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carmyboobear · 3 months

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Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you work under pressure?”

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

“Willing to learn?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, who's fault is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—” You hear her start to protest.

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

“I know, but Richie—”

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

“...Yes, chef.”

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

“You're just gonna let her—”

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

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you not want it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

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

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

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

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

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

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

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

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What you gave me, yeah.”

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

“R-Right now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you quitting already?”

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

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

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...I do want you, y'know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't really care, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-What?”

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

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

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

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

@zorrasucia

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pahtoosh · 3 days

Text

the greatest form of flattery

[image ID: a gif of lloyd hansen smugly saying “right back at ya, sunshine” to a phone. /.end ID]

masterlist

18+

wc: ~1300 words

warnings: lloyd picks you up like a lot, play fighting, bad word(hell)

a/n: my first lloyd fic! I truly don’t know what came over me—I’ve never even seen the movie. I just thought this idea was so cute and then I had so many more ideas about the dynamic lloyd would have with his little! lots of play fighting and teasing(and kisses because it’s me🤭)

pairing: lloyd hansen x gn!little!reader

summary: Lloyd’s little finds a fake mustache.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

There was little you could do to bother your Daddy. Lloyd reserved all of his patience and understanding for you. You were his little love, so precious and pure. In his eyes, anything you did came from only the best intentions. He could brag for hours about how he had the best little to ever exist, and he taught you scarcely a thing about manners. You were naturally that sweet.

You were grateful that your needs coincided with what Lloyd could give you. Your rowdy days came out when he had more energy to spare chasing you around the yard. Your quiet days fell when he was exhausted from work and only wanted to cuddle in your home’s library, speaking in hushed tones as you escaped into worlds of fantasy. But there were some days when you sought mischief. You just hoped that your Daddy was in the mood to be silly too.

The day before, you attended a birthday party for one of your little friends. It was rare that Lloyd let you partake in events like this. His protective instincts went into overdrive when you showed him the invitation. Rather than giving in to his desire to hide you away, he fell for your pleading eyes and RSVP’d under the condition that he could come along and keep a close eye on you.

An afternoon of bounce castles, water balloons, and party games left you totally knocked out. You fell asleep in the ball pit, and Lloyd climbed in not long after. He scooped you up, resting your tired head on his shoulder as he carried you to the car. He accepted the gift bag from the party host on the way out, deciding that he could also use it to hold the shoes you had taken off before diving into the ball pit.

Feeling refreshed and awake the next day, you were delighted to see the gift bag on your nightstand accompanied by your morning note from Lloyd. He wrote that the package was from your little friend and that you could open it while you waited for him to finish his meetings. You gave his signature a kiss, then placed the note alongside your collection of every note Lloyd had ever written you. He left your little watch on the nightstand too. It was the same shape as your daddy’s, but customized to fit your wrist, and it displayed a digital clock instead of an analog. The screen also had little icons that lit up during snack or nap time. You carefully put on your watch just like how your daddy taught you.

The gift bag was calling your name now. It was simply made of paper, the cartoon animal design being its only saving grace under the scrutinizing eyes of a little. The tissue paper was mostly squished, but it called to you all the same. You dumped out the contents onto your desk, excited to see what you would play with first.

There were the typical favor bag items: stickers, a bouncy ball, and a tiny plastic soldier with a parachute. The bag also had a few little games and snacks. You separated the candy from the bunch and made a mental note about which ones you wanted to eat after lunch. As for the toys, you started with a sticky hand, promptly losing it to your ceiling. The mini dog-shaped puzzle was simple, yet fun. The underwater ring toss tested the last of your patience, but the ball maze lifted your spirits once more.

There were still a few minutes left until Lloyd finished his meeting and you had already played with all the toys in the bag. Or so you thought. You held the gift bag upside down and shook it one last time, hoping for a magical little toy to distract you during your daddy’s absence. Your wish came true when a fuzzy little thing plopped out. It resembled a caterpillar so much, you half expected it to move. Upon further inspection, it wasn’t a fuzzy little creature. It was a fake mustache!

Just like daddy, you thought. You giggled to yourself imagining Lloyd’s reaction to your new look. You carefully peeled away the paper backing and stood in front of the mirror to place the mustache under your nose. The plastic hair tickled a bit, making you sneeze a couple of times. Once you shook yourself off, you practiced a few poses mimicking Lloyd’s stance. His back was always straight, and he sometimes walked with his hands behind as if he were in a museum, which looked extra silly when he was just heading to the kitchen. He also checked his watch with a certain flair and spoke with his head cocked to the side when he was in a teasing mood.

As you checked your little watch, you realized that Lloyd’s meeting would finish soon. You ran towards his office, avoiding the edges of the hallway’s carpet runner because it had a habit of tripping you. Lloyd was closing the door behind him as you barreled towards his form.

“Hey there, honey. What’s got you running like crazy, huh?” He kissed the top of your head and patted you on the back. He hadn’t noticed the mustache yet because you ran with your head tilted downwards for extra speed and hugged his legs instead of jumping into his arms.

“Missed you, Daddy,” you said, your voice muffled by his slacks.

“Aw, how sweet. Come up here, baby. Do you want some kisses?” He lifted you up, doing a double take when he saw your new accessory.

“Is that-“ Lloyd cut off his own sentence as he burst into laughter. He hugged you close and gave you a few kisses in between his chuckles.

You beamed. “Do you like it, Daddy?”

Lloyd nodded, pursing his lips to contain his laughter.

“Now I look like you!”

“Hey now, Daddy’s mustache looks nothing like that,” he defended.

“Does so!” You wiggled out of his arms and struck one of the poses you had practiced. “If you wanna make an omelet-“

“Alright, that’s enough outta you.” Lloyd lifted you up and blew a raspberry on your stomach, making you squeal.

“Da- aahh! That tickles!”

“Shame,” he teased, continuing his attack.

You tousled in Lloyd’s arms until he had to readjust his grip. Using this moment of weakness, you poked his ribs, making him fall dramatically to the floor with you in his arms. He laid there breathless for a moment and was about to sit up before you placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back down.

“I got you.”

“Hell yeah you did, baby.” Lloyd took a breath. “Pinned your Daddy down. Good job, sweetie.” He patted your thigh, wondering if he’d taught you that move during your self defense lessons or if you’d learned it somewhere else. His train of thought was interrupted but a scratchy feeling on his cheek, followed by a soft pucker.

“Did you just give Daddy a kiss?”

“Uh huh!” You did it again on his other cheek. This time, Lloyd couldn’t hide the uncomfortable look on his face.

“Is that how it feels when Daddy kisses you? All scratchy from the mustache?”

“Um.” You touched your mustache as you thought, looking somewhat like a cartoon villain. “Yeah, a little scratchy.”

Lloyd held your free hand in his. “Is it too scratchy? Do you want Daddy to shave off his mustache?”

You shook your head, clinging desperately to him. “No! I love Daddy’s mustache!”

“You do?” he asked.

“Uh huh! Makes Daddy handsome and makes Daddy kisses special!” You demonstrated by pointing to your forehead.

Lloyd sat up and tentatively placed a kiss where you directed, repeating the motion when you wiggled happily.

“See?”

“Okay, honey. Daddy’ll keep his mustache, and you can keep yours too. In a box. Save it for Halloween.”

#lloyd hansen x little!reader #daddy!lloyd hansen #gn!little!reader #sfw regression #sfw agere #agere fic #littlespace fics #oneshot #fluff #the greatest form of flattery #the-greatest-form-of-flattery #toosh writes #little being carried #honestly I did not proofread this but yolo!#enough ✋ with the writer’s block

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foone · 8 months

Text

Goldfinger is the most Bond movie, fight me.

Bond blows up a drug lab and then goes for vacation in Miami. He's told there's a gold smuggler there, so he stops him cheating at gin rummy by seducing his spy? Then Bond is talking shit about, of all hands, the Beatles, and then he's knocked out. When he comes to, oh no! The spy girl is dead. She was killed with BODYPAINT. No, not poisoned body paint or anything, the film just says that body paint itself can kill you.

So Bond goes back to London, and they send him to learn more by playing golf with Goldfinger, the smuggler. Goldfinger tries to cheat, Bond stops him, then Goldfinger's henchmen shows how strong he is by crushing golfballs.

So Bond goes to Switzerland and meets a girl who turns out to be the sister of the dead body painted spy girl, and she's trying to kill Goldfinger. She fails, dying to the henchman's DEADLY HAT, and Bond is strapped to a table about to get his dick lasered off. He lies that his organization knows something they don't, so Goldfinger decides not to kill him.

Bond gets flown to a stud farm in Kentucky by a pilot named Pussy Galore. Bond wakes up, hears her name, and goes "I must be dreaming"

At the stud farm, Goldfinger is telling a bunch of mafia guys his plan: he's gonna use knockout gas on the whole city where Fort Knox is, then run off with the gold reserves. The mafia guys say "this is stupid", one leaves (he gets put in a car that goes through a car crusher) and then Goldfinger gasses them all, to death.

Bond goes to Goldfinger and points out this is an impossible plan: they'll never get all the gold out in time, the army will just show up from some other town and stop them. Goldfinger goes "of course! That would be silly. I'm just gonna nuke the gold."

Yeah he's already got a lot of gold, which will be much more valuable if a huge portion of the world's gold gets blown up/irradiated. And that knockout gas? It's just deadly poison.

Anyway the plan is launched, and Pussy Galore's All Female Flying Circus sprays gas over the city and we see all the army guards falling over dead, and Goldfinger's minions place the bomb in the vault of Fort Knox... Then the army guys get back up! They're not dead!

Yeah it seems Bond seduced her and convinced her to tell the authorities about the plot and also swap the Deadly Poison for something harmless.

Bond gets locked in the vault with the nuke and deadly hat guy, as Goldfinger's minions fight the army, with Goldfinger dressing up as a US Army general to escape.

Bond manages to kill the hat guy by electrocuting him through the hat, and Bond rushes over to figure out how to stop the bomb, as the timer counts down. He's lost, but fortunately a specialist from the army comes in and just hits a switch, stopping the bomb at 007 seconds to go.

With the army in control of the situation, Bond gets on a plane with Pussy Galore to go meet the President (given when this film was made, that'd be Lyndon B. Johnson) but then Goldfinger pops up. He's hijacked the plane, and he's got a gun!

They fight for the gun, and a window ends up getting shot out, and Goldfinger (who is not a small man) gets sucked out the plane window.

Bond and Pussy parachute out, and decide to ditch THE PRESIDENT in order to have sex in the woods, even as a rescue helicopter flies over them.

Credits roll.

It's just endlessly silly and over the top and fun.

Two final notes:

1. The whole thing of stealing vs nuking the gold is a change from the book. In the book, he was just gonna steal the gold, but the movie changes it to the nuke plot, but puts the idea to steal it in the film as an "obviously silly idea that would never work", which is slightly hilarious to me

2. The film also drops the fact that Pussy Galore is supposed to be a lesbian. This is certainly for the best, given that Bond still seduces her into betraying her boss. It's still somewhat implied in the film, though.

#James Bond

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my-head-is-an-animal · 9 months

Text

The Climb

Summary: You're a scientist, an engineer to be exact. Called to a meeting you had no real right to be at, Optimus Prime takes an exclusive interest in you, but you can't help but ask yourself at every turn, Why?

Rating: 18+ 🌹🩸🍆

Story Masterlist

Chapter 11

Theo had been working on the suit I would wear on the climb, it was brilliant, lightweight, but would carry everything I needed to take with me. Thermal on the inside for when I got too high up, along with a mask attached to the inside with access to oxygen, a parachute compact enough that I shouldn’t have struggled with the extra weight, and several secure compartments to keep any supplies I needed. The most important thing about it, was it was free from anything electronic.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Optimus though. Everything about it was beautiful. Learning about Spark-sharing, the endless possibilities for it to save lives and connect two Autobots for eternity; it was amazing. I wanted to know more, I wanted to learn everything I could about Optimus, I wanted to know what made him the way he was and what he wanted to do in the future.

We had gone out every evening that week to watch the sun go down and get to know each other. I told him about my childhood, he told me about his, we discussed menial things, things that made me feel normal and without masses of pressure being put on my shoulders.

It was the one thing putting a dampener on everything. I was behaving as if this was my last few days on earth. There was every possibility that it was, but I was trying to see past the ship arriving on Earth. I was trying to see the days afterwards, trying so hard to believe I might have been able to get back to my old life.

‘And I’ve made sure you’ve got some adrenaline shots in reserve.’ Theo suddenly said, placing the small silver case in front of me on the desk and breaking my thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t recommend taking any more than three and even that I think is pushing it, but you’ve got five to get you through the last leg.’

‘Thanks.’ I said, clearing my throat and pushing my glasses up my nose while I took some notes.

Theo sighed and sat in front of me. ‘Look, you can pull out of this, you know.’ My head snapped up to look at him. ‘If you think you won’t make it, you can always walk away, there’s no shame in it.’

‘How can you say that?’ I almost hissed, surprising Theo. ‘Theo, you and I have gone over the specs for that ship a thousand times, even the Autobots won’t get through that shielding, by the time they’ve found a way, it’ll be too late. I have to make the climb, if I don’t, if I don’t even try… that’s the end.’

Theo frowned a little. ‘And what about you? What happens to you afterwards?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No? Because it feels like my friend is going up there with no intention of coming back.’ Theo snapped and left the lab.

I hadn’t realised how tense we’d both gotten in such a short space of time, but in a way, we were both right. No one else was going to make it up there, but I wasn’t the only one who thought it was a one way trip.

I could feel the eyes of not just the base, but everyone who knew about the mission, on me, constantly. Lennox tried to keep me focused on the wall and training. We kept it a little lighter in the remaining week, but my worry was that I had still yet to complete thirty thousand feet. I knew he was worried as well, and Epps struggled to hide his concern.

I left my lab early the night before the ship was due to arrive in Earth’s atmosphere. I didn’t dare turn on any news or listen to any outside noise, I needed all the focus I could get before the morning.

I could see almost all of the Autobots talking outside their hanger, Ironhide glanced over when Hound indicated I was standing across the base. He began making his way over and fear began to flood my limbs.

He kneeled down in front of me, and I could see kindness in his features the same way I saw it in all the Autobots. He really was on our side.

‘Lennox has told us that you have not made the thirty thousand foot climb in training yet.’ He said. I looked down disappointed in myself more than anything. ‘I’m sure Optimus will tell you the same thing tomorrow, but while I’ve got the chance to say it myself: we’re all counting on you, and we all believe the Earth is in no safer hands than yours. We’ll do our part and we’ll buy you all the time you need, you just make that climb. Good luck. We’ll be waiting for you at the bottom.’

I looked up at the weapons expert’s face. ‘Thank you.’ It was the best I could muster in the state I was in.

Ironhide nodded and stood to head back to the hanger where almost every Autobot was watching me. My heart began racing nervously, I needed some space to breathe.

The familiar sound of Optimus revved behind me, and it ignited something in the core of my being. I turned to see him opening the door for me to hop in. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. We had spent almost every night together on the hill side since our second date, we talked, he motivated me when I felt my fear getting the better of me, and he would make me come.

Optimus had found all my weaknesses and exploited them gloriously at every turn. The strangeness of the situation hadn’t even seeped into my mind until that night. I was, in the simplest terms, in love with a truck. He was so much more than that, I could feel the life surging through him, he wasn’t scrap metal, he wasn’t a robot, he was a beautiful creature that had more human qualities than one would have expected.

I had tried so hard not to fall for him, but he was rather charming when he wanted to be, he listened, he learned about me with a genuine curiosity, and he thought I was beautiful as well. What more could I have asked for?

‘I sense you are in need of something different on the eve of battle.’ Optimus said as we arrived at the same spot at the top of the hill.

I sighed, getting out and listened to him transform into his full form, kneeling as he always did to speak to me.

‘What can I do for you?’ He asked and I felt like breaking there and then. Was he really asking me that? Was he really that kind?

‘Can you turn back time so that I never came here?’ I joked, but Optimus’s face dropped.

‘I would not want to.’ He said, sincerely. ‘If you never came here, we would never have met.’

I let my gaze drop to the floor for a moment. ‘I know.’ I whispered. ‘I’m terrified.’

‘You would be foolish not to be. But the fact that you are willing to give everything to save your planet anyway, that is the mark of a true warrior.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not a warrior.’ I told him. His head tilted confused. ‘I’m an engineer. A scientist. My greatest strength will always be my mind, but even that has it’s limits. What if I can’t do this?’

Optimus thought for a moment, looking out at the beautiful orange sun as it began to descend in the sky.

‘What is it to be human?’ He asked, making me frown.

‘Erm…’ I half laughed. ‘I don’t think I could sum it up in a few words. It’s about making mistakes, getting up when you get knocked down, it’s about connection with others, it’s about trying. I suppose those are the main points. Trying.’

‘I have learned much from you, Jane.’ He leaned closer. ‘But the most important thing I have come to understand about the human race: there is no limit to your potential. That is what I saw in you the day we met. I know you see the same thing in others around you and you believe it is worth fighting for. I will fight for your beliefs until my dying second, but only if you will fight along side me.’ Optimus placed his hand next to me, his blue eyes staring into my soul. ‘Will you fight with me tomorrow? Will you fight for the potential of the human race?’

My body felt like it was about to take off. ‘Yes.’ I breathed. Yes, I would fight for humanity. Yes, I would fight for what I believed. Yes, I would fight for tomorrow.

Optimus sat with me for the rest of the night until the sun disappeared behind the horizon. It would be a long trip the next day, but if I had Optimus Prime on my side, then I knew I could do it.

If you liked this, please consider supporting me ☕ thanks for reading!

#optimus prime fanfic #optimus prime transformers #optimus prime x ofc #optimus prime #optimus prime x reader

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yakkuo13 · 6 months

Text

Just for fun, my au with Doll's family

Yeva - mom and grandma

Misha - dad and grandpa

Doll - daughter and mom

Yoll - adopted daughter and granddaughter.

Yeva is a modest woman, but if her granddaughter and husband start going crazy, she can even hit 'em on the head. Very caring and kind, a little cowardly, but just a little. Artistic and fun.

Misha - An ordinary husband and grandfather. He listens to his wife, daughter and even granddaughter. If they are together with their granddaughter, it won’t be boring. He loves to joke, have fun and entertain and make his girls laugh. He also smokes and sometimes likes to drink a shot of something strong. But this shot sparks a fire in him. A kind and cheerful man.

Doll - A serious woman, reserved and calm (relatively calm). He knows very well how to take the initiative into her own hands, gives orders and commands if some problem needs to be solved in the house. Can also calm and support.

Yol - Doll's adopted daughter, and granddaughter in this family. Crazy, cheerful, restless, in one word - red-haired! With her grandfather, She is ready to even steal a sign from a store, even jump on rooftops, even jump from a parachute. Ready for anything!

#art #sketch #murder drones doll #murder drones yeva #murder drones doll's dad #murder drones doll's father #murder drones russian duet #murder drones oc #murder droens yoll #au

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helix-enterprises117 · 3 months

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Halo Reloaded: Armor Up

The Spartan-II training facility's halls were usually the kind of place where silence went to die, punctuated by the constant march of boots and the stern commands of instructors. But today, they echoed with a different sort of rhythm: the slightly off-kilter stride of John-117.

Decked out in the Spartan equivalent of "casual Friday" attire – which, to be honest, still looked like something you could parachute behind enemy lines in – John was a study in youthful determination, albeit with a side of lingering awkwardness unique to 14-year-olds. The Spartan augmentation process had been a rollercoaster that none of them were eager to ride again.

Most of his fellow super-soldiers-to-be treated the ordeal like a mildly inconvenient flu, bouncing back in four days with little more to show for it than a new ability to bench-press a warthog. John, however, had been on the receiving end of the cosmos’s sense of humor, enduring a grueling two weeks that left him wondering if someone had swapped his augmentations for a particularly nasty case of space mono.

Stepping into the conference room felt like walking into a surprise party where the guest of honor is a military secret. The usual sterile, buttoned-up atmosphere of the room had been swapped out for something that could only be described as "expectant tension with a side of Spartan." His fellow Spartans, a collection of 16-year-olds who made the average Olympic athlete look underdeveloped, were all buzzing with a mixture of excitement and the kind of jittery energy usually reserved for kids on a sugar high.

Dr. Halsey stood at the front, her demeanor that of a professor about to unveil a breakthrough that would either win her a Nobel or get her a stern talking-to from the ethics committee. "Gather round, Spartans," she said, her voice a blend of command and conspiratorial glee. "What you're about to see is the result of years of blood, sweat, and an ungodly amount of government funding."

The Spartans shuffled closer, their usual poise momentarily replaced by the universal human reaction to being told they were about to get a present: unabashed eagerness.

John, finding himself amidst a sea of towering figures, couldn't help but let a wry smile play across his lips. The situation was absurd - a group of teenage super soldiers, giddy as school kids, all because of what? A new toy?

As Halsey pulled the cover off the object with a flourish, she might as well have been a magician revealing her final trick. "Behold," she announced, stepping aside to reveal not a rabbit, but the next generation of Spartan armor. "Your second skin."

The room erupted into an odd mixture of awe-struck silence and muttered commentary that sounded like someone had crossed a sports commentary box with a tech expo. "Would ya look at that," one of the Spartans whispered, voice tinged with reverence and a hint of disbelief, "It's beautiful."

"Bet it could make me run faster," Kelly chimed in, her comment floating over the crowd like a challenge.

John stood there, taking it all in – the armor, the reactions of his peers, the palpable excitement in the air – and couldn't help but think about the road ahead. The grueling training, the augmentations that felt more like an exercise in masochism than enhancement, and now this... it was all leading to something bigger. Something dangerous. But as he looked around at his fellow Spartans, their faces alight with anticipation and a touch of youthful naivety, he felt a surge of camaraderie.

"Yeah," he finally spoke, his voice cutting through the chatter with the ease of someone used to being heard, "But can it do laundry?"

The laughter that followed was a rare sound in the Spartan-II training facility, a moment of genuine human connection amid the relentless preparation for war. In that laughter was an acknowledgment of the absurdity of their situation – teenagers, turned into super soldiers, preparing to don armor that made science fiction look quaint.

The atmosphere had shifted from one of eager anticipation to cautious intrigue, thanks in no small part to Dr. Halsey's next revelation. "As part of our development process for the Mjolnir suits," Halsey began, her voice steady, betraying none of the drama that her next words would unfurl, "we conducted an initial test with a volunteer from the Marine Corps."

A collective breath seemed to be held among the Spartans. Volunteer work within the UNSC often ranged from the mundane to the suicidal, and given the context, guesses on where this story was going veered towards the latter.

"The marine was a seasoned veteran," Halsey continued, her gaze sweeping across the room, locking eyes with each of the Spartans as if to underscore the gravity of her recounting.

"Decorated. Experienced. And, most crucially, willing." Murmurs of respect whispered through the ranks. To volunteer for unknown, potentially lethal testing was a mark of courage—or recklessness—that every Spartan understood intimately.

"Upon activating the suit," she pressed on, "the marine's initial response was of exhilaration. The Mjolnir's capabilities far exceeded anything within our current arsenal. However," here, Halsey paused, allowing the word to hang in the air like a guillotine's blade, "the suit also responds to neural impulses at the speed of thought."

A sense of foreboding crept into the room, a shadow that grew with Halsey's every word.

"Regrettably, the human body, unenhanced, cannot withstand such instantaneous, powerful responses. The marine... suffered extensive injuries."

"How extensive are we talking?" a Spartan interjected, the question hanging between curiosity and concern.

"Every bone in his body was broken," Halsey answered, her tone clinical but not without a hint of regret. "He survived. Recovery will be... extensive. And yes, his career in the field is effectively over."

A heavy silence followed her declaration. The implications were clear and chilling: the Mjolnir armor was not just a tool, but a titan that demanded respect, and a certain genetic fortitude, to wield.

"Will he be alright?" another Spartan asked, the question voiced softly, a rare crack in the façade of Spartan stoicism.

Halsey met the question with a nod. "He will recover, physically. He's been recommended for an honorable discharge and will be offered a position away from the front lines. His sacrifice has provided invaluable data."

The room settled into a contemplative quiet, each Spartan wrestling with the story's implications. The line between human and superhuman, it seemed, was drawn not just in ability, but in the very capacity to survive their own strength.

Then, breaking the silence with a resolve that seemed to push back against the room's growing somberness, John-117 spoke up. "He knew the risks?"

"He did," Halsey confirmed, meeting John's gaze with an unreadable look.

"And he volunteered anyway," John mused aloud, not a question but a statement—a reflection of understanding, perhaps, or a glimpse into his own unwavering resolve.

"Yes, John," Halsey replied, her voice carrying a new weight, a recognition of the courage mirrored in her Spartans. "He did."

As whispers of concern and not-so-quiet bets on who’d bite the bullet and go first swirled around, John-117 stepped forward. The runt, the Omega, the kid who was always picked last for dodgeball until people realized he could dodge, throw, and strategize like some kind of mini-Sun Tzu.

His bravery wasn’t just the talk of the town; it was legendary, bordering on the reckless. But then again, who among them wasn’t a few crayons short of a full box for signing up for this gig?

John’s choice of gear was like watching someone decide to bring a knife to a gunfight because they’d figured out a way to make the knife shoot bullets. The Mirage armor core he selected was the equivalent of choosing the sleek sports car in a lineup of armored tanks. It was built for speed and agility, the kind of suit you’d wear if you wanted to dance through bullets rather than walk off getting hit by them. Its plates were thin, flexible, more akin to the elegant armor of a futuristic knight than the hulking exoskeletons of its brethren.

Tossing aside the standard-issue Mirage helmet with a flick of disdain, John opted for the MK-VI—a headpiece that looked like it had been designed for a BMX rider destined to joust in a post-apocalyptic world. With its pronged visor and compact design, it was less about shielding your identity and more about making a statement: Here I am, come and get me.

As the suit’s pigmentation shifted to a forest green at John’s command, it wasn’t just the armor that changed. The mood in the room took a turn from anxious to awe-struck, as if everyone had suddenly remembered who they were and what they were training to become. This wasn’t just about surviving a suit; it was about mastering it, becoming one with it.

Strapping on his bandolier like he was accessorizing for the end of the world, John’s machete sheath and radio clamp weren’t just tools; they were statements. I’m here to fight, and I plan to win. His readiness was palpable, a physical thing that filled the room and reminded everyone exactly why they were there.

Dr. Halsey, ever the ice queen with a heart of, well, maybe not gold, but perhaps a sturdy alloy, regarded John with a look that might have been pride or might have been calculating the odds. "How do you feel?" She asked as the room held its breath.

John, surveying the sea of faces—his teammates, his rivals, his family—cracked a grin that was all cocky assurance and youthful bravado. "...Like I'm ready to take on the whole damn world."

The armory erupted, not in laughter, but in a shared release of tension, a collective acknowledgment that, yes, this was insane, but if John-117 was leading the charge, then maybe, just maybe, they had a fighting chance.

Dr. Halsey, allowing the faintest smirk to grace her lips, simply nodded. "Then let’s see if the world’s ready for you, John." This wasn’t just a test; it was a declaration. John-117 wasn’t about to enter the arena. He was about to redefine it.

@ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask, @authortobenamedlater, @empresskadia, @makowrites, @makowrites, @killer-orca-cosplay, @ageless-aislynn.

#halo #halo fanfic #halo fanfiction #master chief #john 117 #master chief fanfiction #master chief fanfic #halo headcanon #halo au #halo reloaded #ultimate universe #Ultimate Halo #helix studios117

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lorata · 4 months

Text

mentor lyme, for @dorics

i heard it's your birthday??? (unless that was a joke in which.... enjoy a free ficlet lmao)

500 words of Lyme in the mentor seat under the readmore :)

*******

Exhaustion burns behind Lyme’s eyes, that particular kind of gritty that marks too many stim pills and shots of caffeine. The mug by her elbow has long gone cold, congealed at the bottom into inedible sludge after the third failed reheating.

Roughly two weeks in, only a handful of tributes left. The Arena has been a hellscape to make up for the lack of combat-worthy tributes, not even a dark horse from the industrial or outlying districts or a clever engineer to spice things up. Claudius has taken more of a beating from the Gamemakers than anyone he’s run into and that’s unlikely to change before the end, but he only has to outlast the others. Nothing else matters.

Low sponsor funds for this early in the Games, but sponsor interest is middling this year in general. Nero’s working the floor — he switched over once his girl died, Lyme can’t even thank him — but people are cagey, ramifications floating unspoken in the air like bad flatulence at a fancy dinner party. The Hunger Games can be brutal, violent, bloody, even tasteless, but Snow forbid anything be political. Nothing dries up people’s wallets like the threat of subversion.

The clock ticks into midnight, numbers on Lyme’s console clicking over from jULY 20 to JULY 21. That endless stretch in the middle of the Arena when time has no meaning to a tribute, and yet something snags in the back of Lyme’s brain. Currently Claudius is curled up in a tree, lashed to the branch by a length of rope, the nearest tributes at least a mile away and the Arena disturbance warnings quiet, and she gives herself the freedom of letting her mind wander.

Twenty-first, twenty-first, what is it about July the twenty-first —

Oh.

Careers don’t celebrate birthdays once they hit Residential, but the Centre keeps records in their files for annual testing purposes. Lyme paid attention to Claudius because of where his fell; early in the Games year, a distinct advantage that she’d argued would counteract his childhood illnesses and naturally rangy frame.

“Happy birthday, kid,” Lyme murmurs. Burt from Nine casts her a sideways glance but doesn’t comment, and she blows out a breath and returns to her screen. Vitals show fever and rapid heartbeat even in sleep, all the signs of low-level blood poisoning. The cream she’d sent would keep him alive, for now.

Fuck it. It’s the kid’s birthday, not that he’ll have any idea. Lyme digs into the sponsor reserves and pulls up a tin of blackberries. Gamemakers never charge that much for berries, relative to dried meat or even bread, but a handful of berries will get him further than a roll and feel like a treat besides. Lyme queues the parachute to fly out when Claudius wakes and leans back, cracking the tendons in her neck.

Leaving Claudius’ camera on her main screen, Lyme tabs over to the brownie recipe she had open on her other display and reads over the instructions again.

It’s not a jinx, she tells herself. It’s a promise.

#lorata answers #anonymous #we must be killers: tales from district 2 #my writing #oc: claudius #thg: lyme

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gloryofwinter · 6 months

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Newspaper clippings with Welsh's & Sledge's wedding announcements

Came across a couple more of the boys' wedding announcements in newspaper archives!

One is for Harry Welsh's 1945 wedding to *the* Kitty Grogan. Remember in BoB how Harry talks about holding onto his reserve parachute for Kitty to ultimately make into a wedding dress? My favorite detail: "The bride...wore a white bridal gown fashioned from a parachute used by the bridegroom overseas." How full-circle.

Then I also found an article reporting Eugene Sledge's 1952 marriage to Jeanne Arceneaux, also of Mobile. Looks like his dad served as his best man (their scenes together in the pacific were so heartbreakingly beautiful. How lovely to think that his dad was there with him at the aisle, just as he was there to comfort and support him upon his return from the front; to mark this event that showed that Eugene had found someone, some reason to be excited for the future after the pain of coming home and grappling with what he had witnessed and experienced). My poor little heart...

#band of brothers #the pacific #hbo war #eugene sledge #harry welsh #kitty grogan #newspaper #archives

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intelligentbees · 18 hours

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Okay so this is a bit of a random request for advice but. For those of u who know my situation n the grief and the loss suffered etc etc. Basically I’ve got it in my head that maybe I just need to fucking change my entire life and. Um. join the army reserves? So in the UK the reserves aren’t the fighting unit from what I know they’re just backup, so you get the adventurous/ thrilling training program + you’re called up only if there’s a national crisis like a flood or whatever, and you help your own country you don’t go elsewhere. However up until This Very Point I’ve always been very staunchly against the military as an entire ideal. And so I’m caught between like. This Huge urge to just. Do terrifying things like parachuting etc and really force myself into a training regime or whatever so that I don’t let the ummmmm substance abuse take over my life. But I’m also. Like I hate the military 😭😭 so I’m just really confused and if anyone has any good advice to impart on me. Please do.

#like im a socialist. and I don’t agree with the military on a philosophical level. but on a mental level? idk I just. idk maybe it would #help me #and my whole life I’ve had these crazy ‘what if’ ideas that I’ve never acted on.#and I just. I don’t fucking know. if this is just a stupid thought that shouldn’t be pursued please I want to know.#its jarring because my whole life I’ve KNOWN that these organisations - military religious etc- have always preyed on people just like me #and yet. like. I just….. I DONT KNOW. I fucking need to get out. I need to change something. I need to BE something else.#I want to be scared and do new things and reinvent myself I don’t fucking know.#ugh #anyway

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mangoisms · 1 year

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i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)

━ chapter five: go ahead and pull the pin | read chapter four

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 5.1k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

You get the spare key to Tim. The rest of your weekend is slow, relaxed. He comes over on both Saturday and Sunday and you two do your usual thing.

Each day — and Friday evening — he volunteers to change the dressings on your injuries.

You let him.

It’s easier now, not just because he had already done it the day it happened and because you two talked about it, but because you are starting to see how nice it is to have someone take care of you. Everything between you two is better. More comfortable, more… secure, now that boundaries have been discussed.

He drives you to work for the first couple days of next week, until your knee is good enough for biking again.

You had some reservations about getting back on your bike, not because you hadn’t been on it for a while — though that was a thought — but more because you hadn’t been on it since your accident happened.

You worried it might be uncomfortable for you, but aside from some… renewed fears of falling over, it’s okay. On Wednesday, you get back to it, and by Friday, it’s like nothing ever happened.

You do have a few unsettling dreams about the incident, mostly the kind where you didn’t walk away from it. But you remind yourself that you did, that it was just an accident at the laundromat that caused everything, and not, you know, the Joker blowing up the block. A freak accident, that’s all.

Soon enough, it is Friday, and you, Ms. C, and another class of sixth graders alongside your own are on the ferry, crossing Gotham Harbor, heading south for Metropolis.

The field trip hadn’t been for the zoo there initially; it was Gotham’s, then sudden reports of animal cruelty and mistreatment came out and Poison Ivy’s wrath quickly followed, closing down the zoo with her deadly flora and fauna protecting it. The police arrested the staff but they didn’t catch her. No matter, you think. Metropolis’ zoo is probably better.

But the kids weren’t looking forward to that. Mostly, they were looking forward to being in the same city as Superman, many of them raving about the chance to see him. You personally would be quite fine with not seeing him, since, you know, the only way you could was if you were all in terrible danger and that would be hard to explain to the parents.

So, naturally, on the day of the trip, you expect the kids to be buzzing about it — about being on the ferry, dark waters gliding beneath the ship, the breeze carrying sprays of saltwater.

But nope. Not even a peep about Superman. Instead…

“The Titans? What about the Titans?” you ask, puzzled, leaning against the railing. Ms. C on your left and Amir, the aide for the other class, on your right. The teacher for that class, Mr. Chu, promptly became seasick a few minutes into the ride and stepped inside to get away from it.

Ms. C hums distantly next to you. “Who knows?”

Amir blinks. “You guys didn’t hear?”

She shrugs and turns to look out at the waves, apparently not wanting to know, either.

You do, however. “Hear what?”

They shake their head, pulling out their phone. “It’s been all over the news since yesterday. The Titans announced that one of their core members is stepping down. Well, they were cornered into it, really. Someone got a source and spread the rumor about it, so the Titans had to hold a conference about it.”

“Who was the rumor about?”

“Red Robin.”

Oh, he’s one of Gotham’s. Huh.

“Really? Why?”

They type a few things on their phone, then hand it to you.

You cup your hand over the speaker to hear what looks to be a press conference, with a primly-dressed woman standing up at a podium. The banner reads: TITANS’ RED ROBIN STEPS DOWN.

“Oh, here.” Amir leans over to turn on the captions, then turns sharply as someone yells. “Woah, hey, Brianna, don’t do that! No, I don’t care if you can swim, we went over this! You aren’t allowed to jump overboard…”

They step away to continue lecturing the pouting girl standing by the railing.

Your eyes find the captions at the bottom.

“Red Robin is not retiring. He is simply taking a step back from the team and this is perfectly fine, as the team has many members to fill in for him. As for Gotham City itself, we cannot speak for it, though the Titans would like to emphasize that the city remains well taken care of regardless.”

Amir returns to your side, smoothing a hand down their clothes.

“So, he’s stepping down,” you say, handing their phone back.

“It’s not surprising, since some of the older members have done the same, like Nightwing. They’re still involved on occasion, but they’re not out there, you know, hero-ing.”

“What about Gotham, then?”

They shrug. “People see Nightwing in New York sometimes. That’s probably what’s gonna happen. But later, I think. With this news, a lot of people are thinking things might get a little crazy around here.”

“Ah. Assuming they can try their luck?”

“Most likely.”

You feel for Red Robin in that moment. It’s not too much to ask for, to return to the other side of his life, only for those plans to be pushed off even longer as those here want to try and take advantage of his absence.

You couldn’t do it, you think. Live that kind of life, constantly sacrificing yourself. Makes it all the more important to appreciate the ones that do. You’re partial to the League but the Titans are equally as important. Without them, earth would be conquered multiple times over. And that’s just not fun at all.

The rest of the trip goes well. The kids get excited about Superman again when the ferry finally docks in Metropolis. They even get a treat when they glimpse him in the sky, accompanied with the sound of him breaking the sound barrier as he rushes off somewhere. Despite that worrying you a bit — who knows if it’s something simple, like a cat stuck in a tree, or much more dire, like aliens invading — everything is fine.

All of you are running around making sure no one gets left behind or lost, leaving you exhausted by the time you return to Gotham at five. Then you have to wait even longer to make sure each kid gets picked up.

You get back to Rose Oaks at seven. Tim had texted you two hours ago letting you know he had fed the boys and told you to come by his place for dinner.

Not one to say no to free food or being with him, you stop by your place to shower the day away and change into a pair of shorts and an old softball t-shirt, then head to his place.

“Starting to think I should just give you a spare,” he says when he pulls the door open, a spatula in his hand, lips quirking when he sees you.

“Well, you do have mine,” you agree. “Unless you did weird stuff with your unsupervised access to my place.”

“I didn’t install cameras in your bedroom or steal your underwear. Scout’s promise.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“Not even a little bit,” he says easily and you laugh, stepping inside.

You slip off your slides and leave them by the door. He started to implement that rule a little while after he met you. Said it just makes more sense and makes cleaning easier. You think so, too, but the fact that he did it because of you makes you all warm and fuzzy inside.

“How was Metropolis?”

“Meh. Metropolis.”

“What, not a fan?”

“The city itself is fine. But their baseball team?”

“The Metropolis Monarchs that continue to beat the Knights without fail every time they play each other?”

“It’s just perfect,” you grumble. “They don't have a Joker and they always beat us. So not fair.”

Tim chuckles, returning to the kitchen. “So, when and where are they playing each other?”

“Two weeks. Here. Can’t wait to hear all the Monarch fans complaining about having to come here. Pretentious jerks.”

He laughs and resumes his work at the stove.

The TV plays in the living room. You flop onto the couch with a grunt, glad to be off your feet.

“You can change the channel,” he calls, looking to be flipping something on the stove. At his elbow on the counter is a plate of what looks to be freshly-made chocolate chip pancakes. Your stomach rumbles at the sweet smell wafting over to you.

You turn your eyes to the flatscreen, where GNN plays.

You read the news banner at the bottom. GOTHAM CITY LOSES RED ROBIN. Looks like they’re still talking about it.

“That’s rough,” you comment, leaning back into the cushions.

“What?”

You relay it to him.

“I mean, that is sort of what’s happening, isn’t it?” he asks, shutting off the burner and moving the pan aside.

“I dunno. I guess. I just think it must suck for him.”

“Isn’t it his responsibility?” Tim asks, his back still to you as he pulls two plates from the cabinet. “So, you know. It’s only fair for people to be wondering that. To be upset.”

“I don’t agree. I mean, I don’t know this guy’s life story but he’s sacrificed a lot to do what he has, right? I don’t think it’s too much to ask for us to let him go and return to his life. ‘Cause it’s kinda crazy what people like him do.”

“They have to do it, though. Especially here.”

“Well, that’s the government’s fault. It’s good he and the others step up, believe me, but it’s also not really a sustainable model for the rest of your life, is it?”

He shakes his head. “In a perfect world, we wouldn’t need them. But we do. And now this guy is just leaving.”

You purse your lips, not used to this stubbornness from him. No, that’s not the right way to say it — you know he is stubborn. It’s more like… Tim is compassionate. Empathetic. You’ve always been supportive of the superheroes of your world and he’s agreed with you. But he’s never been like this. Uncompromising in his disapproval. Almost like it’s personal.

“Come on, Tim. Don’t be like that. I think it’s gonna be fine. Things will be crazy for a little while but when aren’t they? Let Red Robin off the hook. And give him a break. I’m sure he gets enough shit for sharing his name with a restaurant and now this.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh and you smile, feeling the tension ease. Not just between you over the course of this discussion, but the tension within him, too. You can’t possibly understand what bothers him so much about Red Robin but you don’t think either of you can condemn him. No one can.

But of course, that is not how the world works and you know this by the heated debate going on between the hosts on the news, some strongly disapproving of Red Robin stepping down, some supportive, and others downright severe about his existence as a vigilante in Gotham in the first place.

You switch it to one of the many streaming platforms he has, navigating to The Spongebob Squarepants Movie.

Your phone vibrates with the familiar chime of your email. You groan silently, predicting an email from the school, but when you look at it, it’s from the rec center, from the instructor, Hana, who runs the pottery classes you attend bi-monthly.

You skim the message. It’s for the class next Friday. Something about… Oh. Bring a friend and you get an extra slot for the kiln and the friend gets one, too. Ohhh, very nice, actually.

See, you pay for those classes and with that, you get to use their clay and paint, as well as one free slot for the kiln each class. It’s usually enough for you but you won’t say no to two slots. Not at all…

You eye Tim’s back.

You’ll think about it.

Inviting him, you mean.

He knows you do it, having seen some of the figures and pottery you have, usually expressing his admiration for some of the more complicated pieces, like that one bowl you have with a carved squid.

“You should be an art teacher,” he had said, looking over the bowl with an impressed gaze.

“It’s just a hobby I picked up when I moved here. Had to get out and stuff and the classes were the best way to do it. I prefer my social studies. I mean, it would be great if I could, like, teach and paint and do otherwise art-related things but I don’t think admin would let me. Not unless I was a full teacher and that won’t be for a while.”

“But not impossible, right?”

“No,” you laugh. “I guess not.”

Ah, you’ll think about it.

For now, you get up and help Tim assemble your dinner. Then you two settle down for the movie, which he hasn’t seen. You’ve gotten him through the first few seasons of Spongebob — everything until season six is solid; everything after is… okay — but he still hasn’t seen this, which you think is a crime. You have fond memories of this movie from when you were a kid.

When you finish your food, you set your plate on the table and snuggle back into the cushions. Tim finishes his, then leans forward to do the same, moving them out the way so you both can put your feet up. He leans back, closer to you this time, your arm pressed to his. The contact goes straight to your head, your heart starting to pound.

To distract yourself, you gesture to the TV and say, “We absolutely need to try and make a Triple Gooberberry Sunrise.”

“You’re insane,” he says, but pauses the movie to pick up his phone and pull up Instacart. “Alright. I have the vanilla ice cream and bananas. What else do we need?”

You huddle closer, leaning your chin against his arm. “We need the candy for the face. And the chocolate. And cherries. Ooh and the cup it’s in. If possible.”

“If possible,” he scoffs, typing quickly. “The only way we’re doing this is if we have all the right tools to create an exact replica.”

“An exact replica? Should probably get another carton of ice cream. Also, I don’t think the laws of nature allow for that. I mean, not totally.”

“Hey, if they can do it underwater, we can do it in real life.”

“I like your attitude, Tim Drake.”

He shoots you a grin that makes everything inside of you heat up and you look back at his phone to try and recover, nudging his shoulder with yours.

“Do you use your actual name for orders?”

“Nope. And with that said, you mind grabbing it when it gets here?”

“No. But if the driver murders me when I do, I’m haunting you.”

“I want to say the danger involved with our Instacart driver is very low but unfortunately, we do live in Gotham, so the chance isn’t totally off the table.”

“Such is life. Well, you better tip good anyway.”

“Of course,” he says, slightly affronted, mostly because it is known that Tim tips exceedingly well. Stupidly almost. But you say almost because you live in a capitalist hellscape where most food industry workers rely on tips so, there’s no limit there, you think. Especially if you have as much money as he does.

He places the order, you rewind to a frame with the ice cream on display, then you two try to get a plan of action in order.

You fetch the groceries when they arrive and Tim takes out the ice cream. You did manage to find a frosted blue ice cream bowl that looks eerily similar to the one in the movie and together, you two shape the body of the Triple Gooberberry Sunrise with spoons. It’s a lot of ice cream and ice cream melts, so despite using spoons to shape it, your fingers are still sticky by the end of it but your lower back aches from all the laughing you two did while sculpting it, having been shooting insults at each other over your abilities to sculpt.

You shove the ice cream in the freezer in the meantime, then work on the features. You use M&Ms for the eyes and nose, then deconstruct those chunky Twizzler ropes for the smile. Tim works on the banana, cutting one in half for the arms, then another in half for the head. He offers the other half to you, which you take a bite out of, and he then finishes.

You snap a few toothpicks in half to pin the cherries to the tips of the bananas, then bring out the ice cream again to add the finishing touches. First, though, you need to add the chocolate shell at the top. Like a hat of sorts.

“Don’t blow it,” he says, watching you pop the lid on the chocolate syrup.

“I’m not gonna blow it.”

So, naturally, you do blow it.

And that sounds dramatic, you know, but it’s not. It’s just, you hold the bottle above the top of the mound of ice cream, the face already made with the M&Ms and a single Twizzler rope, and the syrup comes out more syrupy than you expect. So, you squeeze it out and it immediately drips down the face. Like right down the middle, and you both look at it for a second, then each other, and then you’re laughing so hard, you have to hold onto the counter.

Tim manages to get it together before you, finishing adding the hard shell, though it drips a little more down the sides, then adds the bananas.

And it looks…

“So stupid,” he laughs, holding onto the counter. “So, so, so stupid.”

You’re still laughing. You can’t stop laughing. But you can’t help but think he looks beautiful like this, cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright, a smile permanently etched onto his lips as his laughter fills the kitchen.

You can’t help but feel something so big, so full of warmth, ballooning in your chest until you think you might explode with it. That he gave into your wish to make the stupid ice cream in the first place. That he is always willing to indulge you. And the thought chokes you, too much to handle here, so you set those thoughts and feelings aside and look at the stupid ice cream again to get back to where you were, more mirth taking over you.

You list into him and he catches you, laughing, too.

You think that despite it looking stupid, the fact that it was made with so much joy makes it taste that much better.

(Though neither of you can finish it and you two end up in an ice cream coma on the couch, resuming the movie, and it is with great reluctance a few hours later that you peel yourself from his side and go back to your place.

This time, however, with his spare key and with the surety that he has carved out his own spot in your heart and that no one but him can fill it.

That that doesn’t matter, anyway, because you want only him.

But with that thought comes the acknowledgment that he most likely doesn’t feel the same and that’s okay.

You want him in any capacity that you can have him.

And this is enough.

It has to be enough.)

Tim is busy the next day, hanging out with friends, which is fine. You don’t mind the alone time.

You laze around for most of the day. Do some grading you still have but they’re easier assignments you finish quickly, marking them up with your blue glitter pen and making the usual smiley faces and little notes. You take a moment to appreciate the easiness of it. With it being late April, the end of the semester will come up quickly and you’ll have deadlines for final grades.

But you won’t worry about it yet.

School lets out in June, then you’re home free for the summer. That’s the nice part of working for the school. Your breaks coincide with theirs, so you get a nice summer. Nice breaks in general.

At ten-thirty, you prepare your dirty clothes to take them downstairs. You slide your basket to the living room, then step into the kitchen to grab detergent. But when you open the bottom cabinet with your supplies and reach for the tub of detergent, you find it decidedly empty.

You groan. You completely forget. You had run out of your pods and needed more. You were supposed to do that… yesterday? Probably. But after making sure the kids were picked up then being dogged by hunger and achy feet, it slipped your mind.

Ah, no matter. Tim should have some. You hope. Speaking of, you should ask to borrow his Costco card again. It’s hard to go back to buying single packs of detergent at the store. Some things just need to be stockpiled.

(Mostly so situations like these don’t happen.)

You heft your laundry basket to your hip, pull on your sandals, then grab your keys and step out.

You take the elevator one floor up, finding Tim’s apartment easily. He didn’t respond to your texts about the detergent and you don’t know if his friends are still there, so, despite the new key on your key ring, you knock.

You only get one in before the door swings open quickly and you jump. At the abruptness of the motion, then at seeing someone you definitely do not know standing there.

With unruly ginger hair, a freckled face, and an undeniable air of mischief, he grins at you in a way that has you on guard immediately.

“Hi. Are you Tim’s new teacher friend?”

“Um —”

“Bart! You can’t — oh —” Tim says your name, a little panicked, and he shoves past the guy — Bart? — giving him a look and shooing him away.

He backs off, only for two others to peek around him. A pretty girl with short, cropped blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes, then an equally pretty guy with short black hair and blue eyes. They look very curious at your appearance and you feel terribly underdressed in a pair of old workout shorts and a ratty shirt from high school.

“Guys,” Tim hisses.

They wave at you and, with a fair amount of uncertainty, you wave back.

Seemingly satisfied with that, the three of them disappear into the living room, hurried, hushed voices reaching your ears.

“Sorry,” you breathe as soon as they’re out of earshot. “I’m so sorry, Tim —”

He waves his hands, stopping you. “Hey, hey, what are you apologizing for?”

You wince. “Interrupting your time with your friends? It’s just, I ran out of detergent, so I was wondering if I could borrow a pod or two.”

“Of course,” he says immediately. “Give me a sec, alright?”

You nod and he disappears from the entryway. You hear the sound of a kitchen cabinet closing, then he’s returning, passing you two pods.

“Let me come with you,” he says, slipping socked feet into a pair of slides.

“You don’t have to —”

“It’s okay. I haven’t seen you today.” Of course, he says that with the implication that because he hasn’t seen you, he must take this opportunity now, because he —

Missed you?

Well, shit.

Your face flares with heat at the thought. Your fingers grow sweaty from holding the basket. You try to compose yourself as Tim shuts the door behind him and locks it.

“Anyway,” he goes on, turning to you, the two of you starting for the elevator. “Bart didn’t say anything weird, right?”

In safer waters, you can relax.

For the most part.

“He just said something about me being your teacher friend. So, no.”

Tim visibly relaxes, pressing the button to go down as you stop in front of the elevator.

“Good. He can be… a handful sometimes. The other two you saw were Cassie and Conner.”

“Well, tell them it was nice to meet them. Sort of.”

He exhales a laugh, running a hand through his hair. He’s in a forest green t-shirt and jeans. Simple clothes, by any means, yet devastatingly handsome as usual. Man.

Ding. The doors slide open. A man steps out and you two step in. He presses the button for the ground floor.

“You do yours today?” you ask, wiggling your basket in indication of your question.

“No, I’ve been with the others pretty much all day. I’ll have to do it tomorrow. Or later tonight when they leave. If they ever leave.” He says the last part mock-exasperated, rolling his eyes, but you can spy the fondness tugging at his mouth.

“Be more grateful,” you tease.

“Say that when you’ve handled them all day,” he shoots back.

You chuckle, turning to watch the numbers tick by.

“So,” he starts a minute later, regaining your attention. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About stepping back from WE. I think… you’re right.”

“Yeah? Gonna try, um, wedding photography?”

“I’m not that desperate yet,” he chuckles. “To be honest, I’m not totally sure what I will do. Get back into photography, yeah, maybe some tennis, but only if someone agrees to play with me…”

“I’ll play tennis with you if you play catch with me one of these days.”

“Done,” he says easily. “Anyway, I’m still trying to figure it out and I told Lucius I wasn’t completely out of it. If R&D needs help, I’m happy to, but… no more office visits.”

“Probably for the best. Was your family okay with it?” And by family, you specifically mean Bruce.

“They were okay with it. I think they might’ve expected it,” he admits, a tad sheepish. “In any case, I just wanted to let you know that you were right.”

You shake your head. “All that matters is that you’re happy, Tim. Anything else is —” you wave a hand “— whatever.”

“Well, still,” he says, and his voice is soft, and so is the look in his eyes. “Thanks.”

You smile and look away, cursing the way your heart stutters at the expression on his face being directed at you.

It’s quiet the rest of the ride down. You start humming Ocean Man when it get too quiet.

His eyes crinkle with a smile when he recognizes it. “I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”

“It’s a good song,” you say. “Like the kind of song you play driving down the coast. But, like, the coast coast. Not whatever Gotham’s got going on.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the backdrop of our polluted waters will go with it too much.”

You snicker.

He holds the laundry door open for you and you nod your gratitude in response, heading for the washers.

“If you wanna head up, you can,” you tell him, opening a few and inspecting the inside to see which is good enough for you.

He shrugs, hands tucked in his pockets, leaning on the washer next to the one you decide is good. “Like I said. Haven’t seen you today.”

Well. You’ll hardly complain.

“And I was thinking,” he starts, a forced kind of nonchalance in his voice that gets your attention, even as you dump your clothes into the washer.

“That’s never good.”

He rolls his eyes, wry grin tugging at his lips. “Well. I know you expressed some grievances over the Monarchs coming to play the Knights…”

“Yeah?” you ask, eyebrow raising. You toss in the pods, then pull out your phone. They finally fixed the app, so you no longer have to go the old-fashioned way. You still prefer it, but one does get tired of their hands smelling like coins.

“And,” he goes on, blue eyes twinkling with something that makes warmth spool in your chest like cotton candy. “I thought, since when we went the Knights won their first ever Opening Day match… maybe we should go to this game, too.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he says, pleased, pulling out his phone and brandishing an email, confirming a purchase of two tickets to the game in two weeks, on Saturday.

“Tim!”

“Hey, I’m just doing my due diligence in making sure the Knights have a fair shot at beating the Monarchs.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, flabbergasted.

He shrugs, smiling still. “Well, since it was your first ever game for them and they won… doesn’t seem too far-fetched to say you’re their good luck charm.”

“That is not how that works,” you say, and yet, you’re unbearably happy, mostly at the thought of him doing this for you. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve paid for my ticket —”

“No, no, this is my — what do you call it? My civic responsibility to society as the son of a billionaire.”

“That was — a joke…” For the most part. Funny how it’s easier to say that when you don’t know him or his family, but when you do, it’s almost uncomfortable.

But of course, it is not exactly incorrect, either.

Tim has a lot of money. Bruce Wayne has a lot of money. You do not.

Your face burns with heat. “Thanks, Timmy. That’s… really nice of you.”

Too nice, maybe. Much too nice.

“I don’t mind,” he says and it sounds like he means it, too, that soft look in his gaze again. Your stomach swoops like you missed a step going down.

“Besides,” he adds, the two of you heading for the door again. “I was thinking we could get something to eat beforehand. Something light since I know you said no baseball game is complete without a hot dog… but in that case, you can pay for that.”

“I will pay for that,” you mutter.

He laughs. “See? Fair’s fair.”

Easy for him to say.

But you’d be lying through your teeth if you said any of this displeased you.

It’s Tim, after all.

With him, you’re weak, like putty in his hands. He doesn’t know that, you think. Doesn’t know how much he means to you, how much you would do for him.

But he can’t know. Because knowing that means knowing the depth of your affection, too, and that is a secret you’ll keep locked away until the end of your days.

(Thinking that is dangerous, you know. Because it’s Gotham and nothing is impossible in Gotham and you hardly want to tempt fate.

Doesn’t make it any less true, though.)

━ end notes

1. i know they really try to pass batman and the others off as urban legends these days but. it doesn't make much sense when you consider the notoriety of say, the justice league or as seen here, the titans. you can't just have a team of superheroes and not have the public not knowing shit about that. however, i will say i do think they can still balance fear and myth while being well-known. bruce definitely can anyway

2. on that note, it always made more sense to me that the justice league, the titans, and basically all the superhero teams have to have some kind of pr team/department. they're super-powered or otherwise very talented but i think both the distance of a pr team is needed, as well as the fact that, well, that's strictly their job, to get the teams out of any messes they create. additionally, there has to be some kind of bureaucratic element to all of it, at least regarding who joins on missions and what not. basically, i don't think they would let teams of superheroes run around without supervision. not to say they're, like, extensions of the government because That Would Be Bad but... you know? gotta have accountability

3. the early seasons of spongebob are great and so is the movie. peak childhood moments for me and still now tbh. it's just very nostalgic. also as we all know food just looks so much better in cartoons and the triple gooberberry sundae is one of those things too. also kind of insane that they made him, like, drunk off it. old 2000s childhood tv shows are just insane in general

4. ocean man is a deeply excellent song and i was first introduced to it through the spongebob movie and i still regard it dearly. even if its silly its fun and catchy ok

reblogs are appreciated!

#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #tim drake x you #red robin x you #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you #dc comics imagine #tim drake x y/n #red robin x y/n #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #batfam x reader #batfam x you

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