meeting your deadline? You’re making due with what you have on hand, your eyes strained from how long they’ve stared at your computer screen.

“Psst…” comes a voice from behind. Fingertips tap your shoulder, momentarily disrupting you from staring at your keyboard. You swivel in your rolling chair, eyes annoyed and tired.

“What?” You spit. Your gaze is unamused watching the world spin and land on Bill, the secretary from the front desk. You almost cringe the same way Bill in front of you seems to do at the tone in reaction. At that, you pick up your face, clearing your throat and straightening your posture, hoping it’s as polite as you wish to convey.

“Your, uh, boyfriend is up front,” he points towards the hall. Bill is jittery. You wonder if it’s because of an excessive use of caffeine or if because your slip genuinely scared him. You take a deep breath and compose yourself more than you have already.

“Oh… I’ll be right out,” you reassure, feeling bad for the small snap you engaged in. Bill is only doing his job. He’s reporting on a surprise visit from Carmen. That doesn’t mean it’s Carmen’s fault for showing up out of the blue, but yours for letting your cool flee, if only momentarily.

As Bill nods and heads off down the hall, you glance at your computer screen one last time. You choose to stop in the middle of the sentence. You tell yourself it’s because you think it’ll be easier to think of a fresh idea to continue when you come back and not because you’re at a loss for content at the present time. You stand up, palms smoothing the front of your vest down your waist as you walk from your cubicle and repeat the same steps as Bill on his way back to his position at the front of the office building. The ninety degree angle of the corner gradually unveils to you your boyfriend Carmen staring down at his phone, a brown bag in his opposite hand beside his pant leg.

He looks up as if sensing your presence, a shift in energy in the room he detects and smiles at from afar. His phone slides into his pocket the closer you approach him, eyes seemingly glowing underneath the shadow of his tan hat’s rim. It’s that kind of crystal embedded in his irises that makes them sparkle with a glass’s shine and an artist’s yearning. But his eyes carry ocean water, not wine, and the reflection of his muse, your face expanding over the roundness of them as you near him and greet him with a hug.

“Hey, your day alright?” He asks, his voice behind your ear. Your chin rests on his shoulder, one of his biceps cradling the back of your head into him. His other arm is still at his side as he kisses your temple and takes a step backward. You catch Bill glancing up from his computer at the two of you from his desk for a millisecond.

“Sure,” you opt for. Maybe if you say it enough, you’ll believe it. You’re capable of tricking your brain so you don’t psyche yourself on it with your overthinking too much… right? “Why’re you here?”

Carmen’s lips press tightly together. He doesn’t say anything, leveling you with his gaze and a raise of his eyebrows that even cause his hat to slightly lift on his forehead. One single look illustrates how wrong of a statement that was.

Replaying it in your head, you notice the edge to your voice, that small extra bit of irritation that made it to your lips. You didn’t mean it, much like you hadn’t meant it when you sharply responded to Bill’s alert.

You sigh and shake your head, one hand coming up to apologetically stroke his arm.

“I didn’t mean it like that–”

“I know,” he halts your explanation. Unlike you, Carmen falls back on the natural softness of his voice, the one where he refutes raising the volume of his words because you’re always standing so goddamn close to him. Another reason could possibly be that you’re having a hard day and he’s sparing you from an unnecessary argument. It’s not like he hasn’t poured lemon over wounds after particularly rough days at The Bear himself.

His hand with the brown bag thrusts in front of you. Short space separates you further. How ironic. He doesn’t want to poke the bear.

“I, uh, brought you your lunch.”

“Thanks…” You murmur awkwardly.

Carmen’s fingers brush yours once you exchange the bag. He curls those same fingers and attaches the back of his knuckles to his lips, stroking them back and forth over his mouth in that nervous tick of his. He stares along your face, the current contemplation in his head somehow both loud and eerily silent. He’s searching for something to say and it’s obvious.

“Yes, well… have a good day,” he settles for. Carmen turns away for a moment, but you don’t like leaving it this way. Especially not since he took the time to drive here and bring you your lunch. He’s subtly advising you to eat without pushing or adding another task you’ll be fretting over.

Your hand captures his, causing him to shift his eyes back to yours. You smile a little brighter. It’s not forced. The gesture is sweet. You lose sight when you’re stressed as any human does.

“I appreciate it, Carm. Thank you,” you redo your gratitude with sincerity.

Carmen’s hand relaxes in yours. He utilizes the hold you have on him in his own favor, tugging you closer to him, engulfing you into his arms. His scent calms you, lingering cigarettes, mint, pomade, and what seems to be a touch of olive oil. He must be working from home again on his day off. Your belly does a small flip thinking of him working comfortably from your home.

“It’s nothing,” he speaks into your hairline, dropping a few more pecks. He notices your shoulders lowering as he does, encouraging him to continue and then return his eyes back to yours.

“But seriously, have a good day,” he repeats, squeezing your forearms.

“Please,” he whispers. You have no choice but to promise him with a grateful and instant nod this time. You’ll find something to get you through the rest of your shift. You can do it for Carmen.

You can’t say you don’t feel defeated as you trudge into the breakroom with your lunch bag shortly after Carmen’s visit. You highly considered skipping lunch altogether to grant yourself more time to work on your report. However, Carmen walked here to get this to you. It’s not a short thing, either. You had to convince him to take your car so he could run some errands. He’ll be your ride back home after work. In the meantime, you’re going to eat to ease your conscience and so that you’re less cranky, minimizing the casualties of your unintentional attacks today. Your boss wouldn’t be as patient as Bill and Carmen.

You gradually open the bag, reaching in and furrowing your brows when your hand meets a cylindrical container first. You thought the bag felt heavier than a single sandwich should, but you were too distracted being apologetic with Carmen to realize he may have added something to your meal. You should’ve known that he wouldn’t be able to resist doing such a thing with how he’s always taking care of you in that department. He shares his talent where he can’t utter his affections, crafting in opposition to orating. Unless, it’s a different word using the root “ora.” He’s rather good at that, too.

“Carmen, you didn’t,” you mutter under your breath, unscrewing the cap of the first container. Basil, garlic, sweet confection underlying in the background, and roasted tomato spike up in a familiar aroma, the trapped steam floating up to blanket your nose in humid warmth and a nostalgic trip to when you sat with him at a fast food restaurant and he poked fun at you for ordering a grilled cheese.

“Who orders a grilled cheese without tomato soup?”

“Me. I do. Now give me a sip of your soda.”

He did. He said he felt obligated to since your grilled cheese looked dry.

The memory inspires you to reach further into the bag, and of course, you bring out a wrapped item suspiciously in the shape of a square. You already know what’s hidden inside as you undo the layers Carmen meticulously folded for you. Heat sticks to your fingertips. It makes you wonder if he jogged on his way here to get this all to you for it to be this warm still.

The sourdough bread in your hands is perfectly golden without being drenched in oil or even close to being charred on the sides. The bite you take is better than the appetizing appearance it has, a cheese pull connecting your teeth marks on the surprise sandwich to your mouth, steam rising off the strings of the monterey jack and cheddar webs. It pairs nicely with the tomato soup Carmen’s provided, the distinct taste mellowing the salt and tang of the sourdough, something sugary and smooth and still tart melding the classic flavors along your tongue.

You didn’t expect this, and part of you is asking why you didn’t see it coming because of who Carmen is and what he does for a living and for a hobby and for a passion, but you’re not going to mull over your perception’s off-game today. No, you’re going to finish your grilled cheese, soup, and that report. You’ll be sure to credit Carmen in due time.

Carmen’s waiting for you in the parking lot behind your office building. You see his reflection on the driver’s side mirror, his eyes lowered to his phone in his hand. He doesn’t see you coming, his head lifting up curiously as you approach his side instead of getting into the car on the passenger’s. Carmen blinks up at you, the window down most likely for him to get some air. It’s been getting hotter and hotter in Chicago with the change in seasons and your AC isn’t working, as per usual.

“What, do you want to drive—?”

You silence Carmen, obstructing his question with the barrier of your lips. If he’s shocked or surprised, it quickly gets replaced with acceptance and an instant response. He kisses you back, his chin tilting upwards, head perching up out of the window to meet your slumping frame. Your head lolls behind the lead of your mouth, seeking out the feeling and tenderness of Carmen’s lips that he parts to swipe his tongue in rhythm of an upstroking graze. You smile after that, the action creating a centimeter of distance that Carmen closes again, his hand traveling up to the back of your neck to tug you back into him.

You indulge him, laughing against his lips. A smile of his own stretches over his mouth, but he doesn’t detach himself like you did. He goes back for more, stopping only when your hands are patting his wrist to regain his attention back without depriving him too much of your mouth he’s ensnaring with his.

“I finished my report,” you shyly say. You made a big deal about it today and your job in general has been very demanding, causing your behavior to have shifts in line with the spikes in your mood.

“Knew you would,” he replies. He’s still kissing you. They’re spanned out pecks to allow you both to speak during, but he’s making it hard to remember what you wanted to say.

“And my grilled cheese,” you mutter into his smothering stamps. He lets up hearing that, pulling back slightly so he can peer into your eyes. He’s in your shoes this time, sheepish as he tries to casually nod.

“Yeah? And…?” He pauses, gauging your reaction with a suspicious glint in his eyes. You laugh again, nudging his shoulder.

“And my soup,” you stand up taller from the window, fingers resting over the bicep half hanging out of it. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” he saves you the speech, knowing you far too well about how you don’t want him to waste his time. He’s going to convince you someday that his acts of service for you will never be a waste of his time. His hand comes over yours on his arm, glancing at your twitching fingers he’s heard typing in the long hours of the night. He’s not the only insomniac among you two.

“You should let me make you lunch more often,” he bargains. You playfully roll your eyes. This is one debate you’ll continue to have for a long time, it seems. He already works so hard.

“Slow down there, chef.” You use one of Carmen’s tricks, draping your mouth back over his before he has the chance to bullet point out his argument. He sighs, content from how you feel and yet that knowing frustration intertwined in that one breath lingers because he doesn’t mind putting together your future lunches whatsoever.

“Thank you,” you pur, and Carmen releases his grip on his conviction. For now, anyway. He’s planning on bringing it up again later. He’s just getting too lost in your appreciative kissing. It’s convincing him to do this again, actually. He’s plotting a new list of ingredients, cherries and almonds and white whine and… he loses his train of thought when your teeth scrape his bottom lip.