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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 7 months

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All Funk, No Punk - Still Hobart Brown

Gold chains instead of silver spikes. Gator shoes in place of thrifted boots. And an afro bigger than Hobie's -

Spider-Funk is Hobart Brown - Earth 831

Hobie Brown maybe Artie's chiller, rougher, and louder self - but somehow, they get on like a cop car on fire (or whatever the saying is).

And Artie Brown maybe Hobie's cockier, flirtier, and flashier self - but they just tell people they're twins.

Or at the very least - they call each other 'brotha' and 'bruv' all the time.

When people ask about the accent thing - you know, Artie being American, they say 'Ever seen The Parent Trap?'

[A LONG ASS post - Below is Artie's Origins, Fighting Style, Relationship to Hobie, and how he got recruited - All About the Brown Bros! Artie & Hobie, FunkPunk!]

It's Hobie 2 - Electric Bugaloo!

And just when Miguel thought he could only stomach one of them.

Though he calls himself the older brother, being born over a decade earlier, Artie is Hobie's less mature, more materialistic, but just as kind variant.

He's a pacifist instead of an anarchist - Full of Soul instead of bursting with Rock.

And he still hates cops.

Origins:

When Artie was drafted for the Vietnam War in 1969 - the first thing he did was burn his draft card. Then he joined the Black Liberation Army.

He wasn't the only one - Artie was part of the almost half a million draftees to do so.

And then President Osborn was elected.

To fill the gap in enlistment, Osborn came up with a solution.

V.E.N.O.M - A highly toxic, unfeelingly aggressive, and wildly bloodthirsty symbiote. A solution to the protests and draft dodgers.

Engineered by Oscorp - if you didn't induct yourself as a soldier, the V.E.N.O.M would make you one. And suddenly his friends were disappearing one by one.

A subtle but sudden-onset disease, the V.E.N.O.M variant was nearly undetectable, very persuasive, and incredibly effective.

More primal than animalistic, the symbiote's function didn't raise one's bloodlust, - instead it lowered, and at worse cancelled, your empathy. The symbiote subtly normalized dehumanization - attacking neurons in the cerebral cortex to destroy one's capability of empathy, compassion, and at times - recognizing faces. Able to follow commands without a second thought - the perfect soldier. Convincing the host of necessary order and their own biological superiority, over the course of 72 hours the host would lose their ability to recognize the people around them as anything other than sub-human. In 138, V.E.N.O.M turns you into an animal. In 831, V.E.N.O.M turns everyone around you into an animal.

It could make anyone into an unfeeling, unrelenting soldier - no guns needed.

The best of them got sent overseas to the War - and the rest, he turned on the people, hunting down all those who dared to dodge their call.

While on tour in DC, Artie was bitten by a radioactive spider, as he attempted to burn draft papers at a government facility.

He burned the papers. Plus he got some sick powers out of it. Plus Plus he gets to beat up The National Guard on a weekly basis. Ain't that a score.

And Hobie may hate the name Spider-Punk (or so he says), but Artie loves being Spider-Funk.

He calls them Funk & Punk. Hobie calls them that too, but like in a cool ironic way.

Artie & Hobie:

Personality:

Hobie knows that Artie is going through his 'Pavitr Phase', so he cuts him some slack. Artie's only been Funk for a year and some change.

He's got more Ws than Ls, so he's always one to be a bit cocky and reckless - though never at anyone's expense.

He's more talkative than Hobie - and WAY more flirty than Hobie, ready to wink at anyone willing to stare.

Like Hobie, Artie has his own groupies. And the pair on campus do get stares (and whispers. and giggles); Two 6'5 dudes with enough hair to cause an eclipse, walking around in loud ass boots, they're sure to draw attention.

Something Artie loves.

Artie considers himself a Ladies' Man. And a Man's Man. And what gender you have to offer really. (He's still a 'Hobie' - he doesn't discriminate)

He's got a waterbed in his boathouse, shag carpets, and wine at the ready. He loves sweet-talking people, and showering them in compliments. Whereas Hobie's love language is Physical Touch, Artie's is Words of Affirmation.

But all Hobie has to do is open his mouth and Be British and suddenly Artie's date is swooning and he's like 'Brotha, I'mma need you to shut the hell up for a second right quick.'

If you hang out with them, get ready for Hobie hanging off your shoulder, while Artie is in your ear complimenting your outfit.

Fighting:

Artie's fighting style is a lot more fluid than Hobie's with a lot of martial arts involved - similar to blaxploitation movies of the era.

Hobie thinks he looks bloody ridiculous meanwhile Artie is like 'if dem damn jeans weren't so tight maybe you could get like me and have some flair in your fight, my man.'

He also has an INCREDIBLY MEAN backhand.

Ideology:

The two of them are fairly close, hanging out with each other a lot. Though the two of them are fairly different. Artie is far more pacifist than Hobie, but that doesn't mean he's above violence.

He's just not one to talk about it, or threaten it. He's more of the 'let people talk - don't start none, won't be none'. Camp - and he'll almost never throw the first punch. Though he absolutely considers intimidation, selling hard drugs, and fucking with the general population 'starting some'.

Their ideology may clash heads everyone once in a while, but they hardly ever fight. At all. Instead, they have frequently heated, in-depth debates.

Artie may not be as radical or educated on things as Hobie, plus Hobie has ten years of extra history to pull from, but the two of them do it often, and it keeps them spry.

The only problem is, they get so into it, it SO HARD to understand what they're saying. Accents, slang, cutting each other off, roping other people into the conversation to back them up. It's WILD.

Artie is a lot more materialistic than Hobie. Not as critical of capitalism, Artie likes to game it rather than complain about it.

Unlike Hobie, Artie LOVES the finer things in life, and spoiling those around him. He likes gold over silver, and wears more rings than spikes.

He's a bit full of himself, and he carries a rag in his pocket to whip blood off his nice white boots. Something Hobie wouldn't be caught DEAD doing.

And Hobie clowns him for it everytime. Artie doesn't care. 'True playas never play sloppy.'

But how can he afford all of this? Well,

He's not as uhh,..honest as Hobie. But he has a heart of gold (get it?). And he never lies just to lie - if he's doing it, it's probably for work, or to Miguel, because he does not respect Miguel.

Artie be stealing. He's a master at sleight of hand. If it's a big corporation, it's free game. He never steals money - but to put it concisely: He's a smooth mfer.

He likes gold - he thinks it looks nice. But he knows for a fact that the worth of it is completely manufactured my human and capitalism, and that it's literally just a pretty metal.

He knows that paying hundreds for a chain or gold is exploitative, especially when it's stolen to begin with. So to him, it's justifiable, gimmie.

He also does it mostly for fun, a magic trick - in the same way Hobie makes stuff 'disappear' while talking to Miles, and doing hand tricks.

Artie does that, but more often, and more skillfully.

He doesn't do it all the time, but the first time he did it in front of Hobie - snatching Hobie's homemade watch of his wrist - Hobie was genuinely surprised.

Mostly he does it to make things disappear from your hand, parts he finds lying around, and playing pranks on people like Miguel. Generally, just being a lil shit.

He's a sweet-talker and a big steppa.

Unlike Hobie, Artie knows better than you force his way in. Artie slides in. He can talk them in to anywhere.

He'll pretend to be someone else, pretend to know someone else, steal passes and key cards to get in, and try to attack from the shadows when he can.

In battle, Spider-Punk is the louder, chattier, more immature one. And Spider-Funk is the chiller, sarcastic one.

Like twins, the two of them have their own in-jokes, and they hang at each other's places all the goddamn time. Though they live in different universes and decades, Artie & Hobie are kinda a package deal.

They may not always be together - they both got their own shit to do and they're not actually brothers - but if you hang with one, it's only a matter of time before you meet the other.

"Why is your brother American?" "Divorce." - "Adoption." ........ "Adoption." - "Divorce." "One of you or the both of you are lying."

Diane & Artie & Annie -

[This section is about my main OC Disco-Spider Diane, and her variant Annie P. Disco-Spider is Hobie's....something and they are happily....a something]

Every Hobart needs his Diane, and Artie is no different.

Artie & Diane:

And like usual, it all starts at the beginning.

Diane was the one to recruit Artie - because of course she was. And Lyla had told her two things: He was a guitarist, and his name was Artie. That's all she needed to know.

Lyla wanted it to be a surprise.

She snuck back stage to his show, brushed off the nearly palpable feeling of deja vu in the air, broke into his dressing room, and then tried to flirt him into joining the Society. Easy peasy.

Diane is a very oblivious woman. They spoke for nearly 10 minutes - and Artie decided to hear her out. He sat down on the couch in his dressing room, pulled back his hair and-

Diane goes -

"Hobie??? Is that you?! Oh my goodddd, you look so cute! Your hair!! Hobarrrrt - Why you ain't say nothing, had me standing here doing all this."

Speech completely forgotten. Mind you, she still hasn't explained anything. Diane is destined to freak out every Hobart she meets.

Artie is starting to think he should stop flirting with weird ass groupies that break into his dressing room.

Diane takes out her watch, the watch he doesn't know she has. She pulls up Lyla, the AI he doesn't know she has. And Diane asks her -

"Lyla! Does Artie stand for-" "It does!" "Oh my god!!! That makes this SO much easier! You're soo sweet, awww!!" "You know I saw the mission and thought of you-" "Am I on drugs right now?"

Needless to say - Diane's recruitment was successful.

Diane and Artie actually get on well, really well. Like weirdly well.

Artie and Diane are both extroverted, flirty, and a bit full of themselves. They're expressive, and more into their hair than they're willing to admit. They're perfect for each other - and people notice.

And Diane finds it a TAD BIT WEIRD

I mean, the differences between her and Hobie is what Diane loves about them - they're like sugar and spice, PB and J.

Sometimes Artie and Diane may accidentally finish each other's sentences - and Diane will be like 'Hey don't do that :)'. Other times, Artie will playfully be like 'Why are you standing so close to me, mama?' Just to piss her off.

Of course, Diane thinks he's 'cute'. But not Hobie Cute. And unfortunately, he 'speaks American'.

Besides, Hobie is the only Hobart for her.

Artie is definitely into Diane, but more in the 'she's a catch I would go for' kinda way. He did hit on her a couple times early on in their situation - but once she made it clear that she was 'seeing Hobie', he took the hint.

There's no jealously there - Hobarts are incapable of it. In fact, he's kinda proud the only other guy who could pull the hot girl is ..another him.

Now, Artie is a lot more like a big brother, kinda like the ones Diane grew up with in the Panther's house.

He's protective of her, in a 'Be mean to her and I'll deliver an ass whoppin on a plate' way. He thinks she's cute in the way a platonic sense, and finds her groupie mode to be as amusing as it is adorable.

It's ironic though that his ACTUAL girlfriend is - well, Diane's Opposite.

Artie & Annie:

[This section is shorter, and will be longer in Annie's post]

Diane Pastors is Annie P. is Mod-Spider.

Artie's girlfriend, Annie is the farthest thing from Diane while somehow still being just as big of a diva.

An avid feminism campaigner and modern woman, she would never be caught DEAD hanging off of Artie like that. And she can't stomach Diane all that much.

Hobie, Annie HATES. And not in a coy way. She thinks he's obnoxious - she calls him a poseur. She thinks he's a scrub.

Her & Artie are in a committed relationship - officially boyfriend and girlfriend. And instead of Annie, Artie is the one who wears her name on a chain.

Just like Diane and Hobie, Annie and Artie have a musical duo - called ModFunk.

We're almost done I PROMISE.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Random Details:

Artie's design is an inverted version of Hobie's, but it's also inspired heavily by Jimi Hendrix, mainly this photo on the left.

Right is an example of Artie's Style. His universe has a paint-marker aesthetic, a lot more colorful and soft than Hobie's, with dripping paint and splatters, but it tones down a lot - like Gwen's.

Artie plays Soul, Jazz, and Funk.

He has a band with his version of Daredevil, Felicia Hardy, and Captain Anarchy.

Artie has killed cops - and soldiers before. But he doesn't see it as a big deal. He hates cops, but he doesn't focus on it. He doesn't discriminate. Ass Whoopin's for everybody.

He DOES pull his hair back, his face isn't covered all the time. Maybe 80% of the time.

He can get around with Spidey Sense, so he doesn't care much - he loves his fro and is always picking it out.

He Pavitr are like best friends. Pavi and The Brown Twins get LOUD AS HELL when all together.

Gwen thinks he's an absolute goofball - So Artie tries his best to make her laugh. She seems like she needs it.

When not on stage and in battle, he prefers to play an acoustic guitar, which Hobie doesn't like playing. His acoustic is also blue.

Him and Hobie can play on each other's guitars, but it sounds very trippy, and VERY VERY weird, abnormally so.

If their heads are covered, or hair done like each other's, they can seamlessly pass as each other.

Hobie SUCKS at an American accent - but somehow, he can mimic Artie's perfectly.

It's the same for Artie - sucks at British, but can speak like Hobie.

He loves chocolate candy bars, Hobie likes fruity candy.

They do write songs together and go to each others shows, though they don't ever really perform together.

They wrestle A LOT

Artie is a genius as well, and they work on mechanics together, Artie is great at math specifically.

He and Hobie do each others hair care and help oil each other's scalps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So uh.....that's Artie :) The guy

If you made it this far THANK YOU THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ENTERTAINING ME - Artie platonically gives you a red rose.

ALSO TELL ME Why I tried to draw him like Jimi Hendrix But he looking like the Jackson 5 IM SO SORRY YALL

Here's OG Hobie as a thank you! Just imagine two Hobarts standing on either side of you both tall and with big hair and touchy and talkative as fuck Diane is living the DREAM let your OCs be happy

Bye.

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carmyboobear · 1 month

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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

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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dearshelby · 28 days

Note

#2 from that romance prompt list with tommy please 🥺

Honestly, nonnie, idk why this landed so far from romance 😅 hope you enjoy anyway

prompt 2. yearning for just one hug after being separated for so so long + Tommy Shelby

Logically, his presence didn't make any difference in the house. Your routine didn't change in any way and every single day, you were reminded your marriage was one of convenience.

You married Thomas Shelby in 1932, after your dad, who was running for mayor, thought it'd be a good idea to offer your hand to someone more powerful, such as a parliament member.

Although powerful, he did not have the best reputation, the rumors had he was a gangster, widowed and divorced for unfaithfulness and absence. You could get a better man, but surely not as rich.

So you accept it, days quickly went by while you took care of his son Charlie. You knew he had a daughter as well, who he let live with her mother and rarely visited.

Besides only marrying you to become respectful, Thomas was a decent husband. All special dates were celebrated with dinner at a fancy restaurant, he often gave you gifts and sex happened once a week. Although not bad, everything was scheduled, cold and impersonal.

Recently, he took a trip to America and as always, he called to check on Charlie (you wouldn't dare to assume on you too) every Wednesday at the same hour. You were waiting in his office, aware of how distressed he got when you didn't answer.

Fidgeting with your teacup, you observed the belongings on his desk, a horse wooden statue, glass bottles for whiskey, an expensive looking pen and many pictures.

Two of them always caught your attention, Grace and Lizzie, you knew who they were, the women who truly knew him, those who for the good or the bad, he let in. You'd never compete.

The phone ring interrupted your pondering, you jumped at the strident sound.

“Hello,” you heard his husky voice on the other side.

“Hello, how are you?”

“Fine,” he sighed, “how's Charlie?”

“He's alright, complained about homework today,”

“If he's struggling get him a tutor,”

“I don't think he is, just boyish laziness,”

“Hm,” he got quiet for a second, then finished, “I just called to say I'm in London, I'll be home soon,”

“What?” you got confused, “When did you leave America?”

“Few hours ago,”

“But are you coming home today?”

“...in a few hours,” his tone was patronizing, as if he was explaining something obvious.

“Oh, hm, okay,”

“Great, see you later,”

“Bye,” you whispered and he hung up.

You gulped, weirded out by Thomas calling to tell he's coming home. Usually, he just came back, no announcement or fuss. Whatever, you thought, leaving the office.

Sunset was coming soon when you told Charlie to bathe and get dressed, he didn't seem excited for his father's return and to be honest, neither did you. Nonetheless, you had to keep up appearances, a family you were and like a family you'd behave.

Waiting by the living room, you put on jazz to play low and asked Frances to serve dinner soon. Charles sat on the floor with a book. It was like you were normal.

The sound of a car parking in front of the house announced Tommy's arrival, you walked to the entry and his boy followed after. The man crossing the door looked exhausted, much more than he usually did.

“Hi, dad,” Charlie greeted.

“How are you, son?” Thomas messed up the kid's hair.

“Fine, I'm finishing a book,”

“Well, go on then,”

You were silent until the boy left the room, smiling politely to your husband, “How are you?”

When you leaned in to kiss his cheek, Tommy's arms wrapped around you. His chin rested on your shoulder while his hands pressed you against him. You were so surprised you didn't hug back.

You didn't know how long he held you, it was enough for you to breathe in and out three times until he let go.

“Thomas-”

“I'll go to my office,”

“But-”

“Yeah?"

"What about dinner?"

He looked away from you, as if he was about to make an important decision, "Let me know when it's served,"

#oh this wasn't proofread #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #request

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fleetways · 1 year

Text

Chapter 14: Preparations

get snowed on idiot

#sonadow #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonic the werehog #sonadow fanfiction #sonic fanfiction #mdlhea #holiday special #kind of not really but also its exactly that #wanted to have this on christmas sunday but sadly it needed a few extra days to proofread #oh well #enjoy!#chazart #hall of fame #mdlhea chapter

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updownlately · 6 months

Text

we said forever (and said it too soon)

ficlet masterlist

~~~

“Do you think, that maybe in another universe, we would’ve grown old together?” The words were whispered quietly into the air between you and the blonde, your heart breaking as you took the sight of her in as the silence grew.

You watched closely as Leah swallowed hard, her eyes meeting yours for only the briefest of seconds before they darted elsewhere, anywhere but at you, and you cursed mentally as you found yourself absolutely smitten with the way the white suit rested so elegantly on her frame.

“…Maybe, yeah…maybe...in another life, perhaps,” the words were followed with a small shrug, a wince accompanying the action as the skipper looked at the ground.

Feeling your eyes starting to sting, you nodded at her words, your own escaping softly as you took a step back slowly, then another, slowly backing away before she could see you break.

“Yeah, maybe in another life…congrats again, I- I wish you two the best, I really do."

#small little idea i got while driving #probably going to regret using this title here instead of another fic but oh well #not proofread as usual #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso #woso one shot #woso community #my writing #five sentence ficlets #wsf #too many tags fuck it

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ender1821 · 5 months

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behold. me coping with session 9 SL!shinyduo

— — —

The crackle of a lightning strike hits at the exact same moment Pearl hears a resounding crack from her neck. After she had been shot by Scar, the impact of the arrow led her to stumble down the ravine beside Scar’s base, leaving her at the bottom of the pit.

Well, at least it was quick.

She finds herself lying on the stone ground, a view of a clear blue sky above her.

The only thing she could do was let herself breathe. (Do ghosts even need to breathe? Eh, who knows.)

Her eyes close as she builds a steady rhythm with the rise and fall of her chest, willing for the aching and exhaustion riddled all throughout her body to somehow dissipate.

Aside from the sound of her breaths, she can pick up Scar’s voice off in the distance. It doesn’t sound much like a cheer, or a cry, or anything— but then again, Pearl’s not in a fit state to focus on whatever he’s saying.

Instead, she tries to think back on everything that just unfolded, all the deaths, the hunts…the duel. The zombie that had been creeping towards Scar before Pearl warned him.

She sighs, “I swear, if he dies to a zombie, after all that…”

Now, she wasn’t really expecting a reply.

Especially not a reply from a voice that’s so familiar.

“I know, right? It’d be embarrassing for both of us.”

Pearl’s eyes snap open in an instant, as though the answer gave her a surge of energy, overpowering the waves of numbing pain.

“…Gem?”

She looks…just like she used to, when they were red…together.

Pearl blinks, trying to focus on the figure looming over her. It’s only then, that she notices Gem’s body is slightly translucent, allowing rays of sunlight to pass through.

“Hey, Pearl.” Gem extends a greeting they both know far too well. She crouches down, tilting her head. “Are you going to keep lying on the ground, or…?”

“I might.” Pearl chuckles. “It’s pretty comfy down here, actually.”

“I can imagine.” Gem shifts to sitting cross-legged next to Pearl, which prompts her to try and actually sit upright as well.

Pearl grunts when she finally manages to move, scooting over to Gem. Sitting underneath the shades of a bit of overhang of the earth above, they find themselves situated in a corner of the ravine, now further ruined with scorch marks and splatters of blood on the walls.

Despite the destruction, sunlight casts shadows of sunflowers into the chasm. It must be the ones Scar has around his base.

Silence follows. Pearl tries her best to stare only at the walls around, but she ends up glancing at Gem a few too many times. She hopes Gem is too preoccupied to notice. (Pretty slim chance of that happening, considering the fact that there’s nothing of interest nearby but them.)

Eventually, though, something in Pearl pushes her to speak.

“So,” Pearl starts, “what’s got you wanting to give me a visit? I thought you’d be with Scott and Impulse.”

Gem jerks up at the sudden question, then turns away from Pearl. “I— I dunno, I just… We died pretty close to each other, you’re the first one I saw.”

If Pearl’s head had been a bit more clearer, maybe she would’ve questioned why Gem was so insistent on not facing Pearl when she answered. Instead, she accepts the answer with a nonchalant “Ah, I see.”

“Well, I appreciate the company. And…” Pearl adds, pausing as the following words get caught in her throat for a brief second:

“I’m sorry.”

That seemingly got Gem’s attention, causing her to look at Pearl once again.

Just today, Pearl was met with those same pair of eyes on multiple occasions. For some, they sparkled with a sense of joy. For others, they held a flurry of panic behind them.

At this moment, they were glazed with a whirlwind of emotions Pearl couldn’t even begin to decipher.

Pearl can see Gem obviously struggling to find something to say, or to piece together the thoughts in her head. Either way, Pearl waits.

“When you— when Scar was coming for me, you asked me if I wanted to duel it out with you, with swords.”

Pearl nods.

“Why?”

It’s such a simple question, really. Pearl knows exactly why she did it. Just as she knows why she went into the End earlier in the game to fight the dragon, why she rode a camel with the same person who’s killed her twice, why she couldn’t get a successful ambush when she’d been in the siege against Gem and the Scotts.

What leaves her lips is not the answer. Not a clear one, at least.

(It’s never easy, is it? When Scar and Gem had begun fighting, all Pearl wanted was a moment to think. She didn’t know what to do, she didn’t know why she began shooting, she just didn’t know. She couldn’t decide.)

“You said you didn’t want a bow fight.”

“But a sword fight, Pearl?” Gem pushes on in an instant. “I know you, Pearl, I know you prefer using an axe.”

“I do, yeah.” Pearl doesn’t give away any more than that, choosing to give Gem a noncommittal response.

“So— If Scar hadn’t— If I agreed, you—”

“You probably would’ve kicked my butt.” Pearl admits with a smile.

Gem takes a deep breath. Then, in the quietest voice Pearl has heard all day, Gem asks, “And you would’ve been fine with that?”

(I would’ve been more than fine with it.)

“You would’ve beat me fair and square, I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“But you—” Gem cuts herself off with a groan, growing more and more frustrated with Pearl’s vague replies. It’s no use when they’re both dancing around the topic, even though all Gem wants is to ask: would you have let me kill you? Could we have stayed friends? What went wrong?

Gem recalls Pearl backing away after one swing of her sword, when she was fighting Scar, she caught a glimpse of Pearl leaving the fight to them. She remembers how Pearl could’ve pulled out her bow, could’ve ended her right there.

(Do I forgive you?)

A breeze blows past the Sunflower Valley, leading the flowers above, along with their shadows, into a gentle dance.

Nearly every question Gem has dies on the tip of her tongue, leaving only one:

“What now?”

Pearl gives it some quick pondering, before stretching her legs out and bracing herself to stand. “I wanna check on Mailbox and Matchbox.”

“Then,” She helps herself up by leaning on a wall. “I wanna see if I can find my Mounders anywhere.”

Lastly, she extends a hand out to Gem. “After that… I think I remember Scott saying something about a spare camel around Etho’s?”

Gem returns the smirk on Pearl’s face with one of her own. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“The Murder Camel rides once more!” Pearl cheers as she pulls Gem up with her.

#ender writes #i WILL give them a happy ending even if its the last thing i do or i will never be able to cope #oh SL!shinyduo…ill miss you #anyway enjoy the mess because i did not proofread this like my brainrot just got to me and i blacked out and here this was #(…i cannot guarantee that this will not happen again and i write a canon divergent shinyduo finale next…no promises)#pearlescentmoon #geminitay #life series spoilers #secret life spoilers #traffic smp spoilers #secret life smp #trafficblr #shiny duo #shinyduo #mcyt #mcyt fanfiction

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solidwater05 · 7 months

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It's ADHD awareness month so l thought it'd be nice to explain why someone with ADHD might consciously make horrible decisions despite being aware of the consequences

So, let's image a situation. A person with ADHD is doing a mildly entertaining activity, let's say doomscrolling. This person also has a task to do. I made a graph where the brighter the color, the higher the satisfaction that the person gets from an activity

[ID: A graph showing a line that divides into two separate lines. The main line, and the bottom line, are a dull yellow. The top line starts off black, and turns bright green as it gets further away from the bifurcation. /End ID]

So here, doomscrolling isn't super gratifying but hey, it's better than nothing. The person has the choice to keep doomscrolling, even though it's honestly pretty boring, or they could do the task they need to do. When they're done with that task, they'll feel a lot better, so they should do that, right? Just do the task because there's literally no cons? Well. Look at this other graph:

[ID: The same graph as before, but cropped to only show the bifurcation itself. This way, the top line seems to be completely black. /End ID]

This is how a person with ADHD perceives the choice. They can logically know that they'll feel better if they do the task, but executive dysfunction makes it literally impossible to get any sort of motivation or satisfaction for gratification that doesn't currently exist. So the choice goes from 'feel meh or feel good later' to 'feel great in comparison or never feel good again'. And what's the obvious choice here?

#neurodivergent #adhd #actually adhd #adhd awareness month #adhd acceptance month #actually neurodivergent #actually nd #ice speaks #i hope this makes sense!!#i tried making one of those fancy posts but it's still distinctively Mine so i feel like it's too informal and unclear :((#oh also this is based 100% on personal experience #maybe I'm literally the only person who does this. idk #oh I'm rambling #as always this is not proofread i cannot be bothered with that

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bromelads · 7 months

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I am not playing the “you're racist if you say Ed is abusive" game with y’all 😒

This shit is not new or helpful to POC in the fandom. I wrote about it earlier this year (too little, too late), so I've built this post up from that.

I encourage folks to read this analysis and call to action by uselessheretic from back in JANUARY since it addresses key aspects of the harassment campaign that was par of the course for the fandom in 2022. This discourse plays into that harassment.

Listen, for all of its widely-held progressive values, the ofmd fandom is still a hobby space filled with mostly white, first world, LGBTQ+ ppl. Most ofmd fans fashion themselves leftists and generally agree that structural racism exists and is a problem. Overall, there's worse fandoms to be in.

That said, this particular wave of hand-wringing about fans calling Ed abusive is not at all about the ways indigenous people are stereotyped in media.

The most telling giveaway is the timing: fans expressing frustration towards Ed following the sneak peek that shows Fang, Archie, Jim, and Frenchie all but having an intervention for Izzy because they think he is "in an unhealthy relationship with Blackbeard" since Ed "cut two more of his toes...[which] seems pretty toxic to me."

I am not emotionally prepared to deconstruct the dark humor of holding a spontaneous intervention for your asshole white assistant manager who's on his last fucking wit because your brown and beautiful rockstar boss is too high to function and keeps cutting the guy's toes off. You either get the joke or you don't.

For the purpose of this post, all I care to extract from it is what it tells us about who is exercising the most control over the ship. Despite his physical absence, Ed’s ghost is all over this beautifully crafted scene. The tone of their wardrobe is dictated by Ed’s. They are carrying out Ed’s orders. Frenchie and Jim’s exclusive presence as former members of Stede’s crew was decided by Ed. Izzy’s authority as first mate is sanctioned by Ed. And it is Ed’s fitness to lead that Frenchie, Fang, Jim,and Archie are questioning ultimately.

I’m not particularly worried about Ed’s integrity as a charismatic lead being hurt by a storyline that paints him as someone who abuses power--the flow and exchange of power is a running theme for ofmd. Stede and Izzy themselves abuse their power in season 1 for their vanity. What I am worried about is this cute cultural feature of the wider ofmd fandom:

the chronic unwillingness to grapple with interpersonal power dynamics amongst peers, not only in the show, but in the fandom itself.

So here we are again, ofmd fandom, working ourselves up into a moral outrage so that you, in your leftist white glory, can publicly police yourself because apparently you only know how to experience People of Color in fiction through these two lenses:

white guilt (am I racist for thinking this? are people around me racist for thinking this?) and

the white imagination (stories about characters of color are valuable because they inform my politics)

This push against reading Ed as abusive is not about calling out the problematics of depicting an indigenous man as mentally ill, violent, lonely, and rageful, it is about trying to sound self-righteous to mask anxiety about accidentally doing a racism on the indigenous, brown lead.

This is even more obvious now with the season 2 premiere days away and audiences being primed to question whether the severity of Izzy's punishment was appropriate.

Now, here's the hard-to-swallow pill the ofmd fandom's been avoiding cuz we don't wanna point out the inevitable problems of representation within canon:

We are being served a storyline where a complex protagonist (who happens to be a brown, queer, indigenous man in a position of power) harms people who are close to him and we are meant to recognize this as a problem that he must come to terms with. I don't like it either, but I'd rather have this than no Ed story at all.

Other people have written far more intelligently about this than I could, but it bears repeating: what's happening here is fans projecting their own insecurities about racism and power onto a white character ("izzy exotifies ed!" "he wants to control ed!" "izzy is an incompetent pirate actually!") while at the same time applying a shiny veneer of respectability and perfect rationality to a nonwhite character ("ed had every right to hurt izzy!" "maiming is fair game as retribution for racism, it's in-world rules!" "ed can't be abusive because he's been abused!") in order to mask white leftist fandom's discomfort about a morally ambiguous brown protagonist.

Anyway, take a breath.

Ed is a character whose impact in "the real world" does indeed go beyond how he makes us feel. Taika Waititi's Edward Teach represents a watershed moment in indigenous representation—not only for his position as protagonist, not even for his queerness, but because of his depth, charisma, complexity, and connection to a community that cares about him. These things have been rarely afforded to the very few indigenous leads in the global film canon--no matter how his story is handled in season 2 and 3, Ed's impact has already been cemented.

Okay I'm done, here's some actionable advice to wash this all down with.

If your goal is to foster a welcoming environment for fans of color and elevate engagement with characters of color, then immediately remove shaming people's headcanons from your toolbox and read this article. Take stock of who is in your fandom social circle and take stock of what you do in order to at least see more fanworks featuring characters of color.

If your goal is to promote or participate in productive race-conscious conversations with other fans, get real about your relationship with power, your positionality in life (and in fandom) and the channels through which you want to have these conversations. Some questions to start with: Can you describe your relationship with your race? What is your experience talking about race in mixed-race spaces? What avenues do you use to participate in fandom? How do you participate? Where do you have influence? How do you manage unwanted feelings that spark from disagreements about racism?

If your goal is to interact in fandom with integrity, get explicit about your values. Engage in dialogue, treat others with the respect you want. Be curious and ask questions. Avoid becoming someone's useful idiot and learn to think critically.

Finally, if your goal is to enjoy your blorbos without having to think about the problematics of representation for QTBIPOC (Queer, Trans, Black, Indigenous, People of Color), then save us all the grief and just join a different fandom.

Good luck!

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dandylovesturtles · 5 hours

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Hello, I'm back again with another fic. This one is set right after the Hidden City episodes.

I got inspired by this pic of Leo, because I thought it was funny that they included the little hairs sticking out even while he's in the jail cell:

-----

Splinter's light is on. Which is odd, because he's certain he didn't leave it that way.

He'd fallen asleep in front of the big projector, and woke up to the sound of his sons playing one of those racing games they love. He'd told them not to stay up too late (something he was sure would be ignored) and then made his way back to the atrium to fall asleep in his room in front of his tube TV.

But light spilling out from under the door. When he gets closer, he can hear the sound of someone rummaging around inside.

Immediately, the worst case scenarios flood his head. One of their enemies has found them and is just inside, plotting some kind of attack against his life, or the lives of his children. They are just feet away, their shouts echoing down the corridor and into the atrium. Should he run and warn them? Or should he fight off the intruder?

In the end, he decides to go forward rather than back, creeping closer to the door. Silently he slides it open, just enough that he can look inside.

And there... is Blue, rummaging with intent through his nightstand drawer.

(Now that he thinks about it, there had been only three turtles in the TV room when he left. He'd just assumed Blue was in the bathroom, or getting a snack.)

He opens the door the rest of the way with much more sound, causing his son to jump a solid two feet in the air. "Blue! What are you doing?"

"GAH!" Blue whirls around, his hand held tight against his chest. "Holy crap, Dad! You gave me a heart attack!"

"Ninja should be more aware of their surroundings! Were you even watching the door?"

"I didn't think I would have to in my own house!"

"Well, let that be a lesson to you." Splinter folds his arms. "What are you looking for?"

Blue lowers his hands and shuffles back a step, grinning. "Looking for something? Whaaat makes you think I was looking for something?"

Splinter looks at the drawer Blue had been digging in when he arrived, its contents a mess. Blue glances at it as well, then back at Splinter.

"It was like that when I got here."

Splinter is not impressed. "Mm-hm."

"Heh, well... okay, I was looking for something, but I don't see it so I guess you don't have it." Blue eyes the atrium beyond Splinter, clearly trying to figure out how to slip past him. "Sooo I'll just be going now, haha!"

He tries to make his escape, but Splinter is quicker - he leaps up in the air, suspending himself in the doorframe, so that he is eye level with Blue just as he approaches.

"Blue. Tell me what you were looking for."

"Nothing important, seriously-"

"Leonardo-"

"A razor," he says quickly. "I was looking for a razor."

That... was not an answer he would have expected. Splinter can't keep the bafflement off his face. "A razor?"

"To shave with," Leo elaborates.

Splinter can't help but laugh at that, squinting at his son's smooth and hairless face. "Don't you feel like that is some wishful thinking, Blue?"

"Ugh!" Blue scowls at that, folding his arms. "I'm serious! Here, look at my head."

He bends his neck, and Splinter now sees what he's talking about: blonde hairs, scraggly and uneven, that dot his sons scalp in no discernable pattern. Splinter hadn't noticed it earlier, but his eyesight isn't what it used to be.

"What- where did those come from!?"

Blue straightens his head back up, looking both irritated and embarrassed. He doesn't seem eager to answer, but now that Splinter is thinking about it, this feels familiar...

Right! Yesterday, in the Hidden City! He'd gone to find Blue to borrow his odachi, and when he'd gotten there, Blue had a full head of blonde hair...

Ah.

Splinter lets himself drop to the ground. "Your hair yesterday... it was not a wig?"

Blue chews his lip for a moment before finally admitting, "It was some kind of... living hair yokai."

"Oh no... you let one of those on your head!? They are very dangerous! They sap your energy for themselves and take control of your sleeping body!"

"Yeah, that would have been great information to have a day ago." Blue rubs the top of his head self-consciously, then scowls. "Some of the hair stuck around, and... It just looks stupid, and it's kinda itchy, so..."

"Ah. Well, if I remember correctly, it will fall out on its own in a few days."

"Oh." Blue hesitates, then starts out the door again. "Okay. Well, uh... I'll get out of your hair, then."

He grins awkwardly as he slides past, and Splinter realizes just in time that he has not handled this correctly.

"Blue, wait," he says, and his son freezes just outside, glancing back over his shoulder. Splinter leaves him standing there, and goes to his dresser, pulling a thin black box out of one of the top drawers. There's an old shaving kit inside, complete with a razor that is still sharp. Splinter's not sure why he's kept it around, since he doesn't shave since becoming a rat (unless he's sick with the Rat Flu, of course, but for that he uses the electric trimmer), but he supposes it will come in handy tonight.

He walks back to Blue, holding the razor above his head. "Aha! Here we go."

"Oh! Thanks, daddio," Blue says with a grin, reaching out to take it - but Splinter does not hand it to him.

"Absolutely not. If you try to shave your own head you'll just carve yourself like a turkey." He lowers the razor and steps past Blue, into the atrium. "Grab a stool and meet me in the bathroom. I'll do it for you."

He doesn't hear Blue's footsteps moving. "Seriously? Come on, I can do it myself."

"No complaints!" He beckons Blue on with his tail. "Come on! I know exactly what I'm doing!"

"...Ough boy," Blue mutters, but he moves to do as Splinter's told him, and that's enough.

-----

They reconvene in the bathroom, as he instructed. He has Leo sit on the stool in front of the sink - it just works out that he can lean his neck against the basin, while Splinter perches in the sink itself for a good view.

"Now, I think we might have... Aha, here we go!"

He pulls shaving cream out of the medicine cabinet; again, he's not sure why they have this, since none of them shave, but he wouldn't be surprised if the boys use it to pull pranks on each other. Besides, it just feels like a normal thing to have in a home full of men, even if they don't strictly need it.

He squirts some into his hand, then layers it across Blue's scalp. Blue giggles like he's ticklish, and Splinter shooshes him, even though he can't keep a little grin off his face at that.

Then he carefully starts to shave across Blue's scalp, starting in the middle and working his way out. The hairs are pretty sparse, but some of them are too fine for him to see, so it's better to just do the whole scalp and be sure to catch them all.

"Why is it that you let the yokai on your head in the first place?" he asks a few strokes in. He's curious about it, after all.

"I didn't let it," Leo argues. "I got tricked. The guy who gave it to me told me it was just a potion to grow hair."

"Aaaah... And it was a scam. I'm guessing that's how you came to be in jail when we got there?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's alright." Splinter pats his shoulder. "Live and learn!"

Though, that didn't answer the question Splinter had actually been getting at. Blue says nothing else, so he tries again.

"But... why did you want to grow hair?" When Blue doesn't answer right away, he adds, "Do you wish you had hair?"

"No," says Blue. "...Yes. ...Maybe?"

Splinter has to bite back a chuckle. "I see."

Blue sighs, wringing his hands in his lap. "I mean, I guess I never really thought about it too much? It's fun to wear wigs sometimes, but I never really cared about being bald, before..."

He trails off. "Before?" Splinter prompts.

Blue is chewing on his lip again. "Have you ever heard of Hirsute? The fancy beach club?"

"Oh, of course!" Splinter grins at the recognizable name. Now that he remembers, wasn't that where he'd found Blue? "They have veeery strict requirements for membership, but of course I was always allowed in because Lou Jitsu had such perfect-"

He cuts himself off, looking down at Blue, the peeks of his bald scalp through the shaving cream. Finally, he has all the pieces.

"...They wouldn't let you in, would they?" he asks, hands stilling in their task.

Blue chuckles dryly. "Even better. I got in but they threw me out."

"...Hmph." Splinter gives his foot a stomp against the porcelain. "Well, who needs their resort, anyway? Honestly, their drinks were overpriced and their steaks were always too dry."

"I already saw how nice it was, Dad, but thanks for trying to help."

"Mm, well, we will find an even nicer one! One that does not discriminate."

"Yeah, sure," says Blue, but he sounds downcast. And really, Splinter doesn't know what to tell him. He doesn't know how they would find this mythical tolerant beach club.

"You've... always told us to be careful, with humans," says Blue after a few moments of silence. His eyes are locked on the ceiling, hands still held tight in his lap. "About not letting them see us, and all that."

"...Yes," says Splinter sadly. He wishes it wasn't so, but it was for their safety. "I was worried... about how they would treat you boys."

"I know," says Blue. "And I get it. I know not everyone is April."

"Unfortunately not," Splinter agrees.

"But even most of the humans who've actually met us... They were cool with it, or at least, if they hate us, it's for non-turtle reasons. So it was like, I knew that there were humans who would be scared, or who might even try to hurt us, but they were always... You know." Blue waves his hand in the air. "Like... a concept, or whatever."

"Hmmm... Abstract?" Splinter suggests, and Blue snaps his fingers.

"Yeah! Abstract. I didn't have a face or a voice, just a vague idea that someone could be a jerk to me. And..." He lowers his hand and rubs it up and down his arm. "I thought since I knew that, I wouldn't be surprised when it finally happened? But... then an actual person was looking at me, a real person, and telling me that I wasn't good enough. Telling me that I wasn't allowed in just because of something I can't even help, just... the way my head is, and... and I don't know. It was just way worse than I thought it was going to be."

Splinter's hands still again, his heart clenching in his chest. Oh, his son. His sweet Baby Blue...

"And," Blue continues quickly, "I know it's dumb, it's just a snooty beach club, and it's just hair, and I just need to get over it-"

"Blue," Splinter cuts him off urgently. He nudges his shoulders, trying to get the boy to sit up. "Leo. Please look at me."

Blue sits up, slowly turning on the stool to face the sink. His eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed, and Splinter feels a rush of emotions so strong they nearly sweep him off his feet. Hurt, for his son who was made to feel bad over something so trivial, and fury, for the people who caused the injury.

He reaches out and cups his son's face, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his cheeks. His sons are more muscular than other children their age, but Blue still has baby fat on his cheeks. Splinter resists the urge to squish them.

"I wish they could all see what I see," he says softly. "A young man who is so handsome, strong, and clever."

Blue's lip trembles slightly. "But they won't."

"Some will," he promises. "Not everyone is April... but she is not the only one, either."

"Just wish I knew who was an April and who wasn't," Blue says. "Before I get kicked out on my butt."

"Mm. It is hard. Some people make it obvious, and so many more do not." Splinter sighs. "When I came to America, I was already a celebrity. And still, there were many who did not accept me, or who did not think they needed to listen to me, or who were cruel. And it was the same, when I was taken to the Hidden City."

Blue gives him a sad, crooked smile. "You felt like an outsider, too, huh?"

"Very much, yes. Human and yokai... there are prejudices everywhere."

"So how do you deal with it?"

"Mm... there is no easy answer." Splinter guides Blue to turn around and lean against the sink again, before rest of the shaving cream drips. "I wish I could tell you that this is the worst you will ever face, but I can't promise you that. But I do not wish for you boys to hide from the world forever, either. Even if it is only among the yokai... I want what all parents want for their children."

"For them to have grandchildren?" Blue asks.

"Yes!" Splinter chuckles. "Cute babies to play with and then give back." He finishes shaving the last of Blue's head, then grabs a wash cloth to wipe him clean. "But no. I meant that, for all the people who may be cruel to you... I want there to be many more who are kind. And who love you as I do."

Blue's voice is soft as he mutters, "Oh."

"And I also want you to remember," Splinter leans forward, and kisses Blue on his forehead "that you are accepted here no matter what." He snorts. "Even if you want to make that hairstyle permanent."

"Oh, come on!" Blue huffs and gets up from the stool, his deeper green blush visible even though he is trying to look annoyed. "It wasn't that bad!"

"I'm just saying, I think you can do better!"

"What do you know, old man?" Blue scowls, but it's playful.

"Old man!? Hmph, the disrespect..." He folds his arms, then nods at the door. "We're done, so I'm going to bed. Your brothers are having some kind of go-karting tournament in the TV room."

"Oh shoot, I'm missing it!" Blue turns to run out, then skids to a stop and spins on his heel, running back and scooping Splinter out of the sink and into a hug.

"Thanks, Dad," he says, and Splinter can't help but chuckle, giving his shell a pat.

"Of course, Blue."

Blue sets him down, then turns and runs off again. Splinter can hear him yell, "Dibs on next race!" from down the corridor.

Splinter rinses the razor clean, then puts it back in his box. He considers taking it back to his room, but in the end he changes his mind, slotting it into the medicine cabinet.

Who knows? Maybe someone will need it again, one day.

#rottmnt #rise leo #rise splinter #dandy fanfiction #I feel like you can feel the moment when I lost my mojo haha #OH WELL #I hope I conveyed what I was getting at well enough #this has minimal proofreading I'm sorry #hope you enjoyed!

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blindmagdalena · 1 year

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Homelander and spanking is giving me brainrot rn. Just imagine lightly smacking his ass throughout the day as a joke only for him to turn tables and go from 0 to 100 REAL quickly

18+, f!reader, spanking, dirty talk, inappropriate use of a conference room, p-in-v sex, cream pie. The first time you slap Homelander's ass, it's a drive-by at work. It's quick, a sharp little smack with the back of your hand because he hasn't noticed his cape is pulled aside, hooked on a chair. No one he's standing with notices, but he whips his head around to look at you. You're already halfway down the hall, practically fleeing from him while grinning to yourself.

The two of you have been dating for a while. It's certainly the office's worst kept secret, but you both still like to play around as if no one knows.

It happens again that same day while the two of you are alone in The Seven's conference room, and this time it's a full on assault. It's hardly your fault that when you drop your pen, he doesn't bend with his knees. Instead, he bends perfectly in half, acting the part of the ideal gentleman to pick up your pen. You reel both hands back, and clap him loudly on the ass, surprising even yourself with the sound it makes.

The look on his face when he whirls around on you makes you nearly scream with laughter, muffling it into both your hands.

"Okay," he says slowly, voice pitched so menacingly that you instantly turn on your heel, making a break for the closed door, but he catches you by the waist and yanks you right back. "You wanna play? Let's play."

"No! No! It was just a joke! I won't do it again!" You cry, writhing in his grip, still laughing.

"Nope. You started this, now I'm gonna finish it," he says, bending you over the table. He keeps you there with nothing more than a light hand on your lower back, and shamelessly flips your skirt up over your hips.

You gasp, whole body tensing up immediately. "Oh my god, hold on-"

The first crack of his gloved hand against your ass knocks the next words completely from your brain, swiftly emptying it. You expect that to be the end of it, a revenge beautifully executed. Until he does it again.

This time, you moan.

The sound surprises both of you.

You feel your whole face flush, your stomach doing backflips. You reach back to push your skirt down, wildly embarrassed by how obscene the noise had been in your own ears.

However, Homelander doesn't let you up. Instead, he takes hold of your wrist and curls it behind your back, wringing another surprised noise from you. "Wh-what're you-" He does it again. He's incredibly restrained, striking with such precision of strength, it's honestly a wonder. To your mortification, you can feel your clit beginning to throb. Holy fuck, this is turning you on fast. He delivers another sharp little smack, and then another. You clench your thighs together, panting out pitchy little breaths with every blow.

Homelander slides his hand up from the small of your back to the back of your neck, squeezing it. You can feel yourself beginning to soak your panties, ridiculously wet not only from the way he's spanking you, but from the ragged way you can hear him breathing. Knowing he's getting off on this as much as you are strikes a chord low in your belly.

"H-Homelander," you moan. Your ass is beginning to smart, hot to the touch. Even when he just rubs it, it feels absolutely electric. "Jesus Christ," he growls, gritting the words out through his teeth.

The next thing you know, he lets go of your neck and you hear a distinctive metallic click. It's followed immediately by an audible shuffle of fabric, and then you feel him hook the crotch of your panties with his thumb, pulling the material aside.

You recognize the shape of the fat head of his cock pushing against your pussy immediately. It makes an obscene, wet noise upon contact, smearing not only your wetness, but his. He rocks his hips, grinds back and forth against you, trailing that wetness from your clit nearly all the way back to your ass.

"All this time," he breathes, voice rough, already wrecked with his own arousal. "You just wanted me to spank you, huh?"

You make a pleading little noise, spreading your legs further.

"Could'a just asked, sweetheart," he says, huffing a laugh. You can hear how he's restraining himself, forcing himself to go slow, keeping himself from shoving inside you all at once. He fucks lazily between the wet folds of your cunt, slowly driving you wild.

"C'mon," you urge, rocking back against him. "Fuck me," you say, but instead of moving him along any faster, all you get is another sharp slap to your ass.

"Say please," he chides.

"Please," you moan readily, knees quivering. "Please, please fuck me."

He grunts out a tight little "Fuck," and takes your hips in both hands as he finally lines himself up with your cunt. He moves slow, makes you pant and whine as he eases just the thick head of his cock into you. He rocks you back and forth with ease, like a toy, working himself gradually deeper.

You claw at the table, struggling to find purchase, but the glass is smooth and too wide, leaving you absolutely nothing to grip. You can't do anything but take it, moaning feverishly as he opens you up.

"Always take me so fucking good," he groans, halfway there now, savoring the way your walls cling to him. "Like you were made to."

"I was," you say, hands balled up into fists, panting condensation onto the glass table top. "I was made for you, feel so fucking good in me, oh fuck, fuck, my pussy's still shaped like you."

Those words snap something in him, cause him to jerk you back the rest of the way onto his cock. Your ass stings deliciously when he bottoms out against it, wringing another pitchy moan from you. You've always had the power to shatter his meticulously crafted control, and today is no exception.

You wanted him to fuck you, and you're going to get it.

Homelander fucks you in sharp, deep little bursts, barely leaving you, just grinding deeper and deeper until you feel the head of his cock bumping into the very core of you.

Abruptly, he pulls you up until your back is flush to his chest. He wraps one hand around your waist while the other goes right to your throat, lifting you clean off your feet, holding you tight while he mercilessly pounds into you.

You have no leverage, can't do anything but grab hold of his wrist with both hands, clinging to him. Your ass burns and your cunt fucking aches, and there's a pressure building in you so rapidly you feel like you're going to explode.

"I-I'm gonna come," you gasp wetly, tears gathering in your eyes from the sheer overwhelm of sensation. "H-Homelander, I'm gonna come, I'm-I'm gonna come!"

He just pumps his hips faster, buries his face in the crook of your neck and fucking bites into your shoulder. It surprises you so much you nearly scream, and with it, your climax hits you like a truck. Your whole body seizes up, an explosion of waves rolling through you. The euphoria is unbelievable, knocks the wind right out of your lungs and paralyzes you, leaves you unable to breathe while Homelander fucks you through it.

After one last hard slam, Homelander stills, spilling into you with a ragged, gasping moan. The heat and flood of it is so intense, you almost take it for a second orgasm, goosebumps erupting across your body all over again.

Slowly, gently, Homelander lowers you back down onto the table, covering your body with his.

The two of you stay like that for several long moments, both catching your breath, both equally shocked by the rate at which the situation had escalated.

Eventually, after a deep breath, you say, "So... I like spanking."

"Yeah," Homelander exhales, licking his lips. "Me too."

#oh my god where did this come from. that was filthy.#not me looking around the room after writing this like 'WHO DID THIS?'#sorry i didn't proofread it and i'm not going to #homelander x reader #homelander x you #darling anon #ask and you shall receive #my writing #smut

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greeenchrysanthemums · 3 months

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A Friend

Gem brings her new friend to meet an old friend

I could not get this post out of my head. It was distracting me from writing my au, so I had to write it, or else I would never get anything done.

CW: past injury, implied torture, implied murder/death

Words: 3,444

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Pearl sighed from where she was leaning against the boat's railing with her head pillowed under her crossed arms, knees knocking together as she tapped one foot against the deck.

Who knew being out on sea would actually be so boring. It wasn't nearly as fun or lively as the stories of pirates and navy battles made it out to be. They hadn’t even sung a single shanty this entire time! She would have taken swimming alone for hours over this any day.

She was bored out of her mind; resorting to passing her time by watching the same cloud slowly shrink and crawl across the sky at the pace of a sea slug. It didn’t help that the same annoying seagull had been circling their boat for at least 5 miles at this point, squawking up a storm the whole time, as if to mock her personally. It was driving her absolutely nutty.

"I'm bored, Gem." She whined.

"No one told you to sneak onto my ship, Pearl." Gem said, amused. The other woman was sitting on a crate, whittling away at a small hunk of wood. It was too early to tell what she was making, but Pearl had seen many of her other carvings sitting in various place around the boat, and they were all animals, so if she had to guess, this one was probably another animal of some kind. She kind of hoped it was a wolf. They were her favorite land creatures so far.

"Well, no… but you let me stay, and I'm here now!" Pearl argued, "You should entertain me!"

Gem laughed. She put her knife back into the sheath on her thigh and shoved the chunk of wood into one of the many pouches around her waist. She walked over to the mast and lowered the sail, tying off the rope with practiced ease.

"If you're bored, then you're in luck, actually. We're just about in the right spot now anyway." Gem said, walking over to where Pearl was, which also happened to be where the anchor was bundled up on the deck. She raised a hand over her eyes to block out the sun as she squinted out over the sea, a hand planted firmly on her hip.

Pearl stood up straight and followed her gaze out over the water, expecting to find something there. She didn't see any landmarks of any sort, though. No islands, no other ships, nothing like that. The only thing she could note was maybe the birds circling over a particular part of the water. Maybe there was a school of fish in that area that Gem knew about?

"Are we stopping to catch some more fish?" Pearl asked, peering over the side of the boat to try and catch sight of some.

This would be the third time they've stopped to fish during their journey to the next town. She still didn’t understand fully why Gem couldn’t just get all of her fish from one area and be done with it. Something about different species and maintaining the ecosystem, or something like that. She hadn’t paid much attention; fish was fish to her.

"Mmm, no, more like a delivery this time." Gem said, tossing the anchor overboard.

Before Pearl had the chance to ask what she meant, something big moved underneath the waves. Pearl jumped away from the rail, her back hitting a barrel, which she latched onto to stabilize herself.

"What was that!?" She exclaimed. There were only a few things that large that came to mind at the sight, and none of them were good.

Gem laughed at the display as she rolled one of the barrels of fish over towards the side of the boat.

"That," She hefted it onto her shoulder with a grunt, the bells hanging from her headband twinkling with the movement as she planted one foot up onto the rail and tossed the barrel right over the side. It hit the water with a loud splash. "Was a good friend."

There was a moment of silence before something erupted from the sea, sending water flying in every direction. Pearl ducked behind the barrel with a shout as she was doused head to toe with salty water.

"Oh, come one!" Gem shouted with a bit of a laugh. What followed was an inhuman giggle, high pitched and almost similar to that of a dolphin's call. Pearl peaked around the barrel and her heart stopped cold when she was met with the familiar sight of what was unmistakably a siren.

Their webbed, clawed hands gripped onto the railing, holding their upper body out of the water. Pink and white scars covered most of their visible, pale skin, overlapping and criss-crossing each other in ways that suggested the healed over wounds were more likely than not intentional. Green scales the same shade as kelp started at their just barely visible hips and descended down towards what Pearl would assume was a tail of the same colour. There were fins on their elbows, and twitching gills along the sides of their neck.

Her gaze traveled further up towards a cheerful face covered in scars and a smile full of teeth sharp enough to tear her apart. The most noticeable one, and the one Pearl rudely could not tear her eyes away from, was a long scar that split the left side of their face. It was thick, jagged scar tissue that started at the corner of their mouth, cut through an empty eye socket, and went out of sight into their white hair, which was cropped down almost right to the scalp and messy.

"Did you have to splash me, too!?" Gem asked incredulously, wringing out her sopping wet braid.

"Of course not, but it was funnier." The siren answered in a voice far deeper than Pearl would have imagined coming from them.

"You've got to stop doing that when I bring new people around. You're such a pain!" Gem said, voice pitching higher as she ended her sentence off with a giggle.

"But you love me." The siren said, drawing out the 'e'.

Gem sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Unfortunately, yes I do." Gem said. She then marched over to Pearl and grabbed her by the shoulders.

Pearl let out an 'eep!' as she was pulled out from behind the barrel and presented to the siren. Was this Gem's plan all along? To feed her to a sea beast? To think that she came all this way only to end up right back where she started. She stood there stiffly as Gem threw an arm around her shoulders, pointed a finger up at Pearl's face, and said, "This is my new buddy, Pearl. Pearl, this is Etho. He's one of my oldest friends."

Etho raised a clawed hand and gave her a wiggly fingered wave, his eyes crinkling at the corners from the wide, toothy smile on his face. Pearl chuckled nervously and waved back, less enthusiastically. She wasn't scared of many other magical species, but sirens were one of her exceptions. She had a not so good past with them and their territorial tendencies. The scars on her legs and stomach pulsed with phantom pains just thinking about it.

"Anyway, with introductions out of the way, where're my goods Etho?" Gem said, releasing Pearl from her hold. Pearl immediately took the chance to step back and put the barrel between herself and the siren.

Etho's mouth made an 'O'.

"Oh, right! I'll be back in a sec." He pushed himself away from the small boat and dove back into the water.

"This guy," Gem said, shaking her head with a sigh. “He’s never prepared.”

"So, uh, why are we making a pit stop to bring a dangerous sea creature a barrel of fish?" Pearl asked, suspiciously eyeing the water that the siren had disappeared into. Gem turned to her and raised an eyebrow.

"Dangerous? Oh, please, Etho wouldn't hurt a fly," She said, and then paused, putting a hand over her mouth with a squint-eyed, thoughtful look, "Unless he had to."

"That doesn't make me feel better." Pearl said with a nervous chuckle. Gem's eyes widened and then her face split into a cheeky grin.

"Wait, are you scared of Etho?" She asked with a giggle.

"Who wouldn't I be?! He could eat me in a second flat with those big teeth!" Pearl defended, crossing her arms as her cheeks burned bright red.

"Nah, it takes sirens at least three days to eat a whole human being." Gem said, waving a hand dismissively.

"Gem!?" Pearl questioned, alarmed.

"I'm just messing with you!" Gem laughed, "But seriously, Etho won't hurt you, I promise."

As if summoned by his name, Etho surfaced not even a second later, sending another splash of water that just barely missed them onto the deck. Etho peeked over the railing with an excited look on his face, which fell into a pout when he saw that he hit neither of them with the water.

"Quite messing around, would you? Get up here and show me what you got me already, you big oaf." Gem said.

"i'm not an oaf" Etho said as he tossed a thick net full of junk onto the deck and heaved himself up over the railing. Pearl gasped and ducked behind the barrel again as the siren's lanky body hit the deck with a loud thump.

Pearl’s eyes widened when she saw that the scars weren't reserved for only his upper body. The scales all along his tail were patchy in places, thick scar showing through the gaps, and his tail fin was ripped in several spots. She couldn’t help but admit that she was curious what could have caused such extensive injuries to something as dangerous as a siren, a being capable of charming their way out of just about any situation.

Gem went to sit cross legged by Etho's side as he pulled the net bag into his lap, his tail folded to the side and out of the way. Perhaps getting the deck all wet wasn’t just to be a menace, but also to make sure he could sit up here without drying out too fast, she noted as her foot splashed in the half inch of water that had accumulated on the deck…How were they going to get rid of the water when he left?

Pearl stood awkwardly off to the side, not behind the barrels anymore but not far away from them either. She could hide if she wanted to. Not that it would help her escape from a siren song, but it was the thought that counted.

"Find anything good this month?" Gem asked.

"Meh, not really." Etho replied before pulling out a few beautiful shells from the net and handing them over to Gem, who took them with a noise of excitement. "I'll have to start going further out soon. I've just about picked all the wrecks from here to Sirens' Cove clean of anything worth something."

"Hm, don't go too far. I don't need treasure so badly that you need to risk your safety..." Gem muttered, holding the shells up to the waning sun in order to inspect them. "Gods these are beautiful. Pearl, come look at these."

"Uh, um," Pearl stuttered. She would really rather not go over there. In fact, it was the last thing she wanted, but then Gem looked up at her with the most innocent and expecting smile, and she just couldn't say no. There went her plan of hiding among the barrels until Etho left.

She hesitantly went over and sat on Gem's other side, folding her legs under her in such a way that it would be easy for her to dive to the side. Gem handed her one of the shells and she took it, turning it over in her hands. It was a pretty shade of rose pink and about the size of her palm. She didn't know what animal it came from, but it was beautiful.

She jumped backward when a clawed hand suddenly shoved itself into her face without warning. Her back hit the railing and her head knocked against the wood. She hissed through her teeth and rubbed the surely forming bruise as she looked up to see Etho holding a chain out to her. She looked back and forth between him and the salt water rusted chain before gingerly taking it from his hold.

It was a necklace with a rusty silver chain and a small clam shaped locket at the end. The hinges of the locket were definitely too rusted to get open, and the whole thing looked like it would fall apart in her hands at any moment. Despite this, she could tell that it used to be a beautiful piece of jewelry. Maybe someone on land would be able to restore it to its previous glory?

"For you. Because your name is Pearl," Etho said, looking proud of himself. Pearl raised an eyebrow. His face fell into a frown and he elaborated, "Clams make pearls?"

"Oh, thank you." She said, closing her fist around the trinket.

"Hey, I thought this was supposed to be my payment!" Gem exclaimed.

"It's still my stuff! You don't even take everything half the time, I can give away whatever I want." Etho defended.

The two of them glared at each other, clearly having some sort of a silent conversation, and Pearl felt incredibly awkward watching it. She was just about to try and mediate whatever fight they had going on, unwillingly to be put between an angry Gem and an angry siren, when the two of them poorly held back chuckles before bursting out in laughter. Pearl blew out a relieved breath and let out a chuckle of her own.

"I don’t want to cause any fighting," Pearl hesitantly said, holding the locket out to Gem.

"You can keep that, Pearl, we were just joking around." Gem said, holding her hands up and refusing to take the locket.

Pearl looked down at the piece of jewelry and then shoved it into her blouse without needing to be told twice. She wasn't going to say no to free valuables. She would likely sell it once they reached land. She would need as much money as she could if she wanted to start a new life, after all. Maybe she could get more for it by spinning an elaborate tale of how she stole it from a siren.

Slowly they went through the entire contents of the bag, trying to determine what was actually of worth and what was just visually appealing. Pearl wasn’t really doing much, to be honest; only taking what Gem handed to her and giving it a once over before handing it back. It seemed to satisfy the younger woman though.

Pearl would occasionally flicker her eyes over towards the siren sitting across Gem from her, still somewhat convinced until halfway through their sorting that he was going to eat her. Her worries were quickly dispelled, however, much to her surprise. He was almost childlike with his excitement to show off certain goods to them, his enthusiasm and mannerisms actually quite endearing.

She also saw how close he and Gem seemed, an almost familial bond between the two of them. They talked and interacted with such familiarity that Pearl was led to believe that this really was a regular occurrence for them, and they seemed more than happy to include her.

She felt her heart warm in her chest the more she watched them alternate between play fighting and gushing over pretty knick knacks together. Her lips quirked into a smile as she examined another pink shell. She wondered how she had ever been afraid of him.

In the end, they split the contents of the net bag into two piles that Gem had dubbed "Goods for Gem" and "Etho's junk", which he gladly scooped back up once they were finished.

Gem stretched her arms above her head and arched her back until it popped, and Etho yawned wide, his clawed hand itching one of the patchy spots on his tail. Pearl yawned as well, and then her stomach grumbled embarrassingly loud. Etho looked over at her and giggled, causing Pearl's face to light up red once again.

"I think that's my signal to get something going dinner wise." Gem said, pushing off of the ground to climb to her feet.

"I'm getting hungry too," Etho said. He pulled part of the net bag over his shoulder, turned halfway around, grabbed onto the railing, and expertly flipped himself over the side of the boat, landing in the water with a slap that once again dowsed Pearl from head to toe.

She sighed. She had just been drying off from the first time. She pushed herself up onto her knees, shook water off of her hands, and turned around to peer over the side of the boat into the dark water. There wasn't much light to be provided by the setting sun, but there was just enough to see the general shape of Etho's head poking out of the water, bobbing along with the gentle waves.

"Are you heading out, Etho?" Gem's voice asked from beside her.

"Yeah, I've left those fish down there long enough. I have to get them home, or something will eat them before I get the chance to." Etho called back up to her.

"Alright, then, take care. Don't be a stranger." Gem said, giving him a broad wave.

"Bye Gem. Bye Pearl. It was nice meeting you. Safe travels!" Etho said before diving below the waves. Pearl gave a tiny wave goodbye; not even sure he had seen the farewell.

"Still scared of the big bad siren?" Gem asked in a teasing manner. She was busying herself with lighting the lanterns hanging outside of the cabin.

"Not really," Pearl admitted, "He seemed really sweet."

"He is a sweetheart," Gem said, "We've been friends for years now, and I've been supplying him fish just as long. It's a heavy blow to my profit, but honestly, I don't mind doing it for him."

"You never did answer my question," Pearl said, "Why do you supply him with fish?"

Gem looked hesitant at that.

"He hasn't been able to hunt very well since the...accident that caused all of his scars." She said after a moment, blowing out a breath. "His sense of direction isn't the greatest, nor is his vision, both a result of that injury to his eye that you saw. He's also not the strongest swimmer, so he has trouble keeping up with most prey long enough to catch anything. Things like sea berries, kelp, clams and crab aren't hard for him to catch, so it's not like he *needs* me to hunt for him, but he's always had a liking for the fish in this part of the sea."

She crossed her arms and set them on the railing, assuming a position similar to what Pearl had been in earlier before Etho showed up. She looked down at the rippling water with a pensive look on her face.

"When he told me he couldn't catch them anymore, I offered to bring them to him every few months in exchange for some treasure." She continued, "Like he said, though, I don't really need any of the stuff he brings me. I just know that he wouldn't take the fish unless he thought it was mutually beneficial to the both of us. He has a lot of pride like that, can't even let me do something nice for him just because I want to."

She shook her head and chuckled sadly. Pearl was silent, studying Gem's grim expression. She was beginning to realize just how big the other woman's heart truly was. Really, she should have realized it right from the very start. Not very many seasoned fishermen with Gem's kind of reputation would just accept a stowaway with open arms, let alone feed and clothe them on top of letting them stay in the same cabin as them. She was one in a million.

"Enough of that," Gem said, pushing herself away from the railing, "It's time to eat. I'm starving!"

Pearl followed Gem into the small cabin without another word, throwing one last glance at the now pitch-black waves, almost expecting to see a pair of eyes watching her. The locket felt heavy where it rested against her breast.

A friendly siren; who would have thought it. Only the gods above knew what else Gem had in store for her.

#geminitay #pearlescentmoon #shiny duo #ethoslab #hermitcraft #Danny's fics #Heart of the Sea Gem #maybe i'll write more for this maybe I won't who knows #i didn't even proofread this one #i wanted it out of my head as quickly as possible #oh also in case it didn't come across well in the fic itself (which I doubt it did this was very rushed) Pearl is a mer #who gave up her tail to live as a human #gem doesn't know this and pearl doesn't know that gem is a sea creature of some kind as well #very few humans in the cast of this one

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dykeomania · 1 year

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𝒎𝒊𝒂'𝒔 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒔: untitled (02)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: finger-fucking. you like ellie's tattoo. the end

𝐚/𝐧: mid certified mia classic containing all of the certified mia themes like getting fucked absolutely dizzy and mutual obsession and abrupt endings. started off as just a silly goofy thought and became something a little bit hornier than that (it's not that bad) (but like). lack of solid plot theme and other potential issues given the reason of yes it was just a thought at first and also because it was composed at like 1/2am. i have nothing else to really say for myself.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: (edited, because i realized i forgot this) -- vaginal penetration, domtop!ellie, pretty foul language. watching ellie while's hand while she fucks you. think that's it

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.1k?

thinking about ellie's forearm tattoo,

being the only thing you can focus on as she's sat between your legs, stationed above you like a daydream, with her fingers so snug and deep inside your cunt that you find yourself laying there with wide, wet eyes and a stiff body, choking on every moan that's meant to be a breath but that comes out as something ripped and stretched. her brows are knit together in some weird mix of shock and determination as she curses under her breath about how she's never seen you this wet before. about how you're a fucking disaster. been itching for me to fuck you, huh?

it started with the hand that she's got splayed across your lower abdomen. the one pressing on that fucking spot that's nestled so deep inside of you, that every person you'd fucked before ellie had convinced you that it was an itch that would never be scratched. but ellie is hitting it like she's memorized the route -- which she did. passes over it with the rough pads of her fingers in an intentional combination of strokes and come-hither motions stemming from curled fingers, and then has the audacity to push her hand down against the lower part of your stomach and press on it externally. you didn't even fucking know that she could do that -- you didn't know that you would feel that.

the width of her hand splayed across your lower torso was godlike. was something out of a book, or a movie, how her hand fit your frame like it was fucking made to be against you,

and then you notice it.

it's not until you're shivering with pleasure. ellie's arm is burning, and your body is unable to decide what it wants to do between fucking up against her slickened palm in some fueled fit of greed and delirium or sitting up -- or fighting to, rather -- and watching her, in some awkward position only accentuates the tightening in your both of your cores. regardless, your body seems pretty set on gripping some part of ellie's arm. you find that clawing at her bicep makes her occasionally moan into your mouth,

you find that gripping at her forearm makes her fuck you faster.

and in the moment where you can't believe the speed and the strength at with which she is fucking you, all your eyes can do is hang on the grip that you've got on her forearm. her tattooed forearm, containing veins that bulge and accentuate the stems. the design of the fern that was once flat, and two-dimensional, and is now alive. new branches are created everytime her arm flexes when she moves in, and out of you.

for some reason, the sight is brutal. it makes you gasp. makes your pussy gush over her fingers and stop breathing before releasing an all too honest, too rooted, too teary-eyed, oh my god.

you don't manage to catch the way ellie's lower lip is caught between her teeth. nor the rosiness of her cheeks, or the baby hairs lightly sticking to the perimeter of her forehead, her upper cheekbones just beginning to gather a minor perspire-induced glow. you do catch how she looks at you, but it's only because she laughs a little. catches on too quickly. knows from past experience.

like watching me when i fuck you? gets you off watching you cum all over my fingers, doesn't it?

making such a mess all over my hand, babe.

your head falls back with some grating mix of shock and embarrassment, and the whines that leave your lips are your only bet at being able to vocalize the two.

it's cut short, because ellie's hand reaches to pull you up by your jaw, gentle and rough all-the-same,

keep looking.

makes you so fucking wet, can feel all you.

gonna keep fucking you so, so good, baby.

just gotta keep those eyes on me while i fuck you.

and you believe her.

you believe her as you feel your stomach constrict, and release. you believe it as you feel all of the air in your lungs catch fire. you believe it as the image of her tattooed arm fucking you becomes blurrier, as your lashes begin to gather moisture and stick while some stupid fucking look paints your expression on your face and your nails press deep, red welts into the leaves. you believe her as you mumble her name over and over and over again, as she momentarily presses your foreheads together, as she presses a kiss to the side of it, down the side of your cheek, down the side of your neck,

there you go, baby.

just like that, yeah?

yes, holy fuck, just like that. the phrase is something you think or sputter rather than say. some remnant of it garbles it’s way out of your mouth as you watch her, as you watch both of you. watch your hips stir into every thrust she makes, enamored, like the action was a memory of something you don't remember doing. watch as you let yourself accept it. start bathing in the sound of her fingers moving in and out of your cunt, of the friction caused by the base of her palm grinding against your clit. feel a tear streaking down your cheek as she moves works three, long, rough digits inside of you, like she knows you. like she loves you, or loves seeing you like this -- at this point, it has to be both.

to your ear, she whispers, somewhere mixed in the chaos, lips catching against the lobe of it,

i know, baby.

so good, feels so nice and tight around my fingers.

love fucking you like this, want you to cum for me.

one minute your legs are spread to let her in as deep as you can, and then they're straggling, knees scrambling to press themselves together,

yeah? gonna cum for me?

gonna make a mess on my hand, baby?

fuck, yeah. just like that, baby, cum for me.

take it all, and cum for me, just like that, just like that--

and the only time when you are able to pull yourself away from the sight, from the reality of a pleasure that was so impossible gifted to you from a girl so unreal, is when the world collapses underneath the arch of your back,

when her name leaves your lips embodying a literal, textbook, broken devotion,

while your pussy spasms and you wet the lower half of the fern that you were so focused on,

and is when your eyes roll. somewhere far, far into the back of your head.

#didnt proofread this at all we'll do that in the morning #i literally don't know what any of this means but at the same time like i do exactly and like #fuck it we ball #im noticing a theme #i wrote gp in a haze and posted it as a scrap and that's exactly what im doing here #oh well #i have Nothing to say for myself #ellie williams x reader #the last of us #ellie williams #joel miller #ellie williams smut

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sunananaa · 1 year

Note

howdy

so i was stalking ur acc, as i do, when i noticed that u hadn’t made bf texts for sae bbg???

what’s that abt???

so i took it upon myself to ask you to make some

please

FR THAT UNACCEPTABLE ON MY PART SORRY ABOUT THAT 😰😰😰

IVE DONE SO MANY INCLUDING SAE IT TOTALLY SLIPPED MY MIND 🤕🤕

THINKING OF MAKING A PART TWO CAUSE YOU CAN NEVER HAVE ENOUGH SAE AMIRITE 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

BF TEXTS

characters: itoshi sae

prompt: gn reader!, established relationship

warnings: swearing!!

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introspectivememories · 11 months

Text

at the center of gotham, lies its oldest public hospital — gotham general. it’s staff are kind and compassionate, if a little intolerant of bullshit. the city may not care about the crimes that occur in it but the people certainly do. gotham’s emergency services are renowned throughout the nation as one of the best.

the ER nurses at gotham general love to gossip and their latest is about how their ever-reliable EMT bernard dowd, who'll rush into burning buildings if he thinks he can save one more person, who smiles so brightly and brings them cupcakes on his days off but has such sad eyes, seems so lonely. they determinedly decide to find a date for him. maybe dr. zacharia thomas, their latest trauma surgeon? yes, yes! he's only a few years older, bernard knows him, they get along, and most importantly, he's got a stable job. he'll be perfect for their bernard!

and then, literally only days after they decide to set up dr. zacharia and bernard on a date, head trauma nurse marissa santos comes running in with a copy of gotham daily, clutched in her hand.

"look! look! nakita mo ba ang balita?" she whisper-yells, "did you see the news?!"

instantly they're all crowding around her, trying to see the paper. covering the front page is a blurry photo of a black-haired man engaged in a passionate game of tonsil-hockey with someone who is unmistakably their youngest EMT. he's still wearing his uniform for christ's sake! in the largest font known to man, "WAYNE'S NEW PARAMOUR?" is written at the top.

"he's dating the wayne ceo!" marissa gushes excitedly.

"isn't he a little too old for bernard?" someone pipes up from the back.

"not the father, you idiot! the son! timothy!"

that's way better than their candidate. everyone is stoked. by nightfall, everyone in the ER knows that bernard dowd is dating timothy drake-wayne, the youngest ceo wayne enterprises has ever had.

when bear stops by, at around 2 in the morning, dropping of the last patient from his shift, he's immediately accosted by the nurses.

"whoa! hey!" he exclaims as they lead him to the nurse's station and sit him down in a chair, "what's going on?"

marissa slams the paper down in front of him, "spill."

bernard groans and turns cherry red, "oh my god tita. don't you guys have patients to attend to?"

"already taken care of." nurse gu says.

"what about mr. gomez, the one with third degree burns that just came in?" bernard tries desperately.

"dr. zacharia is already on it." dr. esperanza responds, "so spill."

their youngest tries one last time, "how do you even know if that's me?"

"there are like 10 blonde people in the EMT department and considering all of them are older than you and none of them seem to have the three ear piercings that kid in this picture does, we're gonna have to assume it's you." dr. farah nasim, one half of the head of the ER, says.

bernard turns on her with a betrayed look.

"sorry kid," she snorts, "also, you're still wearing your uniform in the photo. it says 'dowd' on the shoulder."

"im too old to be bossed around like this." he mutters before sighing, "alright what'd'ya want to know?"

"tell us everything!" marissa says, "how did you two meet?"

"we were friends in high school and we fell out of touch after junior year. he hit me up on insta 6 months ago and we reconnected."

"oh my god!! they're high school sweethearts!" nurse gu squeals, "that's so cute!"

"tell us more! who asked who out?"

"okay well, technically he asked me out but he didn't know he was asking me out. but we went on this date at this restaurant and it got attacked by some villain and red robin, but he was going by robin at the time, rescued. so i told robin, 'hey if i make it out of this, tell tim drake, i would've liked to finish our date'. and then, tim, shows up at my door the next day and says 'i don't know what this feeling i get when i'm near you is, but i'd like to find out'. and the rest is history."

"bernard, what the hell?" dr. esperanza says shocked, "that's the most rom-com-esque story i've ever heard."

"what?" bernard blushes, "no it's not."

"bear," esperanza says slowly, "he showed up at your door and said 'i don't know what this feeling i get when i'm near you is, but i want to find out.' that is something straight out of the notebook."

"no, no! he's such a dork!" bernard assures them frantically, "he does this thing, when he laughs too hard, he snorts and it sets him off again and it just keeps going. and you should've seen him in high school, the biggest skater boy to ever exist. he's teaching me..."

and bernard goes on and on for the next 15 minutes, trailing off only when he notices them all smiling at him.

"what?" he says shyly.

"you're in love with him, aren't you?" dr. farah says.

bernard chokes, "what?! no! ...maybe?"

everyone shares a look between each other. marissa steps forward, "well on behalf of the gotham general ER staff, i can assure you, we all approve."

"thank you?"

"bring him around sometime!" nurse gu says, "we'd all like to meet him."

"why? so you can give him the shovel talk?"

"of course!" dr. farah says, smiling widely, "he’s dating our youngest! we have to threaten him!"

bernard's voice is suspiciously wet when says a few moments later, "thanks guys."

and so on it goes for the next few months until marissa comes back after her break, deathly pale. everyone worries but she refuses to tell anyone what's wrong. and then a few weeks later, nurse gu goes on his break and comes back shocked. and then a month later, dr. zacharia comes back from a quick step outside, lips sealed shut.

and on it goes until there is one glaring truth the gotham general ER night staff cannot ignore:

bernard dowd is dating red robin. open relationship or cheating, to be determined.

a year after the news about tim drake and bernard had been released, and half a year after the, what the staff has taken to calling it, Red Robin Scandal™ began, dr. farah calls a night staff meeting.

the staff meeting is boring as usual until the end when dr. farah opens the conversation to the staff to voice their concerns.

"are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?" dr. esperanza asks.

"i think bernard might be cheating on his boyfriend!" marissa blurts out before slapping her hands over her mouth, horrified.

“oh thank god.” esperanza sighs.

"wait you saw them too?" nurse gu asks.

"in the narrow walkway," dr. zacharia starts.

"between the ER and jacobson building." dr. esperanza finishes.

"exactly!" marissa says.

"i caught them in the parking lot once." dr. farah admits, mouth pressed into a grim line, "they were pressed up against the fence in the back — y'know where the light doesn't shine? — kissing each other like they'd just come back from world war 2."

"ay, how could that boy be so stupid?" marissa sighs, "getting caught up with a vigilante?"

"maybe it's like polyamory?" esperanza says, ever hopeful.

"whatever it is," farah says, "he should know better than to get involved with those people. we have to talk to him."

they pull bernard into an unused conference room, just the 5 of them, 3 weeks later.

"hey, hey!" bernard exclaims as they shove him into a chair, "what's going on?"

nobody speaks.

"guys?"

"are you cheating on tim drake?"

"what?"

"are you cheating on tim drake?" marissa repeats.

"no! why would you think that?"

"everyone on the night staff has caught you kissing red robin at least once. wanna try that again?" farah says.

bernard sighs, "is that what this is about? doc, i swear to god, i'm not cheating on tim."

"so he knows?" zacharia asks.

"yes zach, tim knows about me and red robin."

"and he's okay with it?"

"yes. tim doesn't mind me dating both of them." bernard says, a smile playing on his lips.

nobody speaks for a while.

"so..." bernard breaks the silence first, "are we good here? do you approve?"

"no." esperanza says, "we don't approve."

"what?"

"he's no good for you." nurse gu says.

"you don't even know him." bernard says incredulously.

"oh and you do?" zacharia says scathingly, "he's a vigilante bear. how much do you really know?"

"more than you zach!"

pleadingly bernard turns toward farah, "c'mon doc, you don't agree do you?"

"you know, when you first started dating tim drake, i had my reservations. rich people and all that. but i figured with all that money, if you ever got roped into rich people problems, tim's money would help out. you'd be taken care of and he clearly loves you, so i didn't mind too much."

"but this..." farah trails off, "i can't accept this."

turning towards marissa, "tita, please."

"don't do that, bear. wag kang tanga. it's not good to be with him."

"he loves me! is that not enough?" bernard near-yells, "i thought that's what you wanted. someone who loves me!"

"enough to quit being a vigilante?" esperanza asks.

"quit being a vigilante? are you guys hearing yourself?" bernard asks angrily, "he saves the city on a near-nightly basis and you want me to ask him to give it all up because what? he's dating me?"

"so let him save the city without you." nurse gu says, "why does he need to drag you into it?"

"he's not dragging me into anything! i am a full consenting adult! i chose him! what’s so different about what he and i do anyway?"

“well for one, our job is legal. and two, there are safety measures put in place so that you don’t get hurt. so that your coworkers don’t get hurt. your man walks into the joker’s lair with an inch of kevlar and a prayer on his lips.” zacharia says.

nurse gu sighs, "look. nobody here is mad at him for saving the city. everyone here knows somebody who has been saved by the bats. but the deal is that they save the city and they don't drag anybody else into it."

"the bats, whoever they are? they chose that life. for whatever reason, they chose that life and all the dangers that go with it. you’re not stupid bear, don’t get involved with whatever he has going on. pick literally anyone else.” farah says.

“you need a third person that badly? take zach! the ER was planning on setting you up with him before we found out about tim, anyway.”

“what?” zacharia says, rounding on nurse gu.

“you know what?” bernard says, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, “ i don’t have to explain myself to you guys.”

“you can’t marry him.” marissa says.

“who said anything about marriage? i’m 22!”

“you clearly love tim. you two seem like you’re going to last a while and if you love red robin they way you love tim, them somewhere along those years of being together then you’re going to start thinking of marriage. what then? how are you going to explain red robin to the people you love?”

“we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“look, bernard,” farah says gently, “we’re not doing this cause we don’t want you to be happy. you mean a lot to me, i think of you as my son. we just-”

“you’re not my mom.” bernard snaps out, “you’re not my mom, you’re not my aunt, my uncle, my brother. you guys aren’t anything to me!”

he turns and walks away.

“farah do something.” marissa hisses.

“let him go. he said he’s an adult right? then let him make his choices.”

“but,” she says, raising her voice so bernard can hear her, “if anything goes wrong, and i mean anything at all, i hope he knows that adults don’t have to do everything by themselves. that they can ask people for help.”

bernard’s hands still on the doorknob. “thank you.” he says voice rough, “nothing will happen, but thank you for the offer.” and he walks out the door.

bernard dowd, is 22 year old EMT that has too much heart and not enough brain. he’ll rush into burning buildings if he thinks he has even a minute chance of saving someone. he’s kind and he’s sweet and more importantly, he’s dating timothy drake-wayne, ceo of wayne enterprises.

if you ask the ER night staff at gotham general, after a lot of prodding, they might tell you that bernard dowd was one of the youngest EMTs to ever join the gotham county emergency medical services. they might tell you that bernard dowd has been wondering if he should become an AEMT or a paramedic. they might tell you that as the major receiver for all patients, bernard saw them all the time and imprinted on them like a baby duck. and if you’re really close they might, tell you the ER’s biggest secret: bernard dowd is dating both timothy drake-wayne and red robin. or they might just let you walk in on them making out behind the ER. whatever comes first really.

(if you get close enough to a certain group of people on the ER night staff, they’ll tell you that bernard dowd has two hands and he uses them to hold onto his boyfriends.

they’ll tell you that tim drake is a nice boy and they’re a little worried about their bernard fitting into the circles a wayne walks in, but he’s a nice boy who clearly loves bernard, so they’re not too worried.

they’ll tell you that that red robin character is no good for their bernard and has no business getting so close to their youngest. that red robin is going to get bernard into trouble one day, the kind of trouble that you don’t come back from.

and if you get really close to them, they’ll tell you over lunch breaks and muttered whispers, that both boys are going to break their youngest’s heart. and that if they had to pick, red robin will do it first. that their bernard loves a little too deeply and that they're worried that it’ll break bernard.

but they’re not too worried, they say. because bernard has them and if that bastard red robin breaks his heart, then they’ll pick up the pieces, they’ll sew him back together if they have to. after all, bernard stitches up half of gotham every night, this is the least they could do.)

#oh my god #what the fuck is this?#literally wrote this in a fugue state #this is not proofread #this is my ugliest first draft #my dumbest version if you will #why is this 2k #anyway #nurse gu's legal name is nurse gu #esperanza is gorgeous. like drop dead gorgeous. the best damn anesthesiologist you've ever seen. the yin to zacharia's yang.#farah is the smartest woman you will ever know and can give ten backhanded compliments w/o the other person realizing #marissa santos is filipino. bc filipinos are the backbone of our nursing industry #also she will cut a bitch. gives bear a plate of lumpia every week. is the reason bear is passable in tagalog #zacharia is your everyday indian. he is my sweet boy #he would've formed a crush on bear if he thought about for more than two seconds but alas #he is married to the job #also they mean well and they do raise some serious point but bc tim is also red robin it kinda... falls flat?#tagging time #tim drake #bernard dowd #timbern #dc #what should this be called #concerned friends try to save man afflicted by love au

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