#i love these three autistics more than i love myself

[asexualenjolras]

No thoughts, just Ray Stantz watching Phoebe Spengler stand up to Walter Peck with the biggest smile on his face because she reminded him so much of Egon.

He was so proud. And there was so much emotion in his expression. He missed his partner, but he was so proud that his legacy was living on through his granddaughter.

[andragoras-in-vanity]

remember being a teen and watching shit like soul eater and kimono jihen and thinking god damn i wish I had a perpetually exhausted but badass mentor to help me get through things?

well now im 27 and im the perpetually exhausted mentor with bedhead and a slight alcohol problem to my 15 year old cousin and im gonna tear my hair out about not being able to just let her stay for a bit because i know it doesnt matter fuck all what i say to her dad, shes still gonna be treated like shit just because shes a moody teen with undiagnosed add and an autustic brother who constantly talks over everyone. i suddenly need a cigarette.

[raddishwrites]

Should anyone come looking, I am dealing with a crisis. It’s a rather mundane crisis in the scheme of possibilities, and I’m not in physical danger or injured.

I am however completely overwhelmed and unable to socialise.

I’ll be dealing with this crisis for, rough estimate, 6 weeks. Then recovery for an unknown amount of time, depending.

This is not to worry anyone, it’s to assure you that my distance is not a lack of care or want to interact.

See you on the other side, take care of yourselves until then.

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was in third grade I got Weird with writing. It makes sense in hindsight. Oppressed people find their own ways of carving out space for themselves.

The first bit I did landed me in trouble more immediately. I was given, god knows by who, one of those enormous giant pencils. I loved it. My tiny nine year old body was consumed with love of this pencil that was roughly 1/3 of my height. I insisted that I would only use this pencil in school.

It was an unlucky year to be stricken with whimsy. My third grade teacher was a tyrannical Japanese woman fueled by her dislike of children. I suspect the cultural divide between how she expected children to behave and the reality of American children broke her.

She was three foot nothing and getting berated by her was the first time I’d ever looked down at an adult. I also saw her once standing next to her white 6’ behemoth of a husband and tried to conceptualize how two such disparate people had sex. I never could.

If you think I’m exaggerating her wrath it’s worth noting that my best friend at the time developed a stress disorder from this woman and I fell into a bizarre stutter that cleared up the moment I was out of class. In her classroom breaking down crying was a weekly occurrence.

But despite the frigid conditions, I persevered. I stayed silly. I brought my enormous novelty pencil to class every day. It was an act of rebellion that I sank my teeth into and refused to let go. I could barely sharpen it because its girth defied standard sharpeners the way I defied my teacher. This was my pencil.

When she attempted to confiscate my giant pencil I rose an unholy ruckus. This would not turn into the confiscated holographic Charizard, my tamagotchi, or my little pop frogs that she never returned to me. No. This was my goddamn pencil. There was no rules against enormous novelty pencils and after a heated week of debate she finally conceded I could use the hated thing.

It was stolen by my kleptomaniac friend a week or so after that a fact I’d only discover at the end of the year. But my tiny mind was convinced the evil teacher had stolen it.

In retaliation, instead of resuming normal behavior I decided that I would do all my writing upside down and backwards. No one, least of all myself, could explain why I felt this was necessary. Maybe I felt I’d be cool like a spy, maybe I just needed to buck the teachers hateful authority, or maybe I was just a little autistic kid.

When taking notes or writing essays I’d arrange the paper to be upside down. It may surprise you to know that my penmanship was actually quite decent, albeit I wrote a little more slowly than my classmates. That’s why it took the teacher a while to realize what was going on. There wasn’t a drop in the quality of my writing.

Unsurprisingly she hated it when she found out. She lambasted me both privately and in front of the class to write normally. I asked if my writing was illegible. She had to admit that no, it was not. I shrugged. I did not see a problem.

Like the pencil my new writing fixation was cited as being a distraction to the other children. But similarly she didn’t have an easy way to make me stop. She marked me down, gave me several talking tos, and generally bullied me into writing like everyone else.

All attempts at correcting me simply ran off my back. I had found a way to cope with how miserable she made all of us, by inflicting misery back upon her. I was unswayed for the rest of the year.

When I graduated up into fourth grade and had a teacher I adored it suddenly stopped. I looked at the paper and thought, Well that’s silly, and flipped it the right way round.

I can still write upside down, though, a testament to my worst year in public school.

[teaspacebar]

spiced chai

pairing: carmen "carmy" berzatto x reader

summary: you've been living in chicago for about a year, and you're suddenly managing the coffee shop in the well beloved bookstore, nan's. you meet carmen berzatto on a not-so-good day. you're thrust into the everchanging societal landscape that is making friends in your 20s..

word count: ~9.7k

warnings: language, depictions of mental illness, barista!reader, afab!reader (but tried to be as neutral as possible), neurodivergent!reader, they don't kiss, could be read as platonic tbh but there's crumbs in there if you look, takes place over the course of a few months, probably doesn't follow canon fully (i'm not caught up yet forgive me)

a/n: *dumps this here and runs* but actually this piece of writing appeared in my brain and i've been picking away at it for a couple of months. i feel like i've put more of myself into this fic than with anything else i've written, so this is definitely more of a self insert (pls be kind or don't read if that's not your vibe). i'm queer, non-binary, and autistic and i just wanted to insert that into this space. i feel like there's more to explore here, so i might write more for this if i feel so inclined.

Meeting Carmen Berzatto was not on your to-do list for Tuesday morning.

Not that having to run down to the nearest corner store to grab milk - since the milk fridge was on the fritz…again - at 4am was in your plans either. It always seemed like one step forward, three giant leaps back with the little shop on the corner you basically called home. It was weird, to be thrust into leadership as your manager made an abrupt exit. 

The small bookstore, with an even tinier coffee shop, had been your place of work for the last year or so. You loved it. The people were great, and Nan, the shop owner, was absolutely lovely. She was getting up in her years, but the genuine care she had for the employees made all the difference. She put her trust in you to run the cafe, saying “You have the experience, and the care you have for people shows. I know this. Everyone knows this. Now you just have to see it - have confidence.”

“Confidence my ass,” you mutter, carrying five gallons of milk around the corner.

What happens next might have been considered the beginning of a rom-com, but you’re a realist, and the world is shitty.

There’s a crash, and the distinct sound of three of the five gallons of milk dropping onto the sidewalk. You stare, watching in slow motion as the milk forms into a river, dripping off the sidewalk into the gutter.

The person who ran into you curses, “Shit — fuck, sorry, I—I wasn’t looking where I was…dammit.”

You grip the other two jugs in your arms, blinking out of the haze to let out a hysterical laugh. “Great…cool cool.” Cold plastic bites into your fingers, and you take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, what else was gonna happen?” You finally look up to see the one you collided with. The man looks extremely uncomfortable, foot tapping like he wants to bolt. Plastering on a smile you shake your head, “It’s fine. I’m the one who thought carrying five gallons of milk would be fine.” You ramble on, trying to ease his nerves, “I mean — why would I drive, like, thirty seconds. Park, get the milk, come all the way back. Seemed stupid…but now there’s milk in my socks.” You grimace, fighting the urge to chuck the remaining jugs of milk in the street so you could also hurl your milk-soaked shoes and socks after them. It makes the ache in your chest sharpen.

“Here, where are you —“

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s okay. I got it, thank you.” You gesture to the door that’s just a few feet away from you. “This is me, anyway.” You adjust your hold on the milk, brushing past the man to pull open the door. You catch it with your hip, not daring to look back as you head behind the counter. You release a sigh, setting the bane of your existence on the black speckled marble. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes. You shake out your arms, biting your lip. “Okay, asshole, let’s get your shit together.” You quickly put the milk into the small fridge below the bar and walk to the back. The squish of your socks curdles your stomach, and you breathe through your mouth to avoid the smell. You take off your shoes, throwing them into a plastic bag to take home. Tossing your socks into the garbage, you grab your replacement sneakers and socks from your cubby. It wasn’t the first time you’ve dropped something on your shoes, it wouldn’t be the last.

You take your time in the back. You had gotten to the shop around 4am, unable to sleep. You were messing around with recipes, seeing if there was a possibility of baking some of the food in the cafe fresh, instead of outsourcing. It was something you put on your own plate, and you didn’t want to disappoint Nan. You had shown up early, looking to try out some muffins, and noticed the fridge had been hovering at sixty degrees all night. You’ll have to grab some more milk before the day starts, but that could be a problem for 8am you.

Walking through the swinging doors, you jump as you see someone at the bar counter. Pressing a hand to your fluttering heart, you finally take in the man that had run into you earlier. A mop of curly hair on his head, white tee, very blue eyes…and standing behind eight gallons of milk.

“Um…” you look between the milk and him a few times.

“The…uh – the door was unlocked. Figured I owed you one.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“How’d you even get it all here?” 

“Made two trips.” His gaze snaps back to you as you laugh, this time more genuine. “Fridge go out, or somethin’?” You’re still staring at him like he has two heads, and he rambles on, “Sorry for just…barging in. I used to go to this place…when I was kid. My sister and I would grab whatever pastries they had left for the day. And, yeah, we’d just sit, read random shit. I work at the restaurant just down the street…’s why I ran into you. Wasn’t paying attention – sorry, again.”

Suddenly, it all clicks. “You own The Bear.”

“Uh, yeah – yeah, I do.”

You feel nervous, out of the blue. Nan hadn’t stopped talking about the Berzatto’s, and Natalie had become a regular while the restaurant was being remodeled. You’re sure you’d seen other employees come in as well, for reading material. You vaguely remember talking to a very sweet man about baking, as he carried a ton of cookbooks in his arms.

You knew Carmen Berzatto, but only through the words of others – and the research you did late one night because you were nosey. To have him standing in the bookstore you worked at, for him to have gotten you milk, is sending you for a loop. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you begin to put the milk in their new home. You really need to call the refrigerator guy again. 

“That’s so cool,” the words fall from your mouth, others staying in your head. 

It's insane that someone like him is even speaking to you. He’s around the same age as you; He owns a restaurant and you’re barely able to run a tiny coffee bar in a bookstore. You’re an idiot who dropped milk onto the sidewalk. Why didn’t you just take the car? You should’ve just taken the car. Now Carmen fucking Berzatto has bought you milk at 5am because he feels bad for you. How pathetic. Call the fucking refrigerator guy.

“Thanks…for the milk.” You back away from the counter, gesturing behind you, “Lemme grab some money from the cash box real quick.”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s really fine, you didn’t have to go out of your way. I’ll be right back.” The itch creeps its way up your spine, and you push through the door as a shudder passes through you. You shake out the twitch, going and grabbing the cash box. You do mental math, trying to see how much you should give him. Did he even need the money? “Idiot,” you chide yourself. Today was not the day for your brain. 

Snagging a twenty and a ten, you rush back out to the bar, only to find the store empty. A groan escapes through your teeth, and you clench the cash in your hands, crumpling it. You walk to the front door, peering out to see if you can spot the chef. He must’ve made a quick getaway. As you turn to get prepped for the day, you spot a brochure on the counter, far away from its home of the stand at the front of the bookstore. Eat Your Way Through Chicago! 

Scribbled on the front is a phone number, and the words:

Fridge  Ask for Fak Say Carm sent you

“Fucking fuck.” You whisper, a smile creeping on your face against your will, “Asshole.”

It’s later in the week when you hear the bell attached to the front door – ding! You poke your head up from where you're arranging some alternative milks under the counter, seeing a familiar blonde.

“Hey, Natalie!” You pop up, an easy grin appearing on your face. “Half-caff?”

She nods, “Please.”

“How are you?” 

“Oh, you know.”

You ring her up quickly, then grab a pitcher to steam some milk for her latte. Natalie walks away from the counter to browse some books. The steam wand whirs, and you watch the vortex inside the pitcher. You touch the sides every so often, waiting for it to get to the right temperature. Making drinks is all muscle memory now, and you tamp the espresso grounds into the portafilter with precision. Wiping the excess from the lip, you lock it into the machine and press the shot button. As the shot pulls, you wipe down the steam wand with a wet cloth. 

“Is this any good?” Natalie has come back over, holding up a book with a half-naked man on the front.

You laugh, “It’s a Nan recommendation, so…” The shots are poured into the paper cup, and you swirl the milk into it, doing a quick tulip design. You sprinkle a little cinnamon over the top, before placing it in front of the woman.

“Smutty then, for sure.” Natalie laughs, then does a little excited gasp when she sees the latte art. “It looks so good every time!” 

“Thanks,” you reply, “Gets covered by the lid, but it’s fun to practice.”

“Too bad you don’t have for-here mugs,” she says thoughtfully.

“Ever the idea-haver! There'd be more spills to clean up – Nan would lose her mind if any books got ruined.” You point to the book still in her hand, “You want me to ring you up for that?” It was early enough in the afternoon that the only other person here was a part-timer, Jack, somewhere between the shelves stocking books. You had convinced Nan to upgrade to a different register system (which ended up saving money in the long run), so you’re able to ring up both books and café products at your register. 

She shakes her head, sighing. “I barely have any time to read, these days. I was thinking about trying out audiobooks? I used to listen to them at my old job, but it’s way too loud in the kitchen for that to work out.” The latte goes to her mouth, a pleasant hum leaving her as she takes a sip. “You’re the best.”

“Thanks, Natalie.”

She squints at you, “It’s Nat, c’mon.” A big conspiratorial grin makes its way onto her face, “So, I heard that you got some help with your fridge.”

A sharp pain twists in your chest. “Oh, um…yeah.” You let out a soft chuckle, “It’s working, which is great. Neil was a big help.”

“He said you made him the best hot chocolate he’s ever had,” Natalie taps the counter with her pointer finger twice. “Said he didn’t know how you got his number, though.” 

You shrug, wiping down the counter, “Nan had it. And the usual guy wasn’t calling me back.” Neil had told you the exact same thing, both about the drink and the number. Something had held you back from saying where you got the number from. Embarrassment, maybe? It felt weird, feeling like you owed anyone favors, or that things would be unbalanced. People usually never give without looking to receive.

“Frankie, right? He’s an asshole. Overcharges for everything.” Natalie doesn’t push you for answers, something you’re grateful for.

“Right! He disappeared one time and said he’d ‘be right back’ and then was gone for like, two hours! And he added that to his hourly!” The two of you giggle at the shittiness of people for a minute, when a ping causes Natalie to pull her phone from her pocket.

“I should run.” She reaches into her purse, and puts a five into your tip jar. “Thanks again!” 

As she turns to go, you call out her name. “Would you - maybe - I have some extra muffins. The place we get them from gave us some of the wrong ones…or they’re a tad over baked, or something. I can’t sell them. Would you wanna take them with you?”

“That’s so sweet of you! Yeah, I’m sure they’ll get eaten up.”

You grab the box of muffins, handing them over to her, “Thanks.”

“Thank you, babe.” She leaves with a smile, and you look down to brush the flour off your apron. 

“Hey, guys, I got some goodies!” Natalie sets the box of muffins on the table, where everyone is seated for family meal. 

Neil immediately grabs the box, pointing to the sticker on the top, “You went to Nan’s? Man, I could use a hot chocolate right now.” 

“I’m sure you can walk over there and order one, my love.” Natalie replies, waving for him to put the box back on the table.

Marcus snags two muffins, handing one to Sydney who is sitting on his right. Taking a bite, he stops chewing, eyebrows raised. “Dude,” he nudges the girl next to him.

“Dude,” Syd parrots, popping some muffin into her mouth. “Wait, woah.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” 

“Nat, where did you get these?” Sydney calls to the woman now sitting at the end of the table. The muffins are passed down the rest of the table.

Marcus has started dissecting the muffin, “Macadamia nuts, sick.”

“Oh they’re from Nan’s just down the corner!” She tells them how you offered them to her since they were the wrong ones from a vendor and possibly over-baked.

Syd snorts, “Over-baked? These are perfect!”

“What’s perfect?” Carmy walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Bear, come eat!” Natalie waves him over, pulling him into the seat next to hers. “You’ve been at it all morning, take a minute, okay?” She gives him a look that tells him not to argue, and he huffs in response, but does as she says.

“What’s perfect?” He asks again, taking the muffin box from Sweeps as it’s passed to him. As the cinnamon crumble topping hits his taste buds, he leans back in his chair. “Shit.”

“That’s what we’re saying!” 

Syd and Marcus begin talking over one another, the dull roar of family making its home in Carmy’s ears. He has another bite of muffin, thumb swiping over the sticker atop the box.

Nan’s Books & Brews

Simple lettering, surrounding a doodle of a coffee cup sitting on an open book.

“When did they,” he clears his throat as he leans closer to Nat, “when did they start doin’ stuff like this?”

Natalie purses her lips, “Not sure, honestly. They only had that small coffee machine and that plastic pastry case when we were growing up, remember? I think they added the actual coffee bar right before Covid?” Carmy nods, looking out the windows, a curdle in his stomach.

“A lot’s changed,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Nat sighs, a hand over her stomach, “a lot has.”

A few weeks go by, as uneventful as they can be. You try out more recipes, and the staff of Nan’s is always sent home with one treat or another. Muffins, cinnamon rolls, croissants (which were a bust), and the like. Natalie is still a regular, and Neil has shown up to save your ass more than once. The brochure with his number on it taunts you from where it’s stuck up on the corkboard in the back.

Which is what has led you to standing in front of The Bear, a joe-to-go in one hand, paper bag in the other. An envelope burns in the inner pocket of your flannel jacket. Steeling your nerves, you knock on the door. Some yells are heard from inside, nicknames getting passed around like it’s a holiday dinner. You see a man walk towards you, in a nice suit, and he opens the door.

“Can I help you?” It’s not said unkindly, but there’s a look in his eyes that’s making you nervous. 

“Coffee delivery?” You say sheepishly, holding up the coffee traveler by its cardboard handle.

“Richie, who’s at the - hey!” Natalie immediately smiles when she sees you, and you sigh a breath of relief. Things were easy with her; she had this amazing way of comforting you without even trying.

“Hi,” you wiggle your fingers, still keeping hold of the objects in your hands. “Wanted to say thanks for all the help Neil’s been giving me, and when Nan found out, she insisted I bring over some coffee for the team, so…”

“You workin’ at Nan’s?” The guy - Richie - asks.

“For the past year or so, yeah.” You reply, thanking Natalie as she grabs the paper bag from you.

“Let them in, Richie, c’mon.” She presses on his chest, causing him to back up with his hands in the air. “Come in! I’ve been meaning to ask if you wanted to come by for a tour.” You follow behind her, taking in the layout of the place. It’s absolutely gorgeous, and a sense of awe falls over you. She has you set the coffee traveler on the bar, letting you take the paper bag from her hands. You pull out a cup holder with two cups in it.

“One half-caff french vanilla latte for you and…a hot chocolate for Neil.” As if by magic, Neil pops through the door to the kitchen.

“For me?!”

You chuckle as he pulls you into a hug. When he pulls away, he grabs his cup with a happy sound, rushing back into the kitchen when “Fak!” is yelled.

“The fuck Fak get a coffee for?” Richie frowns, causing you to bristle. Natalie swats at him, beginning to explain as you continue to walk around the restaurant. As you pass by a wood table, your fingers tap on it, the sound echoing in your ears. It sends a shiver through you, and a small smile appears on your lips. 

Natalie calls out to you, tearing your gaze back to her. People have begun to swarm around the bar, placing food on it, and your coffee is suddenly surrounded by things that smell amazing. “Did you want to eat with us, babe?” Attention turns to you, and the itchiness in your limbs reappears with a vengeance.

 A tall man, wearing a beanie, grins, “Hey, those muffins were amazing, by the way.”

You sputter, “Oh. Um—“

“Tell the chef, or baker — whoever,” he laughs at himself. “They were fire.”

Warmth rises in you, “Yeah, I’ll pass it on.”

“Babe, lunch?” Natalie says again, louder this time. More of the staff have begun digging into their meals.

“No, it’s okay!” The corner of your mouth curves up in a small smile, this one less genuine than before. You begin to back up towards the door, a gnaw of guilt in your gut as Natalie frowns. 

“Cousin! Food!” Richie yells out, followed by laughter from everyone else.

“I’m coming!” A familiar figure bursts through the kitchen door, “You don’t gotta yell like an asshole.”

Carmen Berzatto stops in his tracks when he sees you; the envelope in your pocket burns hotter. You look down at your shoes, but they just remind you of the milk dripping down the sidewalk.

“Carm,” Natalie introduces you, “they work at—“

“Nan’s.” Everyone chimes in, and you have to stop yourself from flinching. You look over at Carmy, eyes meeting.

There’s a moment where you feel like you’re going to get swallowed whole. The pipes are going to burst and water will fill up the room and you’re going to drown.

You walked straight into a den of hungry beasts, and you’re just a measly rabbit.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Natalie’s words are muffled in your ears, but you manage to shake your head.

“I have someone from books covering me, and they barely know how to work the espresso machine.” You force a laugh. It grates against your vocal chords. “It was nice meeting you guys, though.” With a meek wave, you turn on your feet and speed out the door. Rounding the corner, you keep walking until you’re sure they can’t see you. Veering into the alleyway behind the restaurant, you let out a shaky breath, leaning against the brick. 

You press your thumb into the palm of your hand. Inhale, hold four seconds, exhale. Inhale, hold four seconds, exhale. It’s over before it starts, but your chest remains tight. A reminder, which will eventually dissipate once you're back in the shop.

The coffee bar, your shield; apron, your armor. 

A door opening causes you to jump, startled. Your eyes meet blue, widening like you’ve been caught. “Sorry! I was just–” You push off the brick.

Carmen seems just as surprised as you, “No, s’fine.” He clears his throat, as the two of you settle into silence.

A fwip of a lighter. Four seconds. An exhale of smoke.

You’re unsure if you should leave, but it’s like the bottoms of your shoes are stuck to the ground. “Did you-” He starts, lifting up his hand that holds a lit cigarette.

You shake your head, “No, but - um, thanks.” Your fingers twitch, and you reach to pull the envelope from inside your jacket. Something that appears so insignificant, held out in the space between you. When he just stares, you wave it a bit, until he takes the envelope with his free hand.

“What’s this?” 

“Cash, for the milk you bought.”

“You didn’t have to-“

“I did.” You bounce on your heels, “I should actually get going this time. Just wanted to give you that but…” He doesn’t respond, something you’re getting used to. You wonder where the man who rambled about reading with his sister at Nan’s went, but decide now is the best time to make your escape. As you start to walk toward the street, you turn, “The restaurant looks great, by the way. Good luck with the opening.”

“Good luck with the opening.”

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

"Let it rip, Bear."

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

“-a complete waste of fucking time.”

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

“I’m really sorry you feel that way, Carm.”

Natalie invites you to Friends & Family.

You don’t go.

The next month flies by. Marcus, Richie, and Syd have joined your little group of regulars. Richie even brings his daughter, Eva, whenever he’s able. She’s a joy and absolutely hilarious to have around. Richie has grown on you, the rough edges of him softening after a few cortados.

One night, he had rushed into the shop, Eva in tow, all but begging you to watch her for a few hours. He was supposed to be off for the day, to spend time with his daughter, but they’re understaffed at The Bear. A few weeks in, which confused you, but questions weren’t asked. You said yes - obviously - and had Eva help you with little things around the shop, until you close. The two of you bonded over a shared love of Taylor Swift while making muffins. By the time Richie came to pick her up, Eva was tuckered out in a loveseat, patchwork blanket tucked up to her chin.

“I owe you one,” Richie had whispered, holding his daughter in his arms.

You shook your head, “You deserve to have time with her.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, bring it up with the Bear himself.”

You weren’t planning on it. The man is barely on your mind. Except for every time someone from The Bear walks in. They look drained, more and more each day. It’s a certain type of pain, to watch people – that once had so much life in them – lose the light that you felt so harshly the first time you walked into the restaurant. You hear inklings; mentions of a changing menu every night, nonnegotiables, and the like.

It worries you. It’s not your place - you’re more than aware of that. But you’ve come to care for these people. And by extension, some part of you wants to see how he’s doing. It’s an odd - biting -feeling. How strange it is, to know someone through everyone else’s eyes but your own. You have to fight back the urge to force yourself into the places you do not fit. You’re resigned to watching from afar, providing comfort behind your coffee bar. It’s what you’re good at. It might be all you're good at.

Some sick twist of fate decides to upturn it all one Friday night.

Carmy had stayed late, to nobody’s surprise. He’d been adjusting the menu, preparing it for tomorrow, when the flashes hit him. He decides to walk it off, popping another thing of nicotine gum into his mouth. He walks aimlessly, trying to push the overwhelming thoughts out of his head. The street is dark - most places being closed - but light pours onto the sidewalk, just a few feet ahead of him. Almost a reflex, he peers into the windows.

A laugh of disbelief - more a huff of air through his nose - leaves him.

You’re dancing, headphones over your ears, as you mix something in a large bowl. It’s unlike anything he’s seen - from you or otherwise. There’s a sense of freedom in your movements, so different from the few times he’d seen you before. The tightness in his chest lightens, some, at the sight of you so obviously in your element.

And you're looking right at him.

“Shit,” he mumbles. You tilt your head at him, doing a little wave. He lifts a hand in reply, and you point haphazardly at the door. Before he can respond, or walk away – anything, you’re heading around the counter. A click of the door unlocking, and you pull it open part way.

“Hey,” you say, a little loud. With a wince, you pull the headphones off to rest around your neck. Music can be heard – a muffled, upbeat song that he doesn’t recognize. “Hey,” you say again, quieter this time. Silence passes between you, and he watches your nose twitch. “…did you wanna?” You jut your thumb behind you. You’re almost unrecognizable from the first time you met, calmer, somehow.

“Yeah, sure.” The words come out, easier than he thinks, and slips through the door you hold open. You lock it behind him, turning back around to slide behind the counter.

You grab a muffin tin, beginning to fill each one with a scoop of the batter you had been mixing. You make quick work of it, pushing them into the small commercial oven, wiping your fingers on the towel that’s pulled through a loop in your jeans.

Leaning against the counter, you finally look at him, “Okay, Pick your poison.”

“What?”

“Coffee? Americano, latte, cappuccino?” It’s like you’re trying to read him, wanting to crack the spine of a book and see what’s inside.

“I don’t really do the…caffeine.”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your fingers on the counter in some type of rhythm. “Can I make you something? Low-caffeinated, of course.” He nods. “Anything you hate?” A shake of his head.

You grab a cup and get to work. You’re singing under your breath - the song that’s playing from the headphones around your neck. With your eyes off of him, he takes a moment to actually observe the shop. Warm lighting, with dark wood bookshelves making it feel cozy without being too claustrophobic. There’s smaller tables, with different recommendations for certain genres. A sprinkling of string lights and hanging plants just adds to the homey feeling, one so different from the pristine, white kitchens he’s used to being in. So different from his own restaurant. The coffee shop portion is close to the front, dark marble countertops and a chalkboard menu - swirling letters describing monthly drink specials.

“Alright, order up,” you call out softly.

Carmy walks back up to the bar, eyeing the cup. Warmth presses into his skin as his fingers curl around it. You mention that it’s hot, to let it cool for a bit. Silence falls between the two of you - in a way he finds comforting. Your eyes flick between him and the counter you’re wiping down.

“Do you normally do this?” He asks.

“The making drinks thing, or the staying at the shop way too late thing?” You give a wry smile. “Could ask you the same.”

He scratches at his nose, “Noted.”

The minutes pass; you go about cleaning the shop, rinsing dishes and setting things up for the next day. It’s an art he’s well versed in. The muscle memory takes over for you, and Carmen becomes invisible. It feels nice, to just be in a place where nobody has anything to ask of him. He finally tries the drink. It’s good, milky, if a little sweet, but it eases the last of the sourness in his stomach away. A timer on your phone goes off, and you tug on a flowery oven mitt to pull the muffins out of the oven. Chocolate and spice invades his nostrils, soothing him even more. You grab one, hissing a bit since it’s hot, and put it on a plate, bringing it back over to him. Leaning over the bar, you reach for forks that are in a metal cup, right near Carmy. You’re close, with no care about being in his personal space. It’s only for a second, and then you’re back in your previous position.

“You can have some, as long as you promise not to be an ass about it.” You hold out a fork for him. The words cause him to cringe, but he takes the utensil from you.

He stares at the muffin, running his thumb on the underside of the fork. “How much trouble am I in?”

You shrink back a little, “W-what?”

He’s met you what - twice? Both times felt clunky, an awkwardness to the both of you. Here, it’s simpler. Under the cover of night, huh? A voice that sounds awfully like Mikey’s says in the back of his mind. His family won’t stop talking about you. Or drinking your coffee.

“The Bear,” he mutters. “They talk to you, right?”

You laugh, surprised. “Do you actually want to know?” You hold up a hand before he can reply, “Actually, no. They don’t talk to me. I see things, sure. But I’m not getting anyone in trouble with the boss.” You’re on the defensive, not even for yourself, but for his kitchen.

“They-They’re not in trouble.” One look from you and he deflates, sighing. “Okay, yeah. Just…just say something.”

“I haven’t even been to eat there.”

“You should come,” he says.

Another laugh - a scoff, more-like, “You think I could afford your place?” You bite your lip, pinching the bridge of your nose. After a moment, you continue, gently, “Do you have any fun?”

“Fun.” The word is like poison in his mouth.

“Yes, fun. I know that food service isn't the best, but it’s good to have fun, or to at least enjoy it.” You wave your hands around, “That family meal stuff you guys do? That’s so sweet, and you have a whole family unit going on in that kitchen, or whatever. If this restaurant is supposed to be the rest of your life, you should like it, at least a little bit, right?” Your torso melts into the counter, and you rest your head on your arm. “And like, maybe? Don’t change the menu every night, or something. It’s new, right? You gotta work out the kinks first before jumping in all-” you blow air out through your cheeks.

A beat of quiet, then, “The menu, huh?”

“Eleven thousand for butter?” You parrot back. At his frown, you hold up your hands, “I’m just a barista, what would I know?” You say it without heat, and yet he feels guilt crawl up his throat.

“That’s not-”

“I know, Carmen.” A sigh leaves your lips, “You asked, so I talked. Again, take everything with a grain of salt.” The words get softer, as if you’re talking more to yourself than to him, “Just remember who’s going down with you if it ends up crashing and burning.”

You stab your fork into the muffin, tearing it in half. He follows suit, lifting a bite of it to his lips. Spice floods his taste buds, and he grunts. You blink up at him, fork hanging from your mouth. He’s suddenly starving, and he eagerly gets himself another forkful. “S’good.” He mumbles through the food. Carmen watches as you process his words, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. You two finish the muffin, and there’s an ominous sense of peace that covers him like a blanket. “Thanks.”

“For yelling at you?”

Carmy lets the chuckle spill out, “If that’s what you call yelling…” He trails off, sobering, “Do you have fun?”

You hum, contemplating. “Yeah. I mean, it’s coffee, at the end of the day. It’s just nice to see people, to make their day a little better than it was. I like to try out new things, to create, to get recommendations.” You stop, seeing him staring at you, “What?”

“You’re different…from the other day, s’all.”

You’re perplexed, scrunching your nose, “Well I had a bad day, the first time. And I don’t do…well, with new people.”

“Unless you’re behind the counter.”

Your eyes widen, something flickering behind them, like he’s seen something you didn’t want him to. “Touche.” Checking your phone, you clear your throat, “Alright, we should probably get out of here if we want any semblance of sleep.” He follows your lead, as you flick off the lights, throwing you backpack over your shoulder. He waits while you lock the front door, small key dangling on a keychain. You turn, looking at him, before holding out a paper bag, “Muffin for the road?”

He grabs it, an odd feeling bubbling in his chest, “Oh - uh, thanks.”

You suddenly look sheepish, fiddling with the strap of your bag, “And if you’re out late again, feel free to stop by. If you need a break, or something.” A beat. “Oh, again, take what I said with a grain of salt, yeah? Just - maybe - try to take care of yourself a little.” You laugh nervously, and Carmy sees the truth of his earlier observation. You’re still more relaxed, but the nerves have crept in as you step outside your comfort zone. Something he knows all too well. “Anyways, have a good night - morning.” You shake your head, blowing a raspberry through your lips.

“Night. Get home safe.” He murmurs. You turn on your heel, walking down the street. He tightens his grip on the paper bag.

Take care of yourself.

At least enjoy it.

You should like it, at least a little bit, right?

Carmy doesn’t know if he truly remembers what liking cooking is like. He’s found little bits of it, in moving back home. In Marcus’ eyes as he creates something new. In Syd’s determination to make amazing food. There’s a passion there that he’s lost somewhere along the way.

He sees it in you, and it calls out to him - the tide being pushed and pulled by the moon. A curious feeling, gnawing at his stomach. A hunger for something he can’t make sense of, but he pulls the muffin out of the bag to eat on his walk home.

Carmy keeps showing up at Nan’s, usually late at night. You didn’t expect him to take you up on your offer, yet a smile graces your lips every time he does.

He was right, when he said you feel most comfortable behind the counter. You knew it, but having someone else acknowledge it felt…weird. Like you weren’t playing your part right. Yet it also felt good, to be seen.

Conversation between the two of you still feels stilted, occasionally, but you find comfort in the quiet moments. And the not-so quiet ones; with music playing at just above a reasonable level, you mouthing the words as you dance around behind the bar. The mask slowly slides off when he comes around, and it’s easier to be goofy.

You think it surprises him. He’s not quite sure what to do, when you’re cruising on the linoleum tile you call a dance floor. But he never tells you that you’re weird, or too much. You’ve maybe even seen him bite back a smile. You swear there’s dimples hiding somewhere — a fleeting thought that you let fly away before you linger on it too long.

“What do you think?” You’ve turned the music down, notepad on the counter, your favorite pen in hand. You click it a few times, sound satisfying the little itch in the back of your brain.

“Not sure if I’m a matcha fan,” Carmy murmurs. You nod, writing down his response onto the paper. It’s almost filled — you’ll have to turn to the next page soon — with different drinks you’ve had Carmy try, determined to find the right one. He’s harder to pin than others, something you’re not necessarily surprised by.

That's partially on you. You're unsure of how much to ask. How much could you poke the both metaphorical and literal Bear until it breaks? You've been enjoying your time, but you've yet to ask him how work is going. He doesn't ask you about your personal life, so why would you ask about his?

There's a curiosity there, though. To see what makes Carmen Berzatto tick. You fear the two of you might be a little too similar.

You turn to go back to cleaning your mess — the reason being a fresh tray of cookies cooling on the counter, when he says your name. “Did you get a new tattoo?”

Gaze flashing to the wrap you have on your arm, peeking out from the sleeve of your shirt, you turn bashful. “Oh,” you hum, “I did. It’s been on my list for awhile. I’m keeping it wrapped at work while it heals - god knows I spill everything all over myself.”

“Can I — What did you get?” He’s just as sheepish as you, a boyish glow about him. You’d never talked about tattoos before. His evidence is on his arms; yours are mostly concealed — easy to hide with the oversized button downs and jeans you wear.

You pull your phone from your back pocket, “Here, I’ll pull up a photo of it.” Placing your phone on the counter, Carmy grabs it, zooming in on the two-headed calf that’s found its home on your bicep. The tattoo is fresher in the photo, line work popping out against your skin. “The longest living two-headed calf lived 17 months. Her name was Gemini — a little on the nose, I think. There’s also this poem by Laura Gilpin, that just kinda struck me.” Your ramble tumbles off, a half smile pulling at your lips. “It’s sad, but the kind that makes you hurt in a nice way? If that even makes sense.” You wave a hand around, then reach to take a sip from his cup.

The matcha settles the nerves hiding under your skin, the earthy flavor dancing on your tongue. As you set the cup back on the counter, you point at his hand, “What’s that stand for?” Your own fingers twitch, fighting the urge to brush them across his own. “S.O.U?”

“Ah, sense of urgency.” He says, fiddling with your phone.

You laugh, quickly covering it with a hand, “Sorry, I — sorry, that just makes so much sense.” Before he can speak, you shake your head, “Not in a bad way, necessarily. It’s just so obvious how little work-life balance you have.”

“We’re literally at your shop in the middle of the night.” Carmen huffs exasperatedly, corner of his mouth curling up.

You hold your hands up, conceding, “Okay, I get it. Misery loves company - or whatever. God, we’re both crazy, aren’t we? We should get out more.”

He hums in response, tapping his phone twice to check the time. Anxiety swells up in your throat, and there’s something biting at your heels. The silence doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.

You said something wrong, the little voice in your head whispers. You lost the script and got too close and now he’s pulling back. How can you fix it? You have to fix it.

“What’s your favorite one?” His blue eyes glance up at you. Invisible hand squeezing your lungs, you stammer, “Tattoo. What’s the one you like most?”

His words come out softly, “A house boat. I, uh, got it before leaving Copenhagen. I stayed in one while I was over there, and put out water for an invisible cat.” Relief floods you as he talks. It’s the most he’s spoken about anything, and you see a glimmer behind his eyes.

It feels a little too close to home.

“You really loved it over there, huh?”

As if caught, he clears his throat, “It was cool…different.”

Different from Chicago, you don’t say. “I get that,” you murmur instead.

You knew what it was like, to run away. The need for escape pushing you into flight as the metaphorical dog chases the rabbit.

You wonder what Carmen’s dog was. Or is. If it’s even a dog at all.

“What about you? What’s your favorite?”

You’re pulled from your thoughts. “Oh! Um, it’s silly.” You worry at your bottom lip.

“You don’t—”

“No, hold on, it’s just,” you push yourself onto the counter with the palms of your hands. Carmen leans back as you swing your legs over the bar, letting your feet rest on the barstool next to him. You lean over, pulling up your pants leg to show the tattoo on the right side of your calf. He stares at it for a moment, confusion clear in his gaze. “See, I told you.”

“Is it a moth, or something?”

“Moth-man, Carmen. Mothman.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“He’s a cryptid. There’s literally stories of a Chicago Mothman.” He peers up at you in amusement, causing you to scrunch your face at him. “I swear on my life Carmen Berzatto, don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not.” He laughs, and your chest loosens. You got Carmen Berzatto to laugh. “It looks good, the style is nice,” he gestures to your leg.

You smile, “Thanks.”

Nodding, he goes to sip from his cup. He makes a face, pulling it away from him, “Yeah, I don’t like this.”

He holds it out to you as you reach for it, laughter spilling from your lips, “More grass for me.” You drink, and let the cup rest on your thigh, fingers tapping on the plastic lid.

“I’m not…” Your head turns to look at him, watching as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not really good at this.”

“...at what?” You whisper, scared if you talk any louder you’ll scare him away.

“Talking? Not working? Who the fuck knows,” his hand leaves his hair and passes over his face.

“I’m not either, really.” You pick at your jeans, “But we’re trying, right? You come by more than I thought you would.”

“Really?”

You snort, “Dude, the first time I was surprised you even came in.” Gently, you add, “And you don’t have to be perfect at conversation to be friends with someone.” His eyes meet yours as you nudge his shoulder with your knee. “I’m weird, you’re weird, that’s okay.”

Carmen rolls his eyes good naturedly. His legs are bouncing, and you can almost see him chewing the word around before it finally leaves, “Friends?”

“Friends.” You affirm. Silence passes between you, until a growl comes from your stomach.

The man laughs, looking all the prettier for it, “You hungry?”

“Starving,” you groan.

He gets up from his seat, grabbing his denim jacket that’s hung over the chair on his left, “C’mon.”

It takes a moment, but it clicks. “Oh my god,” you gasp out, hopping off the counter. With a speed you only have during a lunch rush, you run to the back. You untie your apron, hang it up on a hook, and grab your tote bag. “Wallet, keys, phone…phone!”

“Out here!” Carmen yells. You grin, rushing back out to the front, bouncing on your heels. “You good?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You shake your keys with enthusiasm. He laughs as you both leave, and you turn to lock up. There’s excitement buzzing through you, like caffeine would if your brain weren’t wired a bit funky. A thought cuts through the haze, “Oh shit, I forgot to–”

“I got the trash.” The street lights reflect off his blue eyes.

Your heart twinges a little, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He gestures with his head, “Now let’s go before your stomach eats itself.”

“Hey Carm?!”

The man pokes his head into the office, one hand wrapped around the door, “Yeah, what?”

Natalie raises an eyebrow, “You busy?”

Carmy scoffs, “Yeah, Sugar, I’m busy.”

It’s lunch time. Marcus has pastries, Tina’s running prep. Syd is around…avoiding him. He tries not to think about it for too long. Richie is who knows where.

Fuck, don’t be an asshole, asshole.

Deflating, he asks, “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“I’m spending my hour of alone time figuring shit out here, while Pete watches the baby.” His sister sighs, glancing down at the paperwork on the desk, “I’m managing. Anyways, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

He wants to ask about the baby. His niece. But Natalie barrels over the topic to say, “Were you here late the other night?” He must have made a face because Natalie sighs, exasperated. “I know you stay later than everyone else, doing god knows what, but I got a notification on my phone the other night-“

“What notification?”

She rolls her eyes, “The alarm system, dummy. I get alerts.”

“No, yeah, I get that. But I turned it off.”

It could only be from the other night, when he brought you back to the restaurant. He’s not sure why he did — he almost had a panic attack in front of you while debating what to make. It's strange, how much an environment can affect someone. Nan's feels so comfortable to him now, like nothing can happen to him when he's in those four walls. Where was the last place he felt like that?

You don’t need to impress anyone, Carmen. It’s just me, you had said.

Simple words that cut through him like a knife. You asked for comfort food, so he made you grilled cheese with tomato soup. The little dance you did every time you took a bite relit a fire inside of him that had been burnt out by years of working in kitchens.

“I know. I’m asking because the alarm was set, and then you turned it off again a few hours later.” Natalie unlocks her phone, showing him her screen that has some app pulled up with timestamps on it. “Are you sleeping? Look, I know things aren’t great right now—" Natalie cuts herself off with another sigh.

“It’s fine. Things are fine.” At her pointed look, he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m working on it, okay? Just…are you good? Do you need anything?”

“About 48 hours of interrupted sleep would be great.” Her gripe falls off into a laugh, which he returns.

Stepping into the room further, he pulls the door closer, just a slim crack of clean white light coming through. “I’ve been a shitty brother lately.”

“No…” Natalie snorts, “Okay yeah, a bit. I love you, though.”

He mumbles the words back, tapping out a rhythm on his thigh, “Maybe I could come by, sometime. See the baby.” It’s a blessing and curse how his chest aches when he sees the way her eyes light up.

“I’d love that, Bear.”

“Yo, delivery!” Marcus yells out, pulling the attention of the Berzatto siblings.

“The fuck?” There isn't supposed to be a delivery today.

Natalie gets out of her seat, “Oh thank god.” She ushers Carmy out of the office, pushing past him into the dining room. He follows after her, confused, only to stop in his tracks.

You’re here.

You stand next to Richie, talking animatedly, albeit shy. You’re wearing clothes he doesn’t regularly see you in, the worn denim jacket catching his eye in particular. It’s clear that you aren't working, yet you hold two cups from Nan’s in your hands, a few drink carriers littering a table.

“You’re literally my savior, thank you.” Natalie pulls you into a hug, and you look at Richie with wide eyes. Carmy has to hold back a snort at your expression.

“You should expect this reaction by now, kid.” Richie takes a sip from his drink when you gape at him in exaggerated outrage.

“Shut up, Richie,” Natalie is barely paying attention, saying the words more out of habit. Grabbing a cup from a drink holder, she says, “You’re coming home with me.”

Giggles bubble from your lips, and you go to cover them with the back of your arm. There’s a pull Carmy feels, instinctual, to urge your arm away from your face and hear your genuine laughter fill the room.

Your eyes meet his, finally noticing that he’s there. The smile you give him is earnest, a gentle hello without words. He forces his feet to move, closing the distance. Carmy blatantly ignores the looks both Richie and Natalie are making. You hold out the cup in your hand - the one you weren’t drinking from - and he takes it from you.

Condensation clings to the sides, his name hastily written on the side.

⋆⁺Carmy!⁺˚⋆

There’s a heart in place of the dot at the bottom of the exclamation point, little stars doodled around his name. His stomach flips.

“Iced?” He swirls the drink in hand, mixing it up.

You shrug, “Thought I’d try something different. It’s hot outside.”

“You off?” Bringing the straw to his lips, he hums at the taste. You’re watching him eagerly, head tilted to the side as you wait for his review. “This is nice.”

Squinting at him, you huff, “Not perfect, though.” You type something into your phone — most likely to add to your notebook later. “Had to run some more syrup by the shop. Saw Natalie’s car on the street so I texted her to see if she wanted something to drink. I have errands to run after this.”

“You a regular too now, Cousin?” Richie barks, and Carmy watches as you remember where you are. Who you’re with.

A protectiveness rises up in Carmen, hating the way you recoil into yourself. “Fuck off, Richie.” He looks over at you, “Hungry?”

“Dude, we got shit to do.”

“Richie!” Natalie hisses at the older man, shoving him back toward the kitchen. She calls back to you, “Thanks for the coffee! I promise I’ll come by when I feel more like a human again.”

The customer service clicks into place behind your eyes, “Take care of yourself! Hope the baby is doing well!” Once it's just the two of you, you sigh, knocking the heels of your boots together. “I should get going.”

Carmen nods, “Can I grab you a sandwich, first?”

“Grilled cheese?” You tease, stifling a smile.

He huffs, shaking his head, “Nah, but Ebra’s got window right now. I could throw something together real quick.”

“You don’t have to do that.” He glances down; you’re pressing your thumb into the middle of your hand. It's uncanny, the semblance of himself that is mirrored in you.

“I know.” He wants to, though. “Give me five minutes?”

A moment of hesitation, then, “Okay.”

“Cool.” And he’s off.

Chaos erupts the minute he’s back in the kitchen.

“Since when did the two of you become buddy-buddy?”

“Can we please get back to work? Richie, respectfully, what are you doing back here?” Syd is working on pasta, flour covering her work service.

“I got shoved outta my space, so here I am,” Richie waves his hands around.

The overlapping voices turn into white noise, and Carmy inhales sharply, “Fak!”

“Yes, chef!” Neil appears out of nowhere. Sometimes Carmen thinks there’s a series of underground passages that makes it so easy to get ahold of him. It’s not that crazy of a notion.

“Go and say hello to them, okay? I’m gonna throw together something, give it to them, and then I’ll be right back.” The last part is meant for everyone to hear, but is pointed more toward Richie. “Seriously, just leave it, alright?”

“I’m leaving it,” Richie snarks, but nudges Fak with his elbow. “Think there’s a drink out there with your name on it anyway. Snag me another one of those apple-donut-things too, eh?”

“Fritters!” Marcus calls out from his station.

Carmy sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s queasy; he’ll have to take some pepto later.

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

Let it rip, Bear.

Neil barrels into you, wrapping you in a hug. He talks your ear off for the next couple minutes; you smile when you need to, laugh when you remember.

The yells from the kitchen are playing on repeat in your ears.

They’re talking about you.

The urge to flee tickles the back of your throat. You thought it would be nice to stop by and bring Natalie a coffee, but then you had felt bad about not bringing anything for everyone else, which turned into you jumping behind the bar to make ten drinks. It’s not like you were going to make Morgan, the barista on shift, make them all.

You always had a hard time not working on your days off.

“You should absolutely come!”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You reply, still not fully checked back into your conversation with Neil.

He smiles, “Great! I’ll send you the info!”

Before you can ask what you actually agreed to, Carmy pushes back into the room, to-go container in hand. “Hey, uh, Fak, can you go take a look at the toilet for me?” You barely notice Neil leave, focusing more on how your chest releases as Carmen walks closer to you.

He hands you the container, and you murmur a soft, “Thank you.”

“I’ll walk you out, yeah?”

The thought is nice. Glancing behind him, you see Natalie and Richie watching through the window. “It’s okay, you really don’t have to.” You take a step back just as Carmy reaches out to you. You can’t run, they’d see you. Ask questions. They probably see a caged animal.

“Hey,” he whispers your name, “it’s just me.” He’s repeating the words you said to him the night you were here. You tear your eyes away from the kitchen, looking at him. “Lemme walk you out?”

With a nod, you let him guide you out the front door. The warm summer air washes over your skin, and you take in a deep breath. You count the lines in the sidewalk as you pass them, sipping at your iced latte. “It was cool of you to come by,” Carmy says. “And your jacket’s dope.”

He’s trying to make you feel better.

“Did you just say dope?” You peek over in his direction, catching his shrug. “You’re so old.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs, and your smile widens.

You make it to your car, a little thing that has a new problem every other week. It’s been with you for years, moved with you to five different states. More of a sentimental object, than a real mode of transportation. You mostly used CTA these days if you were able, but it was nice to have a car for when you’re running errands all around the city.

“Sorry if they bothered you,” he apologizes, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“No, no, no,” you push out the words, throat tightening, arms hugging your middle. “I thought I was going to try to be a human today. May have jumped the gun on that one.” Fiddling with your keys, you continue, “It was nice to see you. Thought you might be a vampire or something, since I only ever see you at night.”

The joke causes Carmy to roll his eyes, “Is that considered a cryptid?”

You perk up at the word, “Oh, don’t get me started.”

He smiles big enough for his dimple to appear, “Oh, yeah?”

“Unless you want me to talk for hours on end. I’ll make a power-point presentation and everything.” You might already have one in the works, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You could - I mean, it wouldn’t bother me. If you did, you know?”

You blink a few times, frozen in shock. He looks shy, almost. Like the first time you met him, but there’s something between you now. A plant that will keep growing - might even bloom - if the two of you keep watering it. He keeps pecking away at your carefully crafted walls that let people see exactly how much you want them to.

Carmen Berzatto keeps seeing you. Whoever that is.

He coughs, scratching the side of his head. “I’ll see you later?”

“You know where I’ll be.”

“Yeah.”

You walk around to the driver’s side of your car, opening the door. You slide in, turning the key to let your car sputter to life. You roll the windows down, and music starts to blare from your speakers. “Kick ass tonight!” You yell the words as you pull away from the curb. You spare a glance in your rearview, watching Carmy wave before he starts walking back to his restaurant.

When you're parked outside your apartment, it hits you. You dig into your tote bag, pushing aside old receipts, chapstick tubes, and fidget toys. You cheer to yourself as you pull your notebook out, favorite pen hooked over the cover. Flipping to the back, you stare at the list of drinks you've had Carmy try.

You think you want to keep seeing him, too. Whoever that is.

You scribble at the bottom of the page, circling it twice.

Spiced Chai ~ HOT, xtra cinn

[thebibliosphere]

Hm. I'm rereading something I wrote, and I can't decide if it's going to be infuriating for some readers, or if there will be more going "OH, same!"

Given that my readership is largely in the Autistic 🤝ADHD vampire fan club (Vlad), I'm hoping it'll be the latter, but it's still making me hesitate because it's not how people expect sex scenes to read.

Everything's usually boiled down to a laser-focused precision of sensations and evocative, heated language -- and that does eventually happen with this. You just have to get past Vlad's brain wandering around for a bit because while Nathan's doing a good job of getting his attention in the moment, he's not being consistent, and it's giving Vlad's brain time to wander. Like noticing that Nathan squints a bit when he reads. ("(Hyperopia, Vlad’s brain supplied helpfully before he could smother it.)") Or just generally having full-on conversations in his head in the downtimes between stimulation -- and by downtime, I mean the split second it takes for Nathan to grab something from the nightstand.

Another part of me worries people will think I'm playing to stereotypes or I'm hamming it up to be "quirky," but given my brain is the epitome of the "hyper 8-year-old boy who can't sit still shiny disorder" despite being a 36yo cis woman, I've pretty much resigned myself to some people calling Vlad a stereotype anyway.

A larger part of me just... kind of really wants to see this kind of thing in a sex scene. I want to see my own thought patterns and acknowledge that even when you're getting hot and heavy with someone -- arguably an act that should consume all of your attention -- you'll still find your mind wandering. You'll notice something out the corner of your eye and go, "fucking shit, laundry, do not forget, do not forget" (and then you'll forget), or you'll be about to go down on someone, and the dick joke your friend told you three months ago will pop into your head and suddenly you're snickering with no tactful way to explain it.

(This is another thing that I always think is sorely lacking in sex scenes. No one's messy. No one's laughing like an idiot because they just thumped their head into the headboard, or a joke just popped into their head. Or someone's body made a fart sound because there's lube in places and things are thrusting. Like, maybe it's me, maybe I'm weird, but I think those are the moments you can build real romance out of. Not necessarily erotica, because those things (supposedly) aren't sexy, but there's so much emotion you can show with partners who are able to laugh with each other in those moments. You can show so much love and reverence through the mundane it hurts.)

It'd just be nice, for once, to have the character be absolved of the guilt that often happens in those moments because you're supposed to be focusing on what is happening, and your idiot brain just won't shut up.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter too much. It's a short story I'm hoping to fling out at some point (as soon as my idiot brain shuts up and lets me finish it). But it feels more important than it actually is because it feels like I'm exposing a major part of my psyche. Like pinning down all the ugly parts of my brain that can't ever actually be pinned down, no matter how much I try.

idk. Words. Things. Stuff. I'm going to try and finish this and then see what I want to do with it.

[repressionmd]

a selection of housefics i love!

i will make a part 2 when i reach character limit :D currently there is just 11 fics here but i WILL be updating!

Playtime's Over or The One Where Cuddy Forces House to See a Child Psychologist - mskullgirl

author summary: Following the events of "Skin Deep" (season 2, episode 13) House spirals out of control and stops eating and sleeping. Cuddy eventually offers him a deal; five sessions with Dr. Addams, the hospital's resident child psychologist, in exchange for three months off of clinic duty. What could go wrong? word count: 48k my notes: SO GOOD!! such a fun analysis of house and it has potentially my favourite accidental child acquisition of all time

Everything He Wants - the_northwind

author summary: House discovers that Wilson is a better coping mechanism than Vicodin. There's no way this could go wrong. A rewrite of the season six finale and beyond where instead of Cuddy, Wilson goes to House's apartment after the crane collapse. word count: 11k my notes: has one of my favourite hilson fic argument scenes. they're dysfunctional and messy and SO in character i couldn't recommend enough

Hypothesis - IreneSpring

author summary: At the beginning of the month, James Wilson decides to break out of his depressive spiral by having an affair with the first woman who is not needy. By the end of the month, he is facing an existential crisis decades in the making. word count: 15k my notes: haha wilson you are gay (jokes aside this fic is actually so fun and silly and made me LAUGH at the hoops our wilson jumps through to eventually realise he didn't get anywhere anyway)

Under My Skin - rhythmofsnow

author summary: Thirteen has a meltdown. House is there to ground her through it. (Post 5x05 "Lucky Thirteen") word count: 1.4k my notes: caring house my beloved... autistic solidarity my even more beloved <3

Composed - ferretwhomst

author summary: compose verb /kəmˈpəʊz/ 1. calm or settle (oneself or one's features or thoughts). 2. write or create (a work of art, especially music or poetry). or: a sick, restless Wilson finds himself in need of House’s company late at night. House indulges him. word count: 2.2k my notes: SO BEAUTIFUL.... wilson is so gay and so melodramatic and house matches his freak so well and WRITES HIM A PIANO PIECE....... they're so soft with each other idk its just beautiful. please read this

Soothe me now, soothe me, old friend (eng) - culturenana

author summary: Wilson would love to – Wilson would like to do so many things, make the most of countless wasted opportunities, erase every mistake, since his time has shortened without any warning, cruelly consuming itself under every cough. / House holds him close as if he is about to slip from his arms, and neither of them has the courage to discern what this thing between them is. There is no excuse or rational diagnosis that could cover it up. word count: 7.2k my notes: oh my god this fic made me want to bawl its so beautifully written and i have been shying away from post-finale fics purely to save myself the heartbreak but im SO glad i didn't do that with this one. they mean everything to me ;-;

'Samson's Mistress Cut His Hair, Thus Removing His Strength' - Sparklesinthewater

author summary: Set in season 3. Stacy doesn't come back. Tritter doesn't interfere. But the drugs and the infarction keep getting House into trouble anyway. Wilson is trying his best (but his best may not be what's best for House). / Or, House gets himself a girlfriend. Life goes downhill from there. word count: a beautiful 129k my notes: hello? hello!!!! can anyone hear me!! fic of all time!!!! a novel in its own right, and i did in fact stay up till 3.30am finishing it. impossible to put down and did make me want to cry in places. absolutely stunning. would recommend to everyone

a thousand teeth (and yours among them) - itooaminthisepisode (anarchy_opossum)

author summary: Sometimes, when House gets too overwhelmed by his emotions, he gets a little bitey. This is five times House bites Wilson, and one time Wilson finally bites him back. word count: 10k my notes: GORGEOUS STUFF!! amazing characterisation with lovely internal voices <3 they're so them and it makes me so happy

i let you win, i love to lose - sesamie

author summary: a short thing inspired by the thought, "what if amber and wilson's sex tape was ***for house***?" it seems like exactly the kind of toxic manipulative thing amber would pull and bring wilson along for. so here it is! set after the finale of season 4, and wilson and house haven't spoken about everything yet. things are bad between them and that's where the angst in this comes from! word count: 4.6k my notes: this fic did irreparable things to my psyche i mean ACTUALLY i do find myself thinking about it as im going about my day. genuinely was blown away by the sheer power of the prose i'll be honest 😭

we peeled the freckles from our shoulders - flowersinapril

author summary: Greg is twenty-three and James is nineteen when they first meet as counsellors at a sleepaway camp in the Adirondacks. word count: 2.1k my notes: GOD THIS WAS SO BEAUTIFUL... AAAHHHHHH i dont even have any words. please read this. crops watered joy delivered will to live restored etc. oh my god.

I'd Make a Deal With God (I'd Get Him to Swap Our Places) - TheFandomLesbian

author summary: When Wilson receives his terminal diagnosis, House flees to the hospital chapel. He doesn't know how to pray, but he strikes a deal: his soul for Wilson's life. When Wilson goes into remission, he has no choice but to uphold his end of the bargain. / In which House learns nothing about God, but everything about worship, in the arms of his husband. word count: 11.3k my notes: HOLY FUCK.. obsessed and i mean Obsessed with love as religious Especially when it comes to gregory 'religion is meaningless' house like this was so... good. it was so good. house is so desperate and so in love and its the most delicious thing ever

[jenny-in-a-jar]

🌈 2 Days Until my Surgery 🌈

(Picture taken June 8th, 2024)

I'm very very excited for my surgery (it's my second gender affirming surgery but this one is more significant to me since it'll be top and bottom surgery) and I'm obviously counting the days until it and I thought some people might be interested in my trans journey 🏳️‍⚧️ I finished up most of the story yesterday so today I'll queerness bc it's pride month under the cut! 🌈🌈🌈

But you can read through my journey starting here

First, let's talk about this outfit. Yes, I bought the shorts and top at Spencer's and honestly you can easily find someone who matches it at a large enough pride event. But, it's hard for me to not be sentimental about it. Especially since I wore it at least once the last three years.

(Pictures taken June 11, 2022 and June 10, 2023)

And you can see how it and I have subtly changed these last three years of my transition. (Too bad I didn't have for my first year of transition but such is life 🤷‍♀️). And every year I get excited to wear it again!

Because being queer means a lot to me. I wasn't one of those people who always knew they were queer. But, I never felt connected to my cishet peers either. It's odd looking back and thinking about how my normal group of friends were cishet but at things like summer camp and then college I would quickly make friends with queer people. I really wanted to be like them but couldn't know why because I felt like I didn't deserve to be as cool and free as them.

But, when I let myself dive head into queerness I finally realized that I queer people are mostly awkward nerds and all of them just want to live their lives as fully honestly themselves. And that I could relate to. And that's what made it easy for me "to rip off the band-aid" and transition. It's what let me walk out into a world where I knew I would get hateful stares because I knew I wasn't alone. And seeing how other queer people's eyes light up when they see me showed me I made the right decision because I made them feel less alone too.

And making friends in the queer community is so much easier than in the cishet community. Because there's a lot more likelihood that they'll understand your awkwardness and admire your weirdness. I said earlier that I had gone to a few house parties and actually enjoyed myself for the first time. I think the best way to show why is this anecdote. I remember being in this circle of people standing around awkwardly silent and then someone said "I'm autistic and house parties make me uncomfortable can someone start talking?" and someone replied with how they felt the same way and how they felt the same way and then a conversation started about how hard parties are and social interactions in general but we were glad to be here and to try to connect with people.

And I love studying queer history a lot. Mostly because I'm curious how I would fit in to a time/culture in history. But also I love seeing how we don't fit in existed and how society understood our non-conformity. We have always existed. Queerness is part of the human condition.

The queer community is far from perfect. We all come from very different backgrounds and often have biases we need to work on. But, it's worth it to carve out your place in the community and to find people who understand and support you and to reciprocate for them. Because the alternative is being alone.

And we all deserve to feel loved, in whatever form you need. And because I'm feeling sentimental so here's a picture of me and my love 🥲

(Picture taken June 8th, 2024)

I have one last update before my surgery tomorrow where I'll look towards the future ✨

Next part

[pixiedustjellicle]

I have such a difficult time connecting with the Cats community now. Part of me feels like maybe I'm too old for the current fandom(I don't feel old, but I'm certainly not 19 anymore). Or that perhaps it's because I don't much care about ships. Sometimes I worry that I intimidate people, and I'd hate that. Let me introduce myself and how Cats has shaped my life, and maybe I can find my people?

I first saw Cats at a tiny local theatre when I was eight. I fell in love with it, and even though I didn't have the movie yet, I spent months afterwards with just the poem book and highlights album. Eventually I got the 98 VHS too- and then another local theatre put it on when I was ten! I got to see it twice there. And afterwards, I made up my own attempt at a costume, turned our spare room into my attempt at the set, and put some chairs in there to put on the highlights show for some friends of my mother. The CD was worn out, I went on with the show, and they even gave me a card and a new CD afterwards- the London 2 disc set! Looking back, I think how embarrassing it probably was, but I was so happy and proud of myself in the moment. Two more years later, US Tour 5 came through Nashville, and I got to go and stagedoor for the first time. I wore a tail I made and one of the actresses told me I had a perfect Bombalurina tail twirl. For all those years, I worked Cats into school projects, I drew nothing else. My mom put up with it for so long, and I still thank her to this day.

And then I went into middle school. New school, new students, and I started getting bullied for it. I found other musicals I didn't get bullied for- Phantom, Wicked, and Sweeney- to latch onto, and I kinda put Cats in the back of my head. I still loved it, but my hyperfixation had waned thanks to mean kids, and other than occasionally watching the 1998 movie, I didn't think much of it for years.

But the US Tour 6 announced a date in Nashville. I hadn't seen the show in eight years, and I wasn't about to miss it. I had already started taking an interest in cosplay, but I'd never made a costume like that. I remembered admiring the CCDB as a kid though, and I told myself I was totally capable of making my own, just to go see the show in costume. And I did.

And the cast were SO sweet, and I started finding Cats fans on Instagram. I thought I could do better on the costume, so when the show stopped in Chattanooga a couple months later... I did it again.

The pandemic hit and I lost my job. Immediately I started getting work making Cats cosplays for others, and I haven't stopped since. And when the show resumed, I made an overnight trip to Memphis to dress up again!

And then, I saved until I could finally go see the Royal Caribbean production (front row all three performances), and got to cosplay on the cruise and get a picture on stage with the cast! This was absolutely everything to me, especially seeing the original choreography as opposed to the revival. I definitely cried. (I'm in the middle bottom row!)

I've gotten to make some costume pieces for three regional productions of Cats, in the Dominican Republic, Atlanta Georgia, and most recently Georgetown Texas. I've won some local cosplay contest with my costumes, too! And I'm lucky enough to own a few original pieces- though I've had to part with some too.

My love for this show has spanned just over 17 years now. I adore the story, the costumes, the choreography, the sets, and the characters. It's part of how I learned I am autistic. It's given me confidence I didn't know I could find. And every time I get to see it live, I feel like I'm where I belong. The fandom has felt quiet. And I'm not sure if that's just because I don't know where I fit in? So here's hoping I can find my tribe.

Favorite productions: Original Broadway, Moscow, and Mexico 2013/2018

Favorite Cats: Jemima/Sillabub, Bombalurina, Demeter, Munkustrap, Tumblebrutus, Jellylorum

Favorite songs: Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats, The Song of the Jellicles and the Jellicle Ball, Macavity

Favorite cats to cosplay: Etcetera and Victoria

[thunderstomm]

I was originally not going to make a post about this, but after seeing a few other posts about it, I wanted to make my own. I have a LOT to talk about.

TW: Transphobia, Homophobia, Ableism

If you don’t know what I’m taking about- there was a post made by a user, who’s name I will not disclose or share, who discussed how they would rewrite the new Monster High G3 Cartoon. While some of the points were mundane, or points of preference, others made me very uncomfortable, as they got rid of much of the diversity that G3 has brought into the Monster High Universe. I want to quickly go through three of the points that I felt were erasing these steps in diversity, and my thoughts on each one, and why I think that it’s iffy, to say the least.

First is the statement “all of the couples from G1 will stay together”. While this may read to some as a preference for the old couples, in the context of rewriting G3- it comes across as the erasure of both couples involving a neurodivergent character being the subject of a crush, and being seen as desirable and loved (Manny x Twyla), and what probably was the intended couples they wanted to seperate, the canonically queer ships. In particular, this is most likely against Clankie (and POSSIBLY an s2 ship which I won’t say by name because some people want to go in blind. Instead I will refer to it as 🧡💚.). In this rewrite context, wanting to take away queer relationships which many writers and designers for Monster High have fought for in many shapes and forms. G1 never had explicit queer characters, the closest things being a scrapped SDCC diary entry (Valentine x Spelldon), Post-Ending 3rd party statements (Clawdeen is a Lesbian, Rebecca x Venus, etc.) and implied characters (Kiyomi). While these are okay, they are NOT the same as explicit queer couples, which are arguably more important to push forward in the talk and scope of present and future representation.

While it is okay to prefer the G1 ships, in the context of bringing them back for G3, it erases these queer couples, and ignores the lore and universe of G3. In G3, Cleo and Deuce are exes. And if you don’t like that, you can still watch G1!! It’s not magically disappeared, the movies and shows and music is all still out there, and most of it is free! But, erasing Clankie, 🧡💚, and other potential queer ships in G3, for the preservation of a m/f ship isn’t okay.

On the subject of erasure, there is the statement “Frankie is still non-binary, but now uses she/they pronouns”. A character canonically using they/them in cartoons, especially ones made for kids, are uncommon. Honestly, I don’t even know if I could name 10, and that says more about the state of non-binary representation than it does about me. While changing the pronouns of a cisgender character to gender neutral ones is often done in fandom, and often not a point of issue, taking a character who is canonically non-binary and solely uses they/them and giving them typically gendered pronouns erases that under represented group, and allows for transphobes to ignore the “they” in “she/they”, and only use “she” for the character. This is an issue in real life too, for many who use multiple sets of pronouns, including myself (they (preferred) / he) ! We deserve both of their sets of pronouns to be used, and people who only use they/them deserve to be referred to by and as they/them. These changes hurt everyone.

Then, we come to the one I see the most talk about, and the one that made me audibly yell “what the f-?!”- taking away Twyla’s canon autism diagnosis, and symptoms & traits, and replacing it with autism coding, so that she is easier to identify with. First of all- easier for who??? Neurotypicals ?? It is incredibly rare to see a character on kids TV outright say “I am autistic”, and Twyla is wonderful as representation. Twyla will not resonate or be relatable to every person- but that is true for all characters, not just autistic ones. Autistic people are not a monolith, it is a spectrum, with many different ways to present itself. Also… taking away all of her traits and symptoms to make her more relatable? These traits and symptoms are what would have made her “autistic coded”, and without them, you have a character who is NT.

Autism isn’t a quirky word you can use to describe anyone, it is a disability, that myself and many others have, and see misrepresented time and time again. And to say that a good example of it is not good, and would be better off to be erased and replaced with coding is insane. Coding is okay, but that’s all it is. Real spoken representation matters so much to me, and so many other people, even if the characters we see are not identical to us in those symptoms and traits they exhibit. These characters should not be changed, but rather, more autistic characters, with different presenting symptoms and traits, should be introduced !

You can like G1, you can prefer G1, but that does not mean that you have to make a sanitised version of G3, that makes it identical to G1. In terms of representation, there is no arguing that G3 has G1 beat. The poster said on their post that “any new characters would be made more relatable”, but… to who? Because I relate to a lot of the G3 characters more than the G1 ones, and I grew up loving G1! It’s not been wiped, all of the media still exists for you to watch, and make headcanons for ! If you like G1- good for you! But please, stop trying to make G3 exactly like it. Because change is inevitable in these kinds of reboots, and it allows for the representation some want to take away.

Thank-You for those who read all the way!

[solangeloficawards]

solangelo fic awards 2024 - winners!

happy valentines day guys!! <3 wanna thank everyone again for their participation and hype for this year!! just a reminder that this is all for fun, and if you were nominated but didn't win, there's always next year!! :)

and with that, here are our 2024 winners!! <3

nominations post

masterdoc

best angst!

1st place: When I Get Home to You by @2nd2ndalto (14 votes)

2nd place: work and play, they're never okay to mix the way we do by @buoyantsaturn (10 votes)

3rd place: if anybody asks, i'm taken (he is too) by @buoyantsaturn (9 votes)

best au!

1st place: IT'S A SCREAM, BABY! by @rosyredlipstick (25 votes)

2nd place: Doctor Doctor, Give Me the News (I've Got a Bad Case of Loving You) by @buoyantsaturn (6 votes)

3rd place: just an animal, looking for a home by @ikeasharksss (5 votes)

best canon compliant!

1st place: august by CordeliaRose (@cordelia---rose) (34 votes)

2nd place: three-in-one soap by @thelordofshrimp (8 votes)

3rd place: a handful of almosts by @thegoldenappleofdiscord (7 votes)

best fluff!

1st place: And now I have to act like I can't read your mind by @sunflowersandscreams (9 votes)

2nd place: good old-fashioned lover boy by brainrot247 (8 votes)

3rd place: just desserts by @thegoldenappleofdiscord (7 votes)

best oneshot!

1st place: buoyantsaturn by @buoyantsaturn (12 votes)

2nd place: cupid? more like stupid by @thelordofshrimp (11 votes)

3rd place: i love you more than i've ever loved myself by @thebhorror (7 votes)

best wip!

1st place: FAR GALAXIES by @rosyredlipstick (26 votes)

2nd place: kiss with a fist is better than none by @sunflowersandscreams (10 votes)

3rd place: it never took much convincing by penandblankpaper (@kiarrahatesboys) (5 votes)

best misc!

1st place: nico di angelo's autistic swag by @buoyantsaturn (14 votes)

2nd place: "it's so hard to hear over the sound of all the honking clown noses" by @buoyantsaturn (10 votes)

3rd place: up to speed by @solisaureus (8 votes)

best series!

1st place: The Ballad of Ladon Creek by Gates_of_Ember (@gatesofember) (15 votes)

2nd place: travel youtuber nico + some guy he's dating by @ethannku (11 votes)

3rd place: 1987 runaways au by @ikeasharksss (10 votes)

and...... (insert drumroll)

our author of the year for 2024 is @rosyredlipstick with 33 votes!!

runner up is @solisaureus with 12 votes!!

pls let me know if theres any broken links or anything wrong with the post! congratulations to all our winners! and we'll see you all next year <3

[autistichalsin]

Im super shy so I'm asking anonymously but I know you're The (tm) Halsin fan, so I have a genuine question about the depiction of Halsin as polyamorous vs wanting open relationships:

I always thought poly relationships were relationships were all the partners love each other/are into each other/active in the relationship and so on, but with the exception of Shadowheart, who has a few comments about Halsin, neither Astarion nor Karlach seem interested? Especially Karlach - she specifically says she wants to hear nothing of it. This was something that always kind of irked me because I was expecting more reciprocation from the other partners too, or am I understanding wrong? I'm curious to hear your thoughts, especially seeing as I'm aroace myself and not interested in being in a relationship, but I DO want to write them, including polyamory. So I guess I'm asking for education akdjfjskwjd. Am I nitpicking or taking stuff too literally? I'm autistic so that's something I catch myself with wkejfhsshhwjs Either way, love your blog!

Aww, that is sweet to say, anon!

Don't worry about asking for clarification- we all have to learn.

The answer is that no, that isn't the only form of poly. Having shared hookups is a form of poly. Open relationships are poly. Throuples/polycules are poly. Swinging is poly. Open triangles are poly.

For the record, though, Karlach and Astarion ARE very interested in Halsin. Astarion specifically needs more time to heal first, but has multiple lines saying he trusts Halsin not to harm him (the reason he refuses a poly relationship with Shadowheart is that she has no experience; when accepting Halsin, he specifically says Halsin has experience with the relationship). It's definitely a case of not being ready to join in himself, but being okay with his partner seeing Halsin- which is valid. Karlach is a little more complicated, because there is much more of a case for her being uncomfortable than for Astarion or Shadowheart- BUT I always interpreted it more as her saying she wasn't sure of her feelings on poly yet because her engine took up more of her time. She says that if there was to be someone more, Halsin would be it- but that's not where her head is at "right now." It sounds to me like in an ideal world where she had time, she might very well decide she wanted it. Ironically, out of all the three, Karlach has the BEST case for "not into it" and yet also the fewest people coming to her defense a la Astarion.

So, you'd be right in saying this wasn't a throuple, because all of them are only open triangles (and you're right in being sad because I'd love to see Shadowheart or Astarion or Karlach sharing kisses with Halsin). But you'd be wrong to say it wasn't polyamory, because it very much is a form of poly. Basically, it's a rectangle/square situation: all throuples/polycules are poly, but not all poly is throuples/polycules.

[worlds-worst-ships]

Do you ship it? ((C*nt of the month edition) trying not to get banned)

Hi Matt! Since I know comedians these days love googling themselves and finding things about them that piss them off so they can whinge on stage about it, I have something to show you. Here's a list of people in history with disabilities who made more of an impact on the world than you could possibly imagine;

1: Michael Bisping, professional MMA fighter, had multiple fights at the highest level on the trot with an impressive win ratio with a missing eye, unbeknownst to anyone but him (would love to see you make fun of him)

2: Albert Einstein, most famed and celebrated professor of the 20th century, was on the autistic spectrum. Gave more to the world in a year than you did in your life.

3: Tim Burton, among the most famous directors, producers and animators in history, revolutionizing goth culture in his long career, is also autistic. He put in far more work than standing on stage and being a dick.

4: Stephen Hawking. Even an idiot like you knows this one. I'll leave it at that.

5: Hellen Keller, was literally deaf and blind for most of her life and was still a famous author. So whats your excuse for writing such shit, tasteless jokes?

6: Zack Gottsagen, an actor with down syndrome, became the first actor with down syndrome to present an Oscar.

7: Stevie Wonder. I imagine even he could see how utterly insufferable modern comedians are.

Nooooow then, lemme guess, "yOu'Re jUsT a PiSsEd oFf TrAnS pErSoN gEtTiNg OFfEnDeD" lemme tell everyone something about myself.

I'm not trans.

I'm straight.

I have no physical disabilities whatsoever.

I actually don't get along with a lot of lgbt people because they're, guess what, PEOPLE, very few of whom I get along with anyway. Its never once been to do with their identities or rights, but purely because, as is the case with every demographic, most of the ones I've met are pricks.

"BuT ThEy GEt OFfEnDeD-" yes, when you deliberately scroll twitter looking for offended lgbt people, you tend to stumble across them. Wouldn't ya know it?

Anyways. Comedy is dog shit. Getting up on stage and deliberately being edgy because you've lived no sort of life away from people who you know you'll offend is not talent. Its something a 14 year old with an inferiority complex would do. Thanks for being another nail in the coffin of actual, watchable comedy.

Oh yeah, and if you want an example on how to actually joke about domestic violence, cross-reference the name "Wilbur" on my blog. See, its funny when you're making fun of the abuser and the fact that they do these things, but not when you mock a victim and make fun of them for having these things happen to them. Never once do I mention his victims, its purely making fun of him and the sheer absurdity of his behavior in the scope of who he is. And we're on Tumblr, literally the symbol of people getting offended, and never once have I gotten backlash for those jokes, so you, as a man with a Netflix special, have no excuse for such lacking creativity.

One last thing, for my readers... anyone wanna bet some petty cash that a woman or three from his past are gonna come out with a few tasty bits of drama about ol' Matty boy, if you know what I mean?

[identitty-dickruption]

tired.

There is a certain degree of ableism I just have to tolerate. There is an amount of ableism that I know I’m hypersensitive to by virtue of being someone who is disabled themself. And I know that I always have to hold myself back, because abled people start to get tired if I point it out too often. Well, I’m tired too. 

I’m tired of reading a philosopher I usually enjoy the work of, only for a comment about “retards” and “cripples” to throw me off-guard. I’m tired of searching for a philosopher’s answer to disability justice, only to find that they never thought to consider how to look after those of us who need to be looked after for our entire lives. I’m tired of sitting in philosophy classes where the worst-case scenario is that someone brings up the problem of disability, because I know we’re always no more than three degrees of separation from someone who will happily justify eugenics. I’m tired of having to hear sterilisation and torture justified to my face, because “disabled people just don’t have the quality of life”. 

I’m tired of having to read the lectionary ahead of time to make sure I won’t be going to church in a week when we’ll be discussing “the cripple” or “the crazy man”. I’m tired of weighing up which is worse; them talking about the terrible life of a disabled person, or them using disability as an allegory for the suffering we all go through. I’m tired of comments about God’s plan and strength in faith. I’m tired of being in communities dominated by elderly people who can’t help but comment about how lucky young people are to have such well-functioning bodies. I’m tired of spending entire church services too scared to stim or do a compulsion, just in case someone glares at me for making noise or moving too much.

I’m tired of holding myself back, even in progressive spaces. I’m tired of “abortion access is important! What if the baby is going to be disabled?”. I’m tired of protest advertising not having a single comment about whether it will be safe for me to attend. I’m tired of “conservatives are all idiots/psychotic/psychopaths”. I’m tired of being shut down any time I dare to ask, “what do we plan on doing about healthcare during the revolution?”. I’m tired of having to choose between talking about my queer identity and my autistic identity, in case talking about them both exposes me to arguments about queerness being a disease. 

I’m tired of being the nasty cripple who has to come along and ruin everyone’s fun. I shouldn’t have to justify my existence, or the existence of my siblings in the disabled community. I shouldn’t have to come up with a well-constructed argument about why I dare to be openly disabled and love myself for it. I deserve to feel safe. I deserve to not have to grapple with this constant gnawing question about just how disabled I’m allowed to be at any given moment. I’m tired, but I shouldn’t have to be.

[punkpandapatrixk]

Slow Mornings~♪

Hello lovely peeps. I'm popping in to say that I'm so sorry I haven't been as productive as I’d hoped. I had all of these plans, and literally 3 years’ worth of content ideas, but my body has not been able to catch up! I’m now behind on all of the readings I’d scheduled for the entirety of October XD

The truth of the matter is a little bit convoluted but I’ve been both experiencing a series of burnout—autistic burnout, which I didn’t even know was a speciality thing—as well as being in this healing phase where my body simply wants to catch up on sleep, after years and years and very long years of being on edge. There was a meme I forgot to save that says something to this effect:

'Your body is healing from years of trauma; you’re not lazy. You deserve this peace.’

Actually, the above could as well be a mash of two—or three—separate memes LOL Here’s another good one from a sub maker that I feel captures just thee vibe I’m feeling right now:

‘Maybe you're simply perceiving how a lovely sensation of closure & calm gently fills the air around you, feeling a little sleepier than usual. Or maybe you can sense how a massively positive change is coming, seemingly eager to go with it and that's great as well.’ – The Witch of Drown Shadows

I believe many of you reading this could relate as well. A new beginning is on the horizon for sooo many of us who’ve been on a soul-search to liberate ourselves from the chains of the toxic Matrix. I hope you're doing well, and excited for what's to come before the year even ends ^o^v

Forget the grind, leave behind soul-sucking deadlines, and enjoy the slow mornings~♪

Naturally, I’m going to be more productive again once I’m done stabilising myself—all mind body and spirit aligned. I’m not saying this out of a sense of ‘obligation’; that all people ideally must be a productive member of society. No, not that. I really want to get productive on this blog because I’ve a shit ton of good content in the works XD

I’ve so much new content on career, luck, character glow-up, soulmate friendships!!!, celebrity life, life purpose and other esoteric shit I’m eager to put out \^-^/ Not to mention the fiction that’ll go on Wattpad. I’m making progress on Punk Panda Stories but slow…very slow XD

For now, I’m aiming to post one PAC every week without fail. I’m just going to expect this much from me in the meantime, so as not to burn myself out on the psychology level just yet. When you expect too much from yourself, the stress could deter any progress instead, right?

This is especially true for those who don’t necessarily have a deadline. But that’s the thing, I don’t wanna strangle myself with deadlines anymore. So I’m not gonna work like that anymore. This ain’t 9-5 corporate, girl. Stop thinking like that! Is what I’ve been telling myself. Gotta change the whole way I approach my soul-work~♪

Until the end of the year, I’m teaching myself to enjoy slow mornings™️ I’ve been starting my day with just cleaning myself and my room; having a breakfast of lemon tea w/ a dollop of strawberry jam + a CVS croissant; playing a game on my dusty-but-trusty old PSP when I’ve got the time; and reading a few chapters of an actual book.

In the afternoon, I’ve been back on teaching myself ballet and strengthening my vocals. It’s nice. I feel very healthy and like myself again, but better <3 We were born into this world to enjoy our hobbies and hopefully, ideally make money alongside those hobbies <3

Never forget that, girlies. Hard work doesn’t suit us <3

How the Boredom Epidemic Ruined Hobbies by Nicole Rudolph

[tiredtxmblrvet]

Fic rec friday!

Got this idea from @mediumgayitalian (thank you!)

Below are 5 fics I've enjoyed this past week/recently. (They're all solangelo)

FAR GALAXIES by @rosyredlipstick

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49263694

Summary:

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out her PADD from her coat, slow enough that Nico only slightly twitched. Jason’s transmission was loaded up on the screen—at the bottom, their signature tag was spelled out. “Guardians of the Galaxy. That supposed to be a joke?” “More like an aspiration,” Jason said. - Space, the final frontier. Or whatever.

--

Rosy is still working on it, but when I tell you this is absolutely worth it. Nico is 1 part of the Guardians of the Galaxy, and him, along with Piper, Jason and Leo get into many shenanigans in their journey across the stars. I'm just obsessed with Will and Nico's dynamic in this. Rosy is just such an incredible writer, her fics will probably pop up in more of these if I'm being honest.

Solace by @solisaureus

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38228998

Summary:

solace (n.) comfort or consolation in a time of distress or sadness.

solis (n.) the Latin word for "sun."

--

I am an absolute sucker for fics that are "rewrites" of canon but that are Will Solace-centric, and when I tell you this absolutely delivers. I loved reading about Will's journey as a healer, how he deals with love and loss, it's just a beautiful fic!

i'm put in awe (of something so flawed and free) by CordeliaRose

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53629369

Summary:

Right. Well. Nico squares his shoulders, reminds himself that nobody’s perfect and this guy has to be ugly, and knocks on the door.

He is met with a Greek God, and forgets how to function.

|||

AKA: the archaeologist!Nico & trauma surgeon!Will AU.

--

If you're not familiar with Cordelia, they wrote the solangelo bible (AKA August) and are currently writing August(Will's version). However, they decided to bless us with this absolutely adorable Trauma Surgeon! Will and Archaeologist! Nico AU, and it's such a pleasant read. Will and Nico's dynamic is flirty and adorable, and the rest of the seven are such sweet friends to Nico. Plus Nico is autistic coded in this and I'm a sucker for that.

my lover's the sunlight by demigodbeauties

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30187689

Summary:

It’s his Olympic debut. In a few short hours, he’ll be the only man skating on the ice sitting before him. He’ll be skating in the Men’s Singles Short Programme and representing all of the United States. He’s in a city he hasn’t seen in years, skating a brand new set of routines, and he wants so desperately to win. 

--

Figure Skater Nico di Angelo has a run in with Ice Hockey Player Will Solace. It doesn't go too smoothly, but then again - when does it ever?

--

Olympic Skater!Nico and Olympic Hockey player!Will. This story is warm and heartfelt, and the "enemies" part of the "enemies to lovers" tag is more misunderstanding than anything else. I felt myself wanting to cheer for Nico as he performed right there along Will, and #Solangelo even trends on twitter in this LOL.

Got a Pretty Face (Pretty Boyfriend, Too) by @buoyantsaturn

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33772453

Summary:

Was Will flirting with him? Or was this just his attempt at being a friendly neighbor? Either way, just to be safe, Nico should probably make it known that he’s off the market. Right? A casual mention of a boyfriend would work - he’d never had to let anybody down easy like that before, but he’d seen it in, like, movies. Thanks, I’ll see if my boyfriend is interested. Perfect. Now, he just had to say it.

-

Will moves from Austin to a small town in Texas, where he immediately takes up three jobs, and does not have the time to be flirting this much.

--

CJ never ceases to amaze and impress with their work, and this fic is no exception. I'm not normally one to read Leo/Nico, but I found I really enjoyed their dynamic in this fic, and the use of "sunshine" and "freckles" as nicknames for Will absolutely made me smile. Basically Nico and Leo live in Texas and Will works two jobs, and meets both Nico and Leo separately, and the two both start crushing on him. Shenanigans ensue. I adore this fic.

--

Okay that's all! I'll probably keep doing this until I run out of fics to recommend. Have a good friday lovelies!