#do a lil rework

[payphoneangel]

📝 Writing Patterns Tag Game 📝

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

Oooh how fun! Thank you for tagging me @shallowseeker 💞 I'm going to go in reverse chronological order to see how my writing style has developed as well!

Universal Donor When Sam applied to Stanford, he needed an ID, a permanent one. He decided to use Bobby’s address as his own, that was the only way he could know any papers Stanford sent would get to him safely, without Dad or Dean seeing. He crafts his fake drivers license carefully and delicately. Brown hair, hazel eyes, 5’11,” 150 lbs. He hesitates, for a moment, then writes “M” under sex. He pulls the license number off some freshly dead citizen of Huron, SD, as Bobby instructed. He looks again at the template driver’s license online, checking for anything else he’d need to add. At the very bottom corner, a little red heart sits before the word “DONOR.”

If I Believe You Dean pauses as he’s putting on his shirt, noting his body in the mirror. He’s wearing only his boxers. His eyes glance across the familiar rolls and splattering of tattoos. The freckles and the sunspots and the barest hint of wrinkles. Cas tells him he wears his age well. Dean tells himself he wears his age well. His eyes linger on his chest.

take my hand (hold on forever) Leviathan are so fucking loud. Tendrils wrap around Dean’s arm and waist, hoisting him off the ground. Dean plunges his knife into its side, and as a ‘thank you’ it howls right into his ear and sends him flying through the air. Landing heavily, he both hears and feels the crack of his chest before his head slams into the ground, hard. 

there's no cell service in the afterlife Castiel draws in a pained gasp.  He has lungs again, a mouth again. He opens his eyes, and the spinning floor of the dungeon welcomes him as he falls to his knees. He looks to where the brick meets concrete, the last place he saw Dean, the look of remorse and terror still seared into Castiel’s mind. Cas hears a thump behind him. He turns around. 

Not Whole, Not Holy A simmering feeling of longing starts to well in Castiel’s chest. It originates in the deepest part of his core, radiating outward in waves and fading into a tingling restlessness in his fingertips. He lets out a pained sigh, rolling over onto his side. The sunset glares a bright orange hue into his small cabin through the window. He covers his face with his arm, shutting out the dusty twilight, and waits.

A Midsummer Night's Dean “Y’know, I think Timon and Pumbaa are gay.”  Cas hums, considering. “Why do you think that?” 

Prelude It was a straightforward order.  Castiel finds the car in a small Midwest town, with only Dean inside.

Ask Me Why My Heart's Inside My Throat “Cas, you got your ears on? We got a problem we could use your help with.”  Dean’s voice resonates deeply in Castiel’s Grace. With a thought he flies to Dean, finding himself on a weathered fishing boat on the East coast. The ocean slaps against its side. The sky is swimming with the promise of rain.

Spellbound It wasn’t like he planned for this to happen.  Rowena held out her hand to Sam. “The crow beak, if you would.”  He had every intention— good and pure intention— of following Rowena’s instructions. But when they were in the same room together, she seemed to know exactly how to move and talk and even blink in the most distracting way possible. 

Long Black Cloud Coming Down Something was wrong with Sammy.  Course, they had just salted a spec. It was a shotgun rockin’ dug out salt’n’burn. Dean couldn’t exactly blame him for looking worse for wear. But there was an edge to the way he hunched over himself in the booth. He was bent like a paperback, folded and frayed. He looked sallow. Dean worried his thumb against the side of the linoleum tabletop.  Maybe it was just shitty diner lighting.

If anyone is interested in reading any of these, here they are.

Ah how fun to see them all lined up like this! I learned to be punchier with my intros as I went. My first couple of works start with big blocks of text, but I started playing around more with paragraph length by Take My Hand. And with the last two, I finally figured out how to write in past tense! Only took me 8 tries lol.

I think I developed a pattern for intros as I went: Short, punchy action/dialogue, followed by longer paragraph to explain the setting/situation.

It's interesting to see which characters/dynamics struck my fancy at any given time. I started with Sam Insanity, took a nice long stroll in the Destiel Enchanted Forest, then returned to my roots with more Sam Insanity.

Tagging: @kingflups @cutemothman @bloodydeanwinchester @kerryweaverlesbian and anyone else who'd like to play!

[honeybyte]

also the new program being. new. is why i went from posting several things a day to now having doodles at best from day to day. which isnt a bad thing! it means im actually thinking my way thru the process again instead of just churning out whatever comes to mind

[mysterious-shadow-dragon]

I remember watching ghs along the soul collector game some time ago then I remembered it again and got into a mood cause of it, so I tried my hand at trying to design a character based off the show/game.

This is Worn Teddy, I of course went with a teddy bear based character (there's a doll character in the show and game, so why not a teddy bear like c'mon) I don't know whether the settings of the show or game like she might've been a guest at one point but it didn't end well on her part.

I'd imagine she's a passive kind of character that's pretty neutral and polite unless purposely provoked, although making mad her would take a long time to do and honestly there's no guarantee she'll do anything as she is a low energy and no motivation type of person but she's kind just there doing her own thing at Gregory House.

[inkykeiji]

Would you ever consider doing a keigo series? Love your work💕💕

oh my gosh yes absolutely!!! i technically have a narrative keigo piece that’s been in the works for years (lmao, clari classic), tho i’m not sure if it’ll be like, a multipart series or if it’ll just be one huge massive piece. either way, it’s an AU (keigo-nii!!!) c: thank you so much bb!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Thou art sufficient. Thou wilt be chosen.

He tried to open his mouth to speak, but—since none of this was truly real, or truly words—no sound came through.

Something raised into the air above him, which was the first time he was able to conceptualize his position—the object itself was indistinct, white and gold– 

–and then it slammed down, cutting straight through his chest, and if he could move, he would have gasped and seized. It wasn’t pain exactly—or, it wasn’t just physical pain—it was something knifing through his heart and mind, tearing it open, a wave of screaming, howling emotion– 

The spear of white and gold removed itself, somehow, but it left something behind. A golden spike, still impaling him, the area around it rapidly soaking through with crimson.

What was not needed hast been removed. It would only have serve to upset thee.

What… was he… he fought to claw back the shreds of whatever-it-was being taken from him, but it was like grabbing at smoke. He’d been… trying to say something… he was… what was… going on…? He couldn’t recall… how had he gotten here? Why was he here?

This must be… what was meant to happen. If… he couldn’t remember being anywhere else… this must be where he was supposed to be.

He ceased fighting.

—

YOU: What does it think it’s doing! Look at what a mess it’s made, here! This is why you leave these things to the experts—and look at this! These edges are so ragged, it’s a wonder anything’s still there—

US: Well, leave it. There is something there. Mess around with it more and you’re just going to make it worse.

ME: No, no, you can’t just leave it like that… he’s going to be so miserable.

YOU: Let’s tidy up what’s left, at least.

More piercing stabs, these almost surgical in nature, cleaning the ragged edges of the wound, sewing it closed to stop the bleeding—

ME: Hey, don’t just throw that out—

–adding a certain finality to the missing piece.

ME: I don’t think this is a good idea… I think you might do more harm than…

US: Well, it’s done now. You should stop fussing and let him go.

YOU: The Creator better have a very good reason for doing all this. Or else, we, you and I will have words with it.

[zvaigzdelasas]

Been trying out my pinephone again w latest updates & so far (w manjaro-phosh) things seem actually pretty usable - almost even 'nice'!

[vamprnce]

I hate feeling conflicted abt sm2 bc it is really cool and I do like it but idk I feel like some parts weren't my thing exactly

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt my bndori ocs again... I need to draw them more I love them all sm

[wildflowercryptid]

i really hope we get to learn more about the suspects before the game comes out, getting to see what characters i get to interact with always hypes me up the most.

[tvrningout-a]

what if i type out the lil snippet i have drafted for rin... what if i give you a lil glimpse into her character and the world i'm creating... what if...

[wilhelmina-murray-harker]

finally started working on my golden record story again (to hopefully finish it and publish it in my school’s literary magazine thing) and the planet I picked to have my aliens be from got a name which is cool but also means now I have to go back and edit things to take the name and mythology of that culture into account instead of what I had before

[starxscream]

I hope my question is not silly but is the new oc blog replacing SATC? Or is it like another universe or a revamp?

Not a silly question at all! It's essentially a revamp/expansion of the existing world that was created in SATC! Cadenza City was severely limiting to what we could do since it was ... only one city- so we made the new blog to encapsulate both SATC and other stories with other characters that we want to tell. So while SATC was only centered in the capital city, Cadenza City, mirakelousworld captures the entire world of Mirakae where Cadenza City is only a part of it amongst tons of other cities and countries and whatnot

ill probably wrangle Beelze to post the map he made of Mirakae onto the blog cuz it's Sick

@puppetgenders post the map whore (lovingly)

[autism-corner]

love my puter

[chisatowo]

I ❤ making convoluted hcs for inkling and octoling "hair" styling stuff that I will proceed to do nothing with.

[mintmatcha]

-ownership

cw: cisfem reader. it's smut, but a little sad if you squint, but still smut. piv sex, biting, bruising. Just a lil drabble i reworked lol.

He smells like someone else's soap, a bleak reminder that, even when he's under you, Togame Jo is never truly yours.

His glasses are tossed aside on to the floor, open and face down, so there is nothing to obstruct his heavy lidded gaze and it's deep, green grasp. His sweatshirt is pushed up just enough for you to get a glimpse of where his happy trail ends and his pants are still around one leg, planted on the floor. The other leg is tucked up on the couch behind you, pressed against your ass to keep you in place. You're just far enough above him that he can't quite sink his cock in, instead just clumsily fisting it through your petals, through the mixture of your wetness and his precum.

"Come on now," he says. "Don't make me beg."

But he is begging. His body betrays his nonchalant attitude. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, his downward turned lips part with a want laden breath. You swear there's even the hint of a wrinkle between his brows, the ghost of agony-

"Come on-" Togame's hands both travel up, tracing over your lower back is short, desperate movements. They settle on the small of your waist, squeezing in tiny, rough bursts. "Babe."

You shake your head and he groans, slamming his head back into the arm of the couch. The still wet tendrils of his hair are starting to curl around the base of his neck. His desperation fuels you. You curve your spin and cup your tits, putting on as pretty a show as you can muster, just for him.

"Maybe I want you to beg for it."

"Fuckin', god, come'ere."

You expect him to pull you down, to force you to sit on to his cock, but instead, he jerks you forward. The surprise knocks you on to your hands, and he scoops forward, catching your lips against his. The kiss is deep, breathless, and feral, teeth bumping against your bottom lip as he dips in for more. The hot press of tongue against yours steals your resistance; you fumble below you, fingers closing around his cock as you guide it inside you.

He open-mouth moans into the kiss when the resistance gives and he sinks inside. Togame reflexively bucks up into you, deep enough that you squeal from the sensation.

"That's it." He falls back, still gripping your waist. He uses the connection to guide how you move; he likes a little bounce, just enough that your tits jiggle, not enough that his cock falls out. His eyes flicker between your chest and face, always looking down his hooked nose with a soft, smarmy satisfaction. "That's my fuckin' girl."

The strain on 'my' makes your chest ache-- and your pussy clench around him.

"Yeah, you like being my girl." Togame says, relaxed despite how his cock twitches. "My girl, my pretty fuckin' thing, dripping down my balls, take what you need-"

The grey of his sweatshirt is damped with sweat: yours and his. You ride until your thighs quiver from the effort, until your core is molten and tight with want and the squeeze of his palms somehow burns hotter-

"Slow down, lemme enjoy this." Jo grits out, even though he's the one who's been urging you faster and faster. "Wanna enjoy my baby all night."

You lean back against his thigh again and catch your breath. "Do you say sweet things to all of your girls?"

The humor drains from Jo's face.

"Oi." He sits up too, pressing on to his elbows. He's quick to snatch your chin in his grasp. "The fuck does that mean?"

Those green, green eyes find yours.

"Hurts my feelings, yeah?" He tilts his head to the side when you look away. "When I say my baby, I mean it. My baby. Just one."

His voice is soft enough that you believe him.

But when he dips in to kiss you again, he still smells like someone else's shampoo. You try to focus on anything else: how he ruts up into you lazily, how his breath still tastes of oranges from earlier, how he hums a happy little note when you kiss back.

You want him. Sexually. Obsessively. Solely. You pull away from him and drag your lips down to his neck. His adam's apple bobs against your cheek as you suck a hickey into the side of his neck.

"Aw, shit." Jo's back arches up at the pain and you only suck harder, adding the hint of teeth along with it. "Haaa, okaaay-"

When you inspect your work, the skin is mottled and red, broken capillaries are blossoming: proof that you're been there. The muscles below are tensed as he sucks in jagged breath after jagged breath. Your teeth ache to sink in again, so you do, leaning into the other side of his neck greedily.

"Yeah, do it again. Make it fuckin' trashy." His voice is is low and airy. "Mark me up good, own me."

When you hollow your cheeks, he whines high, arms crossing around your back to hold you tight.

"Yeah, that's my fuckin' girl."

[carmenized-onions]

Doing Too Much. | House Call

logline; Appliances can reach their breaking point, when you push them too far. Same goes for people.

[!!!] series history, this is the sixth; First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth

[New Thing!!] Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin' added to.

portion; 4.8k

possible allergies; eatin' meat, besides that, we're pretty good actually. did somebody say calm before the storm....?

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (no pronouns, but girl is said a couple times, i believe.)

After this chapter, I'm entering my era of couch hopping as I move to a new city n start a new job. I'm really excited for the chapter after this one, so hopefully I actually get time to write it-- But that's just my lil warning if you're left rereading for like two weeks </3 But I'll def be stalking my activity/inbox so please do yap to me

Monday morning. The next morning after everything. Well, closer to noon than morning, at this point. You’re supposed to have, what, a work ethic this week? After the most insane weekend of your life? No. You’re lazing around and doing fuck all. No matter who calls. Well… Not completely no matter, but like, most people.

When you check your phone, you’ve gotten a text at 6:43 A.M. Unknown number. Ah. Carmen. You put him in as Carmy, and put his nickname as ‘Mister New York’. Listen, old nicknames Mikey ingrained in your brain die hard.

It’s a simple text, deeply un-romantic.

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

Then, four lines of four perfect categories. Flawless. Purple first, even. The hardest category. And then,

‘Morning’

Stupid. Incredibly stupid, to be enamoured, by this. You reply,

‘Good morning!’

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

And then a failed jumble of coloured squares, you get one out of four categories. What the fuck is 'dogleg' and since when has it meant taking a sharp turn? You follow that up with,

‘Fuck you.’

Aside from Carmen, you’ve actually gotten texts from a couple people. Your boss at Eden’s asking if you’re alright. What the fuck did Cicero say? Oh well. You tell him you’ve ‘been better, been worse. Will be okay by next week.’ Perfectly vague, and you still get wired your cheque and tip out. Alright, maybe Uncle J does deserve your free labour.

Speaking of, the next text on your itinerary is from Uncle J, just info for the winter nuptials of Vinnie and Mira. Oh yeah. Three-hundred guests, you remember that part. You also remember him saying it’d be an ‘easy gig’… He did not mention you’d be the only bartender. This is going to be a nightmare. Oh well. You text back that despite it being an open bar you get to put out a tip jar. He just reacts to it, ‘haha’. That sounds like a yes to you.

And then, adorably, a selfie from Syd, wearing the collar and pins you’ve gifted her, under a green sweater. Cutie. You hype her up accordingly.

Besides some texting though, Monday is relatively unbusy. No calls. No emergencies. No businesses knocking down your door for your services. You’re thankful for a break, letting the inertia set in, finally being able to relax after fix after fix after—

Tuesday comes, you get sent another perfect round of New York Time’s Connections around half past six in the morning, along with a good morning text. And again, you fuck it up. You send him your Wordle results this time, as an act of rebellion. You then ask,

‘How’s reworking the menu going?’

‘Hard to say’

‘Ask me tomorrow’

God he’s an awful texter. Horrifically dry. You know you’re down bad beyond a belief when you find that endearing. You spend Tuesday drowning and pruning your plants after depriving them for so long.

Plus working on your art piece for Carmy. You’re pulling out old film photos, a canvas, and a load of bleach—It’s like high school art class all over again— Surprise surprise, the handyman who loves to up-cycle is a mixed media artist. Who could’ve guessed?

While trimming a photo, an exterior of The Beef, a picture frame on your wall falls down behind you, you tut, turning your head to it, chastising the air. “Mikey! It’s a copy, relax! I’ve still got the original print…”

There’s every chance you’re insane— No, you’re definitely insane. But you’re allowed to be, your best friend died, you’re allowed to talk to the air as if he’s still around. Sometimes the timing of doors swinging open for you and things falling down are just too uncanny to not be a ghost.

Wednesday arrives, and again, just after 6:40, Connections results. And the Wordle, this time; plus a ‘Good Morning’. It looks like this is simply just your thing, now. Every morning, the second both of you get up, you send each other puzzles and wish a good morning. You don’t mind that. It’s nice to have a ‘thing’, with someone. With Carmen.

Part way through the day, around two o’clock, you get another text. Two, actually. From Carmen, in quick succession.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Don’t worry if you’re busy. Can call Fak’

You’re quick to reply, frankly deeply offended.

‘Are you fucking firing me????’

‘I’m gonna get ready. Text me details’

While getting dressed, you watch three dots bubble, bubble, bubble… He’s taking forever, just don’t look at it, you’ll get anxious for no reason. No jumpsuit today, you’ve got to switch it up every now and again. Navy cargo pants with the perfect number of pockets and zippers, and an orange Chicago’s Kindest shirt, tucked in. Hm. Looking in the mirror, hickey is still there. Lighter, but there. Foundation? No. You’ll sweat it off and that’ll just bring up more questions. If Syd asks you’ll just tell her you fell down the stairs… On your neck. She's not the type to confront anything remotely sexual anyways.

Speaking of Syd, before Carmen can text you back, she calls you, which is fair— Don’t leave a Carmen to communicate. You stick your phone in the crux of your neck and answer while you pack your utility belt. This feels nearly nostalgic. “What’s fucked?”

Carmen is in the background; you can hear the tail end of a sentence, grumbling. “—Don’t call—”

“My life.” She responds without missing a beat. “And also, Carmy’s stove and oven.”

“Oh.” You squint. “What the fuck happened?”

“Overuse? I actually don’t fucking know, it just stopped working. We plugged it in and out— He even reset his apartment’s breakers. I dunno what’s wrong with it. It’s probably got something to do with him putting his fuckin’ jeans in there.”

“…He what?”

You can hear him in the background, again, clearer this time, grimacing, “What are you doing to me?”

Syd does not mind him at all, continuing, “I know! He’s fucking weird!”

“He’s extremely weird.” You like him a lot. “I’ll be over soon, were you guys like, mid-cooking?”

“Yessir.”

“Christ, alright… I think I have a dual burner hot plate laying around somewhere, you want me to bring it—”

They both speak clearly this time, together, “Please.”

You’ve got a pile of things to give to them anyways, and maybe you miss Carmy’s face. Just a little.

Instead of just buzzing you in, Carmy comes down for you. When he sees you through the door window, carrying a cardboard box, he almost breaks into a full run. He’s somehow opening the door, grabbing the box from your hands, and chastising you all at the same time. “You should’ve left it in the car, I would’ve—”

You step in through the entryway and kiss his cheek, cutting him short. You can’t help yourself, it’s the first time you’ve seen him since and you feel like a giddy teen. The teenage girl in your head is no longer just in your head, she’s fully manning the station. “You’re very sweet. But it’s also not heavy.”

When he continues to be frozen, the regret starts to mount, “Is—Sorry, is that okay to do—?”

“It’s very okay to do.” He manages to reply, with haste. Nodding to himself. “It’s good.” He nods again, then marches off, expecting you to follow to the elevator. You do.

“What floor?”

“Eighth.” He sniffs; you press the button. He stands next to you, looking you up and down. He astutely observes. “Orange.”

“Yeah.” You smirk, looking back at him, “Turns out, businesses can have two colours in their designs.”

What’s a little roasting of fellow small businesses between two not just friends?

“Oh yeah?” Coy, smirking. Oh no. You’ve gotta get the teen off the controls. He tilts his vision to stare at your jacket. Ah. You opted to wear your Carhartt instead of his jean jacket.

“Didn’t wanna give Syd more questions.” She already guessed you’re a sugar baby, you don’t want to wrap Carmen in on that too. Especially since ideally in a month or two he’ll be your boss. Hm. The Bear is going to need an HR.

He hums, nodding. “We’re not telling Syd?”

“What’s there to tell?” You grin, crossing your arms. “You suddenly have free time, Bear?”

He takes a beat, thinking, then just takes a deep frustrated yet amused exhale. “I’m gonna fuckin’…” He can’t think of a threat. “…Get you.”

You snort, “You’re gonna get me?”

“Fuck you—!” “You’re gonna fuckin’ get me, Bear?”

“I—” He tries to hold a straight face, it doesn’t work. “Yeah, I am.”

“Can’t wait.” You nod, grinning, turning back to the doors. “You told me to ask how menu’s going tomorrow.”

“I did.”

“It’s tomorrow.” The door dings, opening on the eighth floor; you step out together. He switches his grip to hold the box in one arm. Alright Biceps, we don’t need to brag here...

“It’s… We’re getting there.” He grimaces. “Syd’s recipes are always… Almost perfect.”

“Ah.” You nod, you know your friend well enough to know where this is going. “And she fucks up one thing hard?”

“Mhm.”

“And when you tell her it’s okay and give her a hand she just feels worse?”

He nods. A touch surprised you’re right on the dot so quickly. “Everything ends up perfect, but I think she’s finding the edits…”

“Demoralizing.” You walk down the hall together, he nods. “I know what she needs, I’ll find an in.”

“You always do.” He hums, you walk just a touch ahead of him, unknowingly walking past his door. He pulls you back by the back of your jacket, making you stumble back into him. This seems to be this villain’s intention; as when you turn around, he’s quick to grab your chin and kiss you.

“It’s very good.” He emphasizes, again, before opening his door and acting like everything’s totally normal and fine. Since when did he turn the tables and make you the desperate one? Son of a bitch.

Ah. Actually, subtract any attraction you had in this moment— He lives like this? Books on the floor, by the window. Jeans on the dinner table, because they were in the oven. The kitchen actually looks alright— You’re almost certain that’s purely for utilitarian purposes while they’re working on the menu. This motherfucker better have a bed frame or him asking you to sleep over would be downright offensive. God, he’s wonderful. God, you’re an idiot.

You find Syd at the table, moping, head in hands. Carmen sets the box down, sitting beside her. You pat the top of her head. She silently moves one of her hands to go over yours. You nod. The silent exchange of girls who know.

“Yeah?”

She nods, grumbling. “Yeah.”

Carmen has no fucking idea what’s happening and he’s never been more intrigued by a near wordless social interaction in his entire life. What? You’re not even making eye-contact. What the fuck is happening?

You fish through the box with your free hand, grabbing a pot. You place it in front of Syd. “Look.”

She peeks through her fingers. A tiny but flourishing nursery pot of basil sits before her. You speak. “You’re gonna hyper-fixate on this basil I’m gifting you, and then you’re gonna crack back into it with the dual burner until I’m done fixing the oven.”

She nods, putting her hands in her lap, “Yes, Chef.”

You pull out a second nursery pot, setting it down for Carmen. “For you.”

“What for?”

“Basil grows like a motherfucker and it’s getting unhinged. I need to start pawning off to people that’ll make good use of it. A-K-A, chefs.” You look at Syd, pointedly, “Talented chefs.”

You hand off the heating pad— Wrapped in brown paper with a card tied to it, to Carmen. “For Nat.” You add, when he looks confused, “Can’t imagine I’ll see her sooner than you will.”

He looks even more confused, when you hand him a spray bottle full of reddish water. It’s one of the good spray bottles, too. Continuous. Carmen wouldn’t know the difference, but you do. “Rosemary. —Water, that is.”

He squints; you clarify, gesturing to your own hair. “You mentioned, losing hair, so— Thought I’d make some, with the trimmings of rosemary I had. Got ginger and cloves in it, too.”

Why have you trapped him in hell? You’ve remembered such a specific off hand from days ago and acted on it? And he can’t express the grandiose level of affection he feels right now? Are you serious? You’re the devil. You’re absolutely the devil. He just coughs out a ‘thanks’.  

“And, the pièce de résistance,” You pull out the old ass, boxed up double burner countertop stove. “A stovetop that ideally fuckin’ works. It was my single claim to fame in my college dormitory.”

Carmen’s already opening the box. Sydney smirks, curiosity peaked. “Was that legal?”

“You a fuckin’ RA?” You grin, poking her forehead. “It was not. And that’s exactly why everyone loved me— Didn’t serve them fuckin’ hot pockets.”

The configurations of Carmen’s apartment would be great for literally any occasion besides the current one. The kitchen is narrow, and so, when you pull out the stove to check the back, there’s an estimated no fucking room left for Carm and Syd, so they sit at the dinner table with your stove top. You’d think they’d look like they’re doing a cute hot pot. No. They look like two conflicted and confused twelve-year-olds working on a science project.

So do you, honestly. Wiring is definitely more your speed than plumbing, but if you’re being honest, this is the first oven you’ve worked on without your dad, and you’re having a hard time remembering everything. There’s a lot of embarrassed Googling on your phone, when you're sure they’re not looking. They can’t know you’re even slightly incompetent!

You’re pretty sure it’s just a couple damaged wires, fried from overwork— Easy fix, if you had wire. You don’t. Slightly harder fix. But soldering is your bitch really, you’re in your bag. You look stupid, wearing chunky goggles and a respirator, but you’re in your bag, baby! What’s that one saying? Skills make you hot? That’s not a saying.

But it is true. When Carmen’s able to peer into the kitchen, quickly looking over his shoulder when Syd takes a moment to write a measurement or direction down, you look stunning.  Respirator and all. You just look correct there, in the kitchen. His kitchen. So stunning he feels guilty. Do you find it annoying? Constantly fixing errors behind him? Probably. You say it’s not a lot of work, but that can’t be true.

“How’s The Bear, ‘sides menu rework?” You ask, raising your voice in the kitchen.

“S’good.” Carmen. “I’m in hell.” Syd. Not hard to tell which statue is lying, here.

Syd stutters on, “Nat’s takin’ care of baby Michaela— Which is very good and—and cool, actually.”

“But?”

“But we’re back to handling the business side entirely ourselves, for like— The next month. Maybe two? Fuck, are we doing the wedding without her?” Sydney almost burns her sauce, Carmen’s quick to move it off the burner.

He mutters, “Don’t even start to think about it. It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“Oh yeah, wedding— Have you gotten your menu yet?” You call from the kitchen, muffled by your respirator.

“Oh my god!” Sydney exclaims, and Carmen is wincing. She can’t tell you things are going wrong; doesn’t she know that? You’ll fix it, if things are wrong. You always fix it. Fix him. You’re gonna put him in your phone as Carmy Bad News. If you haven’t already. Start a support group with Tif.

Syd continues, “They’re so fucking particular and somehow also vague—Like, ‘we want salmon and chicken’ for main course— What kind of preparation? ‘Surprise us!’ Okay, how about roasted chicken—? ‘Mmmm, no, not that’. I’ve been told ‘non quello’ at least ten times in the last four days.”

No, you’re witty. Bad News Bear. Fuck, that’s definitely his name in your phone, isn’t it?

“Fuckin’ nightmare. Y’know, I’m the only fucking bartender? For like three hundred guests? Thank God they’re not asking for a custom cocktail or anything, I’d lose my shit.”

Sydney laughs, and she steps back into her flow easily, reducing the sauce without burning it, now. She looks more serene than she has in days. What? How are you doing that? What are you doing? Are you casting a spell?

“Can you even fucking imagine what their couples’ cocktail would be?”

You groan from the kitchen, laughing in return, “Not you too, Syd! Must you make me work!?”

“C’mon maestro, make a cocktail!”

“Bleh. Uh… They give long island iced tea energy, but it’s a wedding so— Like a boozier negroni?”

“That sounds fucking disgusting.”

“I didn’t say it’d be good, I said it’d be their couples’ cocktail.” You’re both giggling, like school girls. It’s like you said— You become teens, together.

Despite the fact that Syd is making an incredibly complex dish, and you’re fixing an oven—His oven— Ridiculing the other impossible tasks set out for the both of you… Despite all of that, you’re laughing.

Carmen is, what, nearly thirty? A restaurant owner, with a full crew, who attends Al-Anon, and is only now truly registering the power of an unsolvable burden being shared. Not fixed, shared. Talking. Laughing. God, this all comes so easy to you, doesn’t it?

You finish soldering, test each burner, and the oven— All working, thank God. You quietly cheer in the kitchen, removing your respirator and goggles. “We’re good here! Fixed!”

“C’mere!” Syd calls out to you, and so you do. Eagerly. She hands you a fork. Unprompted, she does the thing. You’d missed the OG, really.

“Beef Oxtail, pressed in a Foie Gras casing, seared. Basted in a King Oyster mushroom sauce. Pureed greens on the side.”

“I never know what the fuck you’re saying.”

She pushes the side of your face with the palm of her hand. “Put it in your mouth and chew.”

You want to make some sort of kink joke, but you respect the already struggling man in the room and take a bite. Hm. Hm. You put a finger over your mouth, swallowing. “...Now it might just be my unrefined palate.”

“That’s why we have you try it.” Carmen pipes in. Syd nods, following. “It’s important to know the baseline.”

“…It’s got like,” You hand the fork to Syd so she can try it, while you think. “A bit of a bitter aftertaste? Which might be the… goal?”

Syd spits it out the second it touches her mouth, she shouts your name, your actual name— A rarity. She’s so terrified that she forgets the Walk-In bit she’s been in on all week. “I just fuckin’ poisoned you— Oh my god?! Are you good? That was— Fuck! You swallowed that?!”

She grabs your face like a concerned mother, also maybe to check if you have superpowers, you’re not sure. All you know is there’s a golden opportunity to make another sex joke and you have to hold back. Life is so unfair.

Carmen takes a quick taste, also spitting it out. “I’ve got it, Chef, don’t sweat.” Immediately looking to the drafted recipe card to see where they went wrong.

Syd almost squeezes your cheeks like a stress ball but thinks better of it, letting go, groaning, beyond frustrated at this point. “You shouldn’t have to fix it— I should fuckin’ have it, at this point.”

Carmen's trying to ignore how much he relates to the sentiment. He's not the focus, right now.

“We make mistakes, Chef—” “Syd.” You snap your fingers, pointing to her, interrupting Carmen. “Can you help me grab something, from my car? It’s kinda big.”

Carmen’s quick to chime in, already going to untie his apron, “I can—”

“No!” You look at him pointedly, trying to communicate through look alone. He kind of gets it? “It’s… Girl stuff.”

Syd squints. “You need me to help you carry a big girl thing?”

“…Are you fuckin’ helping or are you gonna poke holes?”

“What are you actually dragging me out for?”

“Technically I do actually need your help grabbing something, it’s just not a girl thing. And it's also not from my car.”

“Oh?”

You walk out of Carmen’s building with his keys, and gesture out to every apartment buildings treasure trove— The spot everyone throws their furniture when they move out and don’t know what else to do with it.

“Bookshelf!” There is actually one pristine looking bookshelf, a cheap one, definitely just something from IKEA. But it’s better than the fucking floor. “I spotted it on my way in, we’re gonna bring it up for Carm.”

She groans, hating the concept of manual labour, but still walks with you and grabs one end anyways. “Why didn’t you make Carmen carry his own bookshelf?”

“Because you need a fuckin’ pep-talk.” You pick the other end of the bookshelf up. It’s thankfully not that heavy. You walk backwards so you can keep facing Syd.

“…I don’t—” “Yes the fuck you do.”

She kisses her teeth, you frown. “What’s up, Adamu?”

“It’s just fucking annoying— I keep, I keep fucking it up. I keep—Keep—”

“Doing too much.”

She gives you a look, ‘are you serious?’, type look. You continue. “You’re doing too much. You’re not cooking like you.”

“I can cook like Michelin—”

“I never said you couldn’t. Watch your step.” You interrupt, walking over a bump in the sidewalk. “You can do star level shit, Syd. But that’s a grade, not a type.”

She kind of reels, at that. You continue, “You cook great complex dishes, you always have, I’ve tried them. But now, you’re all caught up trying to prove some shit, to Carmen, to—to— Who gives stars? The tires guy?”

She laughs, almost dropping the bookshelf. “Yeah, I’m trying to impress the tires guy.”

“Fuck you.” You snort, stepping up the stairs. “What I’m trying to say is, you should make what you want to eat, not what you think you should eat.”

She nods, you stop on top of the stairs, both taking a second to breathe. “…Thanks.”

You nod back, hands on your knees for a second before standing back up, opening the lobby door. “I’ll always be your cheerleader, Syd.”

“More like coach.”

“Can you let me have one hot girl career, please?”

When you get back up to Carmen’s, he’s already grimacing. You and Syd are split apart by the bookshelf standing between you in the hall. “Fuck is this?”

“It was free and I’ll clean it!” You press your hands together pleading. “C’mon, you can even put your jeans in it!”

“Jeans on a bookshelf?”

You turn to Syd. “Better than the oven.”

“I think he’s doing that to dry them.”

“I think it’s ‘cause he doesn’t own a dresser.”

“It’s both.” Carmen clicks his tongue, single-handedly picking up the bookshelf and carrying inside. Alright, does he need to show off this much? Whatever. It’s definitely not making you feel any type of way at all.

You squint, watching him walk further in his apartment, and then to Syd. You speak at the same time. “He stays doing too much.”

As promised, you wipe down the bookshelf, making sure it’s free of grime and roadside pests. Syd and Carmy work together in the kitchen, with a now functioning oven. You load the shelf up with the books on the floor— Thankfully they’re piled into categories already, so you don’t have to bother him about that.

You’re tempted to clean his living room, but that would probably be rude, right? Don’t want him to take it as you saying he’s a slob. But they are taking a while… Alright, you’ll just throw out trash. You won’t fold blankets or pick up dishes or anything. Just trash! No big! He can’t be mad at you for that.

You pile together the garbage, then sneakily throw it out in the kitchen trash can as fast as you can, before he looks. He’ll think he’s just sleep cleaning, or something. “How’s it goin’ in here?’

Carmen pipes up, eyes focused on the dish as Syd plates it. “Good.” Syd holds the plate in one hand, and silently corrals you with the other to sit at the table. You do. She sets it down the plate before you, handing you a fork and knife.

You look up at her expectantly. She shakes her head. “Eat first, this time.”

She looks serious, so you nod, cutting into the dish. It’s different from the last one. Instead of oxtail, it’s pastry. Or at least, a puff pastry exterior. You’re pretty sure it’s Pillsbury, you remember Carmen buying that, the other day, on your excursion.

Inside it, you believe is the beef oxtail, there’s other things, too. Some sort of sauce, some greens— Oh well, no time to bask in the cross section because Syd looks like she’s about to explode. You take a bite. You nod, chewing.

Syd starts, “Searing the duck caused the bitter taste— So instead of- Of searing the outside, I coated it in the mushroom sauce, the greens— Not pureed, this time, for texture. Your basil, too. There’s a crumble of feta, for a subtle tang. And then wrapped it all together in puff pastry, and baked. It’s sort of like, a varied take on a beef welling—”

“You made a fucking gourmet hot pocket?” You swallow, wheezing. The second you say this, Sydney’s focused face beams, laughing, like she’s just pulled off the most perfect prank of all time.

Carmen was so intrigued and focused on Sydney’s explanation, that you watering it down to hot pocket and being right makes his entire system reboot. He cannot stop smiling, aghast. He's been helping Syd make a hot pocket for the past hour?

“I told you to make what you want and—” wheeze “—you make a fucking hot pocket?!” You double down, laughing with her, she’s trying to defend herself but she can’t stop wheezing in tandem.

“I— I can’t fuckin’ stand you!” You snort, covering your face with your arm. “I hate your ass, oh my God, Syd.”

“Did—” snort “What did you think?” She recovers, slowly but surely.

You shake your head, handing her the fork. “It’s sick, Syd, obviously, it’s fucking perfect… Chef.” You tack on at the end, almost forgetting. “I’m not gonna be able to have an actual hot pocket, ever again. You’ve ruined my life.”

She takes a bite for herself, nodding. She does a small cheer, pumping her fist. “Let’s fucking go.” She points her fork at you— Purely on muscle memory, and you both instantly remember the days of her testing out recipes and you pairing them on first taste. She’d point her fork to you like a microphone. It was a fun game between two nerds.

It’s a reflex response for you, even now. “Barolo. Savory, dry, red. A young one, though. Light body. Could also do an Amarone, if you’re not buried in money.”

She hands the fork off to Carmy to try it, then writes the pairings down, mumbling, amusement still in her voice. “How the fuck do you do that?”

“I honestly don’t know. I think I have some wires crossed.”

“Fire, Chef.” Carmen swallows his bite. “We cannot call it a hot pocket on the menu.”

“Then what’s the point!?”

Leaving Carmen’s place is objectively the most awkward experience— But also the funniest. You offer to wait for Syd and drive her home— You’ll need a second to pack anyways while they make their business plans.

When you do offer, of course, Carmen stutters short, almost asking you again to sleep over or at the very least stay late, but saves it, realizing himself.

Syd accepts the ride offer. You pack up and wait for her to be done. When she is, Carmen offers to carry your things down with you both, in which Syd accuses him of thinking you’re both weaklings— He does not have a defense case for this, he has to let you go. You can tell he wants to kiss you at the door, and you do too. Sadly, you’re equally down bad, but he can’t know that…

You say your goodbyes, Syd helps you load your tools and hotplate in the trunk of your car. Your phone vibrates. Text from Mister New York.

‘Look up I’m on the balcony. 8 floors.’

You look up, sure as shit, he’s out there, cigarette in mouth. Unlit. He waves, you wave back. He texts again, in rapid succession.

‘Thank you’

‘For helping Syd’

‘And the oven and the hot plate and the bookshelf (not necessary)’

‘nbd + I think it’s v necessary’ Does Carmen understand acronyms? You’re risking it, here.

‘and cleaning my trash’ Sonofabitch.

‘ah fuck. I don’t think you’re messy!!! I just wanted to help!!!’

‘I know. You’re you. Be safe.’

Oh goddammit, stupid dry texter, saying something so gah. You jump as Syd taps the roof of your car behind you, getting your attention. Watching from a far distance, Carmen laughs, though you don’t notice it.

“Are we going?”

“Yes! Sorry!” You hurriedly pocket your phone, waving one last time as you get in your car. Syd sits beside you in shotgun, her pot of basil sat safely in her lap. You drive off.

You’re half way down the road, when Syd pipes up again. “So y’all are fucking, correct?”

You almost brake check the guy behind you.

 “How do you fuckin’ do that!?”

the opening is dedicated to my dear friend and i who have sent our wordle results to each other everyday for the past like year and a half.

Things of note, one - people usually skip the shit up top-- I made a spotify playlist! Listen if you like, I'm not your dad.

Two, I know this is a self insert right, i know what I set myself up for-- Do you know the hell i am in as a syd x carmy girl writing scenes with both of them and it NOT being them? What have I done, to myself? The only coping mechanism I have is imagining in this universe Syd is a lesbian. And that is helping.

The hot pocket recipe-- Who fucking knows, if that would taste good? I think it would? In theory? I fucked with a dish from Daniel NYC, to make it into a bit. Would it work? ....Beef wellingtons do, I can't see why this can't???? Idk man.

Rosemary water w cloves and ginger does fucking work btw. I am part of the so stressed out i lost my hair brigade. Also basil does grow like a motherfucker.

We're seein' a little bit of that tenseness that comes with being in an 'almost relationship' both of them feel like they've got something they can fuck up now. Poor birds. They'll be okay. Probably.

I'm really excited for the next chapter, I don't wanna give shit away, but it's gonna be,,,,,, different. I haven't seen anyone try this kinda formatting on tumblr before, and I'm excited to see what you think. Between my moving and how complex the choreography of it is gonna be, it's gonna be a much longer minute between this chapter and the next, I fear. But listen, you already knew your ass was gettin' spoiled with a chapter every two days. Hehe.

As always, please come yap to me in the replies/inbox/dms/reblogs. I love to hear thoughts!! It sustains me, baby!!

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