superxovas

[superxovas]

Being a girl is: wanting to go to bed early but deciding to just get on tumblr/wattpad/Ao3 for a little bit and then end up finding a fic series that you really like and read until well past your usual bedtime then keeping on because it’s already past your bedtime. Then being mad when you wake up in the morning because you overslept your timer.

[superxovas]

Sure sex is great but have you ever read a fanfic by an incredible author and then realized they have 30+ other fics in the tag?

[superxovas]

ugh !! this brought on so many feels, so many emotions !! it really does warm the soul right on up with so much comfort !!

Aftermath of a Full Moon

Remus Lupin x Sirius Black x James Potter x Fem! Reader Tags: Fluff. Remus recovering after a full moon. Word Count: 2.8k "You sure you feel alright?"

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Remus' head had been pounding all day.

The sting from the frozen ice pack over his eyes was nothing compared to relentless pounding inside of his skull. It had been going on for hours now, creeping its way in as a mild headache early that morning to escalating to a full blown migraine attack as the day went on.

Now it was an hour past dinnertime, and Remus wasn't any better. Remus hadn't eaten a single thing that day, but with how horribly sick to his stomach he felt, he wasn't sure he would've been able to hold anything down.

This wasn't the worst migraine he'd ever experienced, but it was bad enough to knock him out of commission for the day. He had skipped all of his classes today, too exhausted and too miserable to even attempt to attend.

Remus was nauseated beyond belief. His eyes felt like they were borderline burning they were so hot. He was achy in his neck and shoulders -- and not to mention, the throbbing pain in his head hadn't let up in the slightest.

The most recent full moon had been a hard one. Some months were simply better than others, and this hadn't been the best...nor the worst.

Remus hated how inconsistent he felt after each full moon.

Some months he would bounce back in a day or so. Other months, the recovery could last for weeks -- and by the time he felt better, it was time for the full moon again.

This one was rough on him, and he was definitely feeling it.

He had been in bed all day. He was still wearing what he slept in the night before, and he was lying in nearly the same position that he was in when Sirius and James left for the day.

Remus hadn't seen a stitch of daylight that day. Both because there were a series of thunderstorms rolling through for the next couple days and because he had drawn the curtains, leaving himself in the dark for the entirety of the day.

Any kind of light or noise agitated him, and at this point, Remus was willing to do anything to make it stop. Remus had done nothing but lie still and listen to the rain and thunder. He knew it would pass, but that wasn't any kind of consolation when he was going through at in that moment.

Remus didn't have any clue as to what time it was. It felt like it had been days, but he knew that once James and Sirius returned, that would mean it was the end of the day.

You, James, and Sirius left early that morning when they caught on that Remus wasn't feeling well, and they hadn't been back since to give him some quiet and space. You were worried about him because it always broke your heart to see any of them not at their best.

Remus hadn't given any of you much of a proper interaction that day, which all three of you understood given how bad he was feeling. Still, Remus felt a tinge of guilt for being so distant.

As if on cue, he identified two heavy pairs of footsteps outside the door, which he knew meant the arrival of his two best friends.

Remus was glad his eyes were covered when they opened the door because the light beaming in might've pushed him over the edge.

"Hey mate," James spoke as quietly as he entered, knowing that any kind noise just made it worse. "Any better?"

Remus could only shake his head, swallowing hard and continuing to focus on his breathing.

"If you're still feeling sick," Sirius reached into the pocket of his robes to retrieve a small vial of a medium orange colored potion. "I snagged you a dose of this stuff. I think it's a hard swallow but will settle the nausea."

Sirius left it on the top of Remus' trunk that was on the floor at the foot of his bed, and Remus croaked out a thank you.

"Thanks, Pads. I'll get to it in a minute," He shuddered. "I'm scared to move."

Remus had finally found a position to lie in that was semi-tolerable. He hadn't moved an inch in hours, and he was beginning to lose sensation in his limbs.

Sirius and James left the lights off, using their wands to navigate the room.

You were always a bit nervous whenever Remus was having a hard time after a full moon. He was so sensitive in every aspect after a moon, you always worried you'd make it worse.

That's why you were extra quiet when you moved around and didn't say much -- and when you did speak, you were very soft spoken.

Remus hadn't heard you walk in because of this, and he was feeling bad for not paying you any attention for the last couple days...particularly today when he really went down for the count.

"Where's baby girl?" Remus asked, and your head perked up. "She in her dorm tonight?"

"No, she's here." James flashed you his movie star smile.

"Hi, Rem." You said softly, sticking close to Sirius and lingering around him.

"Hey pretty girl," He responded genuinely, but not even a ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "I didn't hear you come in."

You didn't say anything else, only listening to Sirius and James talk to Remus.

"We brought your assignments," James said, referring to what he had missed in class that day. "It's not that much. You'll have the weekend to do it."

"Yeah. And [Y/N] brought you some leftovers in case you get hungry." Sirius said.

You indeed were holding a wrapped plate of food from dinner, which you had forgotten about until Sirius mentioned it. You left it next to the potion for Remus to get when he wanted it.

"Thanks, bun. You didn't have to do that for me," He said, pressing the ice pack further down onto his eyes. "I'll get to it when I feel more settled."

"Drink that potion, mate." Sirius said. "Promise it'll work wonders."

"Why don't you take it to him, baby?" James suggested, and you silently obliged.

Remus heard your feet creep to the side of his bed, glass vial in your hand and uncorked. Remus reached his hand out, taking it into his grip when you placed it in his palm.

Remus raised his head just enough to gulp down the bitter potion, setting his head back down as soon as it was in his system. He handed the now empty vial back to you, giving your wrist an appreciative squeeze.

He noticed that you scurried away as soon as he dropped your hand, which only made his guilt of neglecting you worse.

"You're staying the night, yeah?" James asked you, referring to how you still had your school bag and shoes on.

You only nodded, setting your bag down gently next to Sirius' bed and unlacing your shoes to go with it. Sirius and James shared a look, both of them picking up on how you were acting.

And maybe, just maybe, you had a bit of a soft spot for Remus that was different from Sirius and James. Seeing Remus like this was hard on you.

And Remus knew he wasn't the most pleasant to be around after a bad full moon. He was irritable, short-tempered, and just overall not feeling well. And there had been a time or two where Remus had snapped at you or said something that hurt your feelings.

Remus always came around and had a conversation with you, apologizing and explaining that it wasn't your fault.

But all it took was one time for you to be pretty shut down when Remus was coming off a full moon.

They knew you were pretty reserved when Remus was like this, so they didn't think too much of it.

It was going to be a quiet night for everybody, since Remus was going to need the quiet and darkness to keep his head from exploding off of his shoulders.

The next hour or so went by, and the three of you were silent as you traversed through the room, choosing tasks that didn't require any noise or high energy.

James was stationed at his desk, using nothing more than his desk lamp to do his homework and work on some Quidditch things. Sirius was sitting on his bed with a deck of cards, working on some new trick he had learned from somewhere. You were laying on your stomach, flipping through a new Muggle novel that you had picked up from a friend.

Remus hadn't said a word, still lying flat with his eyes covered and head pounding. As the minutes passed, you couldn't stand to see him like this.

Most of the time, the best thing to do was to leave Remus alone and let it pass -- but it pained you to see him so pitiful. You closed your book, shifting to go to get off the bed. Sirius caught your gaze on Remus and knew what you were headed to do.

"Hey, pup." Sirius whispered, grabbing your ankle that was next to him to stop you from approaching him. "Moony's not feeling so good. Let's give him some more time, yeah?"

Remus heard Sirius, of course -- it was so quiet there was no way he couldn't. Remus couldn't deny you like that, not after he'd been so far the last couple of days.

"No, s'alright," Remus sat up very slowly, tossing the useless ice pack that was beginning to turn room temperature at the foot of his bed. "C'mere, bunny."

Your eyes looked to James, who only gave you a nod of approval. Still, you didn't move.

"I don't want to make it worse." You fiddled with your fingers, bending them nervously and hearing them pop.

"Not gonna make it worse, my love." He shifted to make room on his mattress, groaning at the aching in his muscles. "Come sit."

Sirius gave your backside a light tap, pushing you into motion. Your feet shuffled to Remus' bed, your body slowly crawling onto his mattress and snuggling next to him. He wrapped an arm around your waist, his hand resting on the outside of your thigh.

"You could never make it worse," He pressed a kiss to your temple, sighing as he held you close. "It was just a rough moon this time."

"Do you feel any better?" You asked.

Truthfully, he didn't. The potion had settled his nausea, but for the most part he still felt like he had all day. But he could tell you were worried, and he didn't see any sense in worrying you further.

"A little bit," He said. "I think I'll drink a dose of Sleeping Draught tonight and be good as new tomorrow."

Sirius was still shuffling his deck of cards, giving you a reassuring smile.

"He's gonna be just fine," He said. "Promise."

Remus nodded in agreement, chuckling when you snuggled closer to him. In a way, he felt better having you close to him. He always loved having you around, and knowing that you weren't sore with him made him feel better.

"I'm sorry I haven't seen you much this week," He apologized, kissing the crown of your head when you rested your head on his shoulder. "I owe you one, hm?"

"No, it's okay. I knew you weren't feeling well." You said.

"You're so patient," Remus laughed. "I don't know how you put up with us sometimes."

Sirius and James both laughed at that because they agreed...and found it ironic considering Remus was the least difficult of the three.

"Can I sleep with Rem tonight?" You asked James, since it was technically his turn to have you tonight.

Remus' heart did a joyful leap, but he looked at James for a response. It wasn't often that there was a change in the rotation, but there were special occasions where you wanted to switch it up -- and most of the time, it wasn't an issue.

"Up to you, mate. I don't mind." He grinned.

Remus looked at you, smiling at your eyes that were all lit up at getting to spend time with him.

"Sure, doll. How about you get one of your blankets from your dorm so you don't get cold tonight?"

The suggestion hung in the air for only a moment, a gentle reminder of the care that was woven into the fabric of your relationship. You were up on your feet in seconds, giddy with excitement as you rushed out of the room to make the journey to your dorm to return with what you would need for the night.

The three of them laughed at your eagerness, taking that as a sign to start winding down for an early night in.

Remus knew he needed to eat something before bed, since he would feel sluggish in the morning if he didn't. Remus reached over the end of his bed, taking his plate of leftovers into his lap.

"You sure you feel alright?" Sirius asked, reaching into his trunk to toss Remus a plastic utensil.

Remus caught it, and started taking small bites and chewing slowly.

"As good as I'm gonna feel tonight," He sighed. "A night of sleep should set me straight."

Remus hadn't realized how hungry he was, which wasn't surprising considering he hadn't eaten all day and had been preoccupied trying to get some relief.

"Do you need anything else?" James asked.

"Nah. I'm alright," Remus replied. "Just don't tell her I'm still feeling bad."

They understood what he meant. Remus never wanted to cause any trouble, and he definitely didn't want anyone making a fuss over him. If he needed help, he would ask.

Remus did his best on eating, clearing about half of what you had brought him from The Great Hall. It wasn't much, but it was enough to provide him some fuel.

Remus showered too, which was the most he had done all day. He stood under the stream of hot water, hoping it would melt away some of the tension and pounding in his head. It didn't do much other than refresh him a bit, but even that was a nice feeling to have.

Remus re-entered the dorm with a fresh T-shirt and sweats, laughing when he saw you were already snuggled and settled in his bed, curled up with your book to get a few more pages in before it was time to go to bed. Sirius and James were also in their beds, finishing up their tasks for the night.

"You always know how to make yourself at home, huh?" He teased.

You looked up from your book, a small smile on your face.

"I guess it's a habit now." You closed the cover and set it aside.

He moved towards his trunk, opening it and retrieving a vial of Sleeping Draught. He swallowed the dark blue potion with ease, hoping it would kick in quickly.

He moved towards the bed, the exhaustion from the day still evident in his movements. But there was a spark in his eyes now, a spark that hadn't been there before. He climbed into the bed next to you, his body sinking into the familiar comfort of his mattress.

His hair was still damp from the shower, the droplets of water catching the faint light in the room. He looked at you, his eyes reflecting a quiet kind of happiness.

He kissed your cheek when he pulled you close, whispering in your ear as you got settled.

"Did you tell Siri and James goodnight?" He asked, and you nodded.

"She did. With plenty of sympathy kisses for little Jamesie." Sirius laughed, and James launched a pillow at his face.

Sirius shrieked and continued to cackle and poke fun at James who really wasn't hurt in the slightest.

"You're fine, baby. Enjoy being with Moony tonight," James smiled genuinely. "I'll have you tomorrow."

You weren't listening much to their conversation. You were more focused on Remus, watching his eyelashes flutter as he kept his eyes closed to keep his head from pounding worse. He could feel himself growing sleepy, and he hoped that sleep would surely take him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" You asked, eyes wide and full of concern.

Remus had been asked that question for what felt like a million times that day -- but he appreciated the care.

"Yeah, my love." He kissed your forehead. "I am."

And Remus would be okay with a little more time. He would wake up the next morning with a clear and pain-free head, with nothing more than some mild fatigue and a desperation to see something other than the walls of the dormitory.

And over the next few days, he would spend his time making it up to you -- spending every spare moment he had with you and giving you as much affection as he could spare.

Remus would be alright. With you, he always would be.

[superxovas]

now I have some time what would you like to see me writing soon <3

[superxovas]

this is so adorable that it hurts !! goodness, i can practically hear the way remus says every little word - so perfect !!

heyy i absolutely love your writing and i wanted to ask if you could write something for remus?? <3 I’m having a surgery soon and i’m a bit nervous about it so if you feel like it, could it maybe be about reader having surgery and remus calms her beforehand or takes care of her after? thank you so much for sharing your amazing work with us, ly!!!! <3

Hi lovely, thank you for requesting!

cw: hospital, reader is a bit out of it due to anesthesia

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 907 words

Remus doesn’t think you belong in hospitals. You don’t look like yourself, all swathed in white. White sheets and a white gown and white fluorescent lights that make your skin look pale and thin as paper. He’s been rubbing the back of your hand absentmindedly as he waits for you to wake up. It feels stupid, comforting you while you can’t feel it, but when your eyelids twitch he’s glad he is. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says softly. Your eyes find him, sleepy and unfocussed. “Glad to have you back with me.” 

There’s a tiny divot between your brows as you survey the room. “Did I do it?” you croak.

“Yeah.” The word leaves Remus in a laugh, and he can’t help reaching forward to brush a piece of hair away from your face. When you lean into the touch, his heart splinters. Something about seeing you like this makes him want to swaddle you in blankets and spoon-feed you soup and kisses for the rest of eternity. “Yeah, baby, you did it. You’re all done.” 

“M’glad,” you sigh. “I told them I wanted to bring you, and they wouldn’t let me.” 

“Yeah, I remember.” He grins, recalling your doped-up argument with the nurse. The cute pout that had stayed on your face throughout. “I was there.” 

“Mm.” You hum as though vaguely recollecting his presence, though Remus had been the one to finally get you to calm down and go on without him. 

Your gaze fogs over, and for a long time you stare at nothing, features relaxing. Remus is content to let it happen. He’s never minded sitting with you like this, both of you lost in your own thoughts and the love between you humming and incandescent in the air nonetheless. He’s watching the slow drooping of your eyelids, wondering if you might fall back asleep, when suddenly you perk up. 

“Rem—Remus.” You sit up, reaching for him. 

“What?” You’re pulling your IV. He stands from his chair and leans over you to grasp your forearm, pinning you as gently as he can to the bed. “What is it?” 

“You haven’t kissed me hello.”

Remus can’t be held accountable for whatever passes over his face in that moment. He’s too surprised, and you’re too cute. It’s unbelievable. 

“Well, it’s not really a hello,” he reasons. “We’ve both been here the whole time, love.” 

You scrunch your face up as though you’ve tasted something sour. “Don’t play mind games with me. I almost just died.” 

Remus is fairly sure you’d come nowhere close, but he doesn’t feel much like arguing. He bends over you carefully, pecking you on the lips. Your lips are warm and a bit chapped. He makes a mental note to dig your chapstick out of your bag a bit later.

When he pulls away, you’re frowning. It doesn’t do wonders for a man’s ego. 

“That wasn’t a real kiss,” you complain.

He chuckles. “We’ll have more kisses when we get you home, okay? There are people around.” 

You glance towards the door. “There’s no one here right now,” you say, as if there aren’t doctors and nurses passing by every five seconds. “Just a quick one. I really missed you.” 

Remus glances towards the door, too. It’s a bit public for his taste (and usually, for yours), but he can never really say no to you when you’re being all sweet and earnest like this. He sits on the bed this time, heedful of any wires or tubes, and melds his lips to yours slowly. You take his face in your hand, your mouth pushing with almost too much force. Remus pushes back, but tries to slow you down with a hand on your shoulder. Soothing. You whine. 

He pulls away quickly, thinking he’s hurt you, but you don’t let him get far. You’re clutching the material of his shirt like a lifeline. 

Your eyes are wet. 

“What is it?” Remus asks, panicking. 

Your eyebrows bunch, pulling upwards in the middle. It’s a crumpling. “I love you,” you say, “so much.” 

“Sweetheart.” Your crying makes him want to cry, but Remus does his best to laugh through it, hoping to get you out of this mood before you’re fully in it. He kisses the first tear as it falls. “I love you too. That’s nothing to get upset about.” 

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s too much. I love you so much it hurts.” 

“I know what you mean, darling.” 

“You do?” 

“Of course I do. If I let myself think about it too much, I’d never stop crying. You’re a real burden to me, you know that?” 

To Remus’ relief, you laugh. Wetly, but still. “Especially when I almost die, I bet.” 

“You know you didn’t actually almost die, right?” He narrows his eyes at you. “I feel like it’s important that you know that.” 

You only blink at him, befuddled. 

Remus nods slowly. “I guess someone will be wanting to know you’re awake,” he says. “I’m going to go find a nurse.” 

He stands, but you hold fast to his shirt. “Wait,” you plead. 

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Hm?” 

“One more kiss.” 

“I think you’ve had enough.” 

“One for the road. Please.” 

Remus shakes his head, grinning. “You’d never consent to this much PDA if you weren’t so loopy right now, you know.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Back in a minute, love.”

[superxovas]

Petition to introduce the trope of cuddle pollen. Like sex pollen but way more wholesome. Imagine your touch starved fave getting all the cuddles.

[superxovas]

i adore this so much !! as a girlie on her period now, i needed this !!

Reader has pcos because the girlies need rep too

Remus comes into the house and finds you laying in the floor curled up in your blankets, a bottle of water and the stuffed turtle he got for you recently.

“Any reason you’re on the floor, dovey?” He’s just come back from work, a short pop in just to make sure he’d handed in all his stuff so he could make the most of the weekend with you.

“Cramps,” is all you can manage and he nods, stooping down so he can touch your forehead.

“Want me to make a cup of tea? I think we’ve got chamomile and lavender still.”

You shake your head and a series of cramps attack you worse than before.

“Baby,” Remus’ voice is all sympathy as he sees tears pool in your eyes. “I’m gonna make it for you,” he says quietly, his thumb wiping away the tears that tumble down your cheeks.

He’s gone a total of five minutes, and comes back to you struggling to sit up. “Do you want painkillers, dove?”

You shake your head, “We don’t have any of the ones I usually take and I don’t wanna make you go out again.”

Remus tuts but helps you onto the sofa, handing you the hot cup of tea and sitting beside you.

With ease that only comes from familiarity and routine, Remus takes your calves into his lap and start massaging them.

“Thanks Rem,” this is a regular occurrence, though it does confuse you. Your legs get numb every couple of days while you’re menstruating and Remus works hard to encourage circulation into both your legs so that you don’t end up laying on the floor.

“S’nothing, least I could do was make you feel a little better,” he kisses your temple. “Hate that you’re hurting so bad.”

You lay your head on Remus’ shoulder, “I think it’s a cyst too, that’s why the pain is so terrible.”

Remus only coos, rubbing your back because he knows there’s not much he can say that’ll offer aid.

“Think a heating pad will help?” You shake your head.

“It’s not so bad right now.” Remus chuckles.

“I love that you think I can fix anything baby, but I don’t want you hurting.” You nod, but don’t let him get up as you sip your tea.

“Not hurting. Maybe in ten minutes,” you reason.

Remus doesn’t mind sitting and waiting but he’d much rather have the heating pad on and ready for when you need it.

“Can we watch ‘10 Things I Hate About You’, in the mean time? Haven’t watched it in forever.”

“Course we can dove,” he kisses your forehead. “We can do whatever you like.”

[superxovas]

i absolutely adore this series && its impeccable characterization. it'll break your heart but in the best way !!

New Person, Same Old Mistakes

After multiple rewatches of The Bear over the last month, I've been sucked back in and couldn't think of anything else but Carmen Berzatto.

Here's part one of four of a little something about our favourite depressed chef's years in NYC.

Part II, Part III and Part IV

He looks like he doesn’t really want to be here. At this date. If you could even call it that. 

A drink tomorrow night. How does that sound?

I can’t meet up at nights. Work. 

Oh.

I can meet you in the morning.

For breakfast?

Why not?

Why the fuck not?

A non-date you hauled ass all the way from Brooklyn at the crack of dawn. 

An over-exaggeration, but it’s one you feel entitled to. You’ve taken a 46-minute train ride for breakfast with a man who looks like he just crawled out of bed. Which is a miracle since he looks as though he’s been up for days. It’s not just the exhaustion that rolls off him, there’s something else you can’t quite find the word for. You wanted to turn back the moment you saw him standing outside the bodega. 

But for some reason, you kept walking. Equal parts curiosity and obligation. You made it this far, might as well see it through.

Also—

He was by no means unattractive. Looked a lot like a coked-up Gene Wilder, if you were being honest. Clad in a tight, albeit wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of vintage jeans. Redline Selvedge. You concede to the fact that he somehow managed to pull off the ‘I got ready in under two minutes’ look quite well. Messy. Understated. Kind of hot. It was his hair that really brought it all together, sandy locks that stuck out in different directions like he’d run his hand through them over and over. 

Your hand twinged at the thought.

Every time he lifted his arm to take a drag of his cigarette, you distinctly noticed the way his bicep bulged under his sleeve. 

Christ, that’s…something.

He noticed you walk over and offered you a sort of smile with the raise of a brow, and fuck if it wasn’t endearing. 

You finally took proper notice of his eyes. Blue. Crystalline. Ocean strong waves of azure in the warmth of sun-lit currents. They were strangely emotive, despite his face remaining fairly impassive. Despondency echoed through them quietly. They were a far cry from what you saw online. 

You still admired them when you were scrolling through Tinder and came upon his profile. He had one photo - he wore a white coat in it, the ones that the guys on MasterChef wear. Like it was a professional headshot. He stood, leaning against a metal worktable with his arms crossed. Hair slicked back, with a ruminative look on his face. But his eyes—

They were hollow. A sepulchral for all sentiments buried deep within. 

His bio read:

Carmen, 29

Chicagoan. CDC at Eleven Madison Park.

That’s all it said. His name, age, and profession. Like it was a fucking resume. You scoffed at the bare effort he put in. As if a picture and a brief description of his occupation were enough to lure the ladies in. Just as you were going to move on to the next man in a series of disappointments, you accidentally swiped right and matched with him. 

Hours of scrolling and a bottle of Pinot later, it seemed like he was your best and only option. So you messaged him. He was good-looking enough if only a tad underwhelming in what he put forth. What was the harm in trying him out? 

What indeed?

Seeing him in the harsh light of day, he looked entirely different from the put together guy you saw on his profile. Still good looking, just—

Tragic.

That was the word you were looking for. 

“Carmen?” 

“Uh, yeah.” He flicked off his half-smoked cigarette to the side and wiped his hands down his jeans before offering you one for a shake. It feels rough but warm. Calloused. A worker’s hands. Hands that could tell chronicle a novel’s worth of stories, you’re sure. You can feel bits of raised skin across his palm, around his fingers. Little scars littered all over. You want to examine them all. 

You turn your wrist underneath to see a tattoo on the back of his, a knife piercing the hand. 

Christ. 

A few seconds pass as you examine the rest of his tattoos. He has a pair of cherubs holding up a Sun on his upper arm, and a snail with the words ‘Live Fast’ underneath. 

Your gaze drifts over to his other arm—

You’re interrupted by an awkward clearing of his throat and you realize you’ve been holding on to him, shaking his hand for the better part of a minute. You let go immediately, your palm still tingling from the feeling of his. The air kisses your skin, it’s light, empty, remiss of the character you found in his touch. 

“Sorry, I was just—“ Your eyes meet his once again and you’re lost. 

“It’s cool.” He mutters. “I, uh—“

“So what’s the — Sorry, you—“

“No you go—“

“I—“

“Sorry, I don’t—“

The two of you stammer over each other in constant apology before you finally put it to a halt with an uncomfortable laugh.

“I was just asking what the plan was.” You look around the block, nothing but the bodega seems to be open this early. “Where are we going to eat?”

“Right…here?” He looks at you with mild hesitance, pointing towards the bodega. 

“We’re eating breakfast here?” He has to be joking in an oddly genuine way because he looks like he-

Oh God. It’s not a joke. 

You woke up at 7 am, got onto the subway, and switched three trains for a fucking BEC.

He looks at you in deepening discomfort, a little sheepish, only just realizing that this may not be the ideal date most women have in mind. His eyes brimmed with repentance. 

Those eyes.

“It’s, uh- it’s fine!” You say with an overstated tone of cheerfulness. “I’m starving, anyway.”

“Right.” He looks unconvinced but opens the door for you, nonetheless. 

“‘Uarda, Carmy!” A woman, probably in her late 60s, seated behind the counter broke into a smile as the two of you entered. “The fuck ya been, huh?”

“Work, Lucia.” His tone conveys ire, but his face betrays him. 

He looks at the woman with softened fondness as she fusses over him. She’s loud and over-exaggerated in her mannerisms, hands animatedly gesticulating every word. All the while, Carmen — Carmy, stands there indulging her every word with the occasional apologetic glance spared your way. 

It’s a charming sight, watching the two of them talk. Lucia is loud and mothering and Carmen is reserved.

“Didn’cha mother teach ya any manners, boy? Who’s the darlin’ behind ya?” She finally ends her tirade of ‘the fuck you been?’, ‘never show ya face ‘round no more’, ‘eat a lil’ somethin’ f’fuck’s sake’ and notices you. “Don’t mind him, sweetheart. The fuck’s been mezzamort ever since he moved here.”

“I’m, uh—.” His date? To a fucking bodega?

“She’s a friend.” Carmen interjects quickly. 

“Since when do you have—“ Lucia scoffs, incredulous.

“A friend who’d love some breakfast, actually.” You cut in, wanting to spare him the end of that sentence. 

He wouldn’t have friends, would he? Doesn’t seem like the kind to. 

Maybe you could—

“Should’a said — yo Gino! Get two BECs going on a — ya’ll have it on a bagel or a roll, doll?” She snaps into action immediately.

“Uh, a bagel. Thank y—“ 

“Hear that? A bagel for her, roll for Carmy.” She yells across the other end of the small bodega to the teenage boy sitting over two milk crates, scrolling on his phone. “Get off ya fuckin’ ass, Gino! Gotta feed these kids.”

The boy gets up with an exaggerated eye roll and strolls over to the flattop to get your breakfast started. “SPK?” He questions in a monotone over his shoulder.

“‘Course she’ll have it, ya moron.” Lucia answers for you.

“She’s a bit much.” Carmen is back at your side whispering in a low voice, apologetic. “But she means well.”

“No, she’s great.” 

The two of you stand in silence, watching your sandwiches being made. With Lucia now occupied, it’s awkward once again. You’re not usually at a loss for words, but Carmen isn’t a man who oozes approachability. Not that you’ve known him longer than a few minutes. Maybe, eventually—

Maybe, you could—

“Coffee?” He asks, walking to the self-serve station behind you. 

“Hmm?” You shake your head, snapping back to reality. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Cream and two sugars, please.”

What is it about him that makes think of any kind of eventuality? You’ve only just met. It’s been awkward and stilted, and he looks like a mess. The only things know about him are summed up in a one-line bio. Maybe it’s your desperation. Your sheer need to be coupled up regardless of the clear red flags you see.

Maybe it’s his eyes. Maybe it’s the sense you get from him, this veiled potential. Maybe you’re just a fool looking to fix a man you don’t even know. 

You’re both back out on the sidewalk, coffee in hand, sandwiches packed in a little bag that hangs off his wrist. “Are we—“ You’re unsure of how to phrase your question without sounding like an idiot, but there’s no way around it. “Are we eating on the sidewalk?”

That earns you a disbelieving laugh and a smile you’ll remember. Only because it just seems so out of place. His lips curl up just the slightest in a barely there, you’ll miss it if you don’t really look kind of way. It’s all in his eyes. They lighten. The pensive wistfulness that floats in those pools of glacial blue volatilizes. What takes place in its stead is just a hint of ease and good-natured humour. It makes him look his age, just for that brief moment. 

“The park? Yeah? Thought it’d be a good spot.” It’s jarring just how his consternation inches back in as quickly as it had disappeared. 

“The park’s great, Carmy.” You say it, his nickname, without thinking. Your tone is soft with the intention to mollify. 

He looks at you in surprise and you’re worried you got too familiar too quickly. But then it comes back — that ease. His brows dip slightly, and that faint wisp of a smile returns. The fact that you were able to bring it forth fills you with this warmth. It imbibes itself in your bones, coursing through your body, settling around your heart. It beats faster. 

Faster still, as you watch him run his fingers through his hair, once, twice, thrice. You’re enthralled. 

If you could just reach out and—

“Let’s go?” He takes a step forward and turns to look back at you when you don’t move. Your gaze falls down to his hand, the one he ran through his hair with. More tattoos. A flower on the back and the letters ‘S O U’ on his fingers. Your own fingers itch to intertwine themselves with his. Feel the warmth of his palm, pass by the ridges of his scars like they’re milestones on a road not taken. At any rate, isn’t that what people do, when they go for a walk on a date? Hold hands?

Jesus Christ, listen to you. One look underneath his lugubrious nature, and you’re fucking smitten. 

“Sorry—“ You blink twice, pushing out from behind your thoughts. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You walk side by side, hands apart.

It’s a short walk, just a couple blocks. You enter the park through the side gate and pick the first empty bench you find and take a seat. You unwrap your breakfast in silence, setting your sandwiches down on paper napkins between you. 

It’s still not what you’d have had in mind for a first date and yet, you’re content. It’s a warm morning for an early spring day in New York. Lightness flickers through your hair with the Eastertide breeze — it carries with it the scent of blossoming ephemerals, the hyacinths, and magnolias that grow at your feet. It’s a cool zephyr enveloped in the warmth of the sun, almost quixotic for a morning spent in the park. The best of both worlds, really. Refreshing the air in your lungs with each breath, just as springtime offers the start of something anew. Yet, the apricity that lingers under the sunlight shining from the east brings about this effortless comfort out there in the open. 

It’s all so ideal, it pushes you to be brave. 

“Can I ask you something?” You turn sideways, now sitting cross-legged on the bench. 

“Yeah, sure.” Carmy follows suit, facing toward you, feet still planted on the ground. 

“You don’t go on many dates, do you?” You blurt the words out in a straightforward tone, it might as well have been a statement and not an inquiry. 

“That obvious?” He traces this bottom lip with his fingers in nervousness.

“Well—“ You shrug, noncommittal, with a sly smile. 

“Yeah. I don’t date. I don’t really have the time.” He sounds almost defeated like he’s settled into what his circumstances are. 

You don’t like it. 

“So what made you come out with me?” You press on and hope his answer isn’t as resigned as he looks. 

“I—“ He looks away from you, lips curling into a frown and you can see his mind churning behind his eyes for an acceptable response. 

Oh.

You’re not special. He didn’t make time. His interest in you was just as much of happenstance as you accidentally swiping right on him. 

“It’s alright, I kinda put you on the spot with that question.” You try not to sound too sullen. It’s silly. In a span of a few minutes, you’ve gone from apprehension to being so taken with him all because—

His eyes flash back to yours and he looks so fucking apologetic, it hurts. 

You’re desperate to change the subject. “Tell me about your work. You’re a chef at Eleven Madison, right?”

“Yeah.” One word. That’s all he offers. 

“It’s like the best restaurant in the country. That must be…cool.”

It breaks through the ambiguity caused by your previous question and you’re relieved. 

“Yeah. It's…cool.” His jaw tightens just by a fraction and you wonder why. But that’s a thread best left alone. 

“I know fuck all about food, forget all that fancy stuff you probably make—” Flattery is the safest bet for you at this point. So you decide to play to his ego a touch. “—So you’ll have to help me out here.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’ll start simple. What’s your favourite thing to cook?”

That makes him pause. “At work?”

“Yeah. At work. What’s your favourite thing to make?” You offer him an encouraging smile. 

“I—“ Why is this so hard for him? He fidgets with the lid of his coffee cup.

“Can’t be that hard to think of something, Carmy.” 

“It’s not, I just — I’m CDC now. Spend more time on the pass than anything so—“

“What does that mean?”

“CDC. Chef de Cuisine. Kinda like-“

“Okay so you’re the head bitch in charge?”

“Kinda, yeah.” He scoffs. “So I’m at the pass — the part of the line where all chits are called out the plated dishes are put up.”

“So you don’t cook much anymore?”

“I used to before—“

“Okay, so before, what was the thing you loved to make?”

He actually seems to give it some thought. You watch him silently mull over, as you take a bite of your sandwich.

“Wild boar with celeriac, lingonberry, and hazelnuts.” He finally answers, definitively. 

“That sounds…simple.”

“The wild boar was dry-aged for 21 days. The celeriac was in the form of a yolk. The hazelnut oil was compressed in-house. The peels were used to smoke the lingonberry gelée.” He says with a challenging raise of a brow. 

Oh, he’s showing off.

“What the fuck?” You exclaim in utter disbelief. “A yolk?”

“Yeah, I spherified the purée with sodium alginate in a calcium gluconate bath.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing. 

“I failed 8th-grade chemistry, so you really fucked me up just now.” 

He snorts at that. “Didn’t do so hot in school, either. But when it comes to food I—“

“Finding your passion in something just makes shit you thought was hard a whole lot easier, doesn’t it?” If only the same held true for you. All you had to account for was a series of failed starts, an apartment you could barely afford in a city where you knew no one, and a directionless future ahead.

“What’s yours?” He asks, his eyes bore into you and you shy away from their intensity. 

You walked right into that.

“I…don’t know yet.” You frown self-consciously. 

“Kinda seems like you do.”

You don’t. All you know is how to say the right thing at the right moment. A skill cultivated out of your sheer dread of not being what others need. You have no experiences to share, you’ve done nothing but fail. School. Jobs. Relationships. You’re a fuck-up. So you’ve resigned yourself to the next best thing you can be — you can be something for someone else, if not yourself.

“I—“ You keep your eyes downcast, not wanting to give yourself away. “I really don’t.”

“Heard.” You glance back up at him and are only met with recognition. It eases the tightness in your chest. 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s what you say in the kitchen when you acknowledge what you’re being told.” 

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m stealing that.” 

“You’d have to follow it up with ‘Chef’ for it to really stick, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Heard, Chef.” 

“That’s perfect.” It’s back, that smile. A mere tendril of one at his lips, but it bleeds from his eyes. 

Fuck, it feels good.

Maybe, eventually.

Maybe, you could—

You finish your breakfast in idle chatter. You ask him about the rest of his tattoos.

“It kinda looks like an ‘E 22’ from one angle and ‘733’ from another.” Your fingers trace the ink decorating his arm.

“Yeah. 733 is the area code for Chicago and  E22 is a dishwasher code for when the filter’s blocked.” You feel the muscles rippling under flex under your touch.

“I kinda want a tattoo.” You don’t draw your hand away. 

“What would you get?” He doesn’t seem to mind. 

“How many other dishwasher codes are there? Do I have some to pick from or just the one?”

He tells you more about things he likes to cook. You meet him in the middle with your one-pan pasta recipe and slowly watch the horror creep into his face. 

“Don’t knock it till you try it, Carmy.”

“Worked with food long enough to know what doesn’t work. And pasta cooked in canned tomatoes and half and half doesn’t work.”

He tells you some things about his life in Chicago. He mentions his siblings but the look on his face tells you it’s not a topic you ought to probe at. It’s repentant in some parts and reminiscent in others. But there’s also this resonant anger beneath it. You see the tick in his jaw, the way his fingers tap against the lid of his cup a bit faster, and the way he adjusts his position to sit a bit straighter. All to distract from the hurt. You recognize it because it’s something you do yourself. 

“My family’s not come to see me. I’ve — uh been too busy.”

“Neither has mine.” But you have all the time in the world. You don’t say that, though. 

You try and lighten the mood by telling him about your life as a gig worker. Ever since you moved to the city, you’ve barely managed to hold down a job for longer than 6 months at the time. So you wised up and made sure to have back-ups. Whenever you’ve brought that up on dates, you’ve only been met with thinly veiled judgment. But Carmy- 

“It’s kinda like working in the kitchen. No two days are the same. Keeps shit interesting.”

That’s a good way to look at it, you decide. 

In under the span of a couple hours, you leave his company feeling better. The breakfast was pretty decent. Carmy assured you it’s the best of what you’d find in the neighbourhood. 

“I don’t fuck with brunch.” He’d said. You’d laughed, but he was serious. “It’s a hell shift, and I can’t eat without picturing how fucked they are back of house.”

You part ways with a hug and a promise of a text from him for whenever he’s free next. 

“I’m going back to Chicago for a couple days in a few weeks. But when I’m back—“

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see you again.”

The weeks passed, and you waited. 

The text never came. 

[superxovas]

ahhhh this is so cute and sweet !! poor angel has no idea and i love that for her LOL domestic af siri sewing and gardening hehe

whimsical muggle reader who loves taking note of strange occurrences (i swear my shoes weren't here! like luna basically lol) and marauder bf who can't tell her yet about magic but loves doing some tricks for her to find. (you can pick which marauder! i was gonna go remus but i'm biased lol)

Omg I had so much fun with this, thank you for requesting!

Sirius Black x whimsical!reader ♡ 657 words

“You’re such an old woman, Moony,” Sirius says. “Is that a gray hair I see?” 

“Your fault,” Remus replies mildly. 

“We’re not all obligated to go clubbing whenever the fancy strikes you,” James argues on Remus’ behalf. “I’ve got a match tomorrow, and our poor Moony’s head is hurting him. Give us a rest.” 

“No rest!” Sirius cries, standing from the couch as if he’s addressing a weary army rather than two reluctant men. “Rest is for the elderly and geriatric.” He looks at you hopefully. “You want to go out, don’t you darling?” 

“I’m not partial to clubs,” you reply, but your attention is already elsewhere. “Remus, if you have a headache, you should have Sirius make you some of his tea. He made me some when my head hurt last week and it set me right as rain.” You glance at your boyfriend, considering you with peculiar smugness. “And the same happened when I had the hiccups a few days ago. He has a remedy for everything.” 

James cocks an eyebrow. “Does he?” 

You hum in prideful affirmation, but Sirius seems almost sheepish as he sits back down on the couch, tucking you against his side. “I’ve always been good at brewing,” he says to James with a shrug. 

“You should make him your tea,” you urge softly. 

Sirius kisses the side of your head. “Moony’s headaches are a bit tougher than yours, angel,” he says, adding at your troubled look, “but I’ll make him some later if he likes.”

“Hey,” James says brightly, “what if we go to the pub on fifth? It’s usually quiet in there. We’ll just stay an hour or so.” 

You’ve been dating Sirius long enough to know how this goes with his friends—one hour will turn into four before any of them notice—but nod complaisantly at the hum of assent that goes up from the other boys. 

“Let’s go.” Sirius hops back up before anyone can change their minds. He grabs your coat from the hook by the door, holding it out for you. 

“Oh.” Your mood sinks slightly as you remember your coat. “I should probably go get another from my room. I tore that one yesterday, remember?” 

“I fixed it for you.” 

Sirius gives it a shake, signaling for you to take it from him. You do, looking at him in awe. 

“Really, Siri? That’s so nice of you.” You feel along the hem of your jacket in search of the split you’d made the day before. You can’t find it, nor any of the smaller blemishes the garment had acquired after years of wear. “How did you do this?” 

“I sewed it,” he says breezily, shrugging on his own well-loved leather coat. 

You run your fingers over where you could swear the tear had been. “There’s not even a line or anything.” 

Remus shoots him a look you can’t decipher, and Sirius gives you a somewhat thin-lipped smile. “What can I say? I’m magic with a needle and thread. Put your coat on, baby.” 

You realize then that all three boys are already waiting for you at the door. 

“Oh, sorry.” You carefully pull on your newly impeccable jacket, following them outside. “Thank you, Siri.” 

“Anytime,” he vows, hand finding its way into your back pocket as James leads you all to the pub. 

“You’re so good at fixing things,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “My coat, and when you glued my mug back together so well, and when my peperomia came back to life.” 

Sirius chuckles. “It didn’t come back to life, angel.”

“It was dying,” you reason. “I couldn’t get it to stop wilting, but then all of a sudden it perked up.” 

“You must’ve nursed it back to health,” he replies, and his tone is blasé but the smile he shoots you is oddly pleased. He gives your ass a playful squeeze. “Stranger things have happened, sweet thing.” 

Around Sirius, they certainly have.

[superxovas]

UHHHH yeah, i already know this series is going to fuck me up !!!! i, too, bb, would love that man. pls join me on what i can already tell is going to be an amazing journey

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬

Synopsis: Receiving wind that Hydra has successfully managed to awaken another wave of winter soldiers, Captain America appoints his two best avengers, Bucky Barnes and Y/N Y/L/N, for the job. But aside from Bucky’s trepidation at reliving his worst memories, there’s something else rooting him in his place–the fear of inflicting harm on the woman he loves the most. Between her encouraging words and his violent past, what will happen when Y/N is forced to encounter her boyfriend’s alter ego?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Warnings: Angst | Fluff

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬  Masterlist | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄. Ironically, considering his service as a soldier during World War II in the 107th Infantry Regiment. One might assume his story followed the typical trajectory of a veteran—a man who had served and preserved, giving his all until he had nothing left to lose nor gain. 

Bucky faced wars in waves, losing his sense of direction as he battled the currents. Maybe the placidity he yearned for was because of the instabilities and perplexities he'd witnessed, though the peace he needed went far beyond that. From the moment he was reborn into this world, all he ever wanted was to find solace within the hurricane that had upended his life. 

Bucky sought peace, yes. Peace within the chaos of his fractured realities.

The sky lit up, a white veil enveloping the night's somber hues. Its brilliance lingered for a fleeting moment before the darkness regained its dominion. Sometimes, Bucky wondered if the storms were a remedy or a curse. When the sky, such as tonight, wailed and bled, and when the clouds tore themselves up to bits and pieces, was the chaos some twisted form of peace? Or was it his fractured mind pitifully attempting to shroud the truths with another veiled deception?

Rain dropped down in fervor, droplets finding themselves on Bucky’s skin. A part of him told him to move away and give the sky some space to grieve. Another rebutted that he should stay to remind the heavens that they’re not alone.

He raised his head, feeling the water droplets on his face, allowing them to delicately trace his features. The storm was ravenous, tumultuous, mutinous—everything a winter turbulence should be, everything the winter soldier in him was.

And yet, the damned poets he’d read about weren’t too far off in their exuberant analogies, comparing a winter storm to a peaceful spring. As polarizing as it was, there was a certain peace to its violence—a peace that Bucky could experience extrospectively but never conversely.

“James,” he heard behind him. This voice, perhaps, was the nearest semblance of personal tranquility he could reach. It permeated his skin, nestled in every nucleus, exuding an air of calmness and hope. He cherished it when she called him by his name. It was her personal term of endearment. To the world, he was several things: Sergeant Barnes, Bucky, and The Winter Soldier. But to Y/N, his precious Y/N, he was James. And he loved her even more for the simple yet profound reminder.

“I’m scared,” he admitted in a shy whisper, playing with his fingers. Truths came easy with her, despite how he grappled with them in his solitary battles. “Going there… going there will trigger a lot of bad memories. It might even trigger him, too.”

Y/N stepped closer, placing her palm on his left arm. His metal arm. She didn’t miss the way Bucky shut his eyes, which is why her thumb traced invisible shapes on the prosthetic. “You don’t have to go there, baby. You don’t have to do anything if your heart’s not in it.”

“But you’ll be there. I can’t…. I won’t for the life of me let you wander around in that monstrous prison world without me. Especially with all those people there.” Bucky’s lower lip trembled as he spoke. His blue eyes harbored a thousand emotions. Peace, fortitude, courage… they all fought waves of anguish and despair. But love, concern, and fear all remained afloat. 

“James,” Y/N whispered delicately, framing his cheeks with her gentle hands. Bucky nuzzled in her open palms, his lips brushing against her skin. His eyes captured her in an everlasting glance, filled with so much devotion. “I don’t want you to relive your worst nightmare because of me. Yes, you are our primary knowledge hub when it comes to Hydra, but you’re also a part of our family. We would never want to harm you. I would never want to harm you or cause you despair.”

“You could never,” Bucky answered, his hands falling from the railing and finding their place on her hips. He suddenly became aware that she was wearing no more than his Henley and a pair of pajama bottoms in the middle of this storm. So, he pulled her closer and buried her face in his chest.

“I can go with Steve, maybe even Nat. You don’t have to do this. You–”

“It’s not the memories I fear most, angel.”

“Then what is it?” Y/N asked, raising her head to meet his eyes without stepping out of his embrace. “Is it those soldiers they have created?”

Bucky stared at the falling rain, realizing that the two of them had drifted away from the sliding door’s overhang, which shielded Y/N. He tried to step back, but she must’ve falsely interpreted it as his attempt at fleeing because she tightened her hold on him. 

He brushed a strand of her damp hair behind her ear, his thumbs tracing her pink cheek. “What if he comes back?”

“Say his name aloud,” Y/N encouraged. “It’s okay, baby.”

He gulped, closing his eyes for a moment. “The Winter Soldier.” Heaven knew he didn’t want to, and maybe that’s why this whole storm had assaulted New York this evening.

Y/N, on the other hand, didn’t seem to think the same. Calmly, she lifted herself on her toes to kiss his beard, nestling her head in the junction between his neck and shoulder. “The Winter Soldier is what you make him out to be.”

“He’s a murderer,” Bucky spat, his hold on Y/N tightening as if the simple mention of the Soldat would breathe him back to life. 

Y/N shook her head. “He’s you.”

“He’s not me, Y/N!” Bucky pried himself away, giving her an indignant look. “He’s a homicidal menace that will not hesitate to rip you apart without a second thought!”

Y/N tried to step closer, but Bucky flinched. He involuntarily retreated back, his cerulean eyes rimmed with despair and hurt. Y/N shook her head, locking her eyes with his. “The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes. A man that has never stopped fighting, not even for a second. He may be bruised, erratic, and damaged. But he’s not a monster. Not in my story.”

“Y/N,” Bucky all but growled, keeping as much distance between himself and the girl. “You have no idea how twisted these words sound. You won’t even have a chance to take them back or change your mind when he all but attacks you and rips your heart out of your chest like some goddamn fucking prize without even taking his eyes off yours!”

“My heart is his for the taking.” Bucky’s mind spiraled out of control. “As much as it is yours. He and you are one. What I feel for you, I feel for him.”

“Don’t, Y/N.” 

Ignoring his comment, Y/N took his hands in hers before he had the chance to run away. “If you cannot see your true worth through your own eyes, James, then see it through my own. Every part of you is worthy. You and The Winter Soldier are heroes in your unique ways, each fighting different battles to find a missing piece of yourself. So, if you’re so afraid that being there will trigger the worst parts of you, then I will whisper to you both all the truth you need to hear until you find your way back to me. Back home.”

“You’re my home,” Bucky whispered, caressing her cheek. He dipped his head, his nose caressing Y/N’s. A second passed, and he allowed himself to bask in her warmth, losing himself in the ardency of her love. His lips delicately traced her berry-flavored ones, claiming them against his own. “I love you,” he almost cried, fearing he might lose her. His mouth wrapped around her lower lip, sucking it fervently and inhaling in all the devotion he held toward his girl. “You're my sanctuary, my peace. And I don’t want my own violent dispositions to threaten the home that I’ve built with you.”

“James,” Y/N mumbled breathlessly, tears on the edge of her lashes. She pressed one more fervent kiss against his lips, resting her hand on his heart to remind him once more that he could feel. That he was human. “I love you in all your nuances and dispositions. No matter who you are or who you think you ought to be, you'll always be my home."

Bucky smiled endearingly, taking Y/N’s hand in his. He kissed her knuckles, one by one, before planting his lips on her wrist. With a final glance at her eyes, Bucky led her inside their shared bedroom, relishing in the feeling of her between his arms. 

He closed his eyes with the images of her in his mind, forgetting all about Hydra and The Winter Soldier. It was tomorrow’s nightmare, but Y/N was tonight’s dream, and that’s all that mattered.

BUCKY IS BACK!!

I have so many ideas for this man, and we're starting with this short little series. If you're a fan of hurt/comfort and The Winter Soldier coming out to play, welcome to this maze of truths!!

All-Works Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @ye0nvibezzn

[superxovas]

this series has truly always stuck with me !! it feels so truly carmy, like feel that in my soul tbh UGH love it

New Person, Same Old Mistakes

After multiple rewatches of The Bear over the last month, I've been sucked back in and couldn't think of anything else but Carmen Berzatto.

Here's part one of four of a little something about our favourite depressed chef's years in NYC.

Part II, Part III and Part IV

He looks like he doesn’t really want to be here. At this date. If you could even call it that. 

A drink tomorrow night. How does that sound?

I can’t meet up at nights. Work. 

Oh.

I can meet you in the morning.

For breakfast?

Why not?

Why the fuck not?

A non-date you hauled ass all the way from Brooklyn at the crack of dawn. 

An over-exaggeration, but it’s one you feel entitled to. You’ve taken a 46-minute train ride for breakfast with a man who looks like he just crawled out of bed. Which is a miracle since he looks as though he’s been up for days. It’s not just the exhaustion that rolls off him, there’s something else you can’t quite find the word for. You wanted to turn back the moment you saw him standing outside the bodega. 

But for some reason, you kept walking. Equal parts curiosity and obligation. You made it this far, might as well see it through.

Also—

He was by no means unattractive. Looked a lot like a coked-up Gene Wilder, if you were being honest. Clad in a tight, albeit wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of vintage jeans. Redline Selvedge. You concede to the fact that he somehow managed to pull off the ‘I got ready in under two minutes’ look quite well. Messy. Understated. Kind of hot. It was his hair that really brought it all together, sandy locks that stuck out in different directions like he’d run his hand through them over and over. 

Your hand twinged at the thought.

Every time he lifted his arm to take a drag of his cigarette, you distinctly noticed the way his bicep bulged under his sleeve. 

Christ, that’s…something.

He noticed you walk over and offered you a sort of smile with the raise of a brow, and fuck if it wasn’t endearing. 

You finally took proper notice of his eyes. Blue. Crystalline. Ocean strong waves of azure in the warmth of sun-lit currents. They were strangely emotive, despite his face remaining fairly impassive. Despondency echoed through them quietly. They were a far cry from what you saw online. 

You still admired them when you were scrolling through Tinder and came upon his profile. He had one photo - he wore a white coat in it, the ones that the guys on MasterChef wear. Like it was a professional headshot. He stood, leaning against a metal worktable with his arms crossed. Hair slicked back, with a ruminative look on his face. But his eyes—

They were hollow. A sepulchral for all sentiments buried deep within. 

His bio read:

Carmen, 29

Chicagoan. CDC at Eleven Madison Park.

That’s all it said. His name, age, and profession. Like it was a fucking resume. You scoffed at the bare effort he put in. As if a picture and a brief description of his occupation were enough to lure the ladies in. Just as you were going to move on to the next man in a series of disappointments, you accidentally swiped right and matched with him. 

Hours of scrolling and a bottle of Pinot later, it seemed like he was your best and only option. So you messaged him. He was good-looking enough if only a tad underwhelming in what he put forth. What was the harm in trying him out? 

What indeed?

Seeing him in the harsh light of day, he looked entirely different from the put together guy you saw on his profile. Still good looking, just—

Tragic.

That was the word you were looking for. 

“Carmen?” 

“Uh, yeah.” He flicked off his half-smoked cigarette to the side and wiped his hands down his jeans before offering you one for a shake. It feels rough but warm. Calloused. A worker’s hands. Hands that could tell chronicle a novel’s worth of stories, you’re sure. You can feel bits of raised skin across his palm, around his fingers. Little scars littered all over. You want to examine them all. 

You turn your wrist underneath to see a tattoo on the back of his, a knife piercing the hand. 

Christ. 

A few seconds pass as you examine the rest of his tattoos. He has a pair of cherubs holding up a Sun on his upper arm, and a snail with the words ‘Live Fast’ underneath. 

Your gaze drifts over to his other arm—

You’re interrupted by an awkward clearing of his throat and you realize you’ve been holding on to him, shaking his hand for the better part of a minute. You let go immediately, your palm still tingling from the feeling of his. The air kisses your skin, it’s light, empty, remiss of the character you found in his touch. 

“Sorry, I was just—“ Your eyes meet his once again and you’re lost. 

“It’s cool.” He mutters. “I, uh—“

“So what’s the — Sorry, you—“

“No you go—“

“I—“

“Sorry, I don’t—“

The two of you stammer over each other in constant apology before you finally put it to a halt with an uncomfortable laugh.

“I was just asking what the plan was.” You look around the block, nothing but the bodega seems to be open this early. “Where are we going to eat?”

“Right…here?” He looks at you with mild hesitance, pointing towards the bodega. 

“We’re eating breakfast here?” He has to be joking in an oddly genuine way because he looks like he-

Oh God. It’s not a joke. 

You woke up at 7 am, got onto the subway, and switched three trains for a fucking BEC.

He looks at you in deepening discomfort, a little sheepish, only just realizing that this may not be the ideal date most women have in mind. His eyes brimmed with repentance. 

Those eyes.

“It’s, uh- it’s fine!” You say with an overstated tone of cheerfulness. “I’m starving, anyway.”

“Right.” He looks unconvinced but opens the door for you, nonetheless. 

“‘Uarda, Carmy!” A woman, probably in her late 60s, seated behind the counter broke into a smile as the two of you entered. “The fuck ya been, huh?”

“Work, Lucia.” His tone conveys ire, but his face betrays him. 

He looks at the woman with softened fondness as she fusses over him. She’s loud and over-exaggerated in her mannerisms, hands animatedly gesticulating every word. All the while, Carmen — Carmy, stands there indulging her every word with the occasional apologetic glance spared your way. 

It’s a charming sight, watching the two of them talk. Lucia is loud and mothering and Carmen is reserved.

“Didn’cha mother teach ya any manners, boy? Who’s the darlin’ behind ya?” She finally ends her tirade of ‘the fuck you been?’, ‘never show ya face ‘round no more’, ‘eat a lil’ somethin’ f’fuck’s sake’ and notices you. “Don’t mind him, sweetheart. The fuck’s been mezzamort ever since he moved here.”

“I’m, uh—.” His date? To a fucking bodega?

“She’s a friend.” Carmen interjects quickly. 

“Since when do you have—“ Lucia scoffs, incredulous.

“A friend who’d love some breakfast, actually.” You cut in, wanting to spare him the end of that sentence. 

He wouldn’t have friends, would he? Doesn’t seem like the kind to. 

Maybe you could—

“Should’a said — yo Gino! Get two BECs going on a — ya’ll have it on a bagel or a roll, doll?” She snaps into action immediately.

“Uh, a bagel. Thank y—“ 

“Hear that? A bagel for her, roll for Carmy.” She yells across the other end of the small bodega to the teenage boy sitting over two milk crates, scrolling on his phone. “Get off ya fuckin’ ass, Gino! Gotta feed these kids.”

The boy gets up with an exaggerated eye roll and strolls over to the flattop to get your breakfast started. “SPK?” He questions in a monotone over his shoulder.

“‘Course she’ll have it, ya moron.” Lucia answers for you.

“She’s a bit much.” Carmen is back at your side whispering in a low voice, apologetic. “But she means well.”

“No, she’s great.” 

The two of you stand in silence, watching your sandwiches being made. With Lucia now occupied, it’s awkward once again. You’re not usually at a loss for words, but Carmen isn’t a man who oozes approachability. Not that you’ve known him longer than a few minutes. Maybe, eventually—

Maybe, you could—

“Coffee?” He asks, walking to the self-serve station behind you. 

“Hmm?” You shake your head, snapping back to reality. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Cream and two sugars, please.”

What is it about him that makes think of any kind of eventuality? You’ve only just met. It’s been awkward and stilted, and he looks like a mess. The only things know about him are summed up in a one-line bio. Maybe it’s your desperation. Your sheer need to be coupled up regardless of the clear red flags you see.

Maybe it’s his eyes. Maybe it’s the sense you get from him, this veiled potential. Maybe you’re just a fool looking to fix a man you don’t even know. 

You’re both back out on the sidewalk, coffee in hand, sandwiches packed in a little bag that hangs off his wrist. “Are we—“ You’re unsure of how to phrase your question without sounding like an idiot, but there’s no way around it. “Are we eating on the sidewalk?”

That earns you a disbelieving laugh and a smile you’ll remember. Only because it just seems so out of place. His lips curl up just the slightest in a barely there, you’ll miss it if you don’t really look kind of way. It’s all in his eyes. They lighten. The pensive wistfulness that floats in those pools of glacial blue volatilizes. What takes place in its stead is just a hint of ease and good-natured humour. It makes him look his age, just for that brief moment. 

“The park? Yeah? Thought it’d be a good spot.” It’s jarring just how his consternation inches back in as quickly as it had disappeared. 

“The park’s great, Carmy.” You say it, his nickname, without thinking. Your tone is soft with the intention to mollify. 

He looks at you in surprise and you’re worried you got too familiar too quickly. But then it comes back — that ease. His brows dip slightly, and that faint wisp of a smile returns. The fact that you were able to bring it forth fills you with this warmth. It imbibes itself in your bones, coursing through your body, settling around your heart. It beats faster. 

Faster still, as you watch him run his fingers through his hair, once, twice, thrice. You’re enthralled. 

If you could just reach out and—

“Let’s go?” He takes a step forward and turns to look back at you when you don’t move. Your gaze falls down to his hand, the one he ran through his hair with. More tattoos. A flower on the back and the letters ‘S O U’ on his fingers. Your own fingers itch to intertwine themselves with his. Feel the warmth of his palm, pass by the ridges of his scars like they’re milestones on a road not taken. At any rate, isn’t that what people do, when they go for a walk on a date? Hold hands?

Jesus Christ, listen to you. One look underneath his lugubrious nature, and you’re fucking smitten. 

“Sorry—“ You blink twice, pushing out from behind your thoughts. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You walk side by side, hands apart.

It’s a short walk, just a couple blocks. You enter the park through the side gate and pick the first empty bench you find and take a seat. You unwrap your breakfast in silence, setting your sandwiches down on paper napkins between you. 

It’s still not what you’d have had in mind for a first date and yet, you’re content. It’s a warm morning for an early spring day in New York. Lightness flickers through your hair with the Eastertide breeze — it carries with it the scent of blossoming ephemerals, the hyacinths, and magnolias that grow at your feet. It’s a cool zephyr enveloped in the warmth of the sun, almost quixotic for a morning spent in the park. The best of both worlds, really. Refreshing the air in your lungs with each breath, just as springtime offers the start of something anew. Yet, the apricity that lingers under the sunlight shining from the east brings about this effortless comfort out there in the open. 

It’s all so ideal, it pushes you to be brave. 

“Can I ask you something?” You turn sideways, now sitting cross-legged on the bench. 

“Yeah, sure.” Carmy follows suit, facing toward you, feet still planted on the ground. 

“You don’t go on many dates, do you?” You blurt the words out in a straightforward tone, it might as well have been a statement and not an inquiry. 

“That obvious?” He traces this bottom lip with his fingers in nervousness.

“Well—“ You shrug, noncommittal, with a sly smile. 

“Yeah. I don’t date. I don’t really have the time.” He sounds almost defeated like he’s settled into what his circumstances are. 

You don’t like it. 

“So what made you come out with me?” You press on and hope his answer isn’t as resigned as he looks. 

“I—“ He looks away from you, lips curling into a frown and you can see his mind churning behind his eyes for an acceptable response. 

Oh.

You’re not special. He didn’t make time. His interest in you was just as much of happenstance as you accidentally swiping right on him. 

“It’s alright, I kinda put you on the spot with that question.” You try not to sound too sullen. It’s silly. In a span of a few minutes, you’ve gone from apprehension to being so taken with him all because—

His eyes flash back to yours and he looks so fucking apologetic, it hurts. 

You’re desperate to change the subject. “Tell me about your work. You’re a chef at Eleven Madison, right?”

“Yeah.” One word. That’s all he offers. 

“It’s like the best restaurant in the country. That must be…cool.”

It breaks through the ambiguity caused by your previous question and you’re relieved. 

“Yeah. It's…cool.” His jaw tightens just by a fraction and you wonder why. But that’s a thread best left alone. 

“I know fuck all about food, forget all that fancy stuff you probably make—” Flattery is the safest bet for you at this point. So you decide to play to his ego a touch. “—So you’ll have to help me out here.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’ll start simple. What’s your favourite thing to cook?”

That makes him pause. “At work?”

“Yeah. At work. What’s your favourite thing to make?” You offer him an encouraging smile. 

“I—“ Why is this so hard for him? He fidgets with the lid of his coffee cup.

“Can’t be that hard to think of something, Carmy.” 

“It’s not, I just — I’m CDC now. Spend more time on the pass than anything so—“

“What does that mean?”

“CDC. Chef de Cuisine. Kinda like-“

“Okay so you’re the head bitch in charge?”

“Kinda, yeah.” He scoffs. “So I’m at the pass — the part of the line where all chits are called out the plated dishes are put up.”

“So you don’t cook much anymore?”

“I used to before—“

“Okay, so before, what was the thing you loved to make?”

He actually seems to give it some thought. You watch him silently mull over, as you take a bite of your sandwich.

“Wild boar with celeriac, lingonberry, and hazelnuts.” He finally answers, definitively. 

“That sounds…simple.”

“The wild boar was dry-aged for 21 days. The celeriac was in the form of a yolk. The hazelnut oil was compressed in-house. The peels were used to smoke the lingonberry gelée.” He says with a challenging raise of a brow. 

Oh, he’s showing off.

“What the fuck?” You exclaim in utter disbelief. “A yolk?”

“Yeah, I spherified the purée with sodium alginate in a calcium gluconate bath.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing. 

“I failed 8th-grade chemistry, so you really fucked me up just now.” 

He snorts at that. “Didn’t do so hot in school, either. But when it comes to food I—“

“Finding your passion in something just makes shit you thought was hard a whole lot easier, doesn’t it?” If only the same held true for you. All you had to account for was a series of failed starts, an apartment you could barely afford in a city where you knew no one, and a directionless future ahead.

“What’s yours?” He asks, his eyes bore into you and you shy away from their intensity. 

You walked right into that.

“I…don’t know yet.” You frown self-consciously. 

“Kinda seems like you do.”

You don’t. All you know is how to say the right thing at the right moment. A skill cultivated out of your sheer dread of not being what others need. You have no experiences to share, you’ve done nothing but fail. School. Jobs. Relationships. You’re a fuck-up. So you’ve resigned yourself to the next best thing you can be — you can be something for someone else, if not yourself.

“I—“ You keep your eyes downcast, not wanting to give yourself away. “I really don’t.”

“Heard.” You glance back up at him and are only met with recognition. It eases the tightness in your chest. 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s what you say in the kitchen when you acknowledge what you’re being told.” 

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m stealing that.” 

“You’d have to follow it up with ‘Chef’ for it to really stick, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Heard, Chef.” 

“That’s perfect.” It’s back, that smile. A mere tendril of one at his lips, but it bleeds from his eyes. 

Fuck, it feels good.

Maybe, eventually.

Maybe, you could—

You finish your breakfast in idle chatter. You ask him about the rest of his tattoos.

“It kinda looks like an ‘E 22’ from one angle and ‘733’ from another.” Your fingers trace the ink decorating his arm.

“Yeah. 733 is the area code for Chicago and  E22 is a dishwasher code for when the filter’s blocked.” You feel the muscles rippling under flex under your touch.

“I kinda want a tattoo.” You don’t draw your hand away. 

“What would you get?” He doesn’t seem to mind. 

“How many other dishwasher codes are there? Do I have some to pick from or just the one?”

He tells you more about things he likes to cook. You meet him in the middle with your one-pan pasta recipe and slowly watch the horror creep into his face. 

“Don’t knock it till you try it, Carmy.”

“Worked with food long enough to know what doesn’t work. And pasta cooked in canned tomatoes and half and half doesn’t work.”

He tells you some things about his life in Chicago. He mentions his siblings but the look on his face tells you it’s not a topic you ought to probe at. It’s repentant in some parts and reminiscent in others. But there’s also this resonant anger beneath it. You see the tick in his jaw, the way his fingers tap against the lid of his cup a bit faster, and the way he adjusts his position to sit a bit straighter. All to distract from the hurt. You recognize it because it’s something you do yourself. 

“My family’s not come to see me. I’ve — uh been too busy.”

“Neither has mine.” But you have all the time in the world. You don’t say that, though. 

You try and lighten the mood by telling him about your life as a gig worker. Ever since you moved to the city, you’ve barely managed to hold down a job for longer than 6 months at the time. So you wised up and made sure to have back-ups. Whenever you’ve brought that up on dates, you’ve only been met with thinly veiled judgment. But Carmy- 

“It’s kinda like working in the kitchen. No two days are the same. Keeps shit interesting.”

That’s a good way to look at it, you decide. 

In under the span of a couple hours, you leave his company feeling better. The breakfast was pretty decent. Carmy assured you it’s the best of what you’d find in the neighbourhood. 

“I don’t fuck with brunch.” He’d said. You’d laughed, but he was serious. “It’s a hell shift, and I can’t eat without picturing how fucked they are back of house.”

You part ways with a hug and a promise of a text from him for whenever he’s free next. 

“I’m going back to Chicago for a couple days in a few weeks. But when I’m back—“

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see you again.”

The weeks passed, and you waited. 

The text never came. 

[superxovas]

this one just hits right !! it's like we've known then for years, how she makes herself helpful in his kitchen UGH i feel the familiarity

Missed Connection

Missed Connection Ch. 2

pairing: carmy berzatto x f!reader

summary: after being best friends since culinary school, you and carmy have had somewhat of a falling out. while opening up a restaurant in chicago, you try to make amends and get your friend back

words: 2k

warnings: 18+ eventually but nothing of real note in this chapter, some angst, eventual friends to lovers, dummies who can't just say how they're feeling, slow burn, me not knowing how restaurants or chef things work

a/n: sooooo this was meant to be self-indulgent porn. but i should know by now i can't write porn without plot. it's my curse. also i just love carmy so much that i wanted to spend some more time with him. this might only be two chapters, but i have a feeling it'll be more than that. only time will tell!

read on ao3!

“Well well well, if it isn’t Food & Wine’s Best New Chef.”

Carmy’s head snaps up, almost comically, ready to fight whoever is bringing up that damn accolade yet again. It’s been almost ten years, for christ’s sake. 

You smirk playfully as his eyes find you. His soften and you see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. But Carmen Berzatto doesn’t show his emotions easily. Thankfully, you’ve known him long enough to be able to read the ghosts of expressions that play at his face. You didn’t just learn how to cook at culinary school. You learned how to decipher your enigmatic friend. That’s what years of cooking together side by side will do. 

Carmy comes around the counter, ignoring the obvious stares from his co-workers. He pauses in front of you, then pulls you into a tentative hug. Your smirk disappears, replaced by a comical look of surprise. Chefs aren’t known for being touchy-feely people, Carmy least of all. But you haven’t seen him in almost a year, people change. 

You awkwardly return the hug, which ends all too quickly. Carmy studies you, like you’re an old recipe he hasn’t attempted in years but once knew by heart. “Long time, no see, Rosy.”

Smiling at the nickname he gave you in school, you answer back with his pet name. “Right back at you, Bear.”

*******

Carmy introduces you to his staff. Everyone greets you with different levels of enthusiasm. Marcus, the pâtissier, grins at you as he shakes your hand, instantly offering you a piece of his cake to give your thoughts on. 

Before you can enthusiastically oblige him, Carmy is pulling you away to continue the introductions you know he’s feeling awkward about. Syd, the sous chef, offers you a half smile but seems much too busy for you. As a chef yourself, you take no insult to this. The food comes first. 

Tina also has no time for you, giving you a quick once over before yelling at whoever stole her stock pot. Richie smiles knowingly at Carmy as he greets you, calling “sweetheart” and offering to show you how the kitchen works. 

“She’s Chef de Cuisine at a three Michelin star restaurant, cousin. I think she knows how a kitchen works.”

Richie holds up his hands “I don’t even know what the fuck that means. Was just being friendly.” 

Last is Ebra, who gives you his name then asks you point blank if you and Carmy are dating. Carmy sighs a Jesus fucking Christ as he pulls you into his office and slams the door shut. 

Once safe from prying eyes, Carmy quickly clears off a pile of papers from a chair and offers the seat to you. He takes one opposite you and lets out a sigh. Running his hands through his wild hair, he smiles ruefully. “Sorry. They’re a great staff but they can be…a lot.”

After the kitchens you had been in through the years and the jerks you had worked with, the crew at The Original Beef of Chicagoland seemed like goddamn angels. “Nah, they seem nice. If just a bit nosey.”

Carmy nods, huffing out a small chuckle. You study his face, the familiarity of it making memories rush back from your shared past. With those memories comes a funny feeling in your stomach. For years, you had mistaken that feeling for anxiety. It was the only feeling that was always a constant in your life as a chef. 

Carmy was always there alongside you, so you just assumed the environment caused that tingle in your gut. But slowly, you had realized the difference between your anxiety and your feelings for your friend. 

The anxiety felt cold and empty, like a bottomless pit you might never claw your way out of. The feeling Carmy gave you was the polar opposite. His presence left you feeling warm and surrounded, completely taken care of. You had missed that this past year…

You could dwell on your crush later. Right now, your main focus was getting your friend back in your life. He stares at you and you realize you’ve been gawking at him for entirely too long. “Not that I’m not happy to see you but…” He glances to the clock. 

“Lunch rush, huh?” it’s less of a question from you and more of a commiseration. No matter how long you’ve been in a kitchen, the lunch rush is always the most dreaded. Carmy nods, fidgeting in his seat. 

“I know you’re busy but I’m gonna be in town for a bit and just wanted to say ‘hey’” it sounds lame. Saying ‘hey’ after not speaking for a year is pretty weird. 

Carmy’s eyebrows knit together in worry. “Work ok?”

You hurriedly nod, sorry you caused him anxiety when he already looks so run down. “No, no. It’s good. Great, actually. We’re opening up a location here and I’m taking point on it.”

His worry doesn’t fall away like you expect it to but he nods “That’s great, Rose. Happy for you.” You choose to believe his words rather than his expression. 

“Thanks…” you look into his eyes and search them for permission for the next subject you want to broach. You want to talk about why you’ve both been so silent this past year when you’d been best friends for the last decade. 

But his eyes dart back to that fucking clock and you decide against it. This conversation deserves all the time it needs. 

You get up, understanding Carmy’s time is precious and you’ve already eaten up enough of it. He jumps up, more worry etched into his face. “You’re leaving already?”

You look between him and the clock. “I just…lunch rush, right?”

Carmy nods dejectedly. “Yeah, those sandwiches won’t make themselves.” As if on cue, you hear a pot fall in the kitchen and the sounds of muffled yells. Carmy once again runs his hand through his hair, seemingly as a way to self-soothe.

You’ve seen your friend stressed beyond belief before. But this is something different. He looks like his tether to sanity is fraying and fast. It breaks your heart and so before you know what you’re doing, you’re blurting out an offer that you’re sure he’ll refuse. 

“I can help with prep if you want? Many hands and all that.” You see him thinking it over, certain he’ll rebuff your offer. He was never one to ask for assistance. But he surprises you with a gentle nod. 

“That would be great, Chef. Thank you.”

******

The lunch rush is…insane. You’re not sure what you had been expecting but it wasn’t this. How much business could one little hole in the wall sandwich shop do you had thought before service started. 

The answer is a whole fucking lot. 

Regulars crowd the tiny shop as tourists meekly try to edge their way in as well. 

You help with prepping the vegetables, knowing it’s one of the most hated jobs in the kitchen. It’s also the perfect job for staying out of the way but being helpful. 

The rest of the staff instantly love you for this except for Tina, who studies you as if trying to figure out what your angle is. You’d love to explain to her the only angle you have is spending time with your best friend whom you’ve missed dearly. But before you can open your mouth, Carmy is yelling out for more orders and it’s back to business. 

At the end of the rush, the kitchen is in shambles. Your face is flaming hot and flushed, like a tomato come to life. It’s how you earned your nickname in culinary school. You hated it at first but then learned to love it, realizing you looking like this meant you’d put in the work, got the job done and made the customers happy. 

Everyone else in the kitchen looks completely exhausted. But the strange thing is they’re happy. You’re not used to these vibes. Exhaustion is always a given. Maybe you’ve worked in mostly toxic environments but usually by now, everyone would be at each other’s throats. 

It’s not to say the chefs here don’t give each other shit. An outsider listening in on them during the rush would have thought the day would end in murder. But to an insider, that’s kind of just how kitchens sound. But the chefs at Original Beef are able to weather the insanity of lunch and still crack jokes and thank each other for their hard work at the end of it. 

You watch them happily as you all clean up, feeling like one of the crew already. Watching Carmy leading them makes you long for the days where you two worked together. But you know that’s probably never going to happen again and you push aside the brief sadness and revel in the joy that you got to work side by side with him again, if just for the day. 

“Thank you for your help, Chef,” Carmy leans against the counter next to you, smiling tiredly. 

You take off your blue apron and fold it neatly, handing it back to him. “Anytime, Chef.”

You’re due back at your hotel to change before you meet up with the investors. Once again, the tension is back between you two. God you miss the days where there was never an awkward moment between you and Carmy. 

He accepts the apron, looking small as he clutches it to his chest. “Duty calls?”

You sigh soullessly. Cooking is what you excel at, not business. You were flattered when your boss asked you to take responsibility for the opening of your Chicago location. You just didn’t realize how much handshaking and negotiating you’d have to do. “Time to wine and dine the investors. Really important, world peace negotiating level type stuff.”

Carmy smiles at you. It’s tiny and doesn’t quite reach his eyes but it’s a start towards what you two used to have. “You’re putting the work in. Gotta get through all that bullshit to get to the stuff that really matters.” The food.

He’s right and you nod, accepting that fact. You don’t want to leave him yet but it’s your turn to be distracted by the clock. “It was great cooking with you again, Chef.” 

Carmy smiles again but this time the sadness under the surface is evident. “Just like old times, huh?”

“Yeah. Well, I’m in town for the next few weeks at least so…”

“Dinner sometime? Or, you know, any meal that works best for you.” 

You think on the offer and counter your return. “Hey why don’t we do get brunch tomorrow? Mimosas are on me.” 

You let out at laugh at Carmy’s look of horror that quickly morphs into a relieved grin as he realizes you’re taunting him. “Fuck you.”

Grabbing your jacket, you throw a “dinner sometime would be great” over your shoulder. 

Your chest feels full in the best way as you realize you and your best friend are back together again. All might not be right with the world but it’s as close to perfection as it’ll ever be. You stop and turn to the tired chef. 

“Hey, Bear?”

He watches you, blue eyes sparkling. “Yes, Rose”

“Fuck you, too.” 

It’s as close as I love you and I missed you that you’ll get. Carmy grins as you laugh and turn reluctantly towards the exit. Neither of you have ever been good at conveying your emotions. But you know he can read between the lines and decipher what you really meant. He just hopes you know it’s what he feels too. 

******

[superxovas]

the skin care && your space heater !! so precious tbh i've been there

can i have just straight up fluff for carmy please? literally just cuddling is good enough for me i will take anything

Ask and you shall receive.

It was funny how quickly Carmen had gotten used to just walking into your apartment. You'd given him a key about six weeks ago and since then, you'd never heard a knock again. It was late, however, so you were grateful for the quiet entrance.

Glancing over at the Echo on your bedside table, you clocked it was nearly one in the morning. You could smell the pickled vegetables and roasted meat on Carmy's clothes.

"Carm?" You rasped out, flicking on your dim lamp.

"Hi baby," he said quietly, stepping out of his shoes and tucking them against the wall. "Sorry I woke you up," he said sincerely. He paused near your side of the bed, looking over his shoulder at the bathroom.

"Go shower, greasy boy," you said, becoming more and more awake each moment. He nodded, dipping into the small bathroom. Carmen was the king of quick showers and especially enjoyed using your rosemary mint shampoo. You certainly didn't mind the smell, either.

By the time he was out, he'd even remembered to aggressively wash his face with the cleanser you got him - and he had no complaints. He'd had fewer and fewer breakouts over the past few months since working it into this routine.

"Hi," you smiled, sitting up against the headboard. Carm loved when you wore matching pajama sets - even the ones that covered everything. He envied how cozy you looked. "Get in," you grinned, holding up the comforter. It was unbearably cold in Chicago and you were excited that your space heater was home.

Carmen wasted no time in snuggling up next to you in bed, bringing you close to his chest. You stuck your nose into his neck immediately, breathing in his clean scent. Pressing a soft kiss to his skin, you tangled your legs with his and slung an arm across his midsection.

"How was work, love?" You asked, hand resting on his stomach.

"Not bad, actually," he remarked, surprising you. It was rare that Carm came home from The Bear without complaints that it was a total shit show, but you knew he loved the chaos. You all but purred as his fingers lightly rubbed at your scalp, your silky hair tickling the indents of his hands.

He reached over, flicking off the lamp and plunging the room into darkness. You snuggled in closer, feet twisting together beneath the warmth of the blankets.

"'Smell good," you mumbled, sleep creeping back into your eyelids, wiggling comfortably against him.

"Wanna go to the farmers market in the morning?" He asked, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes on the exhale.

"Will you buy me a cinnamon roll?" You asked, licking your lips.

"You know I will," he murmured, making you grin. He was pressing just hard enough into his massage at the base of your skull that you thought you might start drooling.

"'n carry the flowers?" You asked, the words just escaping as you entered the plains of sale.

"And the flowers," he agreed. "Sleep tight, baby," he encouraged, following closely behind.

"Love you," you sighed.

"Love you more," he acquiesced.

[superxovas]

so, so sweet !!!!! ugh, the feels

MY HUSBAND CARMEN OMFG PLEAZE CARMEN X READER ALREADY IN A RELATIONSHIP AND IM JUST IMAGINING READER HAVING LIKE TJE WORST DAY POSSIBLE AND LIKE FUCKING EVERYTHING UP AT THE RESTAURANT AND JUSG LIKE PRACTICALLY IN TEARS BY THE END OF THEIR DAY AND CARMEN LIKE GIVES HER A MASSAGE AND TAKES CARE OF HER AND MAYBE LIKE SOME SWEET INTERACTIONS WITH THE OTHERS AT THE RESTAURANT IF IGS OKAY

Mishaps and Bear Hugs

Request: MY HUSBAND CARMEN OMFG PLEAZE CARMEN X READER ALREADY IN A RELATIONSHIP AND IM JUST IMAGINING READER HAVING LIKE TJE WORST DAY POSSIBLE AND LIKE FUCKING EVERYTHING UP AT THE RESTAURANT AND JUSG LIKE PRACTICALLY IN TEARS BY THE END OF THEIR DAY AND CARMEN LIKE GIVES HER A MASSAGE AND TAKES CARE OF HER AND MAYBE LIKE SOME SWEET INTERACTIONS WITH THE OTHERS AT THE RESTAURANT IF IGS OKAY

Hi! Sorry for the wait. I’m still getting used to writing Carmy’s character, so bear with me while I get the hang of it. Thank you for the request, this is a cute idea. I hope you enjoy it!

(Warnings: a shitty pun in the title, swearing, slight injury, a bad day, let me know if i missed anything)

—

“I’m gonna fucking kill Richie,” you said as you walked back into the kitchen, taking a deep breathe.

“You can’t kill him if he isn’t here,” Marcus called over as he loaded his trays of bread onto the racks.

“I’ll kill him tomorrow, then,” you said, walking over to Tina’s station. “Tina, I am begging you to work the register for a little bit. Richie called out, and I’m going to lose my mind if one more asshole walks in here and tries some shit. I’ll do your work for you, please—”

Tina laughed, putting her knife down. “Alright, alright, we can switch. You’re taking the heat if I slap someone, though.”

“Thank you, thank you,” you sighed in relief, pulling an apron over your head.

Tina nodded, walking through the kitchen doors and into the front of house.

You went back to Tina’s duties, chopping up the vegetables she hadn’t finished. You put a pot on the stove, turning on the burner. You added all the vegetables to the pot, looking around for any stock to boil them down in.

“Sydney, do you know where the stock is? I thought I brought it out this morning.”

“Walk-in, top shelf,” Marcus said, pointing. “Sorry, I thought you were done with it and I put it up.”

“That’s fine, thanks,” you sighed, going to the walk-in.

Of course it had to be on the top shelf. The one thing you needed, just out of reach. You stood on your toes, pulling it down. You managed to get it down off the shelf, but as you adjusted your grip on it when you turned to leave, the lid slipped and the container fell to the floor.

Luckily, the container didn’t turn over and spill. But it did send the stock spurting up at the impact, splashing you. Your apron took the brunt of the impact, but it still splashed up into your hair, coating your shoes.

You groaned, opened the door with your back and pushed through, the container now in your hands. “Marcus! When you put shit back, could you at least make sure the lid is on tight?”

Marcus took one look at you and stifled a laugh, biting his tongue. “Shit, I'm sorry. Need me to grab a towel?”

“Yes,” you muttered, returning to your vegetables.

As you looked in the bottom of the pan, you realized they had begun to blacken on the bottom from not having any liquid in the pot with them. You had taken too long with the stock, and now the vegetables were likely ruined and would need to be re-chopped and boiled.

You groaned, reaching for the handles of the pot to take it off the stove. When your hand touched the pot, it immediately singed your fingers, making you quickly retract them.

“Fuck!” You said, blowing on them to try and stop the heat of the burn. “God, that hurts.”

At all the commotion and the sound of your distressed voice, the door to Carmy’s office opened. He peeked his head out, only to see you standing by the stove, clutching your hand to your chest, fresh tears brewing in your eyes and threatening to fall.

“Hey,” he said softly, coming up to you and holding you by your shoulders. “What happened?”

You scoffed, nearly laughing with anger. What hadn’t happened? What hadn’t gone wrong?

“What happened? What happened is Richie didn’t show up to work, so I had to take his shift on the register. And then a man and his buddies came in and told me I was shit at my job because I couldn’t ring up their five hundred fucking sandwiches they ordered fast enough. So, Tina switched with me and I chopped up her vegetables she had left and put them in a pot. I was gonna boil them down in a stock, but the stock was on the top shelf in the walk-in. I got it down, but the lid wasn’t on tight enough, so it slipped when I got it down and splashed all over me and my hair and my shoes. I went to check the vegetables, and they had already burned to the bottom of the pot because I didn’t get the stock quick enough, so I went to pull the pot off the stove and burned the fuck out of my hand. I’m just having such a shit day, I can’t do anything right, I’m fucking it up for all of you—”

Carmy gently shushed you, taking the towel Marcus had brought over and wiping any stock he could see off of you.

“It’s fine, Y/N, it’s alright. It’s nothing we can’t fix. I don’t care about the stock, I care about that burn. Come with me, alright?”

You shook your head, groaning. “No, I made a mess and I need to clean it—“

Sydney interrupted you, already moving to fix the stock. “Go get your hand checked out, we’ve got this. It’s alright, really.”

“Sorry about the lid,” Marcus said, clapping you on the shoulder.

You shook your head, letting out a breath. “It’s fine. Thanks, guys.”

You let Carmy lead you into his office, staying quiet as he pulled out a first aid kit. He held your hand in his, turning it over to get a good look at the burn.

“It’s not bad. I’m gonna wrap it, though. Does it hurt?”

You shook your head. “It’s not that bad. It hurts less than my pride, that’s for sure.”

Carmy let out a chuckle as he wrapped your hand, finishing and moving his hand up to smooth over your hair. “You’ve got stock in your hair.”

You knew he was just teasing, and that he didn’t mean anything bad by it, but you could still feel tears well up again. Carmy sighed, pulling you into a hug. He let a hand rest on the back of your head, the other running up and down your back.

“Today fucking sucks,” you muttered into his shoulder. “I’m gonna kill Richie tomorrow.”

“Then who would work the register?” He joked, making you huff.

You pulled back, and Carmy brought a hand up to cup your cheek, wiping away some dried stock. He left his palm there, and you leaned into it, taking a deep breath.

“You’re alright, baby. Shitty day, I know. Tomorrow will be better.”

“That’s eerily optimistic coming from you,” you grinned, making Carmy smile.

“I didn’t say it would be better for me,” he said, bending down to put away the first aid kit. “But it’ll be better for you. Richie will be back, and you can yell at him tomorrow. I’ll put you with Marcus, he’s doing cakes tomorrow. You can help him, alright?”

You nodded, moving to wrap your arms around his waist. Your voice was quiet, defeated. “Thank you.”

Carmy pressed a kiss to the top of your head, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He gently rocked you back and forth, and you could instantly feel yourself ease in his hold.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

—

A/N - Hi! Sorry this is a little short, I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for the request!

[superxovas]

this series was so important for me !! it made me laugh, cry, contemplate my life, grieve, and love. if you're a fan of the bear, you HAVE to read this literal masterpiece. no better rec i would rather share first !!

the bear fx masterlist

Updated: 7-2-23

completed master fic:

🍰 nothing’s gonna hurt you baby (13/13) || explicit ||  read on ao3  slowburn, enemies to lovers to not-lovers to friends then back lovers, the inherent eroticism of deep understanding and mutual respect, no use of y/n, mature sexual content, explicit language, porn with plot. carmy x f!reader 

🔥 one  >>  two >>  three >>  four >>  five  >>  six  >>  🔪 seven >>  eight >> nine  >>  ten  >> eleven  >> twelve >> thirteen  ☕ feedback/answered asks

🌹 fic inspiration 

🚬 fic requests/one shots:

😈 touch || explicit || request was for “jealousy carmy.”  exes, porn with feelings, ambiguous ending. carmy x f!reader  read on tumblr | or | read on ao3 🍅 like home || general || request was ‘please say something’ established relationship, post-nghyb, fluff. carmy x f!reader  read on tumblr  | or | read on ao3

🍝 break me (then help me find the pieces) || explicit || mikey x f!reader  friends with benefits, porn no plot, pure smut tbh read on tumblr | or | read on ao3

🎶 playlists:

nothing’s gonna hurt you baby ➡ made by anon <3  nothing’s gonna hurt you vol.2 ➡ made by anon <3 (more fluffy) he’s my babygirl fr ➡ carmy playlist made by me  lookin’ for peace of mind ➡ reader playlist made by me  nothing’s gonna hurt you baby vol.3  ➡ an epilogue playlist by me

[superxovas]

#THEM!!!!

[superxovas]

testing testing .. 1 2 3 ?? just throwing a little tester post out there !! i hope to start sharing my recs and maybe even writing myself soon :~)