#(maybe a little bit in a parasocial way maybe)

[sst4rdst]

synopsis : you're a famous idol, but one of your first fans still adored you, and forever will. pairing : xiao x reader (no gendered pronouns used for reader) warnings : yandere themes, parasocial relationship, obsessed fan, modern au. author's note : i'm back to my xiao agenda!

xiao had always hated crowds.

the press of bodies, the indistinct roar of voices, the flicker of phone screens catching light like tiny, frantic stars—he loathed it.

couldn’t stand the invasive noise of it, the way it gnawed at the edges of his patience until he felt like his skin no longer fit right. and yet, he was here again, one of too many faces in a sea of them, standing alone in a place he didn’t belong, all for a glimpse of you.

he told himself it was fine. that there was nothing strange about it. everyone else here was here for the same reason, weren’t they?

all of them screaming your name, waving your merch, clutching lightsticks and banners as though you were something more than human. and you were. to them. to him. you always had been.

xiao had been following you long before the others caught on. before the sold-out arenas and sponsorship deals, before the stage lights ever touched your face.

back when your voice trembled in cheap livestreams, when your smile was uncertain and you still bit your lip between lines.

he remembered every post you deleted, every offhand comment you made at 3am, those nights you forgot to turn off the camera and fell asleep with the lull of city traffic outside your window.

it had felt like a secret then. something sacred. just you and him and the glow of a screen in the dark.

the world didn’t deserve you. not the leering reporters, not the sycophants scrambling for proximity, not the fairweather fans who discarded you the moment another face trended higher.

they didn’t see you the way he did. didn’t notice the subtle exhaustion beneath your smiles, the slight downward flicker of your gaze when the cheers became too loud.

but xiao did. he saw every tremor, every moment you looked like you wanted to run. and some part of him—some dark, buried thing—thought good. if they drove you away, if the noise wore you down, maybe you’d come back to where you belonged.

to him.

he wasn’t like the others. he never screamed your name or threw himself at barricades. he stayed in the back, a silent figure cloaked in black, watching. memorizing. you always noticed him, eventually.

his was the gaze you couldn’t shake, the one that lingered a little too long, sharp and unblinking amid the blur of faces. xiao didn’t smile. didn’t cheer. he didn’t need to. the weight of his attention was enough.

he collected the pieces of you that others discarded. the crumpled lyric sheets someone left behind after a fan event. a half-finished bottle of water with your glossed print on the rim. merch you signed for someone else and carelessly left behind.

he kept them all, tucked away in his apartment where no one else would touch them. it wasn’t about possession, he told himself. it was about preservation. about having something real, something untouched by the lies of fame and performance.

and you never remembered him. not truly. not as anything more than another face in the crowd. but he saw the flicker of recognition sometimes, like the faint hitch in your breath when your gaze snagged on his, the way you’d glance over your shoulder as though expecting someone to follow. you were right to.

he liked it best when you were alone. when the stage makeup was scrubbed from your skin and the manufactured persona fell away. when your voice was raw from overuse and you slumped against the alley wall behind the venue, the city’s chill wrapped around you like a second skin.

xiao would be there too, in the shadowed edges of your vision, close enough for the ghost of his presence to raise the hair on your neck. never approaching. not yet. just watching. keeping you safe in ways you’d never notice.

the others called you a star. untouchable. out of reach. but they were wrong.

you were mortal. flesh and blood and brittle bone. xiao knew. he’d seen the moments you cracked, the glimpses of the person beneath the mask. and he was patient. he could wait for the inevitable moment when the weight of it all became too much and you slipped.

when you vanished from the stage lights and the world called it a tragedy. but it wouldn’t be. not to him. he’d be there when it happened. the only one who’d stayed.

and maybe then you’d understand. maybe then you’d see that none of them could ever love you the way he did.

[emotoangel]

you know sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat remembering the phrase ‘more than just romantic’ and feeling like I’ve been knocked down a hill by the reminder that Dan and Phil are like ,, actually together. it’s not just a weird online shipping two twinks thing they’re actual soulmates, companions through life, 4000 year old tortoises, RANCH, like a piece of furniture, like a normal gay couple ,,, what the fuck

[seri-tonin]

Last post for tonight I swear but I'm thinking about that one post about how dungeon meshi feels like ryoko kui just playing around with her oc's (in a good way) moreso than most manga. Cause that's also exactly what bsd feels like to me. The whole series is truly just asagiri taking his little author guys and putting them in situations and I eat it up

[butchdykeorpheus]

unfortunately i am not immune paying attention to youtuber controversies/slapfighting because i just found out about the whole qu*ntonreviews thing and frankly he's coming off pretty well in this situation but d@n ols0n. isn't

[knightoflove]

I care so little about celebrities at this point. If you still like some people then that’s great. I’m happy for you but its starting to feel like bread and circuses to me :/

[hotdyke-hardstyle]

sorry for putting all my interests on one blog I did it to make me as annoying to follow as possible 💝

[youthguk]

Parasocial | jjk (m)

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: smut, best friends with benefits, a little bit toxic, jungkook and reader are a little messy and ruin life’s of people around them

words: 2,3k

summary: Everyone in your circle knew that where there was you, Jungkook wasn't far behind. It was just your natural state of being - together. Your relationship had this beautiful, messy way of coloring outside the lines of typical friendship. But somewhere between algebra homework and growing pains, his protective streak went from "adorably concerned" to "intensely involved in literally everything."

if you enjoy my writing, you can support me here and get early access to chapters and exclusive stories 🖤

"You're being dramatic," you sighed, feeling the weight of another argument settling on your shoulders.

"The cake should be brought out by someone who is the closest," Ren huffed, his voice dripping with barely concealed venom. "Not just some... friend."

Your birthday evening had started like a scene from a dream - a cherished midnight surprise from Jungkook (your ride-or-die since the awkward days of braces and bad haircuts), heartfelt wishes from your uni squad, and what should have been a perfect dinner surrounded by your favorite humans.

But of course, Ren had to be that guy. The one who couldn't wrap his head around the radical concept that guys and girls could actually be friends without ulterior motives. Revolutionary, right?

And yeah, okay, maybe you'd spent years defending your friendship with Jungkook like it was your dissertation. Maybe you'd drawn lines in the sand that said "this friendship isn't negotiable." But here's the tea - maybe, just maybe, Ren wasn't totally off base with his jealousy.

There were... reasons. Complicated, messy, beautiful reasons why your friendship with Jungkook was slightly more than your average childhood bestie situation.

Reason #1: Lose of virginity

"This is a bad idea," Jungkook loomed over you, blocking your path. His gaze was dark, almost threatening.

"Why?" you whined, genuinely confused. "Eric and I have been dating for six months now, everyone else had their first time at sixteen, and I'm literally the only seventeen-year-old virgin in our friend group!"

You bit your lower lip in frustration, wondering why you were even discussing your potential first time with Jungkook of all people.

But that's just how your friendship had always been - joined at the hip, consulting each other on every little decision. You'd even helped him pick out protection for his sixteenth birthday when he decided Sarah from the neighboring school would be the one. Of course, this was only after your thorough background check on Sarah's credentials.

Everyone in your circle knew that where there was you, Jungkook wasn't far behind. It was just your natural state of being - together.

And honestly? You lived for it - having someone who knew you better than you knew yourself, who loved you fiercely, looked out for you relentlessly, and accepted every messy inch of who you were... that was the real definition of blessed.

He always said you two were like parts of a whole - if one missed something, the other would catch it. Your relationship had this beautiful, messy way of coloring outside the lines of typical friendship. But somewhere between algebra homework and growing pains, his protective streak went from "adorably concerned" to "intensely involved in literally everything."

Take your first kiss, for instance. There you were, thirteen and dreamy-eyed about Matt from Bio class, when Jungkook swooped in with his "I can't let your first kiss be terrible" campaign. And you? Sweet, trusting you? You bought it hook, line, and sinker.

"These moments stay with you forever," he'd insisted, eyes burning with something you couldn't quite name. "What if he's awful and ruins kissing for you forever?"

So there you were, letting your best friend cradle your face like you were made of porcelain, his lips soft against yours. And because Jungkook never did anything halfway, it wasn't just a peck - oh no. He kissed you like he was teaching you a language only he knew, and god help you, you were fluent by the end.

You floated on cloud nine afterward, convinced everyone must kiss like that. (Narrator voice: They did not.)

"You've already had sex," you challenged now, hands on hips, chin tilted in defiance as you tried to make your point.

His eyes traveled over you like a caress—taking in the way your black dress hugged every curve, how it whispered secrets about your waist, how the neckline played peek-a-boo with your cleavage. His gaze dropped to your stockinged legs, and something in the air shifted, grew heavier.

In truth, those stockings weren’t just a fashion statement—they were a secret pact between you and Jungkook, a whispered promise of wild desire. You both knew they ignited something raw in him, and if he got excited, then so would every other man who caught sight.

“So you’re doing this just to spite me?” he teased, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he licked his lower lip with playful intent.

“What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind? Snap out of it,” you shot back, dramatically snapping your fingers right before his eyes. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

A self-assured grin curved his lips as Jungkook reached into his back pocket and produced a gleaming condom wrapper. Today was too significant to be marred by embarrassment—too important a day for you to be caught buying them yourself or relying on Eric to even remember. When you asked Jungkook to buy it for you, his response had been effortlessly clear: “Consider it done.”

You knew Jungkook grasped everything when you asked that favor, even though you knew how much he couldn’t stand Eric.

Eric was nothing special. You might have ignored him otherwise, but among all the boys at school, he was the only one bold enough to make a move on you, while everyone else cowered, intimidated by Jungkook’s very presence.

Reaching out for the coveted wrapper, your hand barely brushed the air before Jungkook pulled it just out of reach. Frowning, you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Don’t be childish,” you chided. This wasn’t the time for games on such an important day.

“With all due respect, I’m not a child anymore,” he grinned, the mischief dancing in his eyes. “Let me help you,” he said, teasingly waving the condom before you.

Incredulous laughter bubbled from you. “This isn’t funny, Jungkook,” you warned, making yet another feeble attempt to grab the wrapper as he deftly dodged, slipping further into your room like a shadow.

A heavy exhale marked your moment alone as you closed the door behind him—a familiar habit in moments like these.

“I’m not joking,” he murmured with unexpected seriousness, his hand gripping your waist with the firm tenderness of someone who knew your secrets. Guiding you onto your desk, he sat you down as your heart pounded in equal measure to your rising anticipation. Slowly, he eased your legs apart, positioning himself precisely between them.

“What are you doing, Jungkook?” you asked, your voice laced with disapproving wonder even as your heart thundered. An unfamiliar ache began to bloom between your legs, a desire both new and unwelcome in its intensity. What was it about him, simply standing there, that set your body ablaze? Damn.

In a hushed whisper, he replied, “I’m your best friend.” Leaning in closer, his presence made you arch your back, compelling you to lean into his tender gravity. You bit your lower lip in silent acknowledgment. He truly knew you better than anyone. “No one ever understands you like I do,” he murmured, his tongue etching a tantalizing, wet trail from your collarbone to your earlobe.

Your hips responded before your mind could catch up, arching in invitation as you yearned to feel him even closer. What was happening to you? Why did your body betray you with such raw, unbridled passion? Your pulse quickened, each beat echoing the promise of more—so much more.

“Jungkook, this isn’t right,” you murmured as you closed your eyes, throwing your head back to grant him more of your soft, exposed neck for his kisses.

“But the first time has to be unforgettable—a memory that lasts a lifetime,” he insisted, his strong hand tightening around your waist to pull you closer. As his arousal spoke its own language, you couldn’t help but notice the growing evidence of his desire, intensifying the ache that pulsed beneath you. “I won’t let that pathetic jerk spoil what should be your perfect moment.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, you opened your eyes, biting your lower lip to hide the undeniable excitement coursing through you. Jungkook, with a mix of care and audacity, lifted you and laid you gently on the bed. You watched your chest rise and fall in rapid, fervent rhythm as he stood over you, a vision of raw, impossible beauty.

He had always been attractive, undeniably so - every girl at school secretly wishing for just a taste of his world. You learned to duck your eyes back then, knowing one look in those mesmerizing orbs could unravel you completely. And now, with a slow, deliberately teasing reveal, he slips off his shirt to expose broad shoulders and chiseled abs that practically whisper seduction. Seriously, the guy is ridiculously gorgeous.

You lean back into the bed’s soft embrace, eyes glued to him as he unbuckles his belt and slides his jeans off until only his boxers remain. The desire radiating from him is almost a silent dare you simply can’t resist.

“Like what you see?” he asks with a cocky grin, edging closer until you can feel the heat rising between you. You gulp, nerves mixing with that undeniable pull. “Are we really gonna do this?” you ask, your voice laced with a mix of uncertainty and raw, undeniable longing.

“Chill, Y/N,” Jungkook murmurs, drawing you deeper into his orbit. “This is gonna be unforgettable, and you’ll never look back. I’m not just passing through—unlike that clueless high school guy.”

His nearly bare body presses you deeper into the mattress as you shift just enough to let him settle perfectly between your thighs. He leans in close and whispers, “I can stop anytime, just say the word,” sending a rush of heat straight to your core. Without hesitation, you loop your leg around his waist, pulling him even closer. His smirk tells you he’s enjoying every moment. “Good girl,” he rasps, eyes sparkling with mischief as his fingers begin to toy with the hem of your dress. You arch your back, eager for the barrier between you to disappear.

“Jungkook…” you moan as he wastes no time moving to your most sensitive spot, his tongue expertly exploring every curve as it nudges your black thong aside. Wild thoughts swirl through your head—friendship lines blurred, jealousy simmering, and an overwhelming craving for more. Who cared if he was your best friend? You tilt your head back, watching him with hungry eyes as your hips squeeze around his head, silently pleading for another taste.

He had everything you needed, and if anyone could deliver it, it was Jungkook.

You breathe out his name, your cheeks burning either from the confession or the heat of the moment.

“Jungkook, I want you… inside me.” Your admission hangs in the air as he keeps lavishing attention on your most sensitive spot, his tongue relentless. “Please…” you whimper.

But with a teasing glint in his eye, he responds, “Not so fast—think you can handle me right off the bat?”

Rising slightly, he hovers above you, and you catch sight of his arousal straining against his boxers. How could you even know if you were ready when everything felt so deliciously wet?

He chuckles, clearly amused by your unabashed stare, then leans in to kiss you, his lips still carrying the remnants of your shared desire. Your tongues tangle in a messy, passionate dance—your first real kiss as an adult. Your fingers dig into his hair like you can’t get enough. Breaking away briefly, he trails a string of kisses down your neck, and you arch into him instinctively. One hand massaged your breast, playfully tugging at your nipple, while his mouth worships the other, licking and nibbling in just the right way. Soft, stuttering moans escape you—damn, he was so good.

You simply can’t hold back any longer. Sensing your impatience, Jungkook lets a hand slip into your panties, teasing you with one finger before inviting a second in. You’re dripping with desire, teetering on the brink.

“Please…” you moan again, lightly tugging at his boxers, marveling at your own newfound boldness.

“Your wish is my command,” he murmurs, his warm breath mingling with yours as he skillfully opens a foil packet with his teeth. You watch, captivated, as he unrolls the condom along his length, and you instinctively spread your legs wider, signaling that you’re all in.

Jungkook slides his body onto yours, aligning himself perfectly with your entrance. “Mine,” he growls with a note of satisfaction, and you nod silently. In that charged moment, nothing else exists—you’re completely his, as if you always have been.

He enters you slowly, each movement smooth and deliberate, and you can hear his soft moan echo your own rising pleasure. Knowing you excite him as much as he excites you fills you with a satisfying warmth. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him in close as his rhythm quickens, filling the room with the wet, symphonic sounds of your passion—a duet of shared moans and intimate moves propelling you both to the edge.

Eventually, Jungkook collapses against your chest, both of you catching your breath in the aftermath. Rather than pulling away, you linger together in those blissful moments. Finally, propping himself up on his elbows, he looks down at you with a teasing glint.

“So, how was that?” he asks, running his thumb over your still-sensitive, swollen lips, inviting your answer.

“Not bad,” you manage a casual reply.

“Little liar,” he chuckles, sitting up, then adds, “But if you ever need a hand—or a friend, you know where to find me.”

Now you were painfully aware that you couldn’t meet Eric’s eyes after this. With Eric, things never went all the way, despite his half-hearted attempts when Jungkook wasn’t around to intervene. You’d always held back—just a touch here, a flirtatious finger there. Sure, there was a twinge of guilt, but with Jungkook, it never felt like cheating; it was him, your Jungkook. And the truth was evident: Eric was a terrible lover, each touch reminding you just how much better Jungkook made you feel.

That night sealed the deal. Far from any awkward afterglow, you and Jungkook grew even closer—if that was even possible. Hugging, cheek kisses, having him casually plop on your lap during movie nights, or simply cuddling in bed became your new normal. It drove Eric mad, as any boyfriend in his position would be. You broke up with Eric right after graduation, that summer before heading off to university with Jungkook by your side. A bold new life was on the horizon, and you stepped into it together, united by your little, delicious secret.

part 2

if you enjoy my writing, you can support me here and get early access to chapters and exclusive stories 🖤

[forsworned]

part one

cw: onlyfans!simon, canon universe, cybersex, solo sex/masturbation, being simon's good girl while he has some downtime, parasocial relationship???

author's note: and let me say this once to be clear, if you don't know how to ask for a part two properly without giving some sort of positive feedback and instead demand it from me you will get a verbal spanking from me and i will embarrass you, i do not care

Your breath catches as you gawk at your phone, rereading the message. The sensation of anxiety pricks at you causing you to perspire under your pits and the temple of your forehead.

The thought of him—TacticalHeat—or Ghost or whatever the hell his name is waiting on the other side, possibly stroking himself at the notion of you joining him on a private call sends a rush of arousal up your spine.

Ping!

TacticalHeat: You still there, lovie?

Oh, fuck. You card your fingers through your hair and let out a heavy exhale. It's awful timing really. Like getting caught with your pants down...literally.

Fingers sticky with lube and your own arousal, you stretch your limbs to open the drawer of your nightstand and pull out a wet wipe to clean off your hands and get a gander at the state of your appearance. It's slightly disheveled, but honestly? In a super sexy bedhead kind of way.

You wipe the corners of your eyes to remove the accumulated smudged mascara from your gruesome work day and let a sharp expire through your nose. Well, if you were going to do this, you'd at least look hot doing it.

You: Yeah, I'm here.

TacticalHeat: So what do you think, lovie...you up for it?

"Fuck!" You exclaim to yourself, not realizing that your dumbass forgot to reply to his original message. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment, tracing circles in the air as you try to unscramble your mind.

You: Now works...what do you have in mind?

The three dots appear almost instantly like he's waiting for your response with the same fiery intensity that has you gripping at your phone.

TacticalHeat: I'll send you a link. I wanna see you, too.

Ghost has invited you to a Zoom meeting.

Your heart pounds rapidly against your ribcage, and you feel the heat sidling to your cheeks. You hadn't expected this to escalate so quickly, to be pushed into the spotlight. And yet, the idea of him watching you is thrilling.

With trembling fingers, you adjust the lighting in your room and the camera on your phone to ensure you're getting the best quality. One last look in the mirror to smooth out your hair, and make sure your top reveals a little cleavage before you tap on the link, muddying your phone screen with oils on your finger.

Twiddling with the tripod that sits by the edge of your bed as the link loads, you clip on your phone and sit back while you wait to get accepted. He wastes no time getting you out of the waiting room and you watch as the screen shifts, and suddenly, there he is. Simon's half-lidded gaze fixates on you, his familiar skull-mask in place, but this time it's different. He's relaxed, clad in a black loose-fitted henley that outlines his taut physique, and he's manspreading in light-wash denim jeans, hands exposed and you're already aching at the sight. It's an intimate setting and the atmosphere shifts when he gets a real gander at you. His gravelly voice sends a frisson up your spine:

"There's my good girl," he purrs, and just like that you're hooked.

There's a moment where your heart drops to your ass, and you let out a little shaky breath before giving him a shy smile. His gaze doesn't waver. It's intense and focused as he drinks in every detail of your appearance. You're half wondering what he thinks of you and half focused on the hoarseness in his voice when he calls you 'good girl'. How the blood rushes to your face and your trepidation tingles on your skin.

"Hi," You finally muster up and you swear his dark eyes light up, or maybe it's the delusion that spikes into your prefrontal cortex. "I'm a bit, um, surprised that you wanted to chat like this."

His mask warps in the corner of where you assume his lips are indicating a smirk. "I like a bit of spontaneity," he says, leaning closer to the camera. "Besides I wanted to see how you would handle this."

You avert your gaze for a moment, feeling hot all over again. He notes how you suck in your bottom and how your dilated eyes flicker all over the screen, a subtle sign that your adrenaline is pumping. He wishes he could hear your heart beating through the screen.

Your fingers delicately trace over your collarbone, "what do you wanna see?" your voice drops to a sultry whisper.

His eyes darken and he takes a slow breath as fixates on you, taking in all your subtle gestures and the silkiness in your dulcet tone.

"Show me how you've missed me," he rasps. "show me what you've been doing while you've waited for me."

Christ, you want to melt into your mattress. You knew it was a playful gesture to create a more intimate atmosphere between you two, even if it wasn't true.

The challenge in his tone exhilarates you with a hint of collywobbles that infest your tummy. With a quick glance at your full-size mirror mounted on your closet door, you begin to tug at the strap of your skimpy top, teasingly revealing enough of your skin to keep him riveted.

And it works.

As you continue, you can hear the jingling of his belt being unbuckled and the sound of his zipper going down.

Your blown eyes are entranced by how he frees himself from the waistband of his briefs and you’re driveling over how the muscles under the porcelain skin of his cock twitches. He tilts his head back, transfixed on how you’re exposing your pebbled bud to him.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, swallowing thickly as you squeeze your breasts between your fingers. “Every inch of you looks perfect, lovie.”

You practically fawn over his compliments. He’s praising you, watching you, getting off to you. And that feeling is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. You feel liberated and exposed, knowing that he’s eagerly watching you as the lines blur. This feeling consumes you, consumes him, and soon you’re stripping off your panties and he doesn’t even bother to hide the groan that escapes his lips. 

“Look at you, absolutely stunning. Every bit of you…” His tone changes when you part your silken, glistening folds. “Touch yourself for me, lovie.”

It’s a demanding tone. One that sends a frisson up your spinal column and you feel the need to please, but there’s another side of you that awakens. The kind that crawls out when you’re being railroaded by a domineering man. 

“Say please,” You wave your wand around. 

He softly snorts at your attempt at trying to tame him, but he humors you, “Please, lovie. I crave ya.”

And that’s enough to inflate your ego. Your fingers switch on the vibrator and you tease it over your clit, bucking your hips at your sensitive clit. 

There’s a twitch in his eyes when they widen. Like the light in his head switched on. “So you’ve been playing with yourself, have you, pretty girl?” he coos, sitting up a bit more. Oh, you’ve really got his attention now. 

Your heart flutters at the same rate that your pussy does when you realize he takes note of your current over aroused state. “Maybe,” you give him a coquettish grin. 

As you take the initiative and push the boundaries with him, a rumbling growl emits from him. His gaze intensifies as they lock on yours with a mixture of surprise and approval. He loves a good brat.

“Is that so?” he susurrates, his tone oozes with amusement. He likes the way your pretty face glimmers with the excitement to satisfy him. “You wanna take control now, do you?”

He shifts in his seat. “Go on then, lovie.” he gestures to you, and oh how his dick creams at the sight of you shaking your legs on for, gasping at the vibrating sensation of your toy caressing your cunt. You’re really such a site for sore eyes.

“Such a pretty pussy,”he praises with a husky voice that makes your heart race. The saccharine moans that leave your lips as you spasms against the silicone while you instruct him to tug at himself. 

He obliges because how can he not when you’re looking so fucking luscious on the other side of the camera as you winsomely order him to smear the opulent precum that oozes from his angry, swollen tip. A little sob leaves your lips when you see how compliant he is, and how his chest shudders at your words and creamy cries of delight. 

“Just like that,” he encourages, pumping at himself and in an instant the tables turn, and you’re more than willing to let him take control. He pants at the sight of your parted, saliva-lacquered lips and lolled back eyes. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.”

And that sentence alone leaves you breathless. “Oh, you like that?” He chuckles, through his own labored breaths. The raw emotions in his voice makes it clear how much he’s affected by you, “God, you’re everything I want and more.”

And that does it for you because your orgasm rips through you like a hurricane and you feel your spine involuntarily arch in pleasure, peaked breasts splayed out as your pussy rapidly pulsates on full display for him. They bounce at your ragged breaths and throes of passion and he’s quick to follow, elongating the pleasure of your peak. His velvety, opulent cum spurts out in plentiful, white cords as he bucks his hips and throws his head back. His guttural moans are like music to your ears and you’re quaking at the pure rapture. 

There’s a long moment of silence as you both come down from your highs. A laugh leaves your lips, and a wry grin twitches at his features under his balaclava. You’re no longer dripping nerves. Your smile lights up the room, and his heart swells at the sight of your afterglow. Your confidence shines through and he’s still hard. Not a very common occurrence in the world of Ghost.

Your eyes flicker to his girthy cock and your grin spreads. His eyes follow yours and he chuckles and gently pumps himself, “not every day that happens.”

You cock a brow. “What the inviting me for a cybersex sesh, or the staying hard after cumming part?”

He barks out a hearty laugh, “Both I s’ppose.” he softly plashes. “Really got me goin’ there, lovie.”

And the nickname brings you back to life. Maybe you really were delirious because you can sense that his eyes display a different range of lingering emotions--persisting lust and a genuine admiration. You can’t help but to feel a little victorious as you watch him continue to stroke himself, even after the both of you reached your peak.

“Not everyday I meet someone who can keep up with me,” he rasps. He lets out a breath of satisfaction.

You tilt your head, a coy smile etches into your lips. “Guess I’m just full of surprises,” you reply softly. There’s that sensual confidence seeping into your tone and it shows on your body.

He chuckles. It’s low and alluring and it causes gooseberries to trail up your skin. “That you are, lovie,” he counters, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. His voice makes you feel warm and gooey. “Could get used to this…to you.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air making his interest in you clear and undeniable. Your heart skips a beat as the heat between you simmers again. It’s no longer the deviancy alone that tips him off, it’s the fact that he’s brought out a different side of you.  

“Maybe next time,” your voice is low and tempting as your eyes motion to his still-engorged length. “you’ll let me show you how much more I can handle.”

His smirk widens under his mask, and his hunger for you multiplies. “Count on it.” he replies with the promise of fulfilling that request.

You both share a yearning moment. The spark between you is electrifying and certainly obvious. You decide to make the first move as you sit up to hover your sticky thumb over the end call button, “Good night, Ghost.”

He chews at the end of his cheek and his eyes crinkle signaling that he was smiling wide. “Good night, lovie.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that this won’t be the last time you’ll see each other like this.

taglist: @fallen-angelslove @cinnabeanz @pricesugarwife @daikongirlie @firesgod @marierg

@multifand0midi07 @surenotsorry @forgottensomewhere @teenagellamaangel @nijiru @deliverancesix

@milk-man3000 @russellsimp @madzzz0797 @kittykatgorl @nerd-without-a-cause @mikasakuchiki @haleyaaah

@hiken-no-stark @shellyshellshell @livingoutsidethetardis @jemomgershippingco @kruegerismymalewife

@ki-ssshot @essentialbeats-blog @dmitriene

[cowboyschumi]

HEARTLESS

Summary: Lando Norris has entered his heartless era with no intention of leaving it anytime soon. Now he’s hunting for prey on Raya, and that’s where he stumbles upon you.

Author’s note: Y'all really thirst over Mister Norris, my god. English is not my first language. Enjoy the reading lovelies, interactions are much appreciated.

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, cheating mention, cursing ig. Tried to be inclusive, reader's gender is not specified.

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COWBOYSCHUMI | 2025 All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate, or upload on other platforms.

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Luisa was the best Lando ever had, everyone knew it including him, but he wouldn’t admit it out loud. The only ones cheering over their breakup were jealous, parasocial thirteen-year-olds.

But that was long ago. He moved on pretty quickly, not exactly beating the cheating allegations. Russian model this, Brazilian actress that… and it was all true. There was no denying. He was really enjoying his singleness, having a blast every heated Sunday. But beyond that? Nothing. He got scared easily by commitment or brushed off any trace of a slight chance of dating someone seriously.

He didn’t know why, this tendency to avoid and escape. Deep down, he knew he was hurt. Not hurt by someone else, though. He did it all by himself, ruining the only real thing he ever had. Fans who cared pointed it out: 'His spark is missing,' 'We miss silly old Lando!'

And after claiming he didn’t want to mature because he was happy where he was, he finally matured. Or at least, he pretended to, showing himself as nonchalant and bold. Expressiveness and cameras were just a performance, because in his daily life, he still acted like a teenage boy, eager to get laid

Anyone with an average experience on dating apps knew they were the worst—a way to boost egos based on looks, only to end up rejected and discarded. Raya seemed different, more polite, you guessed. You weren’t the dating type, but curiosity got the best of you. You wanted to know what the hype was about.

Lando, on the other hand, spent most of his day on that app. Every girl swiped right on him, but he rarely matched with someone he actually liked. He wasn’t too strict about looks, he was more of a 'the bigger, the better' type of guy.

Raya wasn’t Tinder. Access was limited, and confidentiality was a must. That’s why you were really surprised when you got in after an exhausting approval process. Your friends freaked out, screamed, and practically climbed the walls of your apartment—the excitement was real. Maybe even a little more than yours.

"Hand me the phone." I don’t even know all these people you’re swiping left and right on." Your patience was limited, and your friends knew exactly how to test it. They kept using your Raya like it was theirs while you minded your own business, eating ice cream. You had no intention of swiping, and the girls knew it, that’s why they took matters into their own hands.

"Oh. My. God. Shut up."

"That’s Lando Norris!" One of them immediately snatched the phone from your friend’s hands.

"Who’s Lando Norris?"

They looked at you like you had just committed a crime, or like they’d seen a ghost behind you. You weren’t sure if your question was out of place or if it was the fact that you had just spoken with a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth

"You’re kidding, right?" Finally, one of them spoke after a long, awkward silence.

FOMO—a word used by chronically online people to describe the fear of missing out, not knowing what’s going on, feeling excluded. That was exactly how you felt for not knowing who Lando Norris was.

"Formula One driver?" Now the phone was in your hands. You were reading his description with the screen practically glued to your face, like a mom who can’t see a thing unless it’s that close.

"That guy beat Verstappen a few times, right?" That was the only thing you could come up with, just from scrolling through Twitter and catching bits of the news. You didn’t know a single thing about the sport.

And sometimes, famous people liked that: their love interests not knowing anything about them, their jobs, the rumors, or the creepy facts.

Your Raya profile didn’t have anything special, aside from your picture-perfect photos. Celebrities didn’t actually care about you deep down—only if you fit their beauty standards. Being active and checking profiles wasn’t on your to-do list. It was just pure curiosity.

But somehow, you two matched. May the universe know under what circumstances and why.

————————————————————————

"When will I have the chance to meet you?"

His text was blunt, like you already knew each other. Maybe even a little desperate.

"What happened to 'Hello, how are you, my name is…'?"

You answered sarcastically, but truthfully. Not introducing yourselves was kind of rude. But you got the point, Lando didn’t care about who you were or what you had to say. The quicker you ended up in his bed, the better.

He laughed at your text, you had the kind of sense of humor he’d fall for. He wouldn’t lie, he enjoyed how obsessed girls were with him and how quickly the dirty talk escalated with just one message. But to his surprise, you weren’t that easy to win over.

"Haha, sorry. Is dinner fine with you?"

Wow, he was really a bad texter. The driest you’d ever seen, dare you say. Was it a guy thing or just a wannabe mysterious famous person thing? You hoped the conversation would be better in person because, damn, it’d be a shame if his pretty face had nothing to say.

"Send me the addy. I don’t need an F1 driver picking me up, I’d rather pass."

Your fear of speed was a thing.

————————————————————————

Lando was attractive. You weren’t exactly interested, but nervousness ran through your veins. Dates always did this over you—stuttering, sweaty palms, and way too much overthinking. You even considered canceling, but your friends wouldn’t let you.

You were a fashion design student, meaning you had some knowledge of trends and what suited your silhouette. Lately, silky long attires were your go-to for night fits; simple, elegant. You dressed for yourself, for comfort, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the attention and the flattering compliments on your fashion sense.

Monaco was small. Getting anywhere was a short drive, so the Uber didn’t take long. But as you stepped out of the car, your stomach twisted. The restaurant in front of you was huge, glowing with warm lights, yet no people coming in or out. The classic internet trap flashed through your mind—what if there was no Lando Norris waiting for you at all?

“Y/N?”

His voice sounded unsure. He was glued to his phone, shamelessly checking if you actually looked like the pictures he’d been thirsting over on that awful app.

You turned around slowly, mentally cursing yourself, and then your friends. And there he was.

He really screamed Formula One driver. The expensive car gave him away immediately. You had boots on, and he was wearing sneakers, making him not nearly as tall as you expected. You bit your cheek, trying not to laugh at the fact that you were practically the same height.

How were you supposed to act on a date with someone worldwide famous?

Lando leaned in to kiss your cheek, but you instinctively extended your hand for a handshake instead. The night hadn’t even started, and you already wanted the earth to swallow you.

“Shall we?”

He offered his arm, effortlessly charming. Gentleman, innit?

You hesitated before looping your arm through his, still not saying a word. But as you stepped into the restaurant, your stomach dropped.

The place was empty. No other customers. Just you and him.

Your face went pale because there was only one explanation.

He did not…

“Mister Norris!”

A well-dressed waiter greeted him with familiarity. They knew each other. With a simple hand gesture, he led you both to your table. The level of formality made you feel like royalty.

Dim lighting, soft music. A candle flickered in the center of the round table, it had the scent of chocolate, if your nostrils weren’t failing you. The ambiance was undeniably beautiful.

He really outdid himself.

You sat down, eyes narrowing at him. "You did not rent out this whole place just for us."

"Yeah, I did."

Lando chuckled, his smile boyish—like a kid caught red-handed. You playfully shoved his shoulder, you hated surprises and gifts in any format.

Your face burned red, so you instinctively hid behind the menu. Of course, he noticed. He found it adorable.

His foot lightly tapped yours under the table, trying to get your attention. "Are we playing hide and seek now?"

You sighed, setting the menu down just so he could see you roll your eyes. "What are you ordering?" you asked in a hushed tone, like it was some kind of secret, despite the fact that no one else was around.

Your elbows rested on the table as you leaned slightly toward him. He did the same. The tiny candle was the only thing between you.

There was no need for flirtation or innuendos—the tension was already there.

For you two, banter was enough.

————————————————————————

"So, fashion designer, huh?" He asked, cutting his food, trying to throw the conversation toward you.

"So, Formula One driver, huh?" You mocked him, mimicking his tone—because, seriously, that was the most basic question ever. Your background was more than obvious; it was explicitly written on Raya. But you got it—he was just as nervous as you were.

One thing Lando was sure of: you weren’t like his other dates. My god, you were hard to get. An hour in, and there had been no physical contact at all—just chatter, chatter. Not that he was complaining. You were an interesting and undecipherable human being.

"How many girls have you brought here?"

You loved making people uncomfortable with your questions, especially when you already knew the answer—you just wanted to see their reaction. Lando practically choked on his food at your out-of-the-blue assumption.

"W-what?"

It was hilarious how fast he grabbed his water, like he couldn’t believe how unfiltered you were. You repeated the question, and he had no choice but to answer.

"I don’t know… two or three?"

At least he was honest. Or tried to be.

————————————————————————

Dinner happened, to your surprise, quickly—because time moved fast when you were really enjoying yourself, losing track of it completely. Luckily, the Formula One driver caught up with your jokes, knowing exactly how to turn them back on you. Like an Uno reverse card. For you, there was nothing more intimate than teasing each other mutually and just the right amount. Some people couldn’t take a joke, and that was such a turn-off. But Lando simply got you.

Now, you were exiting the glamorous restaurant, shoulders covered by his huge coat. Your laughter was loud, and in just two hours, you had already built inside jokes between the two of you.

"Looking forward to seeing your replacement next Sunday if you catch a cold."

"And I'm looking forward to seeing your pretty face again."

He ended all the joking with a cheeky, flirtatious remark—he knew exactly how to make a girl’s legs weak using nothing but his natural charisma.

"You never shut up, do you?"

And then you did the unthinkable.

Without thinking twice, you pulled him in, your lips merging into one. Your heart was pounding out of your chest, finally releasing all the tension and need that had been weighing on you.

————————————————————————

The car you once eyed as luxurious was now the place where you were making out frenetically. The kissing was obscene, neither of you knew where all that passion came from, but it was addictive.

His firm hands gripped the fabric of your branded clothing, holding your hips in place, not wanting you to make any movement against his lap. It’d be the death of him—he was already suffering a nightmare between his legs.

Your fingers instantly got lost in his curls, tangling and pulling them mid-kiss. Lando’s mouth was practically fighting against yours, turning it into the sloppiest mess. Heaven had never felt this chaotic. You took your time exploring every corner of his mouth with your tongue, while his hands traveled deliberately across your body, wishing there was no fabric separating you two. His fingertips traced you as if you were as fragile as a sculpture, slow and delicate. You melted under his touch, squirming on top of him at the barest touch. It was inoffensive, yet he knew exactly how to caress all the right places.

A shiver ran down your spine as your body suddenly felt colder than seconds ago—a thin breeze brushed against your right thigh. He was sliding up your outfit, eager to go further.

"Easy, driver." A whisper escaped your lips, breathy from all the intense air-exchanging. Your lips brushed against each other, expectant but unmoving. "I know you like adrenaline and fast things, but not tonight."

Fucking on the first date wasn’t your thing, you had at least some dignity. This wasn’t just a hook-up; a few butterflies were already flying around in your stomach, and you despised it.

With half-lidded eyes, he looked up at you, locking gazes. His puppy-blue eyes were now dark with lust. His swollen, glossy lips formed a slight pout. If you kept staring at him—at his pathetic, needy, almost convincing face—you’d be stripping down quicker than lightning.

Trying to put an end to his little show, you placed a hand over his face and shoved him away, cutting off all dangerous eye contact.

"Not tonight gives me a free pass for a second date, according to my understanding." He contradicted you, attempting to sound smart with a cocky grin spread across his face.

"You really are something else, Lando Norris." You did your thing to keep him quiet, preventing any cringey pick-up line from escaping his lips, and restarted the make-out session.

He was relieved that you’d shut him up quickly, because the longer it went on, the more he felt like verbalizing the flying feelings in his stomach.

[lilyinmysoul]

But Not Kiss

PervDBF!Joel X FReader

Summary: Drabble about Joel jerking off to his friend’s daughter’s pictures.

Notes: Joel and reader do not interact at all, Joel is a parasocial pervert and incredibly lonely, by lonely I mean he hasn’t been touched by a woman in years, age gap, reader is fresh out of college, masturbation (m), palming, can be considered dark!joel, no outbreak, a bit of proofreading, I’m having writing block and this is what I came up with.

On most nights in Joel’s bleak and lonely home, he would wind down after work with a cold beer in hand, the TV playing an old rerun on cable or a DVD fished from his old collection in the garage.

But it was Saturday, and Joel had a duty as a good neighbor and a reliable friend to your father. Joel does work too much, but he’s not the workaholic that he seems to be—he’d never work weekends. He finds that as long as he tries to convince himself that he only helps your dad out of the goodness of his heart, his mind begins to believe it.

They’ve got lots in common—they root for the same football team and drive the same model of truck. They both like country and old rock music, listening to it while they crack open a cold one. But Joel wasn’t quite sure why his attention would stray so often from his newfound companion and fall onto his girl instead—maybe it was how striking he found your features, or the fact that he’d been alone a long, long time. Either way, while he couldn’t ignore it, he could try his best to make it seem justifiable—clear his guilty conscious. Maybe it wasn’t too bad, he was just captivated by you, that’s all.

Despite your father’s friendly and outgoing nature, he and Joel were never close. That was, until four months ago when your dad asked for his help hauling in his daughter’s things. ‘My girl’s just graduated college,’ your father had explained. ‘She’s movin’ back in for a little, figurin’ things out.’ He was over the moon, and so was Joel as soon as he had seen you.

It wasn’t a crush; Joel was an adult. Deny it as he might, it was nothing short of an infatuation. Each glimpse of your face would catapult his heart rate and have it beating something dangerous in his chest. He’d go about his day with thoughts of you lingering in his mind, pleasant little daydreams of your face, your words, your body.

In recent months, Joel had begun to accept your father’s friendly advances, his presence in your home more frequent with the more time they spent. He’d assure himself that he wouldn’t pay mind to you and your tiny night shorts, but for some reason, he’d tend to be over in the evening time, once you’d changed into your pajamas.

Joel wasn’t big on small talk, but with you around, he’d make an extra effort to interject with a question or a little compliment—he couldn’t help it. What was once lingering gazes shifted into something more consuming. He joked to himself that maybe you were omnipresent with the way that everything reminded him of you, but the statement held some truth.

He had just waved your dad goodbye, the heavy wooden door shutting behind him. The blinds of the house were open—wide open—and he could still see your figure through them as he ambled down your driveway and began his course down the sidewalk. He had gotten two beers down before you had arrived home, your sweet voice and kind face doing something strange—but not unfamiliar—to Joel. He wanted to stay, to watch you, but he knew, then, that he needed to go. When he had felt a familiar twitch in his pants, he made for the door with a polite farewell.

Now, his mind was still clouded with ideas of you. In past weeks, it had become increasingly difficult to think of anything else, his everyday tasks overtaken by thoughts of you completing them with him. He had thought about holding you, kissing you, having you. He liked to imagine your hand in his while he completed his most dreaded chores, knowing that if you were near him, it wouldn’t be nearly as bad.

His home is only three houses down. It’s a short walk, but his pace is slow, somewhat of a stroll as his mind continues to wander. He’s in no hurry, but the sparks in his lower stomach are spreading—as they do each time he sees you.

Joel’s house has come into view now, his step quickening as his destination nears. Up his driveway he walks, and up his steps he goes as his restless mind leads back to you.

Fishing the house key from his pocket, he fumbles for the right one before sticking it in the lock. It turns and clicks, and his door creaks open as he pushes it in, shutting it behind him.

He locks the door, kicks off his boots, and double checks the lock again—just to be sure—before his tired body starts up the stairs. He ignores the fridge and its cold Coors Lights, the idea of a shower, and his comfortable recliner. There is something better: having a hand down his pants—something he has denied himself too long, for each time his mind wanders to you. Joel can’t touch himself without imagining you doing it for him, and this fact makes him feel despicable. His friend’s own daughter, just short of half his age. It seemed, though, that the more clouded his mind became with your image, it bothered him less and less. You seemed like something of an eidolon; though, you were very real, yet seemingly out of reach.

Joel knows exactly what he’ll do once he makes it inside his room, so he fishes his phone from his back pocket. The little phone was outdated and small, but it had a clear enough display. He rubs his thumb over the screen a few times before turning the cold knob and stepping into his bedroom. Joel flicks on the dim light, approaching his bed as it dips with his weight when he sits. It’s made up and empty—as it has been for all too long—and he wishes it wasn’t. He longs for you in his bed, or any woman, really. But, he works so much, there is so much to do… or maybe, he just doesn’t have the social capacity to go out and meet people. The phone lights up as he presses the side button with a calloused finger—this will do.

For a moment, Joel’s lock-screen looks back at him, his rare guilt and hesitance creeping back in. An impatient, yet relaxed left handed travels to his eager bulge, staving off his rowdy mind as he contemplates his actions.

By every sense of the word, Joel was horny, and he knew what he wanted. He could pull up a clunky porn website on his pocket relic, but his mind would stray to you again. He spends another moment thinking indecisively, before unlocking the phone and pulling at the button on his jeans with his free hand.

With a zip, they are open, and he sighs. Joel feels fucking pitiful, but determined either way. Theres a little wet stain of pre-cum on his faded blue briefs, and he takes it as a sign to keep going.

Rather than opening a search engine, he opts for his gallery, guiltily scrolling to his destination—maybe the way he diluted himself was deliberate. Was it totally normal that he had a folder in his phone for photos of you? Maybe; you were just his neighbor, after all. But now, it was something a lot different from a so-called innocent collection of snapshots.

Opening it finally, Joel is met with just nine pictures. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. For a moment, he thinks that he doesn’t see you nearly enough to be thinking about you like this, with a longing so intense, but he brushes off the thought. With a few more squeezes to the rock-hard tent in his boxers, Joel eases down the front of the elastic waistband, just enough for his aching length to spring free.

Joel’s cock has longed for a whole lot more than his fist, but he just couldn’t have it, so he wets his fingers in his mouth. Lightly, his fingers trace over his length in delicate strokes as he begins to scroll through the images.

He selects the first picture, an innocent frame of you in a heavy jacket and boots standing next to Joel. This one had been taken by your father and sent to him—if only he knew what it had been used for. You had been working on building the deck outside of your house together—Joel had volunteered to show you both the ropes. Hammer in hand, you were smiling at the camera, and to Joel, it was the greatest sight. His hand establishes a steady pace, his rosy tip leaking a hearty bead of pre-cum just from the thought of you. He often imagined that beautiful smile looking up at him, your knees planted on the ground. Maybe you’d be impressed by his size, or just glad to see him. He found your teeth adorable, and so were your lips. He didn’t have to wonder if they’d feel good around him, he knew they would.

Joel gives himself a tighter stroke this time, the pressure in his stomach intensifying. He scrolls to the next picture, one you had posted of yourself on the couch with a bucket of popcorn, wearing your skimpy pajamas.

He loved those ones, the thin fabric that you’d pay almost no mind to. The low neckline of your tank top left a clear view of your cleavage, and a hiss leaves his mouth as his hand speeds up. In the photo, your legs are bare and graceful. Your shorts cover almost nothing and your tiny shirt leaves your belly button visible. It’s equally adorable as it is arousing, and Joel feels his pleasure mounting as his slick fist courses up and down his length, seeking a release that only you seemed to be able to give him.

Joel takes an extra moment to trail his eyes over your arms and neck, each feature he loves about your lovely appearance; kind and sweet, welcoming and ever so attractive. He pictures your warm hands wrapped around his cock, or your sweet mouth whispering and begging him for his touch. There is something so tantalizing about your saccharine eyes and how he envisions it would feel for them to meet his, lovingly.

The following picture is one that Joel had taken. You displayed a tray of cookies proudly after pulling them from the oven. It had been a nice day—you had offered him one of your creations and asked him to snap a photo. The accomplished look in your eyes was so sweet, and he imagines that the camera was gone, and your beautiful smile had been pointed toward him, instead.

Joel is frustratingly close now, his imagination straying beyond the photos as he pictures you now, sitting on the bed, or lying underneath him. He wants to know what you feel like, what you think of him. His mind conjures what kinds of sounds you might make when you cum, how you touch yourself, and how often.

He feels the coil in his stomach about to snap, and mutters your name to himself a few times. It seemed to be a sacred word to him, something that delivered infinite comfort and arousal. With a few final strokes, his tip leaks with cum as it spews out in ropes, spurts of the cloudy liquid landing on the phone screen, overlaying your picture—your sultry smile. Joel sighs and wipes his fingers on his denim jeans, standing up reluctantly to get clean.

Thanks for reading!! Reblog if you liked, feel free to send an ask

[carmenized-onions]

Don't Say It. | Closing Out

logline; just say it in every way but the one way that makes it weird.

[!!!] series history; did y'all notice the banner rebrands? tell me you think they look nice and good and cool or i'll. start crying.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. how is it more than 7 hours. my god.

portion; 14k was hoping we'd reenter our single digits era but we ball

possible allergies; two mentally ills battle it out (romantic).

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader almost certain there are gendered bits/pronouns but can't honestly completely remember.

(new!) kofi; I have one now! if you've enjoyed the series, perhaps you wanna tip!

moving into a new place literally in two days!! high stress. so thank you for waitin' as always pwease enjoy and pwease tell me what you think!

You take a good long breath, sitting on the counter in the bathroom. Right. Time is linear and you’re in New York again— Never left. Right. Carmen’s sitting across from you, it’s kind of a shock this floating sink counter hasn’t collapsed under the two of you yet. How long have you been here? Swapping stories took a long fucking time, and there’s still, disgustingly, a lot to unpack. 

“Any shoes left undropped?” You drum your hands against your knees, the question is as much for yourself as it is for him.

Carmen opts to open with a soft ball. “You called me Carmy?” Before you knew me, you called me Carmy?

“I called you a lot of things.”

“Like virgin Michelin Star chef?” He’s failing to hide the upturned corners of his mouth, when he says it. 

You snort and nod, “Like virgin Michelin Star chef, or Carmy, or Carm, or baby boy, baby bear, mister New York— Basically all Mikey’s, I think the only one I coined was Charmin.”

“Charmin?”

“Like the—” He finishes with you, “—Toilet paper bears.” and whether he should be or not, he cannot stop laughing, when you confess this. 

“I thought it was a good bit!” “Cause I’m a piece of shit?” “Bitch—Cause you clean up, and you’re a bear, and Carmen sounds like Charmin, and Charmin sounds like charming and I—”

You pause, cringing, parasocial relationship coming to a head now. When your best friend wants you to get with his hot talented brother living in the Big Apple, it’s hard not to fantasize about, alright? “...I found you very charming.”

God, it’s just far too easy for you to render him completely speechless. It’s really not fucking fair. Carmen looks like a deer in headlights, he looks how he did in your car, a month or so ago, when he bit the bullet and asked you out. Well, promised to ask you out. He swallows, no more glass in his throat, but it does feel a little scratchy, kinda like, like pop rocks?

Pop rocks, yeah. Sweet, salivating. “Do you still?”

You squint, like he’s a moron. He is. “Of course I do.” Cherry pop rocks. Yeah, that sort of spritz feeling, on the tongue, and the way it continues to simmer all the way down. “I don’t want you to stop being you, by the way, Carm.”

“Huh?” What’s that supposed to mean? Of course you want him to change, he sucks.

“I—” You’re quick to clarify, straightening your posture. “I think it’s great to— to do the work, and therapy and reading and self-care— That’s all— That’s very good, and you should do it— For you, not me, but I— One bad night is not how I’ll think of you— You’re— You’re not a bad person, is I guess all I’m trying to fuckin’ say.”

You’re sweet. Sweet but with depth, slowly developed, caramelized, tart. Maybe a fruity molasses.

Carmen swallows, it’s hard to digest the sweet. “I— I’m not a bad person, but I could be better.” Pomegranate molasses. It’s got an acidic kick. Sort of like balsamic.

“I could be better, too.” Could you? Please God, don’t try, he can’t compete. No, shit, hold on, stop pedestaling. “You kinda got my ass, with peoples’ princess.”

Carmen cringes, there’s the acid. “I should not have said—”

“I have a fucking saviour complex, Carm. And it’s just as bad for everyone else as it is for me.”

Bite, yet tender. You continue on. “I do need to work on that. And I should’ve explained more when we first met, it was just— You know… I know you know.” Medium rare, steak medallion— No— rectangle. 

Pomegranate molasses, thick—Nearly sorbet thick. Poured onto the plate, centered, perfect circle. Medium rare wagyu steak— A3, maybe; too much fat would ruin the composition. Rectangular, off center. Dust with cherry pop rocks. Bizarre, but it might actually be something. Bad, but something. Not tired or overdone, that’s for sure. Anything but dusty.

Carmen missed you for a lot of reasons this week, but it’s almost annoying how merely being in your presence for a few hours has given him more inspiration to work with than he has had in the last one-hundred and sixty-eight hours, without you. But who’s counting?

It’s easy to make things, when they’re for you. When they’re about you.

“I should’ve listened, when you were ready, but I got defensive and—I— I do that a lot, clearly, I just—” Carmen tries not to bite at his nails and fingers, because his therapist, Sara, said not to do that. What the fuck does she know? A lot, actually.

“That’s just kinda how— we’d do things. Like that’s how we—” Carmen frowns, memories dawning on him. “…I guess maybe we never really talked.”

You don’t need to ask who we is. His family didn’t particularly set Carmen up for success. And every figure after his family didn’t really lighten the load. There’s not much for you to say or do beyond, “I like talking to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to still be mad at me.” Carmen reassures, he’s not sure why he feels the need to do so. “You can— You can tell me to go fuck myself.” 

You shake your head, shrugging. “You can tell me to go fuck myself.”

He shakes his head, immediately, squinting, like you’re a moron; you are. “I would never tell you to go fuck yourself.”

It’s a silent moment of exchanging hard stares and trying to glean something from the other. Once you gather your findings, you finally return to your era of speaking in sync again, with, “I don’t hate you.”

It's a hellish realization, that you thought it was possible, let alone certain, to hate you. He could cry again. “Why would you ever think I hate you?”

You raise your brows, because how could you not think Carmen hates you? “Because you said—”

“I didn’t mean a fucking word.”  He says it differently than he did before. Like it’s a final warning. He immediately recoils at his own voice and its aggression.

“I’m sorry.” Carmen scratches his nose, continuing for the both of you. What more can he say? He’s already said it a million times, so what’s one more? When you try to speak, he doesn’t let you. Because he knows you. He knows you’ll brush it off. “I don’t want you to forgive me, right now. I want to prove I earned it.”

“You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

“Yeah, Sara said that, too. You’re both wrong.”

“Yeah, I don’t think your therapist can be wrong, in this scenario.”

“Please.” Carmen props his knee up on the counter, his hands, in some way, mimic a prayer. He holds eye contact, he thanks whoever is in charge that you’re holding it again, too. “Let me earn it.”

Carmen will learn that he doesn’t need to earn anything or prove anything to anyone eventually. He’ll need more than six therapy sessions crammed in during his lunch breaks, for that. But right now, he needs to prove this. Needs to earn you. For now, you'll give it to him. For now, you just nod. 

Carmen chews his bottom lip, he doesn’t want to say it but he has to. “When I said—” You failed Mikey. “—What I said— I didn’t mean it how I said it.”

You bring your legs up, criss crossing them. “How’d you mean it?” How else could he possibly mean it?

“I meant it like— Like— Of course he died.”

They’re Berzatto men, they’re doomed. “Nothing you could have done would have stopped him from dying— And I— It hurt cause it felt like— In—In that moment— In my head—” He puts a hand up, pausing to reassure, “Nothing you did. But I felt like I was ‘Round Two’ for you. Charity. I—”

Carmen swallows, looking down, can’t meet your eyes for the moment, but he points at you. “You didn’t fail Mikey— He failed to know he was worth saving.”

A wound closes up, a little bit, somewhere in your head and heart.  “I think in some ways, I was trying to make up for something—”

You’re quick to clarify, too. “But not cause you’re you— Cause I’m me.” Have to do it all. Have to fix it all. Have to save it all. “Like— I think I might have that edge of paranoia for like, like a long time, if not… forever?”

 You frown; what a bleak idea. “Fuck, I may need to go back to therapy, too.”

“You want Sara’s card?” “Sliding scale?” “Sliding scale.” “Is it weird to have the same therapist?” “Probably.” “I’ll look into it.”

You both laugh, the weighted blanket of tension over you both is finally lifting. Carmen’s capable of looking you in the eyes again. “You did literally everything someone could think of.”

You kiss your teeth, you could’ve done a couple more things. “I mean, location—”

“He never would’ve given it to you.” “That’s exactly it, though— I should’ve put my foot down more. I was never as strict as I was supposed to be.” “But if you were strict he wouldn’t let you help him.” “Sponsors are meant to be strict.” “Then he wouldn’t’ve let you be his sponsor.” “Then I shouldn’t have been his sponsor!” “Then he would’ve never joined the program!” “Well—” “It’s not your fucking fault!”

Carmen doesn’t hate you, Carmen doesn’t think you killed his brother. Heavy exhale of too many emotions and a touch of relief. But you can see yourself in his expression. You can see Richie in his expression. The guilt. The haunting. You swallow, “Not yours, either.”

“I could’ve called more.” “He wouldn’t have answered.” “I could’ve realized why.” “And how exactly could you have done that?” “...I dunno, could’ve— Could’ve been the guy, for him.” “Carmen you were the guy, for him.”

Carmen shakes his head. “You were the guy, for Mikey.”

“I— Okay—” You click your tongue, this is hard to explain. You shift on the sink counter, trying to get more comfortable. You won’t. It’s a fucking sink. “I was the guy, but the guy to another guy isn’t much— you—” You snap your fingers, pointing at him. “You’re not the guy, Carmen. Never will be.”

“Ouch.”

“No— You’re something much more important than the guy. You’re— You’re the, the cat.”

He can’t help but smile, confused. He’s so used to bear comparisons. “I’m the cat?”

“You’re—” You keep pointing at him, thinking the metaphor in your head through. “...The guy is— Is like the host of the house party. He keeps the jokes going, the room light, the drinks and food stocked— He talks people through panic attacks while they sit in the bathtub, he loses at beer pong on purpose to make the other team feel better, the guy makes everyone feel like they’re the center of the universe.”

“And the cat?”

“The cat is upstairs, locked in his room, because the cat will get all jittery if he’s around all that yelling and all those people. The cat doesn’t even like those people. And the guy doesn’t want his cat to go through that. But then, when the guy finally gets all jittery and can’t handle all those people himself—” You sigh, honestly stressed by your own metaphor, thinking of all the moments in your life you needed the cat and didn’t call.

“He’ll go upstairs, to his room, and the cat will be there, and he can talk to the cat— Because the cat likes him. And nothing will be solved, but it’ll still feel good and the cat will still think his guy’s perfect and wonderful even when the guy is just— just him— And the cat asks literally nothing of the guy— Unlike everyone else downstairs— and that’s exactly why the guy wants to give the cat everything over anyone else.”

God, you’ve been talking about cats and guys too much. “Not everyone needs a cat, but the guys that do, really do. And you’re… You’re the cat— Mikey’s and mine.”

Carmen can’t say I love you, because that would be an insane response. That would be weird and bad and too soon and stupid. But it’s the only thing he can think of. The only thing he can say besides that, is, “You’re very good to me.”

You’re not exclusively for Carmen, he knows that. You’re not made for him— You’re made for many things. But maybe you’re curated. The Bear wouldn’t exist without your advocacy. And it’s hard to believe, but there might’ve been even more broken shit at The Beef, if you hadn’t been there before Carmen got there. Mikey got to be your friend, before Carmen did. And you got to be Mikey’s friend, when Carmen didn’t. But you both kept him in mind, you told Mikey to text, you drew schematics for his restaurant, you said you’d talk to him. You thought he was charming. You still do. You’re Mikey’s pick, for Carmen. And it’s not like Mikey’s opinion matters that much, but it’s nice to have approval. Though he didn’t fucking ask for it.

“Such a cat response.” “Is that like being a Leo or some shit?” 

You both laugh. Ah, thank fuck, it’s you two, again. There’s a comfortable silence while you think for a second, before asking, “Can I add another thing to your non-negotiables?”

“Always.”

“I don’t want you to be different for me.” You think back to being in his kitchen, the way he tried to hold back, when you were around. “I get you, work you, home you— If you want me to be your fuckin’ mixologist, you’re gonna have to get comfortable working with me.”

“You still want to work for me?”

“I shook on it, didn’t I?”

He laughs through a deep sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Damn,” You snort, “Are you only with me for my skills?”

“No, I’m with you because you’re— You.” The kitchen needs you, The Bear needs you, Carmen needs you. He’s the cat, he doesn’t need anything more than you. He can work on his codependency issues in therapy, okay? “I— I like having you around.”

You readjust your posture again, it’s hard to get comfortable on a sink. “Well, you better get paid soon, then.”

“‘Bout that.” Boy came prepared. He rifles through the pockets of his black jeans, and pulls out a folded slip of paper. He does a yoga class worthy stretch to hand it to you, from across the sink. A paystub, from The Bear, to Carmen. Officially on fucking payroll.

Yeah, turns out, just a bad week, last week. Being in the red doesn’t last forever. Neither does being in the green. There are ebbs and flows. Next week will probably be shit, and yet the wheel still turns. Carmen also might’ve very well plugged in half of the numbers wrong, according to Sugar, when she eventually got to looking at it. But that’s neither here nor there. So he’s reactive. What’s new? Should’ve believed the you in his head, when she said there will be good and bad weeks. He’s still working on being the only voice in his head. But you’re a good replacement for the other guy, for now.

You stare at it, like an ancient scroll. It’s real. He’s really getting paid— Pretty decent too, he could finally buy some fucking furniture, with this. “Okay.” You look up from the slip to him. He looks like he’s on fucking Shark Tank, anxiously awaiting your approval. “And you’ll act like you?”

“I will act like me.” Even when he doesn’t want you to see it, Carmen will act like Carmen. 

And that’s all you could ask for, really. You’re about to approve the deal, but then you think again, frowning. “The Exec.”

“Ah.” Carmen shuts his eyes, embarrassed by his own brain. “I know.”

“So you thought about it?”

“I didn’t think about— It—” Carmen doubted his own conviction, because he doubts all of himself. But it really was not ever on the table, to give your number…That said— “I thought about loopholes.”

“Catfishing him?” You guess, and he affirms. “Catfishing him.” Hey, great minds think alike. Doesn’t make Carmen feel any less scummy, for considering abusing your likeness for sake of approval. 

“Did you go through with it?” 

It’s Carmen’s turn, to blink, slow to realize that you actually don’t know. “Richie didn’t tell you?” You still live in a world where Carmen isn’t completely batshit. 

You tilt your head, “Did Richie catfish him?”

“No, uhm—” He seems suddenly sheepish now. Can’t look you in the eyes, again. He nods and points to your pockets. “You got your phone?”

“Uh, yeah—” You pull it out, haven’t gotten any sudden creepshow texts, to your knowledge. “Should I be scared?”

Carmen shakes his head. “Nothin’ worse than what you’ve already seen.” He snaps his fingers at your phone, “Look up uh— I think it’s— Chicago Bear on Yankee Chef turf, or some shit.”

You have to take a moment, before typing, to just look at him with genuine pause. “...What?”

“Just do it.” “Did you kill someone?” “I do not have blood on my hands, the Tribune is just dramatic—” “The fucking Tribune?! Shut the fuck up, Carmy.”

Absolutely no way he’s in the Chicago Tribune.

Okay. Upon searching. Absolutely yes way he’s in the Chicago Tribune. Carmen’s trending on Twitter— Or rather, Chicago, The Bear, Bear, Carmy, Michelin Beef, Fuck the Yanks, and a million other keywords are trending— Local trending, but still trending. Chicago Tribune’s made an article archiving a handful of reaction tweets, summarizing whatever the fuck happened. Alright, this is taking too long, maybe you should just ask the man in front of you— “Oh my fucking God, there’s a video.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t watch—” Carmen is interrupted by his own voice coming through your phone. “—And what kind of fucking Chef doesn’t like black pepper? I’m white and overdone, but you’re an entire other goddamn beast—” “...That.”

It’s a screen recording of some patron’s Facebook Live at some New York restaurant David owns or whatever. Empire? That’s what the blurry signs in the video’s background seem to say. What’s his title at this point, anymore? Doesn’t matter.

It’s nice to see his blurry little face around ten to twenty feet from the camera get yelled at by a Carmen that is also many feet away, but his voice seems to be projecting throughout the whole restaurant; enough to be heard clearly through recording, anyways. “And it’d be enough to just be an asshole— But you’re a creep too— Never fuckin’ pray on my— my— bar staff, or I swear on my life—”

“Can’t make direct threats in New York, Cousin! Penal code!” You laugh when you hear Richie’s voice ringing out in the background. Thank God for whoever’s filming, because they pivot their phone to catch Richie, pretty much next to their table, calling out to Carmen. “It’s a fine!”

He looks tired but wired; they must’ve taken a pitstop here, before heading to the hotel. What a fun road trip finale. Richie is such a motherfucker for not telling you all of this first thing while you put on his cufflinks— This is not dirty details, this is front page shit! Literally! God, he buries the lead like it’s his fucking day job.

“Who gives a fuck about a fine? Everyone—” And back to Carmen. “This is David Fields, he’s the head of the head of the head, in their heads— He’s a fantastic chef, I don’t think he eats or sleeps or knows what another person’s hands feel like— He is fuckin’ brilliant at making the same three fuckin’ plates every fuckin’ day— With the most minute differences— And—And—And— He doesn’t even make them! He takes dishes from prozac riddled fucks like me, makes them worse and then puts his name on it! Unoriginal, a narcissist, and fucking bad at it!”

You don’t look up from your phone, eyes glued to the screen. “Holy fuck, Carmen.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” “Is this good marketing?” “Wait for it, I guess.” “...Are you actually on prozac?” “No. I kind of blacked out. Made a point though, right?” “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Sorry, miss. Could I—” …Fak? Guess he did third wheel on the road trip to New York. He grabs the streamer’s phone. There’s a ‘what the—fuckin— excuse me?’ from behind the camera as Fak pivots the recording to himself. 

“Hey World, I’m Neil, that’s my best friend Carmy the Bear, over there.”

“Jesus Christ.” You look up from your phone to Carm, who was at first embarrassed and is now just trying to hold a straight face, hand over his mouth. “I’m aware.” He repeats. 

You squint, thinking.“...Best friend?” “...I guess he is?” “That’s— Okay— I don’t— Alright, we’ll come back to that.” And return to your phone.

Fak continues, taking advantage of the sudden screen time. “He’s a really good Chef, knows his shit, if you ever want to see how he does it, please come eat— Dine— Dine with us at The Bear, we’re in Chicago— on North Orleans and Huron— You can— Can book with us at The Bear dot—”

“Don’t have the site yet.” Richie interrupts the impromptu ad, hovering over Fak’s shoulder, barely whispering. “Still The Beef.”

Neil nods and continues. “The Beef dot squarespace—”

“It’s Wix.” “It’s fucking Wix?” “Your problem isn’t with the lack of a domain?”

“It’s Google Sites, actually.” You correct for no one, really, looking up from your phone to Carmen, again. “I made him change it so it wouldn’t have that ugly freemium bar.” 

Carmen snorts, shaking his head. Of course you did. “D’you design it?”

You let out a loud, “Ha!” before turning back down to the screen. “I think web design might be the one trade I can’t do.” But you’re willing to learn, if he needs.

Ah, the videographer managed to foist her phone back, returning to catch the very end of the Carmen Show. And it’s a wonderful finale, from Carm.

“—Fuck your two elements, fuck your face— Fuck everything about you— I cannot believe we gave you service— Let alone our best— For a guy in hospitality, you have no fucking right treating my host and somme like that. Fuck you—”

“Fuck you—” Finally a response from David, though it’s quickly interrupted, as Carmen finally starts to back away, not wanting a genuine fight if he doesn’t have to do it, but he certainly wants the last word. “No, fuck you—”

“Fuck you.” “—Chef— Stay in your fucking city— Stay in your fucking city— New Yorks great! Stay in it! We don't play in Chicago— Fuck you!”

Carmen comes back to his road trip squad, he notices the woman recording, and walks up to the camera. For a second, you genuinely think he’s going to square up with her— You’re pretty sure he at least thought about it. “Is she recording?”

“Streaming.” Answers Fak. “It’s the new thing.��

 Carmy opts to use his words, possibly because he could maybe get arrested. “Sorry, sorry— I just want to make it clear—”

He gestures to the fucker in the background, bouncers seems to be approaching. Carmen keeps going, face red but calming down, chasing his own breath. “This man worked— and works with wonderful Chefs who I learned a lot under— And— And— I have all the respect for them, and always will— But-But— when it comes to David Fields specifically—”

Your cherry and lamb dish was perfect. David’s palate is just not worth appealing to. Carmen won’t make that mistake again.

“—What he serves is consistently vapid, dusty, and dead on arrival— like his heart— And—And— When you pay him, dine with him, work with him, you are lining the pockets of some fuckin’ creep that pulls rank on honest cooks and servers. So. Decide if you want that. And uhm— Uh— Tip your servers. Don’t ask for their numbers— Like he does. Be normal. Thank you.”

“Carmen Berzatto, folks! Come— Come to The Bear!” Yells out Neil, as security finally seems to be coming for the Chicagoans.

Richie grabs Fak by the back of his coat, knowing when to bounce, shouting, “No legal names! Godssake— This has been Carmichael Burrowski, folks! Don’t call no one—!”

The screen recording ends, not long after that. You’re going to need maybe a… fifty minute nap, to process that. Maybe, somehow, this is good publicity— Maybe in some way, this is putting The Bear on the center stage. But one thing is fact, Carmen completely abandoned the idea of keeping appearances and getting a star through kissing ass. He completely abandoned the idea of being appealing to the man in his head. 

And he did that for you— And Richie— Which, honestly, makes it mean even more. Carmen’s a good boss. Not always. Definitely not always. But when it fucking counts, he is. Carmen's a good man. A good friend. A good not-quite boyfriend. Ugh, boyfriend? What kind of word is ‘boyfriend’? That's fucked.

You put your phone away, quietly nodding and thinking, not looking at Carmen. You shrug, attempting to be nonchalant. “Contract and I’ll be your mixologist.”

“Yeah?” There’s such a brightness, to the way Carmen asks. Like a spritz. “Okay. I’ll— I’ll send you a Docusign.” Aperol spritz. There’s more to it, than that though. 

You’re so zoned out, looking at the sinks instead of Carmen, he starts to get worried. He just got eye contact back, come on. Was the yelling too much in the video? He was loud and mean. He always is. He told you not to watch. 

“Tony?” What kind of bitters suit him? A slice of grapefruit might be nice. Bright but acquired.

“Are you good?”

“Wha—” You shake your head out of it, turning your gaze to Carmen. He jumped off the counter to stand by you. His hand hovers by your head— He considers grazing your hair, and chickens out. But he can’t put it down.  “Sorry, was— I was uh— Just thinking of what we could put on a cocktail menu, that’s all.” Yeah, that’s all.

“Don’t work on it, without me.” It’s with a, dare you say, panicked quickness, that he requests this. “Cocktail menu, coffee menu, we should— Should do R and D, together.”

“Yeah, f’sure.” Fucking Chefs, so particular about their menus. “I think it’d be good to uhm— Build it around the main menu, anyways. Sorta match stuff up.” Thankfully, you like particular.

He really needs to not be standing this close, though. Your brain keeps zoning in and out— It’s really not the time to be feeling any sort of type of way about Carmen cursing out that fucking chef and going to therapy for himself and you and he smells nice and he’s reading books and he worked bar all night with you and he looks so nice in bartender black in lieu of his Chef whites and he is trying so hard and— And you cannot say you love him because that would be weird. That would be weird and bad and too soon and stupid. 

And you can’t forgive him either— Well, not aloud, because Carmen wants to prove that he’s done the work— Wants to prove that he’s going to keep doing the work. He’s rendered you with nearly zero options here, to show your affection. 

“Yeah, that’s— That’d be good. I was thinkin’ we’d put your station by Marcus.” Why is he still talking about work? He’s so stupid. He’s wonderful. This is the worst. This is hell. “Coffee machine’s already there, and you’ll tend to share a lot of elements, anyway— I think.”

You shift your butt on the counter, turning to face him head on, he’s just slightly between your knees as your legs dangle off the counter. “Carmen.”

“Yeah?” “I’m going to kiss you.” “Yeah, okay.”

Light, nervous, sweet, lifting, soft— A delicate kick to it. Pink peppercorn bitters. That’s it.

Aperol— Vibrantly orange liqueur, derived from bitter rhubarb. It’s an acquired taste. Some say it’s citrusy and herbal, others say it tastes like cough syrup. Either way, it’s awakening. Then prosecco. A splash of soda— Lemon-lime would be best. Aperol spritz. It’s an Italian cocktail. It sparkles. Everything in it fizzes, almost competing with each other. It’s meant to be enjoyed before dinner. It’s refreshing. Pink peppercorns and grapefruit would only add to that brightness, that light. It’s not for everyone, but it is everything to some. That’s Carmen. That’s your Carmen. Oh, maybe a syrup on the rim?

You try to be delicate, the way you put the palm of your hand on the back of his head and pull him in, but it’s just not possible. It’s the first time in a fucking month you’ve initiated— It's been one-hundred and sixty-eight hours since you've seen his face, let alone touched it— It’s just not possible to be kind.

Thankfully, based on the way he’s leaning you back on the counter, hands on your waist, it doesn’t seem like Carmen wants kind. There's a sigh of relief, to just kiss you. He’s fine with the touch of hair pulling, on your part— Possibly more than fine. Possibly way more than fine. The faint whining and pulling your hips to his seem to indicate it’s a lot fucking more than fine.

It would be weird and bad and stupid and too soon to say I love you, but you can mouth the words against him and he can’t tell what you’re wording but at least you know. It’s funny that he can do the same to you, and despite knowing the trick, you can’t tell either. 

Carmen pulls back, just a centimeter, or two. He wants to say something. He’s opening his mouth to say something. He's all dopey and half-lidded. Man, he’s pretty. He knows that right? Yeah, he knows that. “You’re so pretty.” You tell him anyway, speaking into his half open mouth. 

Whatever thought he had, it’s dead now.“—Jesus fucking Christ.” He moves his hands to hold your face. It’s nice. It’s nice to get peppered with kisses— Yeah, pink pepper fits perfectly with him. 

Carm’s voice is heavier now. Maybe from the lack of oxygen. He’s fighting to revive his brain. He’s so serious, when he firmly kisses you, forehead against yours, lips still grazing, saying, “I’m not a fucking virgin.”

You laugh way too fucking hard for his ego. Your hands untangle from his hair, but your arms continue to rest on his shoulders. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s still amped, too bad you’re you, and you have to ruin the mood to poke at him.

“That a recent development?” “Shut the fuck up—” “I’m just wondering, if he was accurate at the time—” “Why are you doing this to me?” “Did you have a tantric affair in Denmark, the people wanna know!” “I— There was no time, alright? It got away from me—” “Remember when you had your first kind of girlfriend like a month and a week ago?” “It was a recent development, okay?” “Darn. Sorry I was late.”

He pauses the banter to just stare at you, take in your features, take in that you’re here and real and half underneath him. “Not forgiven.” You should’ve shown up sooner. You should’ve injected yourself so completely in Carmen’s life eons ago, and made yourself intrinsically impossible to remove. Absolutely not forgiven, for being late.

“Yeah?” Your eyes upturn, deeply amused. Carmen really is the baby brother. Entitled, bratty, cute. You’re planning to say something coy, something playful like ‘Ohoho, how do I earn your forgiveness?’ But you remember something Carmen said, when he was summarizing his Friday night for you— And for Carmen, what you opt to say is so much worse than hot banter, for his brain. 

“I don’t think your mouth tastes bad.” It’s your turn to take in his face and all its features. “I think it’s nice. It’s like the only way I can try cigarettes without getting a headache.”

“I wanna fly you to Paris.” It’s so quick, from Carmen. Choked quick— Like he fought to hold it down but you’ve just opened the Pandora’s box that is his mouth. He keeps going. Your surprised face firmly smushed in his hands.  

“I’ve wanted to take you to Paris since I asked you to run bar— I’ve— I’ve wanted to take you to Paris since you washed my hair— I—I—” Too much affection to contain in words, he has to kiss you, and then he has to keep going, and then kiss you between the ‘ands’, and then keep going. Like a shot and a chaser and a shot and a chaser and a—

“I want you to be permanent and carved in my tables and I want you to wear my jackets and I want you in my kitchen and in my menu and in every dumb fucking conversation I have at Christmas tellin’ family what the fuck I’m doing— I want you in every sentence.”

It’s not ‘I love you’. Because saying I love you would be weird and bad and stupid and too soon. But it might very well be more than that. Trying to avoid saying it might be forcing you both to say something that means more than that.

It’s hard to generate a response as poignant as that. Especially because your cognitive abilities seem to have gone completely offline. Your brain is telling you to kill the moment so you don’t have to face the feeling, telling you to say something stupid like, ‘Why Paris?’, because if you don't, you might say it. But you can’t. You’re totally speechless. 

Eventually, you manage to choke out, “I would like that.”

“Yeah?” “Yeah.”

“Good.” Ah, a smile from Carmen with teeth. What a rare gift you’ve been bestowed. He tries to celebrate this occasion with another kiss that will inevitably lead to a million more but when he goes for his classic move of sticking his head in the crook of your neck to bite you like a cannibal— You get the chance to look somewhere other than Carmen’s face, and realize you are both still very much so in a fucking bathroom at a fucking wedding in New York. 

“Fak is still outside, I’m pretty sure.”

Carmen groans, there’s no way you’re doing this to him again, come on, neither of you have to go this time, you have all the time in the world, in this bathroom. Time isn’t real here. That’s how bathrooms work. “He’s not.”

“Carmy’s right, I’m not.” Says definitely totally not Fak, behind the door. “You guys kissin’ yet?”

“Christ.” You put a hand on Carm’s chest, pushing him back from you as you push yourself up with your other hand. “Mood dead.”

“No—” He grabs your wrist, holding your hand in place against him. “Mood not dead— Mood present and alive—”

There’s some fumbling behind the door. “Wait— Are they?” Oh, so Richie’s here, too? Good. That’s great. “Ain’t no fuckin’ way— Cousin, be a gentleman—”

Carmen leans over and all but screams into your shoulder. “I am being a fuckin’ gentleman, Richard!”

You kiss your teeth, shaking your head, shrugging. “Yeah, it’s dead.” Them’s the breaks. 

A slow, heavy, arduous exhale, from Carmen, coming up to lean his forehead to yours for a second. Enjoying the liminal space before it’s permanently ripped out of your hands. “I hate my family.”

You smile, pressing your forehead firmer against his, nuzzling noses. “You love your family.”

“I love my family.” He sighs. He gives you one last kiss, soft, sweet, perfect. “Thank you for taking care of them.” 

You shrug. “They’re mine, too.”

God, you’re so quick and mind-bending, he has to go for another kiss, come the fuck on— “Mood’s dead.” You laugh, so cruel, jumping off the counter, maneuvering past Carmen, but you’re sweet— Cruel but sweet— Carefully switching his hold on your wrist to holding your hand, dragging him with you. 

You might be leaving the bathroom together, but Carmen’s pretty sure a part of him is going to stay there, like a ghost of a feeling, for the rest of time.

“Okay— Is everyone waiting to piss?” Is your first question, for the crowd awaiting you and Carmy outside the bathroom. Not strangers, though—Well, mostly not strangers. Richie, Syd, Fak, some guy that looks like Fak. There’s no way they all need to piss, there were three other bathrooms available, it's not like you were hogging. “Is fuckin’ anyone runnin’ bar right now?”

“Marcus is.” Syd answers, hurriedly, as she runs up on you, immediately enveloping you— Practically an attack. It’s not in her nature to hug, but you’ve forced her hand here. Carmen hasn’t even exited the doorway behind you yet before you’re stumbling back into him from the force of her. 

“Squ—”

The words come out of her like a flood, no spacing between the words. “I’m-sorry-I—  We-finished-serving-and-listened-in-on-everything-super-invasive-couldn’t-help-it— You should’ve called me.”

This— These motherfuckers. Oh well, saves you the trip to Denny’s. And frankly, you would hate to re-explain all that. You return the hug with your free hand, the other one still in Carmen’s. You put your chin on her shoulder. “I know.”

There were so many times where you could’ve just gone upstairs. So many times you could’ve just called your old cat. Should’ve just called Syd. She would have been there. Maybe that’s exactly why you didn’t call. 

“I should’ve called you.” Maybe that’s exactly why Syd never called her guy, when she needed you, too. 

“Well,” You pull her back by her shoulders, “We will next time.”

You can’t let the moment stay sincere for long though, shit-eating grin growing on your face, “You’d give up a star for me?” Nuzzling your face into Syd’s cheek as she desperately tries to get away from you now— Oh how the tables turn.

“Get fucked—” “You love me— I’m all you got, Syd? Woww—” “After my dad I said! After my dad!” “A single widdle tear from me isn’t worth a star?” “It was not widdle— Little— Fuck—”

“This is cute princesses but everyone get the fuck out of the way before I clog an artery.” Richie unnecessarily shoves his way between the Faks to get to you. 

You release Syd to face the man, pensive, waiting for a slap, honestly. Richie just looks at you, now that he’s in front of you he’s dumbfounded, awkward. He knows he wants to say something or wants you to say something but neither of you know what that is. What it should be.

Before he can figure it out, you do. “I should’ve told you.” Besides your therapist, Carmen is the only person you told about the phone call— Well, intentionally, that is. 

That doesn’t really seem to be the thing he cares about. He’s not going to slap you, and you don’t need to grovel. “Am I dead, to you?”

Your brows furrow, for a second. “Wha—”

Richie grabs your free hand, pressing it to his neck. “Check my pulse, am I dead, t’you?”

“First of all, wrong placement.” You have to wiggle your hand out of his grip to take his pulse correctly. “It’s under the chin, align it with your eye—”

“Do I have one?” “Yes, Richie, you have a pulse.” “So I’m not dead?” “You’re not dead—” “Then call me.”

When your breath hitches, he continues. “I’m not a ghost. I’m here. When shit happens, you call me.”

“I know.” Is the only thing you can say without your voice cracking. “I will call next time.”

“You will fucking call, next time.” Richie grabs your face, smushed in his hands. “And you’ll answer my calls, next time.” He forces you to nod— Not that you wouldn’t, but wants to make sure. “Am I heard?”

“You're heard.”

Richie can see over your head, so he barks at Carmen, who’s very innocently behind you, still holding your hand. “Get your weird little hands off my Chip, you perv—”

“I don’t have weird little hands—” 

Syd pipes in, squinting. “Why is that the thing you refute—”

“Why does God let these moments happen to me?” You grumble, words muffled with your face still compacted by Richie’s hands. 

“I think it’s beautiful, actually.” Says some guy that looks like Fak. You just stare at him with your partially forced closed eyes. “Just the vibes, so— like— tender.”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” You deadpan, pointing at Other Fak. “Has this guy just learned shit I haven’t even told my own father?”

“We definitely just got here.” Lies Fak, next to Other Fak. He continues, “We didn’t hear anything about the really sad way you both actually did attend the funeral but didn’t—”

Other Fak astutely interrupts to add, sniffing. “But if we did it’d be like, like really meaningful that you both like, did that.” Is he tearing up? Richie needs to check your pulse, are you dying?

“Everyone please back the fuck up?” Carmen sighs, behind you, then beside you, letting go of your hand to put it on your shoulder. “Like maybe give two solitary fuckin’ seconds?”

There’s a stuttering of apologies as everyone realizes yeah, maybe a bit much to immediately jump you. Richie drops your face, everyone takes a step back.

You keep staring at Other Fak. Squinting, you point to him. “Ted?” Guy who they called instead of you?

He nods, “Hi—”

“No.” You wave your hand in front of his face, cutting him off. You turn to Carmen, just shaking your head plainly. “No.”

“Heard.”

“Y’know how going to a different barber is like cheating—?”

“No, like I got it—”

“This is like times a thousand—”

“I am hearing the note—”

“Fak can— Neil can fix shit, I took his spot, it’s fair— Outsourcing someone though—?”

“Won’t do it again.”

“No, you won’t.”

“It was— Should I have called you back in?”

“No, you should have had a broken light until we talked it out or let it be broken for the rest of your life.” There is not much you could ever find yourself getting genuinely jealous about— This, however, is a knife to the heart. Another handyman is a child out of wedlock, practically.

“Heard.”

“I spent way too long stalking you.” Interrupts Syd, she’s looking at her phone, a jumble of aggravated misspelled texts coming from the work group chat. “Fuck, I’ve gotta help Tina with clean up— We’ll—” She sticks a hand out, you reach out and hold it, for a moment. “You’re still— We’re still sharing, right?”

You tilt your head, confused, oh— “I’m still gonna sleep in our room, Syd. You weird pervert.”

Syd lets go of your hand, shaking her own hands around her head, talking just as fast as she speed walks away to the kitchen. “I am not a weird pervert, I’m sexually normal, don’t be weird, goodbye! Love you, fuck you, see you later!”

Richie claps his hands, “We’re closing out, so I’ve gotta go pick up vases or some shit— Faks, c’mon—”

“Y’know we’re just regular guests, right?” Says Ted. They let Fak come on the road trip despite not doing a job? Medals of Valor need to be doled out.

“Pbbt, come the fuck on, here boy.” Richie starts to walk off, and the whistling is condescending, but they listen anyway. Rich looks over his shoulder, snapping his fingers at Carmen. “Probationary forgiveness.”

Carmen nods, “Thank you, Chef.”

“Dee-Dee’s here, by the way.”

Carmen’s relaxed posture immediately pulls into a taught physique, he’s considering chasing Richie to get more details. “Isn’t Sug here, too?”

“Yessir!”

“Have they—” “They got grouped at the same table. Unc and Stevie have been keepin’ the peace.” “How’s that going?”

“Your guess is as good as mine!” And with that Richie fades into the crowd of straggling guests and clean up crews. 

You don’t know much about Donna, which was a very intentional choice on Mikey’s part. And that kinda tells you all you need to know. You turn to Carmen, pensive. “You wanna go find out?”

He itches at his collar, thinking. “I think if I say I don’t, I’m a bad son.”

“You didn’t ask to be her son.”

“Oh, fuck, okay.” He stumbles for a second, you immediately cover your mouth. 

“Sorry! I just—” Inside thought got outside. “I just meant— That was a lot. It’s just like, I dunno, you can’t be bad at something you never opted in for, y’know?”

“No, yeah, that— That’s kind of… a good thought.” He nods, looking at the ground, swallowing the words. “I— I should be a good brother—and—and Uncle, at least. Say hi to Nat.”

You don’t start walking until he starts walking, intent to follow his lead. You’ll stroll casually, until they crop up, making no deliberate effort to find them. You’re both silently hoping you don't. Carmen brings his head back up to you. “You ever meet Mom—? Donna?”

You shake your head, “No, that was kinda one of our few red lines. For Mikey and me. He’d like—” You gesture with your hands as you explain. “He’d talk about her, and I saw like… photos of them from babyhood, but I never met her or heard details— Never like, came over to the house. It was just kinda like a silent agreement. Hard for him and hard for me with the whole— Uh—”

“Drinking thing.”

You nod. “It’s uh— I’m not easily triggered anymore, though, so I think I’m fine.”

Carmen sniffs, scratching his nose. “Well, if you end up not being fine, we can not— Like not talk to her.”

He’s sweet, he’s smart, he’s the cat. You nod. “You don’t have to talk to her either, y’know. Could just text Nat—” “She’s right there.”

You whip your head up in tandem with him saying, “Don’t look fas— Fuck.”

You put the back of your hand on Carm’s chest, you both stop walking. “That’s Dee-Dee?”

“Yeah, with the—the leopard print belt and the floral dress.” Carmen’s been growing meeker with each step. You’d think his biggest fear is clashing patterns. This is not the same bear in the Chicago Tribune. “Why, you— You do know her?”

“She looks fuckin’ familiar…” You kiss your teeth, trying to roll back in your memory— Come on, you don’t forget shit, where is she from? You’ve seen photos but those were blurry and she was so much younger. You remember this version of Donna, you remember her from somewhere.

“Fuckin’ — Something with Pete— I saw her with Pete— Nat’s husband—” You point to him, across from Donna, at the table. “Him, yeah.”

“Just them?” Carmen gently pulls your arm down, you’ve gotta remember your manners.

“Yeah, I was— Oh, I was—” You squint. “Did Donna come to your opening?”

“No, she was invited, but she didn’t show.”

“Okay— So, she did, actually.” “Huh—?”

“She was— She was outside, when you were in the walk-in.” You nod to yourself, still thinking through the memory. “Yeah, she was outside— I thought Pete was like her son— It looked like they were fighting or crying so I just kinda— Kinda let it be. You were locked in a fucking freezer so I chose my battles.”

“Oh.” Carmen nods, trying to make it seem normal in his head. It’s not. And he can’t seem to force it. “He definitely didn’t tell Nat.” Because Nat would’ve told him.

You hum, rocking on your heels. “Yeah there's no chance we're going to go say hi now, is there?”

“Yeah, that might be best.”

You fold your lips in a line, still staring at Donna, she looks normal, which makes it feel even less normal. Way too much to unpack, if you go over there. Instead, you’ll stand here in the middle of the banquet hall, and unpack the carry-on luggage, so to speak. “Christmas is in a week.”

It’s a freight train of realization, Carmen drags his hand down his face. “Fuck me.”

“I know.”

“I have to go, don’t I?”

You frown, turning your head to him, not wanting to say what you’re going to say. “Do you think she’ll plan anything?” First Christmas without Mikey. Will she have the willpower to plan something, like she usually does?

“Oh, fuck me.”

“I know.”

Carmen holds his hand over his mouth, words somewhat muffled. “I’ll ask Nat, see what she’s doing. Baby’s first Christmas, or whatever. That’s a thing, right?”

“Baby’s do traditionally experience time, yeah.” “You n’ that smart mou—”

Despite staring at their table, the two of you did not notice Natalie approaching you, baby Michaela swaddled in her arms. “Oh my God, I haven’t seen normal human beings that aren’t screaming or shitting constantly in so long— Please— Say something normal and fun.”

You pucker your lips, trying to come up with something. “Ah— Fuck, I can’t think of anything— Oh fuck, sorry I said fuck— God— I’m just gonna stop talking.”

Nat lifts her hand up for a moment to wave you off before re-supporting her baby. “No! No, don’t! Say fuck so much. Say it all the time. She can’t understand, she doesn’t care. I wish I was her.”

“Will do.” You just nod, holding a hand up to Michaela, waving. She grabs one of your fingers, holding on tight. You can’t help but coo. “Hey, baby! Have you been fuckin’ with your mom’s sleep schedule? Awe, yes you have! Yes you have!”

Nat laughs and hums, “Richie told me you used to babysit Eva.” 

“He’s exaggerating.” You leave your hand with Michaela, but look up to Nat. “There were just some weekends he was working and daycare wasn’t running so I’d take her around the city for a couple hours— More like playdates than actual babysitting.”

“That just sounds like you’re a fun babysitter.” Carmen rebukes, Nat nods. 

“I’m good when you only need a second.” You sigh, half taking the compliment. You glance over Nat’s fatigued face. “You need a second?”

“Yes, fuck, could you?” In the same breath, she’s handing you baby Michaela. “She has in fact been fucking with mommy’s sleep schedule— And no one tells you— ‘mommy strength’ or whatever, needs to be developed— My lats— I think they’re lats? Are insane now. Just from holding her!”

You bounce the baby in your arms, sidling her on your hip. She’s a grabber, that’s for sure. Grabbing your hair, your top, Mikey’s chip— No longer tucked under your clothes. You let her. Well— Not the hair— She could cut off her circulation— Relax, EMS. You’re off duty. “How’s it going with—”

Nat knows what you’re asking before you finish the question. “Better than normal, which makes it feel worse. Does that make sense?”

You nod, “Completely and utterly.”

Carmen’s staring at Pete. He’s not typically a snitch but this is his sister, “Did Pete tell you—?”

“That mom was there on our fucking opening and he told her we were having a baby? Yes, about five minutes before she sat down.” Nat says it with a perfectly practiced smile and a simmering anger.

Your hands slip just slightly, you readjust your grip on Mickey. You and Carmen speak together, “He what?” 

Nat doesn't mean to ignore your both but she does, “How'd you find out?”

“I just told him.” You pipe up, guilt covers your face. “I saw them when I came that night. Sorry, I didn't realize that was your mom— Or husband, for that matter.”

Sug shakes her head, waving off the apology. “Not your fault, his.”

“Yeah.” Carmen nods, “Back to that, by the way?”

“Yeah, he realized it was kind of a hard lie to uphold— Because mom sucks at acting surprised.” She sighs, “She’s taking it well publicly but I’m expecting a full blown meltdown in the bathroom of which I can’t escape, so. Beautiful wedding.”

“Yeah, those are kind of unavoidable.” You just had one yourself. “Fingers crossed you make it out alive?”

“Oh, I’m making it the fuck out, it’s her you should pray for.”

You have to respect the power in that. “Damn.”

“I didn’t ask to be her daughter! If she hands it to me I’m handing it fucking back—” Nat’s brain is always running like a faucet, she cuts off her own thoughts with a new one. “Christmas is in a week.”

“We know.”

“Fuck me.” She sighs so hard it blows strands of hair out of her face. “What the fuck are we gonna do, Carmy?”

“Was gonna ask you.” Carm’s distracting himself with Michaela, she reaches for his hand, she doesn’t grab a finger, she traces his tattoos. God, babies are cute sometimes. “Can we figure it out later?”

“Yeah, like everything else we do, I guess.” Sug groans. But she just as equally doesn’t want to think about it as him. And honestly, she’s just happy to see him acting like a fucking uncle for once.  “Tony, will I see you at work on Monday? You’re onboarding, right?”

You don’t notice the way Carmen’s face stones up, like a secret has been revealed. He’s been preparing for you to say yes. He’s got that Docusign in his inbox, ready to send. Had Nat budget you in. But you don’t seem to be upset about it— Or maybe you just didn’t catch that Carmen selfishly was hoping you’d come right back to him. Maybe it’s just that you don’t think it’s selfish.

“Oh— Uh, yeah, I guess you will.” Michaela starts to smack you for not giving her attention for more than seven seconds. You turn your head to her, bouncing her again, “Pbbt—Pbbbt— Mat leave over?”

“Gonna need to be.” Nat laughs when she says it, like you’re both on some sort of inside joke. Yeah, The Bear’s kind of a nightmare, of course Nat’s always needed. You laugh back, though there wasn’t really a joke anywhere in there.

“Make sure you get your rest.” Sug scoops Michaela out of your arms, rejuvenated from her second of peace. “Your boss is kind of an ass.”

Unfair drive-by, Carmen waves a hand like a white flag, “Alright—”

“I know, I like him anyways.” “Gross.” “I know, it sucks.”

“Okay, okay,” It’s way too obvious how happy Nat is that her brother has someone. “Both of you get the fuck out of here before she sees you, I told her you’d be too busy in the kitchen to say hi.”

She knows her brother, and Carmen’s grateful for it, but, “Are you sure? I can—” 

“I love you, Bear.” Nat gives him a kiss on the cheek, and you a quick hug. “But fucking run, seriously.”

Carmen nods, “Heard. Love you, Bear.”

You quickly dash off together, blending into crowds to go unnoticed. Mumbling plans out as you sprint. “I’ve gotta help Marcus close out the bar.”

“I’ve gotta pack up our equipment.” “You’re on the fifth floor too, right?” “Yeah, you’re rooming with Syd?” “Yeah, you and Richie?”

“I got my own room.” “Okay, rich boy.” “I— It’s a fuckin’ Holiday Inn, it’s not that bad—” “Oooh, Charmin gets his first paycheck suddenly he’s all that—” “You wanna come up to my room or not?”

“Oh?” You practically skirt on your heels when you suddenly stop walking, “He’s bold now—”

“I— That’s not— Like we—” He can’t dig himself out of this one, and his darting eyeline is giving him away. “You told Syd you’d still sleep in your room— I just meant like— Like we could— hang out.”

“We could hang out?” “Stop—” “I’d love to hang out, dude.” “We can watch a movie or somethin’—”

You gasp, thought occurring to you. “Yeah, let’s watch a movie. I wanna watch a movie.”

“I don’t like the look that just happened in your eyes.” 

“Yes, you do.” Your turn to smush Carmen’s face in your hands, kissing him with a comical, all too wet, and in no way seductive muah—

Which somehow just makes it all the more entrancing, for him.  “Yes, I do.”

You smile, letting him go, splitting off from Carmy in favour of your bar. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, go be a good boss.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“How are they not seeing him fuck up the soup— That— A whole pot—” “You’re literally saying exactly what Remy is saying right now—” “I— Good. I’m still mad about the five star thing.”

Carmen likes Ratatouille. Likes it enough to nitpick. He relates to the weird rat with a complex family dynamic and having a brother that means well but fucks with him so much. He relates to the no credit, the starving, the death and desire of feeding the ego, Carmen relates to feeling like a freak in his own kitchen. 

It is weird to feel seen by a rat. 

But it’s nice to have you in his room, in his bed, watching some dinky little red-head try to survive in a French kitchen. It’s nice to occasionally watch you instead, out of the corner of his eye. He thought of roughly… fourteen more recipes since leaving the bathroom with you? Who would’ve thought that watching someone use a makeup cleansing balm would be inspiring?

What? It melted beautifully. Or maybe you’re just beautiful? Whatever. You emulsified it in your hands. Emulsion? Coconut emulsion would be interesting; very similar creme texture. On top of a souffle? Delicate. But it still needs zip. The glitter from your eyeshadow makes him think of zesting. Lemon zest. Needs more scent, though. Oh, maybe Kaffir limes. That’s a weird dish. That’s never gonna work. He has to get better at subtracting around you. 

He’s doing pretty good at not saying I love you, though, so, that’s something. 

“The houndstooth pants are cute.” You hum, as Linguini finally kisses Collette— Though by a rat’s volition. A win is a win. You lean into Carmen’s side, watching the movie pirated on his laptop, because hotel tv pay-per-view was so overpriced for no reason. “Oh, fuck, what’s my uniform gonna be?”

“Chef whites, no?” His arm is around your shoulder, it’s nice. “I can get you a jacket—”

“Well, your servers wear black— And I’m gonna be like, like both right?” You turn your head to him. Bad idea. He’s still very pretty, if not prettier in pajamas. “Like, making drinks in the back and then acting as somme out front. So all black?”

“Hm.” Carmen tries not to frown. Tries not to see you wearing black as you being on the other team. “I guess.”

“Richie’s not getting me in a fuckin’ button up, though.” You don’t notice his expression’s minute faltering, crossing your arms, thinking. “Sleeveless black turtleneck? Maybe black palazzo pants, could do what fuckin— Linguini’s doin—”

You point at the screen. “The bright red converse? Could do all black and then bright blue converse? Would that be cute or is that deeply unprofessional?”

Carmen tilts his head back and forth, trying to let you down easy, “I wouldn’t call it deeply unpr—”

“Heard. Okay, maybe like— Like a red bottom heel—” You kick your foot up in the air, for no real reason. A shoe isn’t suddenly going to appear on it for display. “Like not actual ones, duh— Like a black boot and I paint the sole blue—” 

“What’s with you and blue?” He's deeply amused, or maybe that's just Carmen's constant state, right now, twirling his fingers through your hair without a care in the world.

“It’s like, Bear colours. You do blue. Aprons, baskets— I guess I’m thinking of The Beef, but like, your lighting is kinda blue.” You shrug. “I wanna match.”

He nods, eyes on the movie, thinking far too much— Well, for the average person. For Carmy it’s a perfectly normal amount of thinking. “All black, blue sole, blue earrings, maybe? White apron for when you’re in the back?” 

Please say yes to the white apron. Please say yes to his team. He'll get your initials monogrammed and everything.

“Yeah, that’s a cute look. As long as it’s easy to take off.” You hum. “Oh, y’know, Richie wanted to—” 

Speak of the Devil, and he shall call you for the fifth fucking time. “Fuckin— Pause it, hold on—”

Carmen pauses the wonderful rat chef in tandem with you answering the phone with, “I’m not fuckin’ comin’ to pool, Cousin!”

In one ear, out the other. “Fuck you! When are you getting here?” 

“I am not getting out of bed to play pool— A game I have not played— With a bunch of fuckin—”

“If you’re not down here in five minutes, Chip, on God—” “I’m gonna fuckin’ hang up again you motherfucker—” “And what? You’ll just answer again, won’t you?”

Richie’s tone gives him away. He’s giggling, bubbly, absolutely tanked on dirty shirleys. But there’s a very genuine joy to it. You’ve answered his stupid meaningless calls every time, the last four times, despite knowing they are in fact, stupid and meaningless. And that is rife with meaning. 

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yeah. I’ll answer.”

“Good.” You can hear his smile mirrored through the phone. “Sell your Greyhound ticket to Fak.”

“Bitch, fuck no—” “We can go aroun’ the city tommorow! We’re closed! C’mon have some fuckin’ fun before you start working in hell!” “We’re gonna be stupid New York tourists?” “Eva wanted me to get her face on some m and m’s—” “You want me to come with you to the fucking Time Square M and M store?”

That’s when Carmen shoots up, shoulder against yours, panickedly muttering into the phone, “We cannot go to Time Square a week out from Christmas.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When you realize why there’s a pause, you shut your eyes tight, knowing exactly what you’re gonna get. Carmen realizes after watching your face scrunch up, he puts his face in his hands, “Shit—”

“You’re fucking Carmen!”

“No—” “You said you’re in bed! His bed?!” “We’re watching Ratatouille—” “Without me? You’re coming to the fucking M and M store— Also that big ass toy store—” “This is not a betrayal—” “Matter of fact, we’re gonna go see that big fuckin’ tree, too—” “You just want me to drive us home because you’re gonna be too hungover.”

“No, I want you to drive us home because I love you.” Richie’s slurring when he says it, like it’s some sort of gotcha. “So fuck you, actually.”

Carmen bites back laughter next to you, you just shake your head, tutting. “I love you, too, Cousin.”

“If you loved me you’d come play pool.” “I don’t fuckin’ know how to play pool!” “We’ll fuckin’ learn you somethin’ then!” “Fuck off! I’m already coming to fucking Time Square with you, don’t be whiny.” 

“You’ll come?”

You massage your brow bone, “Syd’s not gonna wanna sit next to Fak on the bus, you got room for four?”

“Yeah, but someone’s gonna have to sit on the console.” “I nominate Carmen.” “I second the nom.”

Carmen, now with two votes to sit on the console up front, presses his face into your shoulder. “What the fuck—” You peer down at him and whisper, “We’ll do shifts, don’t worry.”

“Put me on speaker phone.” “You’re talking so loud that Carmen can very clearly hear you.”

“Put me! On speaker phone!”

You put Richie on speaker phone. Carmen clears his throat, gruff, “Yo, Rich, can we finish the fuckin’ movie?”

“Patience is a virtue, or some shit. D’you see the resos?”

You mouth to Carmen, ‘Reservations?’ Carmen nods. “Yeah, I saw.”

“Gonna be fucked.” You frown when you hear that, but don’t want to interrupt. You silently word, ‘What happened?’ Carmen puts a finger over his mouth, he’ll explain in a second. 

“Gonna be fucked, yeah.” Carmen sniffs, swiping at his nose. “Good kind, though.”

“Yeah. Good kind.” There’s a sigh from Richie on the other end, that heavy sigh. Practically sobering up with just one sentence. “Christmas is in a week.”

“I know.” Carmen kisses his teeth. This is going to be the worst, for all of you. The missing link is going to be all too apparent.  “Good time to be busy.” 

“Good time to be busy.” Richie echoes. “Only way out is through.”

“Heard.” Carmen nods, what else is there to say? “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Aright. Don’t fuck in a fuckin’ Holiday Inn Chip’s worth mo—” 

That’s when you interrupt, “Alright, what a wonderful phone call this has been goodbye, fuck you, love you, don’t call again, be safe!” You hang up before Richie can reply, head flopping over.

There’s a long silence before Carmen speaks again. “...I’m not tryna do that by the way—”

“No, I know, I’m worth more than a Holiday Inn.”

Snorts of laughter fill the stale air of this shitty little Holiday Inn one bed. Carmen pulls you back into him, arm on your waist. Before you can start the movie again, though, you have to ask. “Reservations fucked?”

He hums, tucking your hair back so he can see the side of your face better. “We started taking reservations last week— Just to test it out. N’ it was goin’ smooth but ‘tuh…” He squints. “Trending today with the whole uh— Chef thing. We’re kinda booked full ‘til the end of the year. And January.”

“Oh shit.” Word on the street is true. Any advertising is good advertising. Even when promoting the wrong fucking website. 

“Yeah, good kinda fucked, but like. Fucked.” Carmy nods, and after a second, grabs your hand. “But Christmas— Christmas Eve ‘n Christmas is off— And New Years— So, so you won’t be overwhelmed, hopefully.”

Your brain is already shooting miles ahead, you’re mentally back in Chicago, already. “We really gotta get on that cocktail menu.” There’s so much to do. New job, new menu, Christmas—

“And coffee.” Carmen sounds calm when he says it, which is deeply unlike him.

“And coffee.” You echo, eyes distant. You shoot back up. “Fuck, road trip is gonna be such a time sink. Okay— Well, okay— We’ll just— I’ll make a list tonight—”

 You’ve gotta figure out your hours. You don’t want to lose Chicago’s Kindest completely— Can’t be available 24/7 anymore, though. Mattina Tony’s gonna hate that. But he’ll be happy for you. Gotta tell Eden’s Club you’re not going to pick up shifts anymore. They’ll say they’re happy about it, but curse you behind your back. That’s fine. 

“List for what?”

“Christmas shopping.” Your eyes flick to him, still thinking. “I win Christmas every year.”

You’re getting Richie new cufflinks— But what of? Can’t just do initials, that’s lame. Fuck, what do you get Carmen? Can’t just do something cooking related— That’s lamer. But it’s also like— His only hobby.

“Don’t think that’s how Christmas works.”

“It fully is. And being in Time Square is gonna widen the fuck out of my search radius. Fuck what do I do for Syd? Fancy knife? They sell fancy knives here?”

Carmen shrugs, “I know a guy in the area.”

“Fantastic. I’ll get a list, you’ll help me out with stores. We’ll get coloured pencils at FAO, we’ll draft up a rough menu on the way home—” “Hey—” “It’s twelve hours of driving, so I think we can get a good chunk done. And then test out and finish on Monday—” “Baby—” “I was thinking we could do a section of house cocktails and coffees named after Chefs—” “I said don’t work on it—” “So like, each one would be themed after what I think of when I think of you—” 

Carmen grabs your face with both hands. “Tony.”

“Carmy.”

“Cannot believe I’m saying this to another person, but loosen your grip.” He strokes your cheekbones with his thumb. It’s nice. “You don’t have to do it all.”

It's a long silence of just staring back at him, so much so Carmy’s worried he has failed at this whole self-help thing. But then, you say, “Sara’s a good fucking therapist.”

“She’s got a pretty flexible schedule, too.”

Your face is still in his hands, you’re basically unblinking. “I think you’re a pink pepper aperol spritz with a slice of grapefruit. Maybe like a cherry syrup rim? Or is that too much? That might be too much.”

Carmen sighs in a way that sounds like a laugh. “How many drinks have you made in your head?”

“Just that one. But I think Richie would be something with whiskey and peaches— And somethin’ about Syd makes me think about figs, I don’t know why, which would go good with—”

Carm pinches your cheek, frowning, though there’s an admiration to it. “I said don’t work on it.” 

You push his hands away, “I haven’t written anything down! I can’t stop my brain from thinking! How many fuckin’ plates do you have in your head?”

He thinks, tilting his head back and forth. “A couple.” It’s a lot more than a couple. “They’re all bad, though.” 

“Bad, how?” 

“Bad, like weird.” Carmen gestures to the dimming screen of his laptop. You shake the touchpad awake. Rat chef is inspiring, and a good reminder of what he's meant to do, as are you. “It’s uh, it’s a good movie. It’s good to make new shit. But like, I need to be controlled.”

You tilt your head, “I don’t think so.”

“No?” Despite the fact that you’re disagreeing with him, there’s a happy hum, in Carmen’s voice.

“No. I think we should make really bad weird shit. At least in like, R and D.” You lean back down, against him. “Gotta try it before you brush off the idea. That’s the fun thing about art, y’know? Might work, might not.”

“I think that’s life.”

“Life is art, art is life, food is both.” 

“Woah.” “That was kind of a bar, wasn’t it!?” “Kinda tough.” “What’s your bad weird idea?”

“Steak with pop rocks.”

“Oh my god.” Your eyes go wide, but with a smile. Shocked but delighted. It's absolutely going in Carmen's top five favourite expressions of yours. You lean into him further, back of your hand slapping his chest. 

“I know, but I was thinking the sugar would be good—”

“Like a sort of maple or sugar curing thing?” God, you just get it. And you give a shit about getting it.

“Exactly, n’ then it makes you like— Like salivate.” “I don’t think it’s that crazy an idea.”

He’s so excited to have someone encourage his ideas, for once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod assuredly. “We should do it. Try it, at least.”

“Okay. Cool.” Carmen tries and fails to not light up at the prospect of ‘we’. “You’ve still got a hard out at twelve?”

“Syd said she will be knocking violently if I’m not back at midnight on the dot, yeah.” You unpause the movie. “And she’s gonna be pissed when I tell her I’ve volunteered us for a tourist spree, so I gotta be on her good side.”

Carmen shrugs, turning his attention back to the movie, arm around your shoulder. “It’ll be fun, if you’re there.”

It gives you both away.

Every sentence gives you both away. The way you speak, the way you act, the way you pose. It gives you both away. The way he moves your hair out of your face so you can see the movie clearly. The way you lift your head so he can tuck his arm under the pillow, so it doesn’t go numb under you. All without asking. The way you see each other, the way you are constantly doting and thinking of the next thing you can make the other—All without checking in. The Berf shirt you wear for pajamas, your refilled toiletries in his hotel shower. The domesticity comes all too easy to both of you. It gives you both away.

“Remy kinda sounds like Carmy, y’know—” “Don’t.” “My petit chef!”

You say I love you in every way but the way that makes it weird and bad and stupid and too soon. 

“Good God.” Is the first thing Sydney says, when you return to your shared hotel room. Face and voice filled with disgust, that is really only half sarcastic. “You’re beyond saving.”

You push past her, bumping shoulders as you do, smiling all the while. It’s nice that she can see you again. Even if she’s seeing that you’re down bad. “I didn’t even say anything—”

“Yeah, no, it’s that face on your face— God, it’s over—” “Baby, just say you’re happy for me.”

“I—” Syd blinks, rapid, hands in the air. “I’m happy for you— Tentatively.” Pending Carmen. Probationary forgiveness. 

“Thank you. I’ll take it.” You squat down to grab a water bottle from the mini fridge, when you do, you’re able to give Syd a once over.

She’s adorned in an old jazz club shirt from your highschool, boxers, and a long bonnet so old you recognize it. You recognize all of it. It’s nearly enough to make you cry. 

Funny, she’s thinking the same thing. Together, you speak. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Jinx!”

“Double jinx!”

“Triple Jinx!” It’s on the third one that you decide to let her win and not say it a fourth time. 

It’s on the fourth one that Syd decides she doesn’t want to win. “Quadr— Man, this sucks.”

You know exactly what she means. You fall out of your squat, sitting on your butt with a frown. “It literally would’ve just taken one phone call.” You could’ve been doing this for years.

She sits down next to you, back against the front of the bed. “There were a lot of moments, where I thought to call you, honestly.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like uhm—” Syd’s face scrunches up her face, she’s already opened her mouth so she has to tell you, but she’s realizing she probably shouldn’t tell you. “There was this fucked day at The Beef, where we set up online orders, and I forgot to tick off pre-order—”

You unscrew the bottle cap, squinting. “I feel like that should automatically be off.” 

“That’s what I’m fucking saying!” She slaps your knee with the back of her hand, “But uh, no it was fucking on— And we got like— Like fucked— Said that already. Hundreds of orders. And it was so much and and— Richie was, at the time, kind of a dick—” 

“You don’t have to mince, I know what he was.” You take a sip of water, nodding. He’s a work in progress, as are you all.

“He was being a bitch and— And— I might’ve maybe lowkey stabbed him.”

“Holy fuck?!” You have to laugh, out of sheer shock. You choke on your water. “Syd?!”

“It— Swear to God—” Syd raises one hand, and puts the other over her heart. “Was an accident. Like— Like I was saying I would, and also I was like—  Thinking about it— But I didn’t mean to actually do it— Like he walked into it—”

“Jesus Christ, Manslaughter Sydney—!” “No! …A little. On occasion.”

“You ever wanna stab Carmy?” “Oh, all the fucking time.”

“Fair.” You hand her your water bottle when you spot her looking at it. You see each other, you take care of each other, without being asked. 

“And after a brutal stabbing—” “It was barely a graze, to his ass.” “—You thought to call me?”

“Yeah. You’re like. I dunno. I—” She sighs, taking a beat. “I’ve heard people talk about like— When they’re in a life or death scenario, or panicking, their first thought is like ‘I gotta call my mom’.” Syd clutches onto the water bottle like it’s a life preserver. “But I like— Like I don’t have that instinct, duh, dead mom club— But like, like my instinct when I’m scared is to call you.”

“You should’ve.” You want to take her hand, but don’t. Still working on that hesitation. You’ll both get there.

“You should’ve, too.” Syd lightly punches your knee. She tucks her lips in a line, thinking. “I would’ve been there.”

“I think I kinda got stuck in the same thought Mikey had, with Carmen.” You prop your knee up, hugging it to you. “Didn’t wanna drag you down with me. Didn’t want you to know I— That I’m not really uhm— That I’m not all that great.”

“I didn’t ask you to be great.” Syd says it before she thinks it, and it’s enough to make your eyes water. In a good way. She continues. “I didn’t ask you to be my somme, either. I always thought you were cool. I would always think you’re cool.”

“I…” You clear your throat, controlling your micro-expressions poorly. “I— I know. I think I just… Always do too much? Like I do everything to make myself like— Needed.”

If they need you, they can’t leave you. Though, that didn’t really stop you two from growing apart, so there goes that theory. 

“You are needed.” Syd nearly rolls her eyes at you, but realizes that might be insensitive.

Syd could’ve called Terry, when the walk-in door broke. She called you. Syd could’ve called Claire— They’re not all that close, but she could’ve, when Nat went into labour. She called you. Syd could’ve called Fak, when Carmen’s oven broke. She called you. It’s insane that you’d ever think you weren’t her lifeline. 

But she clarifies anyway, “Not that— Not that you need to be needed though, for me to want you around.”

You snatch the water bottle from her. “Well, I know that now.”

“Good.”

You all but chug the water, God you’re dehydrated. Syd laughs, “It’s not gonna fucking run away from you.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” You grin, screwing the cap back on. Sniffing, you sober up a little. “We’re never not gonna be friends again.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Lest you go full on He Had it Comin’ on your fuckin’ co-workers again.”

She scoffs. “I promise to try to not stab someone in your presence.” 

“Deal.” You both laugh. You put your hand out to her, and without confirmation, do a handshake that must be more than a decade old. Dap, up-down, jellyfish out. Though, for your purposes, squid out. 

Incredible, you’ve hit Syd with love and nostalgia, she has to say yes now. “We’re roadtripping with Richie and Carmen instead of taking the Greyhound.”

“It’s so crazy that you think that’s gonna happen—” “It will be fun—” “Define fun for me, right now—” “We can get Christmas shopping done—”

“Fuck. Christmas is in a week.” “I know!” 

Syd scrunches up her nose. “What do I get my dad?”

“Sounds like you need to do some window shopping.” You could probably recommend something if you thought about it for two more seconds, but then you wouldn’t have an excuse to drag her along. “We could go to a Tiffany’s or something.”

“What and get him a locket?” “I’m honestly just naming stores, at this point.”

She’s thinking about it, really thinking about it. “...Could go to the MET, go through the gift shop. He’s a tchotchke guy.”

You hum, nodding. You can get her to fold. “Look at some expos, get some artistic inspiration?”

Syd’s eyes roll back, and she rolls her head back with them, head on the edge of the bed, in dismay. “...Are we doing gifts?” 

You shrug, “Was thinking I’d get you a little something.”

“So super over the top and extravagant?” “What’s the fun in telling?” “I hate you.” “So you’ll come?”

She sighs, husky. “Yeah…” She says it like she’s upset but you both know Syd is a little excited. 

You pump your fist, delighted. A win.

A comfortable silence fills the room. You flop your back down on the floor, laying on the carpet. “Thank you for helping Carmy.”

“Didn’t do much.” Syd shrugs, lazily turning her head on the bed to you. “He just needs pushing, sometimes.”

You hum, nodding. “Well, thank you for pushing.”

“You’re so welcome, dude.” You both laugh, and after another long gap of silence, she kicks you. “Stop lying on the dirty ass hotel floor, we paid for a bed.” 

“There’s something about laying on the floor, man.” You shake your head. “Get down here. I can see the scope of the universe from down here, actually.”

With a profoundly deep sigh, Syd rolls over to you. Your shoulders touch as you both stare at the ceiling. She hums, pointing to the popcorn tiles. “Oh yeah, secrets of the universe, right there.”

“I told you.” You nod, wisely. You frown. “...When do you think it’s like, too soon, to say ‘I love you’?”

“Oh my fucking God it’s that bad—” “Just answer!” “Definitely right now is too fucking soon!” “Well, yeah, I fuckin’ figured—!” “I’d say like, another month or two, minimum.”

“I think I might explode, by then, if I’m being honest.” You turn your head to her. “I’m really worried I’m gonna forget I haven’t already said it and I’m gonna say it at a stupid moment and it’s gonna be lame and embarrassing and bad.”

Syd turns her head to you. “Yeah, that’s probably what’s gonna happen.”

“Okay, so you’re no fuckin’ help.” You snort. 

“What do you want me to say? You love to the point of embarrassment.” She shrugs, smiling at your demise. But then Syd sobers up a little, turning her body to face you, leaning her head on her hand. “Are you sure, though?”

“I think so, yeah.” You cross your arms, nodding, assuring yourself, practically. “I feel what I think can only be described as emotionally violent— affectionately. And I think that’s what love is. Pretty sure.”

“Hm.” Syd watches you watch her. You’re absolutely getting lost in your own brain. She pokes the space between your eyebrows, you wake back up. “What’s in there?”

You blink, “Thinking of all the worst ways I could say it.” In front of everyone, accidentally while saying goodbye, off-handedly while hanging up, over text, and so on and so forth.

“Okay, that sounds awful and unproductive so let’s go to bed, huh?” Syd grunts, sitting up. She reaches for your hand to help you stand up with her. “Just try saying it normal.”

You take a breath, looking her in the eyes, say it normal. “Love you.”

“Yeah, just say it like that.”

“Oh, so I can say it—” “In two months.”

“Wait, is one more month hard off the table now—” “Now it’s three.” “Fuck, it’s gaining interest?!”

Just try to make it to next year without saying it, you’d take that happily. Just make it to Christmas. Okay, maybe just make it until you get back to Chicago…Maybe just take a vow of silence. 

You shake your head, coming back to reality.

“Wait, what the fuck, Syd, say it back!”

wooooo

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Next Part

[eldritch-spouse]

Don't be timid, you can and should cum your little brains out while he works, it's half the fun of his job.

This is soo hot. I love the scenario of Babesley coaxing us to cum while he massages us.

Like we just got out of work and he’s working on us. We’re trying so hard not to cum while his hands are touching everywhere, and he just takes it like a challenge to see how far this can go until we eventually orgasm.

TW: Consent to nonconsent

He's scheduled you weekly.

Maybe you should have offered a little bit more resistance when he first suggested you stop by more often. After all, these types of services aren't free, and you could be saving your time and money doing something a lot more productive back at home- Or even just keeping it for emergencies. But he insisted, and you could almost believe it came from a place of genuine concern, that you needed to invest more in self-care.

And maybe... Maybe he's right. Why shouldn't you give yourself a little break?

Working in Hell is exhausting. While it can certainly pay very well, it's ten times as draining as the surface, especially for newcomers like you. People still getting adjusted, people weighing the pros and cons of the Rings and their influence on humans.

You figure that, if you're going to put yourself through the wringer on a near daily basis, you might as well get to enjoy some of the more indulgent experiences out there. Travel between Rings is cheap and fast, rifts have long-since been a perfected art, one moment you're in Greed, the next you've stepped into the Commons. To see a particular masseur in a little nook of a busy street.

You could have sought out many different massage parlors. It didn't have to be the one with the attractive incubus.

But you wanted it to be.

He was gentle and charming as he welcomed you, made you feel special, like every moment passed in the privacy of a sanctuary for two lovers. It was hard not to sink into the experience, not to drift off into relaxation and notes of pleasure, let it take you to trance-like heights. Maybe it's the tone he uses, his practiced fingers, the scents in the room, or even the way it's so lulling and invitingly decorated. All of it blends together, perhaps, to create a feeling you'd call nothing short of magical.

It's why you've agreed to come back. Time and time again. To the point where this demon now knows you on a first name basis, offers you a smile you don't see directed at other clients.

Or maybe you're just delusionally parasocial and should take a break from this. A harsh possibility you'd rather not marinate in.

" Oh dear, you look ghoulish today- "

You might have taken offense to that a month ago.

" Harsh week? "

" You could say that. "

A long, exasperated sigh is all you offer when the incubus holds the door open for you. The demon makes a face, as if he could read a thousand words in that tired motion alone.

" You can tell me all about it when you lie down. "

He makes it a point to undress most of his clients, the ones comfortable with it at least. The first time this happened you almost jumped out of your skin, now you can only turn away and let those dexterous fingers peel cumbersome cloths off your shoulders.

The way he purposely lingers in certain sections is heavenly. Babesley doesn't grope at you, he ghosts hands around your neck, already beginning to work on your shoulders and brushing claws along the length of your back, slowly stroking his way down your midsection to roll thumbs on your hips while your pants are pushed down.

It's the loving, wanton caress of a partner trying to convince you to relax in bed with them after a long day of work. The worship of a cultist most devoted. You've already begun exhaling for completely different reasons.

Being naked in front of him hasn't really gotten any easier, but you figure he must at least find you mildly beautiful, to stare at your figure as long as he does. Some part of you almost wants to ask.

" Lay. " He coos, gathering the lotions and soft-scented products you'll have today.

Thus begins your battle.

To resist him.

Babesley is an excellent masseur, you have to admit this. But his technique is fundamentally erotic. Whatever body part of yours he's handling, sparks of pleasure are inevitable and intentional. Yet, instead of making your form tense, it causes you to melt further, thoughts slipping away, distracted by the dim flickering flames of scented candles and soft ringing of hell-forged chimes.

It's always this dance.

A wonderful session, inevitably ruined when you tense to avoid orgasming.

Babesley frowns this time, gentle hands lifting from your bare mons and going back to your tummy. Your sigh of relief is definitely not missed.

" Why do you always fight it? "

" Mmm? " You're almost too comfortable to consider forming words.

" The climax is pivotal to this technique, princess. "

A rush of heat warms your cheeks. That much is obvious, but hearing him say it aloud hits different.

" You come in. I smell arousal, I know your need, your frustrations, but you never let me guide it out of your system. You never take that step with me... "

The incubus' hands still on your body, waiting until your eyes peek open to have a proper talk, yet you simply don't have the courage to respond.

His face falls. " You don't feel safe. "

Blinking, you're quick to wag a finger.

" No no- That's not- That's not it... "

" Then tell me. " Babesley purrs, softly parting your legs further.

Strong and steady motions climb the length of your inner thighs, retreating, approaching, teasing. Shudders course through you.

" You know you can be loud here, no one will hear you. You can let go... "

Babesley's claws are dulled, they need to be, for such a line of work. He can use long, dexterous fingers to their utmost potential without hurting anyone in the process, thumbing next to your labia to provide a delicious pressure you'd never usually seek on your own. With a knowledge of sexual anatomy as profound as his, you know this concubus will have you dancing on the edge without even touching the visible part of your clitoris.

" Show me what you need. "

The monster's motions grow repetitive yet stagnant, waiting until you take initiative with a small roll of your hips.

" I'm here to take care of you, after all. "

Something about the air is thicker, warmer.

" I always am. "

There's no stopping the choked noise that rings when he finally edges around your already sensitive clitoris, the lubrication in his fingers creating tingles of temperature difference that have your toes curling.

" It took so long to get you to understand you need to come see me more. "

Smooth circles distract you from another two fingers parking at your soaked entrance. You don't want to even think about the mess you're making.

" Maybe it's more efficient if I just show up to your home. We can schedule it. "

The insertion is slow, planned, each inch of those digits pushing hard against the top, spongier sections of your walls. Although your mouth opens to draw in desperate breaths, your eyes shut firmly and you tremble for more.

" I can afford the trip, really, I've tested things. I'm sorry about your lock, I know it scared you, but I left you enough to fix it. " His motions pause for a second. " Did you find that? In your bedside table? "

Between his generous fingering, the constant rolling of your clit and the lurid sounds that have started, it took you way too long to register what Babesley said.

The sick fear you should feel is but a mere droplet of water in an ocean of physical stimulation that won't allow you any clarity.

" Yes, I should be there for you always. I know how tired you are after work, I know you suffer. You're not at home in Hell, but I can change that. "

Only now do you notice the saccharine cadence that has taken over the incubus' voice. No longer just a welcoming masseur, or even a seductive lover, he sports a dripping mania, disgusting infatuation springing out of seemingly nowhere.

Perhaps you never noticed the signs, because surely, he's this affectionate and caring with all of his customers, isn't he? Babesley looks at every client's body the same, right? Anything that appears significant and intimate is just a part of his service, isn't it?

God, how fucking stupid can you be?

You try to make words, to tell him to stop, that this is creeping you out and he's a freak. They don't come out, nothing but moans and whines do, an overwhelming coil forming in your pelvic area when he speeds up, unrelenting and demanding. You've arched your back off the table without even noticing.

" But let's not worry about that right now. All you need, is to come on my fingers. "

With a hilarious amount of ease, it takes a mere twist of his fingers' position for you to tumble into what might have been one of the most intense orgasms of your life. Something that Babesley viciously milks, drawing it out for a length of time that is almost unbearable. Your eyes roll and your ears shut out any of his senseless cooing.

When your body is finally allowed to rest, you have no energy to so much as twitch on his massage table, every part of your body melting away.

" There it is. Isn't that worth it? You look adorable. "

You're terrified.

[piastrisun]

a night to remember.

pairings: timothée chalamet + female reader.

summary: in a room full of stars, it’s his love for you that shines brightest. when he wins, he takes a moment to remind the world—of how much you mean to him.

genre: fluff.⠀word count: 1.8k.⠀ warning: none.

notes: i’m so proud of this guy it makes me feel parasocial, but i can’t help it. he deserves it so much. <3 maybe same time next week? oh btw, this has a social media post at the end. enjoy!

you sit at the table with timothée’s cast and his mother, your heart racing as the evening unfolds. the room is buzzing with excitement, the chatter of guests and the soft clink of glasses almost drowned out by the anticipation in the air. it’s the sag awards, and tonight is different. this is the night timothée could win his first major award, the one everyone has been waiting for.

you glance at him across the table. he’s dressed in a suit inspired by bob dylan, the legendary musician he portrayed in the biopic for which he’s nominated. it’s a daring choice, but it’s perfect. the suit exudes confidence, and the way he carries it with ease is a reflection of his dedication to the role.

despite the accolades and recognition, there’s still a sense of humility about him. he hasn’t won any major awards yet, but you know how hard he’s worked. and tonight, that hard work could pay off. you feel a bit of pride in your chest, knowing you’ve seen him pour his heart and soul into this role, knowing how many sleepless nights and long rehearsals it took for him to get to this point. your eyes trace the familiar path of nerves and excitement in his eyes, and you can’t help but feel in awe of him.

as the award ceremony continues, your thoughts keep drifting back to how far he’s come. he’s still the same guy you’ve always known—awkward, humble, and so fiercely passionate. his ambition has always been there, but there’s something about tonight that feels different. this is the moment he’s been working toward for years, and you can feel it in the way his hands fidget slightly with his cufflinks, how his smile seems just a little bit wider tonight.

the anticipation builds as the presenters announce the nominees for his category. your heart skips a beat, a mix of excitement and nerves flooding through you. the presenter’s voice, lily, cuts through the noise of the room. “and the actor goes to… timothée chalamet!”

for a moment, the words don’t register. your eyes widen, and you look at him in disbelief. timothée, too, is stunned. his mouth parts slightly, his face a mixture of shock and awe, as if he didn’t quite believe this moment would ever come. then, the applause begins, building into a roaring wave that sweeps through the room, but he’s still processing the announcement. he’s worked for this moment for so long, and it’s finally his.

he looks at you first, his eyes wide, searching for some kind of reassurance or confirmation. you’re already on your feet, eyes brimming with pride. he slowly stands up, and the moment seems to move in slow motion as he turns to his mother, pulling her into a tight hug. she holds him close, her face radiant with pride, and you can see the genuine emotion in her eyes.

after a brief moment, he releases her, and then, with a soft smile, he turns to you. there’s a softness in his expression as he pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. he holds you for a few seconds, the warmth of his embrace calming the nerves that are racing through you.

before he pulls back, he presses a small, soft kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than usual. “i love you,” he whispers, and you feel your heart flutter in response, a lump forming in your throat.

then, he steps back, takes a deep breath, and turns toward the stage. he walks with purpose, but there’s a subtle tremor in his steps, as if the magnitude of the moment is still sinking in. the room’s energy is palpable, and you watch him go, pride swelling inside you with every step he takes.

as he reaches the stage, he looks out over the crowd, his face now settling into the calm expression you know so well—humble, grateful, but still with that undeniable spark in his eyes. the camera flashes as he grabs the microphone, he tries to raise it but fails, his awkward chuckle filling the room. you smile softly, your eyes welling up as you watch him laugh awkwardly.

“how i raise this up?” he says, his voice light, trying to hide his nerves. “guess i’m gonna talk low.” the entire room chuckles, and you find yourself laughing along with them. it’s so him—charming and disarming, always putting people at ease. you catch his gaze, and he gives you a playful smile, making you feel like he’s speaking just to you.

“not gonna get this up,” he continues, his face shifting into something more serious but still kind, his sincerity unmistakable. you watch him fumble for a second, thinking how endearing his nerves are.

timothée straightens, his smile fading into a more serious expression, though it’s always kind. his gaze scans the crowd, landing briefly on you, and you can feel your chest swell with pride. he begins to speak, his words measured and thoughtful. “well, thank you. i was not expecting this at all, truly. uh—” he pauses, collecting his thoughts, and you feel your heart swell even more. “i start by thanking my mother, who’s here with me tonight. she’s been working with actors for forty years…”

you look over to his mother, who blows him a kiss. your eyes glisten as you watch her, feeling so deeply for him and his journey. his mother’s love and support have always been there, and you’ve witnessed it up close, how it shaped him into the man he is today. without thinking, you lean your head on her shoulder for a moment, just taking in the warmth of the moment. the claps around you are a beautiful hum, but it’s his voice that cuts through it all, drawing your attention back to him.

“i know the classiest thing will be to downplay the effort that went into this role and how much this means to me,” he continues, his voice growing more confident. “but the truth is, this was five and a half years of my life. i poured everything i had into playing this incomparable artist, mr. bob dylan.” your chest tightens at his words. you feel the pride swell in your chest. the tears that were threatening to fall now stream freely down your cheeks. he’s worked so hard for this, and it’s all culminating in this moment. his passion, his dedication, his love for his craft, it’s all evident now. he’s always been driven, but this—this was different. as he speaks, the camera pans to you, and you hold his gaze, your heart full as you look at him with nothing but admiration.

you watch him as he continues, his words flowing with such passion. the camera focuses on you, and you can’t help but let your smile shine through, sparkling with pride.

he keeps speaking, his words brimming with gratitude as he names his castmates, his eyes shifting between the crowd. “i’m in pursuit of greatness,” he says, his voice strong. “i know people don’t usually talk like that, but i want to be one of the greats. i’m inspired by the greats. inspired by the greats here tonight.” he lists off names—marlon brando, viola davis, michael jordan—and you listen intently, knowing that each name represents a part of who he wants to become. you can see it in his eyes, the hunger for greatness, not for fame, but for the purity of the craft. and you know that about him. it’s not about awards or recognition for him, it’s about leaving a legacy, about making something that lasts. his art. his soul.

you feel the weight of the moment, knowing how much it means to him. he grabs the award from the stand, his hands trembling slightly under its weight. he laughs, a little self-deprecating, but it’s clear that this moment is everything to him. “this doesn’t signify that,” he says, holding up the award a little higher. “but it’s a little more foiled…”

the room chuckles, but you can see the sincerity in his eyes. you love this about him, his authenticity, his humbleness. his words mean so much, and he doesn’t even realise how much of an impact he’s making on everyone here, especially you.

he turns the award in his hand, then pauses, his gaze finding yours in the crowd. he looks at you with such intensity, such affection, that your breath catches in your throat. “lastly,” he says, his voice softening. “before i run out of time…i want to thank someone very important.” he gives a small, knowing smile, and you feel your heart skip a beat, everyone in the room noticing the shift in his tone.

“to my beautiful girlfriend,” he begins, his eyes never leaving yours, “you’re not just here with me tonight—you’ve been here through every moment of this journey. you’ve been my biggest supporter from the start. when i didn’t think i could do it, when i doubted myself, you were the one who pushed me forward.”

his words hit you like a wave, and you can feel your eyes misting over. his sincerity makes your heart swell with love and pride. the room is silent as everyone holds their breath, witnessing a truly intimate moment.

“you listened to me struggle with my guitar for hours,” he laughs softly, shaking his head as if remembering those frustrating practice sessions. “you told me i sounded good even when i didn’t.”

a few scattered laughs echo through the room as the audience feels the warmth of the moment, but for you, it’s just the two of you. he takes a small step forward. “thank you for being there. for being here tonight. i hope you stay forever.” he says, his smile full of affection and tenderness. “i love you. thank you.”

the camera pans to you now, and you don’t even try to stop the tears as they fall. your heart is bursting, every word of his an affirmation of the love and connection you’ve shared over the years. the applause rings out, but it feels distant, like you’re suspended in a moment that’s just for you two.

you stand up and clap too, your hands shaking slightly, your smile so wide you can barely contain it. this man, the one you’ve been beside through thick and thin, is sharing your love with the world, and you couldn’t be prouder.

as the room fills with applause, he catches your eye, his gaze soft and filled with everything he doesn’t need to say aloud. you mouth the words back to him, “i love you,” and he grins, as if he’s the luckiest man alive.

─────────⠀☆⠀─────────

liked by monicabarbaro, zendaya and others

yourusername as it was written!! couldn’t be more proud of this one. you’ve worked so hard for this, and i’m so lucky to be here to witness it. you deserve the world, timmy. here’s to all the greatness yet to come!!!!! ⭐️⭐️

comments on this post have been limited.

tchalamet thank you thank you thank youUuuU, or everything

tchalamet I LOVE YOUUUUUU !!!!!!! 🤍🤍

nicoleflender So proud of you both. This is just the beginning!!

zendaya YASSSSSSSSS!!

kidcudi legend in the making 💪

florencepugh literally crying for you two

pauline.chalamet 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

yourbrother WOOOO, to more nights like this!

tayrussell look at you two 🩷🪽 the cutest

ellefanning OUR WINNERRRRRR

─────────⠀☆⠀─────────

as the comments keep pouring in, you smile to yourself, your heart full. it’s not just the award that matters—it’s the people who love him, who have been with him through every high and low, and the fact that you’re there to witness it all. you close your phone, take a deep breath, and look back at him, watching him chat with his family, the glow of the night still evident on his face.

you walk over to him, ready to celebrate this win together—knowing that there’s much more to come, but for tonight, this is enough. he wraps his arm around you as you join the circle of people congratulating him, and you whisper to him, “i love you.”

“love you too,” he replies softly, his voice just for you, and for that one moment, everything else fades away.

the future is unknown, but you know one thing for certain: no matter where it takes you, you’ll face it together. this night, this moment—it’s just the beginning of everything to come.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[therobinswayne]

smosh dynamics are so fucking funny to me cuz like.

ian and anthony are obvioulsy the dads but ian and amanda are giving two single parents who are each other's only other adult friends. and arasha and trevor are their children, respectively, of course. those two are giving playground antics and when paired up against anyone else they give teenager alliance. tommy and amanda are married, but tommy is the single wine aunt. amanda and angela are sister wives, angela and chanse are little sister and older brother who pretends to hate hanging out w her but loves it, angela and spencer are twins. spencer and alex are bros, spencer and kiana are besties, spencer and tommy are boyfriends (but in the same way girls who are friends call each other girlfreidns). arasha and chanse are a power duo. courtney and shayre are actually married (in real life outside the bit) and spencer is their third. however damien and shayne are an old married couple and arasha and courtney are newlyweds. amanda is married to both of them, but individually. the older less-regular cast (keith, olivia, damien, etc) are the older cousins who are young adults but regress when they're around their family. erin dougal is ian and anthony's child from their reconnection and courtney was their child from their first time together. shayne is trevor's older brother, but he's ian's little brother. but ian is trevor's divorced deadbeat dad who got partial custody in the divorce from mythical. but arasha and trevor aren't siblings, they're just two best friends who have known each other since diapers.

i just love these people sm and maybe im overly parasocial but i think a hug from a lot of these people would save me.

[bunni-v1]

Ok so I’ve been watching a bunch of streamers and was thinking about this scenario because my neurodivergent brain is like that:

Lighter with either a crush or s/o who streams. Maybe he meets them through Phaethon or something but he seems to hit it off with them right away. They’re always cordial to him and over time he feels a connection with them too :3

Honestly tho, this can also work for Asaba or, honestly, a lot of characters LOL anyways—

It becomes suspicious to the Sons of Calydon when they see Lighter on his phone at certain times of the day/night just grinning like a schoolboy. And when you stream he seems to be one of the most supportive chatters whether you have a smaller viewer base or larger one. He’s not reckless with his money so he likely won’t be a 3-tier sub or big donator or anything, but if you mention being in a tight spot financially he may send a few dennies here or there with heartfelt messages. Lighter loves showing his way in sturdy, acts of servicey ways after all <3

Another fun but also sad scenario of this with Aventurine, but you confront him when he donates a little too much lmao… you tell him not to buy your friendship or love and that he should’ve just asked for a date instead bc you would’ve said yes lol

Okay pinkie I know this is all about Lighter, but genuinely this is so incredibly Aventurine coded I had to make it all about him. He’s just so very buy your affections coded, and the idea of him with a streamer partner is so incredibly perfect?

Okay indulge me here, but imagine you and Aventurine are just kinda acquaintances. You know him through the network, and you two have this sorta flirty back and forth that isn’t really all that serious, but it’s fun! You stream full time and you’re pretty well known, but you don’t really brag about it all that much. Aventurine knows this obvi but he’s never tuned into your streams because, well, when does he have to time to?

But one night he has some extra free time and he decides to just bite the bullet and look you up. You’ve got a surprisingly big fanbase, and tons and tons of super loyal chatters. It kinda makes him a little jealous, the way you’re so friendly with chat, but he’s no delusional enough to think he’s entitled to your attention in the sea of viewers.

He doesn’t donate anything at first, mostly because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. This is sorta your thing, it would be a bit invasive wouldn’t it? Plus he doesn’t really get spending that much money on a streamer. As much as he likes you, isn’t it a bit parasocial? But one day you’re playing some shitty gatcha game and you just can’t win your favorite character or something and he feels so bad seeing you pout that he has to step in. He’s got plenty of money to give, so he drops $100 for you to spend under the name “TheGoldenTouch”.

You’re so happy, face lights up and you’re thanking him over and over and oh he so loves that look on your face. It becomes his new dirty little secret, spending money on you. He easily becomes one of your top donors and you even reach out to personally thank him, none the wiser that it was him. He’s very competitive about it too, determined to keep the spot as your top donor. Like he’s trying to prove to you that he can provide for you better, even though you don’t know it’s Aventurine behind the screen.

Your other chatters don’t exactly help, teasing you about the flirty new guy who won’t stop sending you money.

It’s not like he’s hiding it on purpose, but he doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with his sudden interest in spoiling you on stream. Its… a long term investment is all. One that you have no idea is happening! While he’s donating to you he becomes a bit more bold with his flirting irl. He knows you better now, and you technically know him better too. Even though you’re not aware it’s him you’re getting to know so well.

As TheGoldenTouch he can just be himself without worry of you taking pity on him. You’re very sweet to him through chats and messages and all things inbetween. He gets to know you outside of a business sense, and the two of you have very good chemistry. He’s still painfully aware that despite how nice it is, you’ll never really know him. You’ll never get the chance to know him because even if he lets you in like this, how could he do the same in real life? Looking you in the eyes and seeing the care on your face would be too much for his fragile heart to handle.

Eventually the cat comes out of the bag though. It’s just a slip up when he’s feeling just a little too comfortable in your presence during some kind of meeting. He’s a little too forward and makes an inside joke that has you a little shell shocked before it clicks in your head who he is. He’s rather embarrassed by his slip up, but doesn’t let it show on his face. Taking it in stride and confidence, playing up his generous donor persona rather than the person you’d come to know online.

He figures you’d likely distance yourself now that you knew who he was, but you’re even more interactive with him. Going out of your way to greet him in chat and message him first when you get the chance. It’s so very sweet, but your relationship is nothing but a transaction is it not? You’re making it hard for him to tell…

Ah, but then you try and tell him he doesn’t have to donate so much to you. That you just enjoy seeing and interacting with him. That you wish he had told you who he was initially, because you enjoy talking to him and would like to see him outside of streaming and work. It’s all too much for him to handle from you, you’re just too sweet. How could he refuse you?

He does end up taking you out and spoiling you rotten on your first date together. Even after you are an official item he doesn’t stop watching your streams and chatting with your community. He’s very loyal to you, his favorite little streamer <3

If you insist on him not “buying your affections” he’ll shrug it off. Gift giving is his love language, after all, and he can’t let his competition beat him out in the area he’s best at. It’s a little overwhelming, honestly, but equally sweet and endearing. He’s very proud of you too, bragging about his cute streamer partner to anyone who might listen.

Like,,, he’s so cute,,,,,,

[eyesxxyou]

Backstage Show Pt.3

★🎸 {} .. hobie brown x groupie!reader

rating. m

word count. 3.5k

synopsis. hobie invites you to hang with him and his band for your birthday. They have the birthday present planned for you

or

hobie lets his band have their way with you

🍒・．❕warnings. the sexual tension is palpable, lots of group teasing, group is just different versions of Hobie's concept art, voyeurism (sex in front of hobie), clothed sex, ass eating (f receiving), fingering, praise, three on one, kinda foursome, titty play, making out with multiple people, hobie has a bit of a god/ superiority complex, y/n is a group who'd do anything for her idol, bit of a power dynamic fr

backstage show pt.1 | backstage show pt.2

Hobie had you on a leash. Metaphorically of course but you'd be more than happy to make it physical if he so desired. From that first night, you were hooked, waiting on every beck and call, obsessed was too light of a word to describe it. Fanatic maybe, in dire need of therapy is another option because you'd let him do whatever he wanted to you and he knew it.

Hobie took advantage of it in minor ways, asking you if you might send him pictures knowing that you would without so much as a second thought. He could ruin your life with pictures like that in his possession, your fingers in your wet pussy just like he instructed, so down bad that your own self preservation for any future endeavors was thrown out the window. But he had proved that he at least cared somewhat for you reputation and not getting you fired from your job by hiding your face from the tabloids when the two of you were caught fucking in an alley.

You were madly in love. Any fan would be if they were regularly fucking the person they idolized, the parasocial feelings you had suddenly becoming actualized and recognized by the one on the receiving end of it.

Never once did you try to place a label on things and Hobie appreciated it, you could tell. So often people will want to rush into trying him down to something he never really agreed to. You never tried to call yourself his girlfriend or claim him as your boyfriend because you were just happy to have him in any way he would allow. Maybe that’s why he was so comfortable letting you stick around, because you knew your place and didn’t infringe on those boundaries.

You were thinking about the long game, really. Not just the momentary gratification.

Hobie texted you after nearly a week of radio silence. For a moment, you feared he might be done with you even after the two of you stayed up texting into the early mornings about music and life, and all sorts of things. You ran through your messages time and time again trying to decipher if he had given any signs that he was upset with you. None were apparent. You told yourself that he was just busy to soothe your nerves and when you received his text, he didn’t address his absence. However, he did address something else of import.

Happy birthday, luv. You wanna come over?

Something you had offhandedly mentioned, something as important as you birthday, he took the time to remember. Even when you, who was too busy worrying about him to even remember, didn't.

It was hardly even a question you had to consider. You had tossed on a nice outfit as quickly as possible, did your hair and makeup. You grabbed your bag and left the house for the subway while asking him for the address. So quickly you had forgotten about him ignoring your text because you knew that in some way he was thinking about you and you were just lucky to even be acknowledged by him.

That’s how you got here, at this little building that was rundown but cozy, just how you liked it. The entrance was round the side and the door was left unlocked for you. You pulled open the rusting metal door gate before walking inside. You could hear the music from upstairs as well as the laughter emanating from the men and followed it up to their studio.

“There she is." Hobie's lead guitarist, Mace motioned to you as you entered the room. “Told ya she’s the punctual type.” He nudged Hobie who sat beside him with a joint. Their studio was a dim place, layered in a perpetual haze of smoke only illuminated by a red LED light in the corner. There were posters and decorations all over the wall, some spray painted art on the East wall. The boys were lounging around, listening to music while either drinking or smoking.

They were all beautiful and you’d have your pick of any of them, or rather, all of them if you could. Mace, the lead guitarist with his long locs he usually kept in a half up, half own style decorated in gold cuffs. He was cool, occasionally playful, and spent most of his time while you were around teasing. Cass, the rhythm guitar and backup singer, kept his locs in a ponytail with the font out and down his face. He was the quieter type, didn’t talk much, but he was kind when he did talk.Then there was Eli, the drummer, loud, eccentric with hair to match in streaks of white and red. He had the prettiest eyes, one blue and one brown. He was the one who brazenly flirted with you in front of Hobie.

But there was a way they all looked at you. It’s not surprising seeing as your very first interaction with them was getting fucked in front of them while they jerk off to it. Sexual tension was implied with an interaction like that.

Hobie smiled at you as you entered. “There’s ma girl. Com’ere, luv.” He motioned you to him with two fingers and you came. You slid into place beside him and he kissed you, his teeth grazing your bottom lip and his fingers tracing the curve of your delicate jaw. He kissed you like he knew you were in love with him, always kissing with just enough passion to keep you on the hook but never enough to make you believe that you’re entitled to claim him in any sort of way. "Happy birthday, baby."

“Aw, I don’ get to have a kiss, doll?” Eli came over, placing his hands on the back of the couch on their side of your head as he leaned in close to you. You hesitated, your eyes widening as you look at Hobie for what to do. He doesn’t give you any reassurance nor does he show any sign that he’s upset about the question. He just takes a drag from his joint while the other two see what you’ll do.

On the other side of the room, Cass sat strumming to the melody of the song playing over the hidden speakers on his guitar. “Don’ look so fuckin’ terrified. He’s jus’ pullin’ ya leg, dove.” He scratched behind his gauged ears, his upper lip pierced with fanged angel bites pulling into a lopsided grin. "Happy birthday by the way."

Eli sighed and fell onto the couch beside you, tossing his arm over your shoulder. You were wedged between him and Hobie, both of them with an arm around you as Hobie passed his joint to Eli. Oh the things you thought about. All the ways they could manhandle you into any position they so desired. They could pass you around like that joint they have and you’d have absolutely no qualms with it.

“Nice shirt. You make it ya’self?” Mace leaned over Hobie’s lap to get a good look at your crop top with the band’s signature and “The Mary Janes” written in bleached letters. You nodded. “Took me forever to figure out what kind of design I wanted to do but yeah.” You find that he's looking hard. Your shirt is tight, leaves nothing to the imagination though it's not like they haven't seen you in various positions. He's checking you out hard. They all are in their own way and it's nothing new but it flusters you every time.

"Stop starin' at 'er tits, pervert." Hobie jabs him in the chest with his elbow and earns himself a tug at one of his wicks in return. They squabble like siblings, bickering between themselves while Hobie moved his hand to your thigh subconsciously. You're wearing a low-waisted black maxi skirt with platform boots. A simple outfit your haphazardly tossed together in the moment to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

Eli places the joint in front of you as it sits between his long, slender fingers. "You eva smoked before, doll?" He asked in a hushed whisper beside your ear. You look up at him. “Once when I was younger. I didn’t like it all that much… but I’d be willing to try it again.” He huffs out a laugh at this and hands you the joint to take a drag of it. The smoke immediately makes you cough and your face twist up, nose scrunching in slight disdain. Cass laughs at you lightheartedly from across the room. “Maybe smokin’s jus’ not for ‘er.”

You hand it back to Eli who laughs as well, placing the joint back between his lips. “Mmh,” He hummed softly, “tha’ strawberry?” He could taste your lipgloss on the tip, savored it a little before taking a drag. “Like ma girl’s with a lil’ flavor.”

“I’m not your girl though, am I?” You say this still while leaning your head on his shoulder and looking up at him with the smallest hint of a smile. Sometimes you took it upon yourself to flirt with the others. It’s not like you an Hobie are an official thing, you two are free to flirt with whoever you so please (though you’re sure if he were to give the attention he gave to you to someone else, you’d lose your shit).

“Sure ‘Obes wouldn’t mind sharin’, would ya ‘obie?”

Hobie stopped his wrestling with Mace to look at his sporadic drummer then at you. “Don’ usually like sharin’ ma tings… but I also don’t believe in consistency.” He glances at you, something mischievous brimming on his lips as he leans in and kisses you, his hand comes to cradle your neck, his thumb rubbing over your throat. “She’ll always know who she belongs to at the end of the day, won’t you?” You look him in the eyes and nod.

"Das ma good girl." Hobie hummed softly and pecked you one more time. "My bes' girl. I gotta surprise fo ma favorite." Your chest swelled at his praise and the thought that he thought enough about you enough to gift you a surprise.

Hobie got up from the couch, leaving a dip in the cushion from not moving for so long. "Since it's your birthday and you must be tired just fuckin' with me all the time–" He made his way over to a recording panel, plopping himself down in a spinning chair. He was joking knowing you could never get tired of him. "So, the boys offered themselves up. Let them make you feel good, birthday girl, if you'd like. No fucking or blowjobs in return."

You never thought you'd be in a position like this, surrounded by the most beautiful men in the world and they were offering themselves up to you for your pleasure. For your birthday.

"I-I don't know…are you okay with it?" You wanted to, you wanted their hands all over you, wanted their mouths in any way you could have them but you had a creeping suspicion that this was all some elaborate test to see if you really were loyal to him. Hobie didn't like sharing his things. He already made it every clear.

"Baby, that's up to you. I only agreed as long as I was there to watch." Hobie looked at you for a moment, the way you sit squeezed between the large, warm bodies of Mace and Eli. Cass had put down his guitar and stood up. “You said ya good wit’ us sharin’ ya girl here?” He made his way slowly over to the table and around it.

"No but how could I deny my girl on her birthday?"

It was like their minds ran in parallel with each other because they all had that same look on their faces. Mace and Eli turned in to you and you felt even more trapped between the two of them and Cass standing right in front of you, looking down at you with a smirk ghosting over his lips.

It was intimidating to be trapped between three men so beautiful you felt you might pass out and they all looked about ready to devour you. What a dream it would be to be splayed open, let them pass you round, take their turns with you until you’re all dumb and fucked out. Then you want Hobie to hold you, tell you you did an amazing job while he cleans you up.

It was Mace who kissed you first. Softly at first to ease you into it. You panicked a little admittedly when he pulled back, immediately looked to Hobie for some kind of approval of the situation but he completely left it up to you to decide that for yourself. Fuck you how and who you’d like, at the end of the day the two of you had no commitment to each other. He took another drag and crossed his legs, waiting. Plus, he wanted you to accept his gift to you.

You turned back to Mace, everyone waiting to see what you might choose, all willing to back off if you gave any indication you didn’t want any of this. It takes you a second that in the moment, you have all the power and if feels fucking amazing. You kiss Mace again and that give the signal for all of them to attack.

So many hands are on you at once, tugging at your clothes, grasping at your skin, removing as much as they could to expand their access to you. It’s almost overwhelming how quickly they leave you exposed and whimpering. Cass is on his knees, his large hands grasping your thighs while Mace and Eli trade places. Eli's much rougher when he kisses, his tongue demanding absolute submission from yours, his teeth sinking into the supple flesh of your lips. Mace busied himself with those pretty breasts of yours, his long fingers playing with the pebbled peak of your nipple while his lips latch onto the nipple of your other.

"Be gentle. Don't like ma tings broken, mates." Hobie makes eye contact with you and smirks. "Go on an' slut 'er out. She's a stupid cockwhore anyway. You-" he finally speaks to you like you aren't just an accessory in the room. "don' you dare take ya eyes off me, got it?"

Your only confirmation was obedience. Your eyes remained on Hobie even as Cass's lips kissed the lips of your pussy and his tongue dipped to test the waters. Even as Mace tortured your sensitive buds with his own tongue and fingers, pinching and nipping and teasing to no end. Eli’s lips teased at your neck, feasting on the way your breathing hitched at every overstimulating touch.

Hobie was relaxed, not threatened in the least by the way you could hardly handle the sensation of all of them on you. Cass’s head was slotted between your thighs. He took his time to explore, spit on your pretty little pussy like he intended to claim it. Eli helped him out, his fingers playing in Cass’s mess, teasing at your clit while his mate's tongue went back and forth between your little cunt and the taut ring of muscle of your ass. Cass kept your legs pried open despite how your muscles fought to cover your modesty and hide from the overbearing nature of their stimulation. Together, they had your pussy trembling.

Mace fondled your breasts in his hands obsessively. You wonder how many times in all of this he's thought about tit-fucking you. Maybe from the moment Hobie first brought you around. He left red marks against the brown of your skin, all destined to blossom into roses of blue and purple.

"H-Hobie." You moaned his name like he was the one with his tongue in your cunt and his fingers playing your swollen clit like a fiddle. It seemed he was enjoying the show from where he was sitting. "What is it, ma pretty girl? You enjoyin' yaself?"

Enjoying yourself was an understatement. They were making your pussy sing, playing you like a fiddle. Mace was teasing your nipples raw and you were sure you'd simply combust at any moment. You could only whine in response, looking at Hobie as he smiled and continued to talk you through your pleasure. "They've all been wannin' to fuck you for a while now, you know tha'? All they talk 'bout afta ya leave."

You could feel Cass chuckle against your clit while his tongue swirls between Eli's soaked fingers. "Have 3 holes 'n a nice pair of tits fo a reason." He spits on your clit again, making a mess of his bandmate's fingers and your pussy before dribbling down the underside of your pretty little asshole.

"Oh the ways we've thought 'bout usin' you, lovely." Mace added on with a rumbling chuckle of his own as he kissed down your diaphragm. "How we talked 'bout takin' turns fuckin' this magical cunt Hobie was goin' crazy ova."

"I talk high praise ova ma girl." Hobie murmured from the side as he took another drag. "Bes' pussy this side of the Atlantic."

"Tas'e like heaven." Cass murmured against your saliva-coated pussy while Eli continued to pinch and flick at your clit. Your pussy is pulsating, you moans growing in volume and cadence. Mace's lips are on yours again, his tongue exploring yours and savoring your taste, his long, skilled fingers teasing their buds of your nipples.

There was a thin line that separated Heaven from Hell, blissful pleasure from soul-crushing pain and you walked that line like a tightrope, wobbling a little into each from time to time but never fully surrendering to one or the other. All those hands, all those tongues, Hobie’s piercing gaze as he watched them have their way with your body. Cass’ tongue soothed the ache of Eli’s aggressive fingers, Eli’s lips kissed the bites Mace left on your body, Mace cooed at how well you were for them all while Cass went places only Hobie has ever known.

And Hobie— he was there to watch you fall apart completely and utterly. He took a drag from this joint before leaning forward to tap off the ashes as he stood. Your eyes were trained on him, muscles quivering from the onslaught of pleasure seizing them but you’d such a good girl that you never take your gaze from his pretty, slander frame.

He stood before you, partially over Cass who ate your pussy like a starved dog, lips wet with your slick ad saliva. Mace moves his hot mouth from yours and focuses more on your abused tits, littered in hickeys and bruises, nipples erect and slightly swollen from stimulation. Eli slipped his fingers down your smutty pussy and teased at the entrance of your cunt accompanied by Cass’ tongue. He used the heel of his palm to rub your clit as he sled his two long digits into your dripping pussy causing you to gasp sharply.

Hobie reached out, taking the opportunity to slide his thumb onto the wet pad of your tongue. “Close.” And you closed your lips around his thumb, suckling softly as you moaned in pleasure. You were so close to that high you sought everytime you were with Hobie. You looked up at his with those large eyes of yours, your body spasming as your tongue rolled against his thumb.

“You gonna cum, doll?” Hobie murmured at you, taking another drag as he pussed his thumb further into your mouth and down your throat until you gagged, your throat constricting. You nodded vigorously, your hips bucking uncontrollably against Cass’ face and Eli’s hand. Your hands were in Mace’s hair as he reached down and replaced Eli’s palm with his fingers now testing your clit. Your pussy jolted, throbbed with the beginnings of a climax as you moaned against his tongue. You drooled, Cass hands push your legs apart as you attempt to close them around the many fingers and single tongue against your cunt.

“Go ahead. I know they’re dying for it. They want my pretty, birthday girl to feel her best.”

Tears pricked the ducts of your eyes as your orgasm crashed down on you. Your cries were muffled by Hobie’s thumb as he weighed the pad of it down against your tongue. Your muscles spasmed, back arching off the couch as you shook. You kept looking at Hobie under the red LEDs and through the smoke from his mouth like a good girl, wanting nothing more than to feel his lips on yours.

When he pulled his thumb from your lips, a string of saliva connecting you, he ran the pad of his thumb across your southern lip and cooed at you. “My girl.” You feel back against the couch, fucked out and sleepy while they one by one retracted themselves from you, starting with Cass, then Eli, then Mace.

“You’ve ou’done yaselves, boys.” Hobie came and sat beside you, pulling you into his lap while you trembled against him. His fingers ran circles along your inner thing, growing nearer to your swollen, used heat until his fingers her dragging through the cum and saliva Cass left behind. “Ain’t this the bes’ birthday eva?” Hobie whispered into your ear and with your arms wrapped around his neck, you nod against his cheek with your lips pressed into his cheek.