#I still don’t particularly care for their music

[woundedheartwithin]

I’m telling you, nowadays every time I have an intrusive thought that’s mean or scary I think “Namjoon wouldn’t want me to think that way,” and my brain shuts the fuck up because god forbid we make kpop man who doesn’t even know I exist hypothetically disappointed…

[void-tiger]

I don’t know how to not either mold myself into a shape that makes it easier for others to stay, or let myself slip through a drain discarded instead.

[suguann]

LOVE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME LOVER—JJK MEN.

✎. jjk men showing you how much they love you. | wc. 2k+

tags. fem!reader, window sex, possessive behavior, mirror sex, oral sex, public sex, pregnancy, fingering, praise kink, size kink

featuring. gojo, nanami, geto

masterlist

↬ GOJO

He doesn’t think you’ve looked more breath-taking than you do right then, humming softly to the music on the radio while painting your toenails, the last stretch of daylight kissing your exposed knees through the window. You’re so lost in your own little world that you don’t notice him watching you.

The important emails on his phone go unanswered, saved for another day when you’re not there to distract him. You stretch your smooth legs to inspect your work and glance across the living room to give him one of those soft smiles that sends warmth through his middle.

“What do you think?” you ask, little sunflower yellow toes flexing on the coffee table.��

“They’re pretty, baby.”

Another smile stretches across your face, that full lower lip caught between your teeth. “You think so?”

“Positive.” His phone lies forgotten on the cushion beside him, and he leans back to make room for you. “Come here.”

His eyes make a lazy trail up from your delicate ankle bone to the soft slope of your collarbone that peeks out from one of his t-shirts as you walk towards him, getting his fill until his fingers itch to touch and retrace the invisible path. 

Gojo can’t help it. He’s struck by the sight of you.

He wishes he could trap the shocked and delighted sound you make when he pulls you into his lap, keep it tucked away in the untainted nooks and crannies for him to return to later. A little melody on repeat for the days he feels undeserving of such sweet things, how he treads the fine line of corrupting that wide-eyed innocence you have of the world.

Still. Still, the truth is, he’s a little greedy, and he doesn’t really care how bad of a person that makes him.

Everyone looks up to him in some way. Nobody ever called him a saint. 

Gojo works out more of those soft sounds—pressing you against the chilly, tall windows in the living room, fist in your hair, and his mouth attached to the long column of your throat—that make his mouth go dry. Your back arches to ease the way he fucks up into you, tits brushing up against the glass, and he loves how the distant city lights below shimmer around you like a halo.

A high-pitched whimper, sharp breaths fogging over the window. “‘Toru people can see.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of how your soft and silky little cunt sucks him in—wrapped up all warm and wet around his cock—cursing under his breath when he tells you he doesn’t care. You’re his, anyway. 

“Let them see,” he grunts into your neck, teeth catching along your skin before licking at the vulnerable spot above your pulse. “Let them see how I fuck you because they can’t have you.”

Gojo can barely control himself at the mere idea that anyone would ever think they could. He’ll be the last and only one to know how you turn into a fucking vice when he hits particularly deep—how you shake like a leaf, legs coltish, after he makes you cum hard. 

↬ GETO

It feels like the epitome of terrible days: from the tomato stain on your skirt to your boss forcing deadlines down your throat and surprising Suguru at work only to find a pretty, willowy brunette sitting on the corner of his desk, her hand resting on a stack of graded papers, and fluttering her long lashes at him. 

The final nail in the coffin (a stupid nail, but a hammered-down nail nonetheless) is how she laughs and touches his arm, and Suguru doesn’t brush her off. He actually laughs back, all perfectly straight teeth on display and eyes crinkling at the corners. One of those heart-stopping smiles stretching across his face that you foolishly thought were all yours. 

Suddenly, you wonder if it was out of obligation that made him compliment you that morning in your dress—look at you, a kiss to your cheek, I’m going to fucking ruin you—a perfunctory greeting after being together so long (like making coffee or picking out paint), to make you feel better, or if he meant it—

A tap with sticky fingers to your cheek. “C’mon, watch.” 

You feel like you’re looking from the outside in, a spectator with a front-row seat that has your breath catching in your throat at the sight of his spit-slick chin and cheeks resting against the crease where thigh meets hip. He gives you a syrupy grin that tightens something in your stomach like a screw. 

“Not me,” he says, words laced with amusement. 

Hesitantly, your gaze trails up from his to the floor-length mirror perched in front of the bed, and what you see has your fingers sinking into the sheets. 

You can hardly pull your eyes away from how your leg looks draped across his broad, muscular back, making you look so small even though you sit above him. And it’s like Suguru knows what you’re seeing because his grin grows wider. 

“See, look how perfect you are. That woman in the mirror is so fucking pretty, I can’t believe I get to tell everyone she’s mine.” His thumb parts you open for his mouth. “Why would you think you look otherwise, huh?”

“I…don’t know,” you whisper, head a fuzzy mess of weak excuses that evaporate before they even have a chance to make it onto your tongue.

“Hm, that’s not a good enough answer.” 

Your hips twitch when he noses at your clit. 

“Awe, I bet that feels good, huh? I’m gonna show you what happens when you talk bad about my pretty baby,” then he sucks it into his mouth, making you squeal.

He can’t blame you for squeezing your eyes shut at the slick, hot pressure dragging through your folds—shaky fingers tightening in Suguru’s long, dark hair. It feels equally like everything and not nearly enough until he suddenly pulls away, taking that jittery feeling in your belly with him.

“Why’d you—”

“If you look away, I stop.” He chuckles lightly at the little pout you give him before his lips suck at the tender spot near the crease of your thigh, “so watch.”

↬ NANAMI

After lunch, he drags you across the street where there’s a park for him to set up a picnic blanket under a tree. Kento rests his head on your lap, slipping an arm around your waist and rubbing the sore spot in your lower back from being on your feet for too long. 

It’s all very innocent: him kissing your round pregnant belly, you running your fingers through his soft hair and talking about the latest work gossip. 

You hum when you feel his fingers crawl up your thigh, slowly at first and with no destination, just soft, aimless circles here and there, until the calloused pad of his thumb skirts over the front of your underwear, making you jerk with a small squeak.

“Kento,” you giggle, fingers tightening in his hair. 

He smiles at the scandalized look spreading across your face and leans forward to press another kiss against your stomach.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, hand pushing up your dress. 

You glance around the park to see if anyone is paying attention to the two of you—an elderly couple feeding the ducks frozen peas by the pond, a mother and father playing with their giggling daughter in the grass, college kids throwing a frisbee, all far enough away to be out of earshot (but that’s not the real problem here)—before you look back at your husband. 

“W-what?” you sputter, wide-eyed realization taking over.

He presses another open-mouthed kiss to your thigh. “Do you trust me?”

A soft whine slips past your teeth, the hand not in his hair curling into the blanket. “But everyone will notice because I’m—I’m—”

(A beached whale. An air balloon. A carnival-sized melon. You get the gist.)

“Gorgeous.” He smooths a hand over your bump, open-fondness radiating across his features, the subtle hint of possessiveness there making you shiver. “You look so fucking gorgeous with my baby growing inside you. Let me take care of you.”

“B-but—”

Everything else melts away to the pulsing heat between your legs and your husband groaning from the wetness he finds there. Your shaky thighs fall open wider when his fingers hook under the edge of your underwear (unflattering things worn for comfort over sexual appeal), pulling them aside to run his fingers through your slick seam. 

Pregnancy brain clouds your judgment, and before you can think twice about your actions, how you definitely shouldn’t let Kento eat you out in the middle of a public park, you nod your head. 

His lips ghost over the tender flesh of your upper thigh. "I need to hear you say it."

It’s a low and shaky yes that has his fingers finally sinking into you to the third knuckle, steadily pumping in and out of you. You buck down onto his hand, trying to bite back the moan threatening to alert everyone in the park of the head under your skirt.

“You’re going to cum for me, just like this,” Kento tells you, voice muffled by a layer of powder blue cotton. “Alright, darling?” 

[misstycloud]

[Yandere.Rich man x ballerina reader]

(I don’t actually know much about ballet so forgive me if things are incorrect!)

—————

Rich. Yandere who was pestered by his friend and his wife to join them at the opera house and enjoy a performance. The couple had asked him numerous times before but he’d always declined. He was a workaholic and didn’t have any other commitments, so there was no need to break his routine. Although he would never admit it to anyone- he barely does to himself- he often find himself imagining a different life; one where he had a wife to welcome him home every evening. Perhaps a few children too. There was no sound besides himself and the staff in his home, it would be so very nice to hear the noise of running feet and happy chatter echo through the empty halls.

Rich. Yandere who is lonely above all else. His family is dead and he has next to no friends- the only one he has is married and devote all his time to keep him company. He knows that he doesn’t have the best track-record of being the kindest person in the world, and he might not be the friendliest or the most out-going, still, doesn’t he deserve some love too?

Rich. Yandere who eventually give into his friends demand and goes with them to the opera. As they took their seats- the expensive and best ones, of course- his friends wife babble on about her favourite dancer. They were regulars there and had seen many performances. He simply sighed and leaned back into his seat, waiting for the show to begin. He could only hope that it’ll be somewhat enjoyable since he doesn’t like wasting his time.

Rich. Yandere who was prepared for it to be a dreadful 3 hours, rubbing his eyes and suffering from lack of blood-flow in his legs. Oh how wrong he was. Instantly his gaze zoomed into you as soon as you stepped forward from behind the curtain. You were so beautiful and you moved your body gracefully to the music. It was magical. While he knew close to nothing about ballet, he knew that the point of it were for the women to look like they’re floating, and it’s exactly what you were doing.

Rich. Yandere who is instantly enamoured with you. As someone who’s never felt love this was all a brand new experience for him. He asked his friend and his wife if they knew who you were, since they frequent the opera so much. And turns out the wife did know who you were; you were her favourite after all. Rich. Yandere was never close with her or particularly liked her even, but he had to give it to her: she has excellent taste in performers.

Rich. Yandere who starts looking up information regarding you. It’s be your name, age, background, family, where you went to school and where you live. Everything. He also begins donating a lot of money to the opera house. In a short amount of time he’s become their nr.1 funder. The managers and owners are ecstatic at the news! They ask why he’s so generous and he simply answers that he loves culture and thinks it’s important it doesn’t disappear. Then, they wonder if there is anything they can do for him return, to which he smiles in response.

“Well, I do suppose there is one dancer I would be delighted to meet in person.”

Rich. Yandere who you feel uncomfortable around. He is so strange. You were just a normal ballerina, a dancer, no better or worse than anyone before your time. That’s why you can’t fathom the interest this wealthy man has taken in you. You two came form completely different worlds! But what can you do when your bosses not-so-gently urge you to see this man alone? You dont have any other skills and can’t apply to another job if you get fired.

Rich. Yandere who is determined to make you fall for him the way he has fallen for you. He’ll take care of you, love you and protect you. You don’t have to worry about a thing. He will do anything for his love.

“Don’t be scared, just keep on dancing, my little dancer.”

[squidthusiast]

Ok, but why do I imagine Eight being the unofficial child of Pearl x Marina?

Because I imagine Eight was minding their business and all of a sudden, Pearl would slam the paper down and said “You’re adopted now”

Basically OTH at the start of their world tour haha, I love that they took Eight with them.

I have more detailed thoughts under the cut for those interested in my ramblings, analysis and interpretations of the characters.

Disclaimer: This is my own take on it, don’t let it ruin your fun!

I personally don’t really subscribe to the fandom’s ‘pearlina moms’ headcanon.

On the one hand, I am an absolute sucker for the ‘found family’ trope, and I definitely think Agent 8 and OTH fit in it!

On the other hand, I think people immediately put Pearl and Marina into the ‘parenthood’ box, a little too eagerly. Not saying this specific ask is that, btw, it just reminded me of some instances i’ve seen.

I personally think that the relationship between OTH and Agent 8 is a little more nuanced & sibling-esque, for the following reasons:

1. Within canon, we often see 8 being referred to as a friend by both Pearl and Marina.

Pearl does it more explicitly (see that one interview at her house), whereas with Marina it’s more insinuated (ex. In the Side Order dev diaries, she starts calling Agent 8 as ‘Eight’, which is stated to be a name used by their friends).

Pearl seems to be an accidental-duck-parent of sorts who haphazardly collects octoling teenagers & young musical talent. It goes in line with her whole mentor-esque leader personality, and i’m sure these disoriented teens find relief in an idol who seemingly knows what she’s doing (she really doesn’t).

However she doesn’t act in a parental manner. More-so like your estranged gay cousin who hit it big in another country and is down to show your queer little butt the ropes.

Marina on the other hand seems to have a more empathetic approach with Agent 8 (opposite to Pearl’s brashness). Marina clearly connects with Agent 8 through their shared experience as defected octoling soldiers, and probably sees her younger self in them. She’s already caring as it is, but this is accentuated during octo expansion given the circumstances.

I feel however that, unlike Pearl, Marina has a bit of a harder time actually forming a bond with Eight at the beginning. Their similarities (seemingly) end at their shared experience, and probably leaves Marina awkwardly wondering how to approach them further. What we can assume though is that they become closer friends during OTH’s world tour, given the events described in the Memverse Dev Diaries.

Meeting Eight during difficult circumstances (OE) and helping them get out creates a sense of camaraderie between them, which probably devolves into genuine care, established friendship and a strong bond amongst the three overtime.

2. Pearl and Marina are very career-centric both in Splat 2 and 3.

It is reasonable that the two young idols, who see their fame and musical recognition rise spectacularly & fast, are not particularly interested in settling down at this point in their lives.

Now entering her late 20s, Pearl is most definitely still interested in keeping the ball rolling with Off the Hook’s international success. Her character often points towards restlessness, freedom and discovery. There has definitely been character development in regards to her maturity in Splatoon 3, but these aforementioned traits are still ever present in her demeanour & decision-making.

Marina on the other hand can be seen slowly blossoming from a supporting character to being her own person. She definitely develops more self-confidence by Splatoon 3, but is still naturally bashful. It’s clear that she is allowing herself to explore & open up to new things for her own sake. She remains a caring and somewhat nurturing individual, but she is at a stage where she’s learning to live for herself and not for others.

Parenthood (and all the responsibilities and sacrifices it entails) at this moment of their lives would probably freak Pearl out, and stunt Marina’s personal growth.

3. The age gaps between OTH and Agent 8 are too close for it to create a parent/kid bond.

This makes their relationship a little hazy in regards to roles; 8 is still young enough that they may seek out rolemodels and mentors (still relatively influenceable), but they’re also nearing their 20s. By this point they are fairly self sufficient, have a sense of their personal values & identity, and they are relatively responsible & mature.

Pearl and Marina are 8’s seniors by approximately 4-6 years. However, in Splatoon 2 they’re entering their early 20s and their career has just begun to take off.

They are both still relatively youngsters, albeit older & more mature(? glancing at Pearl) youngsters than 8. This places them in a position where they can guide 8 and offer certain support and resources, but lack the maturity and experience of a full-fledged adult. This would approximate their relationship closer to that of siblings in a family setting.

Pearl & Marina are also less likely to feel a duty towards Eight as an adult would with a child. Instead, the latter’s circumstances are more likely to incite feelings of rapport and compassion as a fellow young inkfish.

Now, with all of this said, I will acknowledge that friendship/found family is MUCH more nuanced than a strict binary.

From personal experience in my last years of college, I did find myself caring for my fellow freshmen as though they were my kids, in certain ways. Hell, I called them my kids.

I acted as a proud parent whenever some of them achieved something, attempted to pass down my knowledge to them, and was protective of them to a certain extent.

They also annoyed me sometimes, like younger people do haha. And i’m sure I annoyed them too!

So I wouldn’t put it past OTH to call Eight their kid and have this mentor/parent-esque rapport with them in certain circumstances.

This is all based both on canon & my own interpretations of it, but still closely aligned to what has been shown in-game.

So if you have a different interpretation of Agent 8 and OTH, that’s great! I love to see people’s personal headcanons. Ultimately, Agent 8 is meant to be somewhat of a blank slate for the players to mold, with some hinted-at personality traits of their own.

As long as you have fun with these characters, that’s all that matters. This is just my personal opinion on their relationship in-game.

If you read all of this, you deserve the biggest golden star for listening to my incessant yapping 🤲⭐️

Feel free to bother me about this or other opinions you may have in my inbox, just be kind please!

[carmenized-onions]

Something to Do. | Catering

logline; Itinerary for your trip to New York? Just try not to fucking cry.

[!!!] series history, this is the twelfth; gonna start season three after I post this. Wonder how bad it's gonna throw off the rest of my plot line. Ideally not at all. We'll see.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. I really like this playlist for all chapters, but for a wedding where music is blasting, it feels particularly fitting.

portion; 13.3k how does this keep happening.

possible allergies; Terrible self-image, everything feels bad, very real conversations abt ,,, self-death and addiction.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets referred to as a woman and other feminine honourifics but no pronouns, i believe)

i made you all so mad last chapter. Let's see if i can make it up to you, babydoll (probably wont)

You hate to admit it, but you were kind of relieved when you found out Carmen wasn’t coming on the plane. You’re in a bit of a state of fight or flight; well, more accurately, currently leaning towards the flight side— Pun intended.

He’s coming to the wedding. You know he is. For one, he’s getting thirty grand for this, he has to. For two, his location is still on for you— Whether he forgot to turn it off or just didn’t care, you’re not sure. But he hates you, so there’s no way it was intentional, you’re certain about that much.

You know you shouldn’t be looking at it, but you have. You’ve been looking all week. Checking your Find my Friends like a doting mother. He goes to work far too early, he stays far after close, he goes home. Rinse and repeat.

You check on him one last time before boarding the plane. He’s opted to drive, with Richie. Something about ‘wanting to bring their personal equipment’, Richie texted you. They’re halfway through Ohio. You’re sure that road trip is definitely going spectacular after their side of the explosion.

Richie texted the day after that fucking fiasco, asking if you’d want updates on how it’s going at The Bear. How it’s going with Carmen. You said you wanted to know if he wanted to tell. He opted not to tell.

You hate to admit, you were kind of relieved, to not know. To just look at Carmen’s little icon go from Point A to B. Instead of Carmen Reports, you and Richie text about much lighter things. Normal things. Eva drew a funny picture of you kinda things. It’s nice. You know you’re probably being childish, but it feels so much fucking better to ignore the Bear in the room. You don’t know how to feel about anything, and frankly you don’t want to try to figure it out.

You suck, Carmen sucks, what more is there to know? Process it? Fuck that.

Carmen hasn’t texted you; you haven’t texted him, the entire week. Radio silence. You stopped playing Connections. Didn’t see a point. Not like they even have a streak function anyways— You’d die before you let that Wordle streak break, though. That was your thing. Carmen doesn’t get to take your things, too.

You didn’t get a text from the Exec, either. So that’s… Something? Or, rather, explicitly, that’s nothing. Does that mean Carmen gives a shit? Not necessarily. Ugh. Your whole system was so shocked after that fucking fight that you didn’t really have time to take in the fact that that jag was into you? Vomit inducing. You’ve got to rethink your life choices, if they lead you to him. 

But also, you know if Carmen and you were okay right now, you probably would’ve given him your number. You would’ve catfished him for weeks, laughing over your phone with Carmen and Syd as this idiot falls into your trap. You miss Carmen. You also don’t miss Carmen. You want to see him desperately and also never fucking look at him again.

Carmen’s going to be in the kitchen; you’re going to be out in the banquet hall, on bar, this whole wedding. The likelihood either of you have to actually interact this weekend is quite low. The likelihood either of you have to confront what you’re supposed to do with yourselves now is quite low. You hate to admit it, you’re fucking relieved.

Sydney sleeps on your shoulder, for most of the plane ride. You sleep against her head. Shout out Marcus, for switching seats. He’s behind you, with Tina. He wakes both of you up about an hour in, shaking your seats— Because the dessert cart came out and he didn’t want either of you to miss it. The mini cheesecakes are better than expected, to be fair, so he’s forgiven.

This is going to be the stupidest weekend of your life. You’ll take that, over worst, at least.

“Be honest, would you tip me extra well?”

You give a twirl in your probably too fancy semi-cultural outfit. Your family shows up for weddings, if Vinnie and Mira didn’t want their bartender to go hard, they should’ve put that in their notes. It actually would have been nice to get sent notes, though… What is the theme for this wedding other than ‘Italian’ and ‘New York’…? Glitter eyeshadow is probably fine, right? Yeah it’s fine. Not like you could get that shit off now, anyways.

“If you were my bartender, I would ask ‘what are we?’” Answers Syd, watching you from the bathroom as she attempts to put her hair up. Definitely struggling in silence.

Sharing a hotel room was the best idea you ever had. It would be a nightmare to get ready alone in silence, right now. It’s nice to talk and have something to do. If you didn’t, you’d absolutely be ruminating about Carmen, debating whether or not to check on his room, that’s just down the hall, you could see if he needed help with getting ready and also see if he’s as tired as you think he is and— Plus, the amount you saved on splitting a one bed? Christ. Economy is in shambles. So is your brain.

“You would not be brave enough to ask your bartender ‘what are we?’”

“For you, I would.”

“Are we about to kiss, bro?” You duck into the bathroom, getting way too close to the side of Syd’s face. She laughs, pushing you away with the palm of her hand, you scoff, “Wooowwww—”

You clutch your heart, mortally wounded. Retching, truly. Now this is heartbreak in its rawest form. “—Reject me, why don’t you?”

“I’m playing the role of timid—” “I’m sick of this friends to lovers plot line!” “It adds! It adds!”

“Shut up— And tilt your head back, dumbass, what are you doing?” You stand behind her, taking her braids into your hands as she struggles to bundle them all herself.

“I do this all the time by myself, y’know.” So Syd says, but she lets you take her braids regardless.

“Yeah, but I’m here.” You stretch the hairband on your fingers. “Messy bun?”

“You think?”

“I think primal is too clean.”

“No, I was gonna do the one where it does like— Like the infinity in the front?”

“Who’s mom are you tryna fuckin’ look like?”

She kisses her teeth, attempting to reach a hand behind her head to smack you. You dodge and somehow manage to make it easier to smack you. “I’m literally only gonna get to come out after everyone’s left, I dunno why we’re making effort here—”

“High messy bun?” “High messy bun.”

Oh, the days of doing each other’s hair. You’re glad it’s back. You’re glad you get to become, together, again. It used to be bobbles, friendship bracelets, and glitter tattoos—but now it’s tying up each other’s hair, helping with the curling iron, clasping the gold chains on your neck, zipping up the back of your outfit, pinning the collar pins on her uniform, fixing makeup, asking each other to compare perfumes before going through with the final decision, mocking each other’s purchases.

“Wait, what mini deodorant did you get at customs?”

“Oh, one of those Native ones— I think it’s peach—?”

“Those cost like five fucking dollars, Ink. For like two swipes.”

“Excuse me for wanting to smell good, fuckin’ ‘wolfthorn’—”

“I work in a restaurant. I need Old Spice strength, okay—!”

“Oh, pbbbttt— Syd.”

“Pbb—Fuck, how do you do that?”

There’s a knock at the door, interrupting your squabble. “Are you decent?!”

Sydney groans, “No!”

“Yes, Rich, we’re decent, doors open.”

Richie comes in, unceremoniously. A touch awkward. He’s so rarely been in a room with women getting ready. It’s simultaneously exactly what he expected, and not at all what he expected. “Chip, can you put these fuckin’ things on f’me?”

Cufflinks. He presents the box to you. They’re just plain and silver, boring. Save that in your rolodex of gifts to get this Christmas. “You’re fuckin’ forty and you don’t know how to put on some cufflinks—?”

You’re nagging, but you’re already putting them on him, he holds his wrist out for you. “Nah, I was too busy runnin’ shit to learn.”

“Runnin’ your mouth, more like.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s a quiet moment, a tender moment, of adjusting his sleeves. Sydney’s scrambling to clean up the room around you two in the background. It’s hard to turn off the autopilot of cleaning one’s station, no matter where she goes.

You purse your lips. You shouldn’t ask and you shouldn’t care, but you do. You half-whisper, to Richie. “How was the drive?” He knows what you’re asking.

“Terrible start. Surprisingly okay middle. He went straight to the banquet hall once we got here.” He swallows, treading carefully, a thing Richie never does. “Do you wanna know the dirty details?”

Oh good, you wouldn’t be able to check on his room even if you wanted to. You want to. Need to? Stop thinking. Carmen sucks and you suck. 

“Not particularly.” You take one final look at his sleeves, happy with your handiwork, letting his wrists go. “You feel settled, though? Or jury’s still out?”

Richie shrugs, tilting his head back and forth. “Grovelled decent enough, by time we hit Penn. But I’m waitin’ on my informer.”

You cringe, knowing what he means. You also know he’d smack you if you said he doesn’t need your say in order to forgive Carmen. “It’s gonna be a minute, until your informer has an answer.”

“I know.” He nods, twisting his wrists back and forth, looking at the cufflinks. Then he gives you a once over. “Y’look good.”

“You too.” You look over him, he does look good. He’s in his suit, wearing his wedding ring, which makes your heart hurt a little bit, but he does look good. “What’s your fuckin’ job tonight, by the way?” He can’t be doing kitchen. He sucks at kitchen. But he’s also just not dressed for it.

“Fuckin’ everything.” Hyperbolic? Typically yes, with Richie, but not this time.

“Wait staff here had too high a fee—”

“Translation: more than free?”

“More than free, yeah.”

“Heard.”

“So, I’m server, set up, and fuckin’ whore-derve—”

“What?” That pronunciation snaps Sydney out of her autopilot clean, her back snaps up straight. Hands on her hips, like a disappointed teacher. “It’s hors d’oeuvres.”

Richie rolls his eyes and really his whole head back. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ CIA or whatever the fuck—”

You interrupt the fight before it can start. “Let’s just say appetizers.”

Sydney does not let you. “Apps and hors d’oeuvres are different.”

You angle your body from Richie to her, deadpanning. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ FBI or whatever the fuck—”

“Alright!” She’s already walking to the door, despite the fact that she started it— “We’ve gotta fuckin’ get to hall now or we’re gonna have like zero prep time, Chefs.”

You both follow after her, doing one last check to make sure you’ve got everything you need. You honestly don’t need to be in this much of a rush, you’re pretty sure, but you don’t mention that. Richie said Carmen just went straight to the banquet hall, when they came in this morning. You’re not sure how well you know him anymore, all things considered, but by your best guess, he’s almost certainly done all the prep by himself.

Carmen did not do the kitchen prep entirely himself. Well. He might’ve, you haven’t checked, but you don’t think he would’ve had the time.

Carmen did your prep entirely himself.

When you get to the bar, in the banquet hall, you have nothing to do. Side work finished for you. Lemons, limes, oranges— All cut into wedges and loaded in their baskets— even the cherries are pitted. The glasses are organized from wine to whiskey glasses, the sink is clean— Which you know the banquet hall staff didn’t do— They never fucking do.

You don’t see Carmen, but you know he did it. He showed up before anyone else, he was in the kitchen before anyone else— So no one else could’ve left the simple braised beef sandwich on your station. Exactly how Mikey used to make it. Half hot, half sweet. Your order at The Beef. Carmen would’ve done pork, but this is what they had on hand, and he had a feeling this would mean more, anyways. It does. Granola bar on the plate with it. One of the nice ones, too. The wrapping boasts fifteen grams of protein.

He knows how hard running bar is. He knows you won’t have time to eat once it starts. So, he’s making sure you get something down now— And that you have time to eat it in peace, and making sure you have something you can scarf mid-shift later, when you don’t have time.

Fucking. Hell. Fuck this fucking guy. Carmen fucking sucks. You fucking suck. This all fucking sucks so much. This sandwich is so fucking good. You’re so fucking mad. Stop saying fuck. Fuck your subconscious for wanting you to stop saying fuck. It’s so unfair, for him to be maybe the cruelest a person could possibly be, in front of an audience made out of your loved ones, and then be sweet, like this.

He is awful, with words— Well, he’s typically better, with you, par for the last time, but he’s best in the kitchen. You can taste the sorrow, the guilt, the apology. The first thing he ever made you, was a sandwich, the brisket sandwich, that Mikey refined for you, as an apology, for freaking the fuck out in a freezer and having that be your first impression of him— Or, at least, first first-hand impression of him. How far you’ve come.

This will not pass, as an apology. Not a proper one. But… You’ll give him a sign, in return, at least. A confirmation that you got the message, nothing more. Definitely nothing more.

“Rich.” You stop the guy in his tracks, as he marches through the room, helping the rest of the staff set up the hall. Not his job, but it’s Richie. “Can you ask kitchen their shifties?”

He nods, like he understands, walking away with stacks of chairs under both his arms.

He comes back after two minutes, straight up to your bar. “What the fuck is a shifty?”

“Oh.” You feel condescending, for being surprised. You’d never really thought about the huge difference between morning servers and night servers until right now. Richie has never worked with a bar staff. He worked at a fucking sandwich shop. “It’s uh— Your drink. Get a drink on your shift— Shifty— It can be like, a cocktail, a straight, a shot, coffee—”

“I know how many fucking drinks exist, Chip—” “Mocktail, smoothie, juice—” “Yeah, I’ll get a Pina Colada.” “I will break the blender over your head.” “I’ll get you a list.”

You nod, already starting on usuals you know will have remained unchanged since your absence. Steel trap memory. Getting drinks with The Beef staff used to be the highlight of your week, which isn’t a sad statement at all.  “I won’t tell anyone you like Dirty Shirleys.”

He defends. “Eva put me on them.”

“Insane thing to say about your five-year-old.”

“You know what I meant— She likes the normal—” “I’m pokin’ fun, go give this to Carmen.”

You’re hoping if you say it fast, coupled with bickering, Richie won’t make mental note of it. Won’t register it. Of course, he still does. How could he not? You slide the mug to him; he takes it, though, slow, with a perplexed look.

Yeah. They had lavender and maple syrup behind the bar. And cardamom. And milk to froth. And black coffee. Whatever. You didn’t have any dried lavender to top it with, this time, so it’s not actually that cool, anyways. Doesn’t make it special. Did you do a maple syrup drizzle to make up for this? Yeah. You hate yourself just a little bit, for it. You really cannot shut off the way you love, can you? Hopeless. Be even the slightest bit withholding, would you? Just a touch petty? God, you suck. Such a princess.

Rich shrugs, when you don’t try to justify yourself. You’re an adult, he won’t coerce you to be sharper, even if you should be. “Aye aye, Chippy.”

If Carmen ends up wanting to drink later, then he’ll have to come to you. That’s being tough, right? Sure. That’s definitely withholding, Chip. Really showed Carmen there. Certainly, a church woman must be clutching her pearls at your backbone, somewhere in the world.

Do you think you’d be able to handle him coming to your bar, anyways?

No. Decidedly no. Which is a bit stupid, because you’ve faced much scarier things in your life, than some asshole you owe two grand. Well, some asshole you owe two grand that you love deeply that hates you deeply because you are in some part responsible for not taking care of his brother—

Carmen doing your side work was unintentionally cruel, honestly. You don’t have anywhere for your brain to go but him. Don’t have anyone to talk to, or anything to do. Richie can tell and whether you want him to or not; he knows what you need. He repeats himself, walking off with the mug. “I’ll get you your list.”

He knows what you need. Something to do. Something to fix, for someone. Not fix someone. People’s princess. Still failed Mikey, no matter how hard you tried.

Sprite, grenadine, vodka, lime, maraschino cherries. Dirty Shirley. Something to do. Just focus on something to do.

You miss the naivety of wanting something to do. Three hundred guests versus one bartender without a barback is a layer of hell that Dante forgot to specify in his Inferno.

“What can I fix for you, ma’am?!” You’ve got to yell every sentence to get anything intelligible over the music and the cacophony of conversations.

There is an overlap of voices from every single woman crowding around your bar, despite the fact that you were definitely making explicit eye-contact with just one of them. You lean over the counter to hear her alone. She blinks, when you get in her face.

“What are we?”

You cannot stop the snort, but you’re pretty sure she didn’t hear it, music's too loud to hear anything. Syd’s a fucking oracle. “We’re fucked. What can I get for you?”

“Lemon drop shot?” Of course. It’s New York.

“Comin’ right up—”

The crowd of women interrupt you, and each other. “Oh, make that two!” “Make that three!” “Wait what are we making?”

Who the fuck is we? They’re more than welcome to get behind the bar with you. You’d take anyone, at this point.

“Lemon drops, babe!” “Oh—Oh, we doin’ lemon drops?” “Let’s just say ten and be safe!”

Of course.

It’s a lot of that, on repeat. But it’s better than the ones that want one very specific brand of scotch with their soda, because at least you can make huge batches for these ones— Does no one know how to fucking act around an open bar anymore? You get a vodka cran and you fuck off. You really need to start telling people you don’t know how to make bellinis.

Working alone is hard, because you can tell when you turn your back to make drinks, and aren’t able to take twenty more orders at the same time, that everyone’s real fucking annoyed with you. You have tried splitting your cells to become a second person, didn’t work. You’re constantly spinning around to accommodate people, and it’s getting fucking nauseating. And you’re usually patient, but the questions are getting just as mind-numbing.

“Can I get a uh… A negroni… Sbagliato? With prosecco?” “Sbagliato means prosecco is in it, sweetheart.”

“Do you do hurricane shots?” “I’m happy to slap you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, so it’s open bar?” “Yeah.” “So, I don’t have to tip, either?” “Well— It’s appreciated— Oh, and you’ve already walked away. Okay.”

It’s a lot of that, on repeat.

You see from twenty feet away, amidst the crowds, Uncle Jimmy walking towards your bar, and when he waves all friendly, he sees your glower, and opts to turn in the other direction. Smart man. No wonder he’s successful.

Richie swings by your bar, waiting at the corner, where the line hasn’t congregated. You don’t need to be shaking this martini for as long as you are, but it’s a good way to look like you’re working when you’re just trying to talk to Richie. He presents his serving tray to you. “Tiny quiche?”

You open your mouth, hands full with your shaker. He gets the point, stabbing a toothpick into the appetizer and shoving it in your mouth. Oh God, food is beautiful. Food is what sustains. You could write a full book of poetry right now about why food is everything. Well, not everything. You’re still in hell.

“Richie, I’m dying, your job can’t be that important, come be barback.” You pour out the martini. You attempt to open the jar of olives by yourself, when you struggle, Richie puts his tray down and grabs the jar from you.

Thankfully for your pride, he’s also struggling with it. Plus, it gives you time to annihilate the tray of quiches. He shakes his head, his job is important, allegedly. “You want me to starve guests?”

“Ideally? Yes.” You ignore the dirty looks you get from eavesdropping patrons. He hands you the opened jar. You take a toothpick from his tray, since you’re already out of yours, pierce an olive, toss it in the martini, and pass it to someone— Quite frankly, there’s every chance that’s not the guy that ordered the dirty martini, but he takes it, so who gives a fuck.

Richie sighs, he does want to help. “I’ll ask kitchen if they can cut someone.”

Thank fucking God. “Ask Marcus, he’s got mixology experience or some shit.” You remember being occasionally impressed by his verbiage— At the very least, he knows what stuff is back here, and that’s enough for you.

Richie just shakes his head, lips in a line, when you mention Marcus. A universal sign that something has gone horrifically wrong. You furrow your brows, immediately worried, leaning forward. “What happened?”

“Excuse me! What’s it take to get a long-island iced tea around here? This open bar is not very open!”

You and Richie both grimace, at the thick Jersey accent on this woman waving her hand hysterically at your bar. He gives you a nod, already taking his empty tray and starting to walk back to the kitchen. “I’ll ask.”

You turn your body to the woman, but head still to Richie. “Don’t ask. Tell.”

Not even five minutes pass, before you get a barrage of texts, from multiple people, all at once. You watch them flood in on the notification screen of your phone laying on the counter, while shaking up a cosmo, this time.

From Marcus, worrying. ‘sorrysorysorrybakkingemergencymbmmbmb’

From Syd, concerning. ‘couldn’t stop him lmk if it’s bad’

From Richie, alarming. ‘yk how to call your dog right’

But it all makes sense, when Carmen comes up to your bar, removing his apron. “You need a barback?”

Hair is normal. Not at its best, not how you taught him, but it’s better than before. He smells excessively like you; like accidentally used half the bottle levels like you. Maybe not an accident. Don’t read into it, too much— They’re almost certainly the only travel sized bottles he had on hand. Of course he’d take them. He smells like Old Spice, too, though. Don’t read into it. He looks tired. You knew he would. You’ve watched his location, every day. By the time you go to bed each night, he’s only just left The Bear. He deserves to feel tired, he was a fucking asshole, and you’re glad your cat ate just short of all of his flowers.

But you brought in the plate, the next morning. You cleaned it, and then hid it in the back of your dishwasher. You wanted it to be safe, you also just didn’t want to look at it or think about it or have it exist in your mind, at all. That’s half the reason you couldn’t let it perch outside your window anymore. Taunting you. He’s a piece of shit, but you can feel it in your chest; the care you cannot get rid of. The desire to ask are you okay? Have you been sleeping? How are you? How’s your week been? Want a hug? Have you been playing Connections? What did I do wrong? Did you need me? Did anything break? Did you break?

You missed him. Was the radio silence relieving? Yes. Preferably, you’d never acknowledge each other for the rest of your lives besides an eventual wire transfer. Preferably, he’d stay in the back of your dishwasher for the rest of your life. But God, you missed him, this week. You’ll probably miss him for the rest of your life. Is that toxic? You’re working on it. No you’re not… He just made every space easier to breathe in, kept a light on, for you. Not at the end, but he did before. Before he figured out that he hates you.

It’s a thing that everyone says about you, that you bring ease, and whether you can confirm or deny that, who’s to say— But you know Carmen does it for you. Lights up a room for you. And you might be alone in that feeling, but that’s okay with you. Or it was. It was, before he figured out he should hate you.

Oh, shit, you’ve been staring at him in silence for way too long. It’s hard to know how to navigate this. You don’t know how to feel, so you don’t know how to act either. It’s all a weird state of limbo that you desperately want to get out of, but don’t want to do any of the work required to do so. What do you do with your hands? Your body? Your voice? Are you supposed to be funny and nice still? Christ, just say something. What’d he ask, again? Can’t remember.

“Uh…” Still can’t remember, but— “What’s happening with Marcus?”

He seems to falter, slightly, but he comes into your bar, oh right, barback. You needed a barback. He exchanges his kitchen apron for a bar apron. Not used to seeing him wear all black. You wish you could enjoy it. Wish you could say it’s cool watching him act as one of your professions. He answers, as he ties the strings around his waist. “Uber dropped their wedding cake.”

Fuck whatever tension you two have. You nearly fold over in shock. The current track on the speakers fades out, right as you yell back, “They dropped their fucking wedd—!?”

With haste, Carmen puts the palm of his hand over your mouth. Knife tattoo hand. Oh, he missed being this close to you. Not the point here, though. “Shhhhhhh…!”

You relax, he removes his hand, you’re annoyed that you wish he didn’t. You whisper, though it’s still screeching in tone. “They dropped their fucking wedding cake?”

He nods, combing his hair back with his hand. Knife tattoo hand. It’s making your shampoo waft. You both notice it. He stops. “Marcus is remaking one, now.”

“From scratch?” You were right to be so worried; Richie was right to make the face he did. Carmen tilts his head back and forth. “Box mix that he’s finessing—”

You finish the sentence with him, “—Because he’s Marcus.” The king of doing too much, especially when there’s no time for it. It’s his best and worst trait.

He nods, smiling just slightly, but not the typical smile you get from him. Timid. “Yeah, so he’s locked in, but I’m here.”

Simple sentence, but it still schisms your brain. You cannot help but feel a distrust of it. “Shouldn’t you be running the back, though?” Keeping his kitchen in order? Being the Exec in his head?

He shakes his head. “They run a tight ship without me just fine.” The first lesson you gave to him, that that’s a good thing. Is this conversation hitting specific pain points on purpose as a punishment from God or is this just how all your conversations are going to feel, from now on?

Probably both. You nod. “Okay.” You do need a barback.

“This is so cute, girl, and I love love but I’m gonna need that Cosmo like yesterday.” Why did this woman have to say love? That would already be terrible if you were good right now. Carmen’s probably not the type of guy to say the L word for like several months anyways. You’re not even dating anyways— Or weren’t? Can you use past-tense on something that never was?

You hand her the Cosmo, and you both pretend you never heard her.

Running bar with Carmen makes your life infinitely easier, though albeit tenser. He hasn’t done this before, but he’s watched previous bar staff from the sidelines— And one of his best traits is how quick he catches on to things. He’s not confident enough to mix drinks, but everything else, he does just fine.

“Behind.” There’re occasional autopilot moments that make you laugh, though. He snaps back into his body, when you do, moving next to you. He tilts his head, “What, you don’t say behind?”

You shrug, and it feels normal, for a second. “Professionals probably do, I’ve never worked in a place that does, though.”

“But what about when you’re holdin’ shit?” You allow yourself to feel normal, for a second. It is a delight to teach him something about your work. You continue to make drinks and hand off orders, all while you both speak. It reminds you of the domestic flow you were both so used to doing. That was so easy for you both to fall into. It’s nice that it somehow hasn’t gone away.

“So, you know when you’re in the kitchen, or here, behind bar, you get like, really fucking hot?” Don’t let that entendre stay doubled— “Like sweaty?”

“Mhm?”

You hold onto your chilled shaker, stepping behind him, “So, we don’t say behind, we—” and press it just under the back of his neck. He shivers, immediately, full shock running through his system. “Do that.”

“Christ!”

You want to enjoy the moment, but you can’t help but remember him calling you a modern-day saviour. You try to push it down, but the warmth you were starting to feel tones down, quite a bit. You manage to keep him from noticing, manage to keep the smile on. “What, don’t like it? It’s nice!”

“Think it’s a safety concern, f’sure.”

“Call OSHA.” You touch the shaker to his face, before going to pour it. He laughs. Actually laughs. You wish that made you feel good, still. And somewhere, in some corner of yourself, it still does. But not like it did before.

Soon enough, you two get a second of reprieve, as Vinnie’s Best Man gets up to do his speech, or whatever. He uses a knife to clink his glass, and of course, it fucking shatters. You’re half-mad, because technically for the night, those are your glasses, but it’s too funny to actually give a shit. Plus, the Best Man gets a pass tonight, in your book, because one, he understood protocol and got a vodka cran from you, and two, his speech is forcing everyone to sit down and leave y’all the fuck alone.

“Beautiful night, beautiful couple, beautiful people— Couldn’t ask for a better weddin’ for my best friend— But let’s be honest, I didn’t think he’d be gettin’ a wedding at all— Aye! This guy Vin, amirite?”

You take this moment to halve your protein bar from Carmen. You wordlessly hand the other half to him. He shakes his head. “M’Good, you eat.”

 You shove it towards him. You know he hasn’t eaten much, you don’t know how, but you just know. “I’ve eaten twelve tiny quiches and a beef sandwich, Carm, take the fuckin’ granola.”

He breathes heavily through his nose, but he takes it. You both watch the Best Man, quietly eating your halves. He is silently overjoyed at the verbal confirmation you ate the sandwich.

“I don’t need to introduce my goddamn self, I’m sure my reputation precedes me, right? But I’m Leo, I’m my boy’s Best Man, and I just couldn’t be more honoured, y’know? We grew up together, playin’ stickball in the Bronx, and now this guy’s marryin’ one of the most wonderful women in the world? And I get to be here? Man, I love ya.”

As cranky as you’ve been all night, this really is a gorgeous wedding. More often than not, the guests are nice, it’s just that the shit ones stick out in your head like nails to be hammered. Vinnie and Mira seem like a good couple. You wonder if you’ll ever get to have a wedding like this. They commissioned one of those painters to do a live painting, too. Always wanted one of those. And they’ve got little gift bags for the guests. You’re taking notes, internally, of what you like here, what you’d want to do for your own.

You wish you and Carmen were talking, right now. Despite the fact that Leo’s voice is booming throughout the hall’s speakers, the silence between you feels deafening, because you both know that you would be talking right now, if you weren’t living in fucking limbo. You need to work. You need something to do. The ice basket is running low, refilling it will take at least two minutes and maybe holding the ice will shock your nervous system.

You grab a bag of ice from the freezer behind you both, Carmen pretends to be listening to the speech, because he doesn’t feel like he has the right to help you with the weight. You cut the bag, emptying huge chunks of ice into the basket. You ball up the plastic in your hands to throw out; you nod to Carmen. “Can you break the ice?”

He seems surprised, taking a second, before nodding, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I owe you an apology—”

“Oh, no!” You hastily correct. “No— Yes but no— I— I meant—” You hand him the metal scooper, nodding to the clumped-up ice you just poured out. “I meant can you break the literal ice blocks?”

Carmen wishes he has dead. And you can both tell that. “Yes. Yes— Yeah, f’sure, one-hundred— Course. Heard.” You nod back, pensive, throwing the plastic bag out, staring straight ahead, trying to refocus on Leo again. You can’t.

Carmen beats the ice, softly, so as to not make a noticeable noise for the audience. After a few seconds, he returns to his point. “…I do owe you an apology, though—”

“Don’t even worry about it, Carmen.” You don’t say this. Fak does. He sidles up to the bar. Where he keeps apparating from and hearing your conversations, you’re really not sure. “I’ve got this one.”

Neither you or Carmen know what Fak thinks he’s got, here, but you’re both too intrigued or surprised to stop him. Well, Carmen does give it a fair shot, after a second, “Fak, I’m—”

“Nono—” But there’s simply no chance. “I appreciate you trying to fix my problems for me, but y’know, I can handle myself, Carmen.” …You wish that’s what Carmen said, last Friday, instead of calling himself your charity tax write-off.

Fak pivots to you, sighing, shrugging, hands up, as if you know as well as he does what the fuck he’s about to say. You can’t tell if you’re supposed to be scared right now or not. When you don’t say anything, he starts, “Alright, I guess I’m the one that's brave enough to say it, there’s some major tension here.”

Now why does Fak think he’s the one to acknowledge this. Quite frankly, why is Fak here? Is he working, too? On what exactly? You don’t remember seeing him on the plane, either. Was he a part of the road trip? Dear God, that's a nightmare third wheel. You just let out a, “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t shown up at The Bear since last Friday—” You’re now remembering that before the fight of all fights broke out that night, Fak ran out of the kitchen. Guess no one filled him in, after. “And like, this week, when something broke—” He nods to Carmen, who grimaces, hand over his face. “Carmy told me to fix it, instead of calling you, like he’d usually.”

You know you’re not allowed to be upset about that, and yet, you really fucking are. You’re Carmen’s fucking fixer. Or were? Fuck. Christ, are you jealous of Fak now? You turn your gaze just slightly to Carmen, who’s leaning over the counter, propping his head up on his hands. “What broke?”

He answers briefly. “Expo clock.”

It was extremely apt and even more upsetting for him, the way time literally stopped, when you left. When he made you leave.

You tuck your hands in your pockets, looking back to Fak. “You fix it?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.” Carmen stands back up, opening his mouth to intercept, Fak puts a hand in front of his face. “No Carm, I’ve gotta tell her the truth…” What.

“Tony…” Neil sighs, unable to make eye contact, at this moment. “I was really harsh on you, that Friday…”

“…Huh?” The fucking degree thing? Is that what he’s talking about? You honestly can’t remember anything before Carmen, from that night.

“You don’t need to hide your pain.” He nods solemnly, “I— I’m just gonna say it… I know it’s hard to believe, but I was… jealous.”

“I know.”

He ignores that you’ve said this entirely, “I know, I know, it’s crazy. Me? Jealous? But yeah, I was really good at hiding it, but you’re just really like smart, Tony, y’know? And everyone was like— Tony can fix this— Tony can fix that— And I was holding it together, but then you were good at serving, too. And it got to me— And obviously Carmen could tell, so he stopped calling you. Trying to be a true bro.”

Oh, Fak really doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, huh? “Of course there’s like, the other obvious tension in the room—” Oh okay, so he does know— “Between us.” What.

“What’s up?” You blink, voice going high for a second. Carmen cannot stop staring at Fak, face entirely unmoving, unblinking. Neither of you are sure what emotion to feel right now. Is Leo’s speech still fucking going? You’ve completely tuned it out, if it is.

Fak gestures to the air between you two. “Well like, there’s obviously a really intense sort of rivals to romance dynamic happening here…”

What.

“And like,” He raises his hands, in defense— Of what exactly? You couldn’t be less sure. “I could totally see that happening, in the future.”

It takes everything in you, to just hold your lips closed together. You have to bite down on your top lip, to not scream laugh in his face. “For sure, man.”

He nods, continuing, “But right now, I just don’t think I’m ready to take what you’re giving, y’know?” Holy shit, wait, is that how Carmen feels? Is that what the fuck is going on in his head? “Just not ready for all—” He gestures to you in general. “This.”

“Little harsh.” You tilt your head. “Fuckin’ cool it, Fak.” Carmen barks, in tandem with you. Oh, he’s upset. He wasn’t set on his emotions, this entire time, but he seems to have now settled in the upset category.

“Right.” Fak nods. “And so, I’m sorry I can’t be that for you… And I know it’s gonna take time to recover, but please come back to The Bear, when you’re ready. You’re… You’re a better repairman than me. We need you.”

You put a hand over your mouth, to cover your shit eating grin, trying your best to compose yourself and look sad. The best way out of this is to just agree with him. It’d take far too much energy to clarify everything for Fak. You’re nodding too much. “…Yeah, y’know, Fak… I will consider that. All those words you said? I’m gonna… Gonna really take all of it to heart, dude. I really appreciate… The directness— Y’know, that takes… Strength, man.”

“Thank you.” He nods. “Still friends?”

You did not realize you were even friends to start. And not in the insecure way, this time. You nod. “For sure, dude.”

You and Carmen both watch him walk away, in perplexed silence. Carm’s the first to break it. “…Was that anything—” “Obviously fucking not.”

He’s going to reply something witty in response, and it’s going to make you both feel like everything’s okay, again, but then he seems to see something that scares him straight. He turns to the back of the bar, aimlessly grabbing bottles, for no reason. Literally no reason, everyone sat for the speeches, what’s he doing—?

“You still serving?” Older man, oval glasses. He stands in front of your bar. Ah. Kinda rude of him, maybe that’s why Carmen’s giving the cold shoulder to this guy? Whatever. You'll serve him. Just because you're Chicago's Kindest doesn't mean everyone else has to be.

“Yessir, what can I fix for you?”

“Manhattan with bourbon?”

You salute, “Aye aye.” And get to mixing the drink. You’re pretty sure Carmen must know this guy, because he’s already set out the bourbon, vermouth, and angostura. It doesn’t take long to fix the drink.

When you go to hand it to the man, he seems to notice the mop of blond curls behind you. “Aye, Carmen? Jimmy told me you’d be workin’ tonight.”

A small, tentative, meek wave from Carmen. He sniffs. “Yeah. Hi, Uncle Lee.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say. Pulling the drink away from his hand, as Uncle Lee reaches for it. “You’re Uncle Lee?”

“My reputation precedes me?” He chuckles, nodding.

Carmen comes up beside you, and witnesses a smile from you that he’s never seen from you, and ideally hopes will never be directed at him. It’s the slowness of it, it’s a smile, but you’re doing it purely to bare your teeth.

“It sure does.” Give him a chance, it’s been four years, give him a chance. “I was a friend of Mikey’s.”

He fails the chance. “Ah… I see, friend, ya did a little—” He taps the side of his nose, sniffing. “Together?”

He really fucking fails the chance. Your smile grows, painfully so. The apples of your cheeks so high they practically close your eyes for you. You laugh a deeply fake laugh. “Hahaha, yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what we used to do. Uncle Lee.”

“Oh!” You tilt your wrist quickly, pouring the bourbon Manhattan in the bar sink. “Ah, fuck. Hand slipped.”

Lee is a bit taken aback. “Really—?”

“Really.” You repeat. Putting the glass down. “And y’know, I could remake that for you, but I dunno if you wanna trust my shaky junkie hands.”

Holy fuck. Carmen has always been great at keeping his reactions hidden, and still is, so Uncle Lee cannot tell how out of character this is, of you. You’re nice, you don’t bite— Or Carmy didn’t think you did, because of the amount of grace you gave him, last Friday.

“Lee, I’m gonna level with you.” You cross your arms, smile fading, but there’s still that venomous lilt in your voice. “I’ve been thinking for the last, I dunno, two years, what I’d say to you, if I had the displeasure of seeing you.”

There’s a pile of forks behind your bar, that you’d asked Richie for, just in case this situation came to a head. Just in case this fucking idiot came by. But it just doesn’t feel right, now. Doesn't feel right to leap over the counter and stab him in the neck with a fork. Though you've imagined it, and you still actively are.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking around the venue. “But we’re at this beautiful wedding, and Vinnie and Mira don’t deserve to have their reception ruined by us causing a scene.” You gesture to the air between you, almost comical.

He shrugs, “Better than Mikey, in that regard, then.” You know what he’s referring to, despite not being there.

You nod, smiling real big now, really baring your teeth, now. “His fuckin’ house, Lee.”

“I could have your ass fired, y’know.” “So do it.”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m not getting paid for this. Please, get me fired. Snitch to Uncle J, c’mon, fire me. I’m delighted to get cut. Do it.”

After what feels like eons of a silent stare down, Uncle Lee throws a fake punch. Carmen’s the only one that flinches, immediately rearing his own fist back, stopping short when Lee does.

You’re still just coy, elbows on the counter. Lee scoffs, “Cokehead.” Of course.

“Yessir.” You just lightly shake your head, standing up straight again, smiling, amused, delighted, even. “That’s me. That’s who I am.” It’s not, but there’s no point in arguing with him— Especially when you agreeing just seems to piss him off more.

You’ve given Lee nothing to work with, to insult you, so it takes him a moment to generate something. “You’re—”

You don’t let him get it out, putting a hand up for him to give it a rest. “Lee, I’m not startin’ a scene, it’s a gorgeous wedding.”

“Oh, how grown of you—” “But, if you wanna have a scene, just wait in the parking lot.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think—” “I do. I do think, Lee.”

You lean forward, again, shrugging, speaking nonchalant, speaking with your hands, casually. “I wanna make it so clear, for you, too. I’m not gonna crack my knuckles, not gonna make some empty threats, not gonna scream in your face— I’m not gonna tell you I’m gonna kill you or anything like that. Because obviously, I wouldn’t do that.”

You nod, slowly, methodically, clearly. “What I am gonna say, is that I have been a bartender on and off since I was twenty-one. I was an E-M-T, for three years— All in our beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois. The sheer volume of geriatric white guys I have had to pull to the concrete in a full nelson in both professions— Insurmountable, Lee. So again, to be, so fucking clear, Lee— If I see you outside, I’m taking you to the fucking pavement, and I’m not getting off.”

Uncle Lee’s got no comeback, for this, but he’d be dead in the ground before he just lets someone have the last word. This is why Uncle Jimmy is more successful. “Oh, I’m sure you fuckin’ would.”

You grin. God, those forks are tempting. Resist. You keep your hands busy by grabbing a maraschino cherry from it's jar behind your bar to snack on. “Enjoy your night, Lee.”

“You’re a real fuckin’ bi—” A fork flies over his shoulder, clattering behind him. Not from you, from Carmen.

He speaks for you. “Enjoy your night, Uncle Lee.”

It feels good to be backed. Carmen’s here, and he’s on your team. You tack on, waving goodbye to the fucker, “Back lot, Uncle Lee.”

Lee pivots his gaze to Carmen, he rolls his eyes, disappointed. “Alright, Donna.”

Carmen goes for another fork, you stop his hand, holding it there, for a second. The metal clatters behind the counter. Lee’s pleased enough with the provocation. Men like him don’t leave until they’ve won something in their heads. He leaves, on his way to the punch bowl, since he’s determined he’s not getting shit from the bar tonight. You and Carmen just watch him, like prey, making sure he leaves without looking back.

“You’ve got teeth.” Carmen’s first to speak, cleaning a glass, both of you looking straight ahead. You nod.

“I do.”

“You don’t bite much.”

You shrug. “Try not to.”

Carmen considers the fact that what he wants to say would mean sticking his foot in his mouth. He then considers the fact that nothing he could say now will ever be worse than what he said then. He keeps rubbing away at a perfectly shining glass.

“You didn’t bite me.”

“I didn’t.” You nod, and your body goes on autopilot, as you start making a drink no one’s ordered. Just need something to do. “I couldn’t.”

He doesn’t like that answer. “I deserved it.”

“I deserved it, too.” You’re not a big fan of your own answer, either. But you can’t say it’s not true. You deserved it. Just some failure leech trying to reattach yourself to people through merry good deeds, as if they’d add up to fucking anything—

“No, you didn’t.” He pivots to you, tone inarguable. He puts the glass down. It’s a lowball, you need a lowball, you grab it from him.

“Do you like cognac or vodka?” You ignore his words, but you look him in the eyes. You regret it.

He lets you get away with it, because he is absolutely not the one allowed to lead the conversation, here. He did enough bulldozing, before.

“I dunno, I don’t really drink much.” You squint, you’ve seen his apartment. He clarifies. “Other than wine n’ beer.”

You nod. You opt for cognac. He watches you, for a moment, before asking. “What’re you—”

You’re already finished, by this point, sliding the glass over to him. “Black lavender latte. Cognac n’ coffee liqueur. If it’s too strong, let me know, I can add more milk.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Is all he can think to say. He takes a sip. It’s far behind in his long list of regrets, but certainly one of them in the way he spoke to you, is that there’s a strong chance he will never have a mixologist as talented as you working at The Bear.

“Hmm.” You hum, not watching him drink it, because you won’t be able to handle either reaction— You won’t be able to handle disgust nor pleasure. You never want to look at Carmen again. He’s also all you want to see. This sucks. You suck. Carmen sucks.

“Thank you for the coffee earlier, too.” You’re overjoyed at the verbal confirmation he drank it.

“Figured you’d need one.”

“I did.” He thinks about it, and decides to take the bullet. “Needed yours.”

Your breath hitches, and he can’t tell whether or not that’s a good thing. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, as a meek and overly sweaty man comes up to your bar. There are bar stools at your counter, though they’ve been tucked far under it to keep the flow of traffic moving. But the man points down to the stool, silently asking. You nod.

“You can sit, sir.”

He’s delighted. He sits. “Sorry, I’m not gonna sit long, I just uh— Just—” He turns around pointing to the Maid of Honour, who’s just gotten on the hot mic for her speech. “I uhm, it’s— Usually the bar is empty, when uh, when people are talking.”

“That they are.” You nod, smile soft. “Can I get anything for you, or d’you just wanna sit? No shame in that.”

“I— I, uh, if it’s not a bother— I was just wonderin’ if uhm— Totally fine, if it’s— If it is— Do uhm, do you— Do you do mocktails?”

Carmen watches you grow ten times softer, in demeanor. It’s wonderful, how you’re able to flip on a dime. It’s wonderful what you’re willing to give to people, when they deserve it. You nod. “Yeah, sir. What’s your drink?”

“Oh— I— Anything’s fine, really.” He plays with the loose strings on the cuff of his left sleeve.

You tilt your head, recognizing his nervousness. “If it’s not too personal, sir, are you…” You debate the best way to say it. “Taking twelve steps?”

He looks scared, initially, to be caught; but then he looks at your face, and he knows he has nothing to be worried about. He nods. “One— Two months, two weeks, one day.”

“That’s huge.”

He shrugs. “It’s a start.”

“A start is huge.” You emphasize, and he nods, because that’s inarguable. “What was your drink before? I can make a mocktail of that— Or maybe you’d prefer somethin’ total opposite?”

“Oh! Yeah, I uh, I liked uh, old-fashioneds, but you can’t really make those without whiskey—”

“Yeah, you can.” You’re already grabbing your shaker. “You just use barley tea. I can do that— If you want that.”

He thinks on it, for a second. Debates whether nostalgia is good or not. “Yeah, yeah I’d like that.”

While you work on it, the guy feels enough confidence, bestowed by you, to tell you about himself. “I liked sitting. That was the thing I liked about drinking. The sitting and the talking and the feeling good about it.”

“I hear that.” You watch the tea steep, nodding. “Reason why the phrase is ‘takes the edge off’.”

Carmen has to turn around. He’s listening intently, but he has to turn around. Again, he’s pretty good at hiding his tells, but you’re pretty good at reading them. And you’d be able to tell his flat expression is the equivalent of being absolutely fucking bug eyed on anyone else. You’re a bartender. You were a paramedic. You have seen so many people, on their worst day— Seen so many people like this guy, like his brother. You have taken care of so many addicts.

The number of times he said loser or junkie to your face, and the way that that was what you always fought back on. It will not stop replaying, in Carmen’s head. The way you think that wasn’t okay, but the way he spoke about you was. It’s all just nauseating. You’re so good to everyone but you. You defend everyone but you. Carmen's almost furious about this, though he doesn't feel he has the right to be. You should've treated him like Uncle Lee. He acted exactly like Uncle Lee. 

“It can make it easier, to be at the bar, for some people, I've found.” You continue, still making conversation with the man as you stir the steeped tea into the glass, over ice. “Makes you feel normal.” Forced sobriety is definitely in the top five, of the most ostracizing human experiences.

He nods, relieved to have someone. “Most people don’t get that.”

You nod, strain out the virgin old-fashioned, and push the glass to him across the counter. “Well, I get that.”

He takes a sip of the mocktail, it’s perfectly nostalgic in a way that doesn’t hurt. “Thank you.” He’s thanking you for a lot more than the drink. 

“A pleasure.” You nod. He stands up, tucking the stool back under the counter, as the speeches end. It won’t be long until the bar is crowded again, and he knows it’ll be too much, for him or you. You add. “Good luck with month three. It's a heavy one.”

“If you work it and you’re worth it.” He recites the line incorrectly on purpose, it’s an important one, but you both still laugh at it. Like an inside joke, practically. You give one quick dap, he puts a twenty in your tip jar, and walks off, with less sweat, and more spring in his step, this time. Good.

When he walks away, before guests start to stand, there’s a lull of silence. You don’t need to look at Carmen to know he has a million different thoughts, and a million more follow ups. 

“You have questions?”

“None of my business.” He sniffs, awkwardly. “Unless you want it to be.”

Why did he have to fucking say it like that. Why did he have to put the ball in your court. Carmen fucking sucks. Y’know what, no, turn it on his ass.

“Did you give the New York Exec my number?”

“No.” The reply is instant. He doesn’t get thrown by the topic change in the slightest. You were pretty sure you knew the answer, but the speed of it is still a little surprising. Like it wasn’t something that was ever up for debate.

“What’d you say to him, then?”

This is when he looks embarrassed, just slightly. This part was up for debate, seemingly. “We—”

“Everyone, please stay in your seats for just a moment, our wonderful catering crew will be coming around to serve you!” Says… Vinnie’s mom? Mira’s mom? They all kind of blend together. It’s not long after this, that Syd rolls by with Marcus and a cart of food. She’s starting with you, despite the fact that you’re not a guest. Sweetie.

“Salmon or chicken?”

“Just gimme both, we’ll split it.” You nod your head to Carmen. “Best of both worlds.”

And then, the game of eye contact conversation ensues. A game that Carmen nor Marcus can comprehend.

‘I asked you’ Syd glares.

‘You can’t just starve him out’ You deadpan.

‘Who said?’

“Syd.” You say aloud. She sighs, handing you both plates, mumbling ‘whatevers’, walking off to serve the actual guests. No time to bicker. You look to Marcus, worried. “Heard about the cake, how’s it goin?”

He shrugs but he’s smirking, proud and bad at hiding it, he hands you a paper plate with a little chocolate cupcake. The floral frosting job is simple, and you know if he had more time, you’d probably be looking at a full realistic rose, but it’s still beautiful. “You tell me. Taste test.”

“Lil sacrilege, to do dessert before dinner, but okay.” You grab a fork from your pile, digging in. “Oh fuck,” You have to laugh. “Marcus— You stress me the fuck out, how do you have time to make shit this good?”

It’s a built-in habit for you, to hand your fork to Carmen. He gives you a moment to realize or pull back. You should but you don’t. He takes it, thankful, and tries the cupcake for himself.

“S’fire, Chef.” He points the fork, emphatically. “‘Specially with what you had.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Marcus nods.

You tilt your head, curious, “Do you even have time to test, though? If this sucked you wouldn’t have time to remake the full cake anyways, would you?”

“No.” He answers bluntly, and you both snort. He adds, “Just wanted to make sure you got dessert, over here.” Just wanted to make sure you ate something.

“Marcus…” You pout, overcome by the sweetness of the sweets Chef. You’ve gotta return the favour. “Gin and juice still your go-to?”

“You tryna get me fucked up at work?”

You shrug, grinning. “Are you tryna get fucked up at work?”

He’s going to say yes, but then he pauses, and looks to his boss. Looks to Carmen. Ah, you don’t run his kitchen— Get that through your head. Of course, Marcus can’t just drink—

Carmen shrugs, smiling, “Are you tryna get fucked up at work, Chef?”

Marcus claps his hands, grinning. “Yessir!”

That makes you feel a little lighter. You nod. “Gin and juice, comin’ up.”

You pour out the pineapple juice— Marcus’ preferred juice, of course you remembered. And Marcus leans over the bar, to watch you stir in the gin, even if it’s just a stupid simple drink, the guy loves to learn.

He asks, “How much they payin’ you, tonight?”

You shake your head, “Tips. Nothin’ else.”

Carmen’s ears burn, at that, while he evenly divides and plates out the salmon and chicken plates so you both have a little of everything. If things were normal you could just eat off each other's plates.

Marcus tilts his head, just as surprised. “You in debt, too?”

“Just to Mikey.” You smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m doin’ this in exchange for Uncle J getting me out of work early, a couple weeks back.”

“That’s it?”

“I was in a rush.” You shrug, measuring out the simple syrup. “Got like thirty missed texts from Syd, I thought someone fuckin’ died, didn’t have time to bargain.”

“Wait—” Marcus cannot help but grin, nearly laughing, at the ridiculousness of it, at how bad you got fucked over, by your own permission. “You’re here because you… left work… to go deliver Nat’s baby?”

“Yessir.” Are you fucking serious? Carmen can’t help but stare at the side of your head, for just a few seconds, before going back down to the plates. You’re in this hellscape of a bar, three states from your home, because you were delivering his niece? You did that for them already, and promised yourself for this, in order to do that?

“You know me,” You hand Marcus his glass, and you shouldn’t make the joke, but you can’t help yourself. “Modern day Christ.”

Marcus stifles down his snort, turning his head away from Carmen, to look at the ground. You do the same. There is something painful, about it all, for everyone; but Carmen can’t say that pain isn’t deserved, on his end, so he takes it. You’re allowed to joke about it all you want, if that’s what it takes for you to feel lighter.

A timer goes off on Marcus’ phone. He takes a sip from his gin and juice, nodding in approval, “Oh, shit— Alright, cool times up—” He lifts the glass to you, you hurriedly get the point and grab a random empty cup to clink with him, cheers.

“I’ll be back.” He says. Doubtful, you think. But you nod and wave him off nonetheless.

“If T needs a drink, tell her to take five.” You haven’t seen her tonight, but you realize yourself, again, once you say this. Not your kitchen. “Uh— If that’s, that’s okay—”

“Tell Chef to take a break if she needs it, we haven’t seen her.” Says Carmen, beside you. We. Don’t read into it. He hates you, and you hate him, actually. Carmen sucks, and so do you.

Marcus nods, and makes his mad dash off as a tsunami of guests that have just gotten their plates decide now that they want a drink with their meal. Sonofabitch.

God, you need a break. It’s really hitting you, and your stomach. As full as everyone’s tried to keep you, you really need to just sit down and have your fucking plate. Working behind a bar is a nightmare on the feet and back— Your earrings feel heavy, and your bracelets feel like handcuffs. It’s just all too much, without a break. You need a nap and maybe a thirty-minute session of just staring at a wall.

But the tsunami.

Carmen watches your side profile, and thinking back in his head, the collage of memories forming your face— He’s never seen you genuinely fatigued before. He’s seen you in the middle of the night, he’s seen you caught off guard, seen you distressed— But you’ve never really been one to ask for a break. It’s always yes of course it’s done, with you. It’s your best and worst trait.

As the crowd closes in, and your face morphs into a smile, ready to serve, Carmen claps his hands together, calling out to the sea. “Ey, sorry everyone, we’re just gonna take a quick thirty, alright? Union mandated.”

There is no such thing as a Bartender’s Union, you and Carmen very well know that. You’re about to call it off and say it’s fine before someone can throw an empty glass at your head or something, but instead, a scrawny but wide built, deeply New York Italian man, at the front of the crowd nods.

And as he nods, the crowd groans. He looks deeply offended by this. He turns to his fellow guests. “Where do y’all get off? We fought for those thirty-minute breaks, you fucks!” This quiets them pretty quickly. “We can live with the fuckin’ punch bowl for thirty minutes, c’mon.”

Carmen gets close enough to whisper to you, but far enough that it’s still not personal. Far enough that he still hates you. “Most of the family does or did service work. Say ‘union mandated’ and you can do anythin’”

You smile, watching the crowd dissipate, you crack a joke, because that’s probably what you’re supposed to do. “Union mandated… Murder?”

“Revolt, y’mean?” “Is that an offer?” “I’d ride for you.”

It’s supposed to be light and fun, but you can’t stop yourself, you can’t play the part and it comes out. “Would you?”

That one hurts. It all hurts, but that one really gets Carmen. That you’d have genuine reason to have pause about his dedication to you. Not your fault, his.

You grab your plate from his side of the counter, embarrassed by your instinctual prod. “Sorry.”

He’s not embarrassed by his. “Stop apologizing.”

There’s a heavy silence, before Carmen adds, “I’m supposed to be fuckin’ apologizing.”

There are no more interruptions. Fak isn’t going to come by, patrons are leaving you be, the staff is either helping Marcus or serving food. There is nothing left, to interrupt you two. This is going to happen. Christ, why does Never Let Me Down Again have to be playing right now? That’s not a fucking wedding song. This is too dramatic and simultaneously awkward and clunky and bad. There is no somethings left for you to do. There is nothing left to do, but talk. Nothing left to do but escape the void, ideally together. Please let it be together. You hate to admit it, but you want it to be together.

There is no good place to sit. So, you pick up your plate, and one of the many forks from your pile. With a sigh, you crouch down, and slide yourself underneath the counter, sitting with your legs folded, so Carmen can join you. You nod to him, to let him know that he can in fact join you.

He does. You take a few bites, in silence, before he breaks it.

“I didn’t mean a fuckin’ word.”

“It’s okay if you did.” You can’t look up from your plate. You deserved it.

He says your name, with a severity, to it. “—I didn’t mean a fucking word.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“I—” Despite rehearsing what he wanted to say, and having ample stage to say it, he does not know how to say any of it, anymore. “I was like, like, jealous? But not in the— Not in the normal way.”

“Normal way?”

“Like, I didn’t— Well I did— But I like—” He puts his fork down, “I saw you as competition.”

You don’t know what to say, and so he keeps going. “I saw you like… Like being so perfect at everything, and being so… Being so what everyone needed, and you being there, and and— I felt so… the way you can just do that— Like— Like you can just be you and it just works. And I just fucking can’t.”

A talent you share with his brother. A talent Carmen envied in Mikey, and thus, envies in you.

“And then I got so… weird about that thought. Like you being you is— You’re for everyone. And I got this idea in my head that…” He cringes, trying to find better wording in his head for it, and he can’t. “That you were for me.”

“But you’re not for me—” “Ouch.” “—Not what I meant.”

He thanks you, internally, for being willing to add levity, right now. “I lo— I like you, so much. And I don’t want you to change. If you were like…” He half gestures to himself, which you’re not a big fan of the deprecation, but you let it slide. “Cold, and not for anyone, you wouldn’t be… you.”

Carmen realized as much, watching you tonight. Watching you interact with full strangers to long time friends. If you were callus, you wouldn’t be you. If you didn’t love his family as much as he did, he wouldn’t have attached himself to you, so quickly. He loves the way that you love. The way that you can’t turn it off. It’s not that Carmen isn’t special. It’s that you are so fucking special. He’s fucking stupid for not connecting those dots, earlier.

He picks up his fork again, needing to do something with his hands. Your brows remain furrowed, as you try to walk back how he spiraled from what and where. 

“So, you just wanted to take me down a peg?”

He shakes his head. “It— I— With Mikey, I— I saw some shit that made me think that I was just… fillin’ a gap, or you were just being so good to me out of like… Guilt.” He chews down on his salmon. “And I couldn’t find your fuckin’ invoice, so I just kept drilling into my head that I was just… Charity.”

“You’re not charity.” You’re quick to refute.

“You didn’t fail Mikey.” So is he.

Oh Christ. You nod, but you don’t believe it. “You weren’t wrong to say it.” You have to put your plate down. “I— I don’t see you like I saw Mikey, at all. But I do…” You trail off, just looking at him has you tearing up.

He leaves home so early. He comes home so late. He looks so tired. Gaunt. Has he been eating? Did he light his oven on fire again? Remember how he looked in the freezer. Remember how Mikey looked in the freezer? Remember how they are so so different. They are so different but you still can’t stop connecting every fragment and taking it as a sign and worrying so fucking much, so fucking paranoid—

“Do what?” He swallows his last bite of chicken, and you can’t stop looking at him and fuck you just can’t hold it back, this time. You were doing so good about this. This isn’t even the point of the conversation— Well, kind of. Just breathe.

As your eyes begin to water, he sets his plate aside on the floor, reaching out immediately, worried, immediately. He pauses, hand floating in the air. Hesitating. “Fuck—Can I?”

Eyes barely open, you nod. He’s quick to take your plate from your hands, set it aside, and hug you there. It’s awkward, underneath a bar counter, half sitting, half crouching, grappling you. Carmen does not wish to be anywhere else.  

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and babble, unable to hold back a fear that’s been long standing, since the day you met him.

“Sometimes you remind me of Mikey so much and I get so scared and I just— Fuck, I just— Please don’t kill yourself, Carmen.” His arms wrap around just a bit tighter, as do yours. “I know that’s selfish—”

“It’s not.” Mumbled, to your neck. Skin to skin isn’t really the focal point, here, but there is a lurking part of his subconscious fearing that he will never be able to hug you like this, again. Never be your rock. “I won’t.”

It’s silent, for a minute. You believe him. He holds you there, and you believe him.

“Why did you think all that? That you were filler?” You pull back, just a bit, to look at his face. “Did I do something to make you feel like that?”

“No— God no. You’re—” He swallows. It feels stupid now, to even say how his fucking tantrum started, you had it so much worse, in your head. Why didn’t you tell him? “I was looking for your invoice, and—”

“I forgot the booths, by the way.” You recall the shoddy invoice you wrote. It’s a stupid time to interrupt, but as you slowly grow more comfortable, inches from his face, it feels like the time to be stupid. “And taxes. I owe you something more like eighteen-seventy.”

“You don’t owe me shit.”

“I’m paying back a Berzatto, somehow.”

“Where’d that money come from?”

“Where’d your tirade come from?”

He swallows again, getting back to the point. “I found a folder. Called ice chips, or something like that— But it wasn’t for ice. It was, for you.”

You look at him, genuinely perplexed for a second. Then you get it. And it makes a lot more sense, why Carmen knows you failed Mikey—Try as he might to deny it. “Oh… You found my Ice folder.”

“Fuck’s that mean?” You’re glad, honestly, that he’s never had a reason to learn what it means. It’s fair. You had to teach it to Mikey, too.

“Ice. I-C-E, Carmen. It’s an acronym.” You spell it out, slow. “In Case of Emergency. I-C-E.”

It knocks the wind out of him, immediately. He’s extra glad he’s holding onto you, because he’s starting to feel untethered. “What?”

You nod. It’s time to walk him through it. You have to tell him. “I made Mikey keep some sort of emergency stuff as a fail-safe, for when he forgot people wanted him alive.” When Carmen’s quiet, you continue. “I was in his work cabinet, I think Richie was in his bedside, you and Sug were in his wallet.”

His stomach lurches, at the idea of being the emergency his brother always had on him. “You knew he was suicidal?”

Who didn’t? You think, but don’t say, because that’s not fair. Mikey cut him out, how could he know?

“Everyone’s suicidal, when they’re trying to get sober.”

“What?”

“What?” You parrot back. It’s both your turns, to squint at the other, confused beyond belief now. How is he confused? You’re first to ask. “Carmen, what was in my ice folder?”

“Anniver— Oh my fucking God.” He unwraps himself from you, because he’s frankly too ashamed to touch you, realizing everything he misunderstood. “Oh, my fucking God.”

You let him go, though you don’t particularly want to. He’s probably realizing he’s hugging the enemy. 

“Carmen—?” “You didn’t fucking date Mikey.”

“What?!” You jump, your head hits the bottom of the base of the bar’s sink. “Fuck! Ow, no— What?!”

It’s a mess of limbs and emotions, as he grabs your head haphazardly, seeing if you’re hurt— It honestly hurts more, to be pulled around like this. “Are you o—” You don’t let him finish, grabbing at his wrists, ignoring your sore head.

“You thought I’d fuck your brother and then—What— try to fuckin’ get the whole set?” You’re cringing at the thought. This had just never come up in your mind. You would’ve set him straight, if it did. It was way worse in his head. Why didn’t he tell you? “I— Carmy, babydoll, are you fucking insane?”

You say nice pet names, when you’re perplexed. You’ve got a pattern of doing so. He also has no comeback for this, completely mum. You release his wrists. You add, again, aghast. “How old do you think I am?”

“Ah— As old as Syd?” “Correct.” “So, twenty-eight?”

“Turning, but yeah.” You nod, like a teacher walking him through a problem. “And how old was Mikey?”

“Forty something.” “Forty-three.” “No one remembers their brothers’ age—” “Sixteen years. Carmen.”

You press your hands over your eyes. “And listen, I get at a point age is just a number but I was twenty-five when I met him and he was already fucking forty— I grew up with Muppet Babies and he grew up with Muppets. Period end of sentence.”

You sigh. This situation isn’t funny at all, but you feel a load lighten off of you significantly. And also the situation is extremely funny. It’s hard to be mad at someone this thrown off. 

“It’s just— Listen, do I think Mikey’s hot? Absolutely—”

“Alright—” He cringes, putting a hand in the air, asking you to lay off this train of thought.

“Oh, what do you want me to say ‘your genetic make-up fucking sucks actually’? No, you have a hot family, Carmen.”

“Say this in any other way but this one.”

“I did not date your brother, Carmen.” You finalize, he breathes lighter. “Think about it for like more than two seconds. Richie would’ve fuckin’ run his mouth about it immediately— Would’ve said you’re getting sloppy seconds or call me a fuckin’ homie hopper—”

“I did think that he’d say that, yeah.”

“Well fuckin’ think harder on it, next time—” “Well, what about the joint bank account?”

The most romantic paperwork he’d ever seen. It makes you pause, and Carmen’s considers a universe where you’re just the most incredible pathological liar in existence. 

“I made him make it.” You finally say, saddened just thinking about the failsafe that didn’t fucking work. “I didn’t put any money in it.”

“Why’d you want it, then?” The idea of you dating his brother quiets in his head, now he just wants to listen.

“So I could keep track of his spending and withdrawals.” You pick up your fork and twirl it around, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Need something to do with your hands. “Mostly his withdrawals.”

Carmen thinks about it, trying to tie together the red strings in his head without asking you first. “So you could see if he was buying.”

“If he knew he was being watched, he was less inclined to deal.” You shrug and nod. “Plus I wanted him to get into the habit of keeping savings.”

“Lotta good that did.” Carmen can’t help but laugh, pitifully, at that. “Everythin’ got claimed, when he kicked it.”

You shake your head, you tuck your knees to your chest. “Not everything.”

He just looks at you, curious, waiting for you to explain. Mikey had so much credit card debt— Everything he had outside of fucking tomato cans was claimed. 

You shrug. “Not the accounts he wasn’t sole proprietor on.”

Joint bank account. It was partially your money, technically. It deferred to you. Carmen’s head just falls over, another painful realization of another thing you did, that he got completely wrong. You never gave Mikey a cent. You just gave him the protection of your name and credit score.

“Why’d you do all that, for him?”

Holy shit, he doesn’t know. Carmen doesn’t actually know you killed Mikey. You live in a world, still, where Carmen doesn’t completely rightfully blame you. You tap your fingers on your knees. Staring aimlessly. There is nothing else to do.

“Anyone ever tell you why I get called Chip?”

“I asked Richie. Said to ask you.” Carmen shakes his head, he’s a bit sick of himself, for being almost excited to get an answer about this. “Said it was personal.”

You squint and snort. “Since when does Richie give a fuck about personal?”

Carmen smiles, finally, and tucks his knees to his chest to mimic you. “Since me, I guess.”

“Good influence.” You smile, trying to distract from the nervousness, thrumming hard in your chest. Spit collects in your throat like it’s trying to choke you. “I uhm… Chippy is, uh, Mikey started calling me Chip or Chippy cause of uhm—”

You take a moment, one deep breath. A breath of air in the world before Carmen knows. A sanctimonious breath.

You pull at the long black rope chain on your neck, pulling it out from underneath your top, where it’s always been safely tucked. Not hidden necessarily, just always close to your chest. Close to your heart.

“It’s a joke, about— It’s like—”

Just do it, Chip. Let it rip.

“It’s—”

You hold out your fist for him to put his hand out and take it. Carmen gets the point and holds his palm out. You press the pendant into his hand. Holding your hand over it, for a moment, as if you could decide now that actually he shouldn’t be allowed to see this. Like there’s still an escape option, somehow.

You move your hand, you try to speak calmly, as he stares. And the text on the large round pendant stares back at him.

To Thine Own Self Be True.

“Sobriety chip.” Unity, Service, Recovery.

A proud and large 3 months, in the middle of the triangle, leers back at Carmen.

“I was— I was Mikey’s sponsor.”

Now y'all in my asks see why I was waiting, eh?

Ya caught on! Well, after thinking collectively, ya caught on. Some of you got it quick. Anyways, I shouldn't be talking about this like it's some gotcha, it's deeply painful.

A lot of hard confirmations! Fuck! This conversation was so hard to navigate, because I was like-- There's just so much for them to catch up on, and so they keep like moving forward and so I was like wait I have to go back and address this-- No. That's not how most real convos like this work, they just keep running forward, they can clarify later. Such a weird brain challenge. I was tweaking. I hope it's sensical to read? If it's not, dw, i'll walk into the sea about it.

Can you believe this chapter began with Syd/Chip/Richie? Absolutely bonkers. We started with getting ready in a hotel/taking a flight. We were so young, then. I've gotta go watch season 3, so don't send me spoilers, but please send me literally any and all thoughts about this chapter. I really fuckin-- Rah.

I'm happy with this chapter and I honestly think I will probably make a separate post sometime this week showing bits you might've missed-- So much of this was me harkening back to those first three chapters. I went back and reread them recently and I was like woah. I don't know how I did the thing where the writing style felt distant and slowly became close as they became close as characters, but I did feel like that was a thing. In the early chapters. Having to recreate that distant feeling here? Oh fuck. Brutalizing feeling.

Oh but on the more cute side, if you also see Tony as Desi, I was thinkin like a lehenga style blouse with all the work, and like, some black flared pants? and she's got big fuckin jhumkas, OF COURSE!!! OF COURSE BRO!!! But I just left it at semi-cultural so everyone could have fun, hehehe

I feel almost certain, someone's gonna be missing from this tag list, and for that, a thousand pardons, I am gonna put it in my notes app so I don't forget next time, mbmbmb, also added people that did not ask but you are so frequent that i feel like you're just forgetting to ask? idk if you wanna get taken off always just ask dw

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin @ashtonweon @sharkluver @fridavacado @hoetel-manager @mrs-perfectly-fine

anyways, if you wanna be added send me your thoughts/analysis/diagnosis at length + ask to be added and i will ! try! sometimes they get lost and i am sorry abt that but i do try!

Next Part

[strwbwrrybunny]

Spam a bitch Friday:

So can you do a fanfic with ony (it doesn’t matter if it’s someone else who tho) when we tell him we’re studying but we’re actually at a party and he see us there and he “punishes” us 🫢

hey boo, sorry it took me so long to get to this. hope you enjoy this short oneshot♡︎

MATURE CONTENT AHEAD.

!

The sound of the music blared so loudly that it seemed to vibrate in your brain, making you clutch the solo cup just as energetically as you swayed your hips to the tunes. The strobe lights pulsed throughout the space chaotically, synchronizing their flashes to each bass drop.

Your phone buzzed incessantly in your skirt pocket, and you already knew who it was. He probably assumed you had dozed off while studying, which was the excuse you gave him after all.Ony wasn’t your father, so you could attend parties whenever you liked; besides, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

This was the biggest college party of the year, and you couldn't possibly let your insecure boyfriend stop you from going. Throughout the night, you successfully evaded any photographs, no evidence no case. You definitely preferred to avoid another lecture from him, your ass was still stinging from the last.

Your heart sank when you felt someone wrap an arm around yours; you winced as your eyes met a pair of furious brown familiar ones. How on earth did he track you down? Surrounded by hundreds in the crowd, you tried to keep a low profile, but alas, it made no difference,Ony was here and you were going to reap the consequences.

“You honestly think I was fucking playing around with you?” Ony growled through clenched teeth, furious. He pulled you from the house, ignoring the pressure of his grip on your arm.He warned you not to come here. Were you really so fucking stupid to think he wouldn't hear about your presence? He shot a look at your revealing outfit, and that ignited his fury.

“you’re hurting me ony.” you whined.

“you think this hurts? wait until we get home.”

Your pussy ached with every powerful movement, he had been pleasuring you for hours and each time felt more exhilarating than the last. You had experienced so much pleasure that you couldn't keep track of the times you came, tears of painful pleasure streamed down your face as you trembled with ecstasy.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” Ony rasped , strong hands gripping your calves and positioning them above your head as he drilled into your quivering cunt. You tried to speak but were left speechless as he plunged into you, body shuddering with pleasure.

A sob escaped your lips as he did a particularly deep thrust.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” he hissed, anger lacing his voice.

“N-not to g-go to the party.” you whined, you longed to reach out to touch him but the rope seared into your wrist with each movement.

“Exactly, so let this be your lesson to listen next time. We’re gonna fuck all night until I deem you punished, I don’t care how many times you cum or how sore you get. You will be punished.”

[hazbn-oneshots]

Bathtime Headcanons

Just a few headcanons for sharing a bubble bath with the main characters. Enjoy!

Charlie:

oddly enough Charlie doesn’t partake in full baths as much as she favors showers.

She’s busy dealing with the hotel and along with ruling as the Princess of Hell so she much prefers a quick warm spray.

On the occasion, however, she finds herself tired enough that you might just be able to convince her to indulge with you. 

You make a point of dredging up any kind of bubble bath, bath bomb, lotion, anything you can find to ensure that you can provide the best bubble bath possible.

Music plays softly over a small speaker, but it’s drowned out the hushed whispers of words of love as you meticulously wash and condition her hair.

Conditioning is your favorite step. Charlie didn’t need it often as her hair somehow stayed so silky, so every now and then when you got to run a soft brush through her hair, twisting it gently to pin atop her head.

She tries to wash you in return but you always push her hand away, insisting on pampering her after a hard day.

Usually ends with you drying her off and carrying her to bed when she inevitably passes out.

Vaggie:

Vaggie loves baths but she’s hard pressed to admit it. Nothing feels better on sore muscles than a nice soak, ideally with lavender. She loves lavender.

The two of you had been dating for about 6 months before she even entertained the idea of going to you with such a request. 

She was too embarrassed to ask.

-in the end, how she broaches the subject is by surprising you one night when you return home. A few candles lined the edge of the bathtub that was filled nearly to the brim with bubbles.

”I just thought it would be nice, you’ve been gone all day” And you know better to react calmly should you risk spooking the flustered angel with the scarlet red face.

She’s the one that drags it out in the end. She’d wrap her arms just a little tighter around your waist and mutter about how the water would stay warm for just a little longer.

Vaggie gives sweet towel hugs.

Alastor:

Listen, Alastor takes pride in his hygiene. He takes the utmost care to keep himself and his dress in immaculate condition. 

He’ll invest in facial creams, hair creams, body creams, oils, lotions, you name it and he’s used it. 

But baths? No. Absolutely not.

You’ve only attempted to convince Alastor to take a bath with you and neither occasion ended particularly well. The radio demon wouldn’t speak to you for a week after the first failed attempt and had all but removed himself from your life with the second so you couldn’t say you were in any hurry for a third.

However, the two of you have come to a happy compromise. Whenever you found yourself in the mood to draw a bath you would sometimes find Alastor pulling a chair up next to the tub with a book tucked under his arm. So would begin a lovely tradition between the both of you.

More than once you’ve found yourself dozing to the soft static of the Alastor’s voice, and in response the demon would lightly tap his cane against the edge of the tub to rouse you.

Don’t fall asleep though, three strikes and he’ll leave you in the tub. No he doesn’t.

Husk:

Not. A. Fan. Considering his entire being consists of fur and feathers, Husk can and will do everything within his power to avoid bathing if he can. Look, it’s just not his idea of a fun night to sit down with a hairdryer and attempt to wring himself out as best he can.

Inevitably he’d miss a spot and end up with stale wet cat smell and no one likes that, especially not our resident grump.

He won’t make a fuss if you want to bathe with him though. What he will do is laugh while patting your shoulder. “I’ll wait for ya in the room”

The more comfortable he gets, however, you’ll start to see that eventually Husk begins to find reasons just to ‘wander’ into the bathroom with you. He misses you, you know it, but it’s still sweet to see him making the excuse of looking for his lucky pair of boxers.

”The water’s always warm darlin”

You better get the blow dryer ready, the only way you can convince him is if you’ll deal with it. You don’t mind though, the purrs are worth it

Angel Dust:

You and Angel take turns picking which bath bombs and bubble baths that you’ll throw into whichever potion you’ll be brewing up tonight.

Bathtime with Angel was always a favorite for you, you couldn’t think of anything better than getting to curl up with your cuddle bug in your arms. Although things never really stay that way for long.

It’s hard not to tease while washing each other. A slip of the hand here, just a little rough touch of loofah there, just a sweet little taste of what could be but the restraint comes easy in the relaxed atmosphere. Just in times like these Angel will be patient enough to wait until you can actually make it to the bed. 

Angel won’t let you wash his hair. You don’t know why he’s so particular about it but if you interrupt his routine of products then his entire night is ruined so you choose the peaceful route and leave the man be. That doesn’t mean he won’t wash your hair for you if you ask though, those four hands of his do wonders at massaging the scalp.

Angel will 10/10 let you towel dry him every single time and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t use it as an opportunity to make a show at bending this way and that, making sure to get every inch of him.

He looks like a fluffy mess afterwards but hey, he’s your fluffy mess.

Requests open!!

[dilf-rot]

Nuisance

P2

MDNI 18+

Word Count: 1975

Tags: Wolverine x Reader, Logan Howlett x Reader, Mutant!Reader, Reader hates Logan, Logan doesn’t really care, Reader with a Vulva, GN except for the term “princess”, Hate sex, Agressive sex, dirty talk, P in V, fingering, oral, hickeys / biting, scratching 

AN: Written for an anon request <3

If you enjoy my work consider sending me a tip at https://ko-fi.com/rotwrites (Not required by any means, writing requests are still free!)

—---------------------------------------

After a particularly stressful mission, you and the others decided to throw a party. It was mostly you and Jean who put everything together, deciding how and if you should decorate, when it should be, etc. The two of you got along rather well, except you had a particular disagreement. She would say that Logan was on her list for the most attractive people at the mansion. You, however, could not stand him. 

His cocky attitude. His annoying comments during training. Sometimes even the way he stood bothered you.

Everyone had picked up on it rather quickly, including Logan, who was not exactly sure why you hated him, but didn’t really give a shit. He decided it would make his life easier if he pretended to hate you too.

The party was going rather well, nothing could go wrong by giving a bunch of stressed and lonely mutants unlimited (or mostly so) access to alcohol, party games, and the space to mingle while music blasted from someone’s borrowed speakers. 

“Hey Princess,” that voice you’d recognize anywhere. You turn around to see him, Logan, leaning against the wall, beer in hand. 

“Go fuck yourself,” You rolled your eyes and leant back against the wall. 

“Would if I could,” He flexed his hand, claws springing out from between his knuckles.

“Put those away, we’re in a public space you know.” You scoffed at him, he always seemed to want to show off at the worst of times. 

“Whatever.” He put his claws away, the blood from his knuckles dripping to the floor. Gross.

“What do you even want?”

“Just saying thanks for the party, is that so bad?” He shrugs, taking a sip from his beer.

“Why? It was Jean’s idea.” 

“That’s funny, she said it was yours.” You search the crowd and spot Jean talking to Scott in a corner. She returns your glance with a wave and a thumbs up. You curse under your breath. 

“Could I get you a drink?” He tips his beer towards you.

“Why?” You cross your arms, you already had a few earlier, but the buzz had worn off quickly. 

“Maybe it’ll make you a bit more pleasant,” He gestures towards the kitchen, “Come on, Doll.” 

You’re not sure why, but you follow him. Maybe because you have nothing better to do, or more so you don’t want to end up third-wheeling Jean. Or because everyone else is so preoccupied and you are always ending up on the outskirts. 

There’s way less people in the kitchen, just a handful sitting along the counter or bunched up at the table. Logan slides in front of the fridge, grabbing a beer and tossing it to you. 

“This isn’t gonna make me like you, you know that right?” You pop off the cap on the edge of the counter, the bubbles spilling over onto your hand. 

“That’s ok, you can tell me how much you hate me after we get out of here.”

“And why would I leave with you?” You ask between sips of the beer. It’s rather refreshing, though you’ve had better. 

“What else are you gonna do?” He gives you a smug look before heading out of the kitchen towards the stairs. 

Damnit. You curse yourself, every part of your brain telling you not to follow him, but you just couldn’t help it. And before you know it you're standing right outside his door, as he’s in the doorframe, you come back to yourself.

“I’m not coming into your room, Logan. I don’t know where you think this night is going, but you’re wrong.” He just smiles and walks further into his room, setting his beer down on his nightstand.

“Suit yourself, but you and I both know you were bored as hell down at the party.” He leans back against his head board. You hadn’t even realized he was wearing just a tank top and jeans until right now. 

“Do you know how much I hate those stupid tanks? Can you just cover yourself up for once?” 

“Why? My arms botherin’ you?” He flexes, and you avert your gaze to not get wrapped up in his preening.

“Yes. Your everything bothers me”

“Oh yeah?”

“I hate your attitude. How you think you're so hot, so cool. Always in the fucking way.” You drink from your beer. Leaning against his doorway. “Hate your stupid hair. And your smoking habit. Whole fucking mansion risks when you’re here.” 

He smiles, almost chuckling to himself. 

“I hate when you do that, too.” 

“Tell me more, Doll.”

“God fuck you. Do you even know any of our names or do you just make shit up so you don’t have to think too hard?” That one makes him actually laugh. The sound of it making your blood run hot. You could punch him right now and feel no remorse. In fact you just might. You slam the door behind you, stalking up to the side of the bed, putting your beer next to his and standing right in front of him. You reel back, “I hate your stupid laugh.” 

As you follow through with your swing he catches your hand, and you struggle against his grasp. “You know, starting to sound like you think about me a lot.” He smiles, dropping your hand. 

“Don't flatter yourself,”

“Don’t need to. You’ve been doing it for me.” He runs his hand up your arm, pulling you closer. Your balance falters and you fall on top of him. 

“Could you not?”

“Then stop me,” He’s right you could stop him, you should. But his warmth feels nice against you, and you haven’t had anything close to this in forever. He puts his hands on your thighs, you somehow ended up straddling him, hovering above him. Your faces are so close to one another. He leans up, his hips knocking against yours, he pulls your face down to his and kisses you. It’s fierce and sloppy and tastes like beer and smoke. In a blur he’s flipped you over, and tugged your pants off of you, holding himself up between your thighs. 

“Why don’t you put your mouth to good use for once,”

“Oh yeah, where would you like it, Doll?” You push him down, pressing his face against your cunt. You can feel him smiling against you, your fingers lacing in his hair to hold him still. Grinding yourself shamelessly against his mouth. His tongue hot and sweet, the feeling so much better than your hands ever could be.

He licks slow stripes up and down your folds, swirling his tongue around your clit, bringing it back down to poke at your entrance. Sucking your clit into his mouth and rolling his tongue around it. You bite down on your hand to stop yourself from moaning, your other hand wrapped in his hair pressing him against you. You’re practically humping his face as he eats you out, he hums against you, groaning as you tug on his hair. 

He brings his hand to trace up your thigh and pulls his face away to nip and suck at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Two of his fingers pushing their way inside of you and curling to press that sweet spot inside. He brings his tongue back to lap at your clit as he works his fingers in and out, drawing you closer and closer. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he makes you cum. Clenching down around his fingers, pressing your hips up against him, his tongue making lazy circles on your clit as you shudder and spasm. He pulls away and you see that stupid smug look on his face.

“For someone who hates me, you sure did cum a lot on my tongue.”

“Shut up,” you hide your face with your hands, but he pulls them back down.

“Nah,” He throws his shirt to the side, and slips out of his jeans. You don’t dare to look at him, naked, knowing he’s probably even more frustratingly hot without the clothes. “You still gonna hate me after having this cock?”

“Yes.” You close your eyes as you feel him lining himself up, he slaps the head of his cock against your already sensitive clit. The wet smack sound it makes is filthy.

“We’ll see, Doll.” He pushes in, fast and without much warning. He’s bigger than you thought, and the way he stretches you out makes you bite back a whimper. He trails small bites up and down your neck and shoulders, you shudder beneath him.

Why did he have to feel so good? You couldn’t stop yourself now, even if you wanted to. As he thrusts in and out of you, hard and ruthless, you can’t hold back your moans any longer. The way his cock drags along your walls, hitting sensitive spots, forming you to his shape.

“Fuck,” you whine and you feel him smirk against your skin.

“That’s it, let me hear you.” He whispers in your ear before returning to bite down hard on your neck.

“Ah, Fuck… that hurts…” But he ignores your protest, you imagine he could draw blood if he wanted but he doesn’t. He pulls away to lick at the teeth marks.

“Oh sorry princess… that one might bruise.” 

“Fuck you,” You drag your nails down his back and he groans. He brings a hand up to your chest, unsheathing his claws to tear apart the fabric of your shirt and bra. It practically dissolves into shreds in one quick move. Before you can say anything he chimes in.

“You can borrow one of mine.” 

He watches your tits bounce as he fucks into you, his eyes dark and hazy. He fondles them in his hands, squeezing them firmly. His thrusts never letting up. You can feel yourself getting close again and he knows it too. The way your hatred falters and you aren’t restricting your moans anymore, the way you're clamping down on his cock, your walls fluttering around him.

He brings his hand to his mouth, spitting on it, and then dragging down between you to messily rub at your clit. Your eyes roll back and you groan, it's almost nearing overstimulation. It makes your eyes water. You don’t even hear his claws come out before you feel a slight sting along your collarbone, it is barely enough pressure to draw blood, just enough to leave scratch marks in their wake.

You can’t even think enough to berate him for it. Your mind goes blank as you cum around him. “That’s it, cum on this cock. Let me feel you.” 

You feel him begin to falter as he pumps into you a few more times before pulling out and shooting sticky pools of cum onto your stomach. He grabs a towel from the floor and wipes it off of you before laying down next to you. Pulling you close to him as your sudden exhaustion sets in and you close your eyes

……………………

 The sun trickles in from the window, and you realize very quickly you are not in your own room. You slip out from the heavy arm around your waist, and make your way to the kitchen. Praying it was too early for anyone to be awake. You didn’t run into anyone in the hall, but as soon as you step in the kitchen, there’s Jean.Sitting by the counter, two coffee mugs in front of her.

 Jean looks you over, her eyes stopping at the very obvious claw marks and bites along your shoulders. Logan’s t-shirt. You were so screwed.

“Long night?” She says as she pushes a cup of coffee towards you.

“Shut up.” You take the coffee back to your room. Hoping that you had something to cover up all these goddamn marks, having found yet another reason to hate him for.

[damiansgoodgirll]

reader and rhea being in love with each other but rhea is married 😭 make it smut but angst please 💗😭💖🙏

rhea ripley x reader

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

‼️smut, rhea’s a softie in this one, angst

just tonight

“we shouldn’t be doing this…” you whispered against her lips.

“i know…” she was aware of the situation you were both in but she couldn’t help it. you knew you shouldn’t have done it and yet she had her middle finger pumping in and out of your pussy while her other hand moved teasing both of your breast. she was married, with a man, but that didn’t stop her from having you in her hotel room everytime she was travelling. you were both colleagues so that made it easier but it didn’t mean that it was right.

“i’m serious rhea…we shouldn’t be doing this…” you knew you had to stop but you couldn’t. she was the only person that was able to make you feel so good and she knew it.

“do you want me to stop?” she whispered, against your lips.

no - you didn’t want her to stop. you couldn’t explain it but you couldn’t stop needing her fingers buried in your pussy and he lips over yours “no…” you moaned when her finger hit that sweet spot that always made you see stars.

“then i’m not stopping…” she watched as you moaned softly, trying not to let your friends next door hear what you and rhea were doing.

there always been tension between the two of you. the moment you went from nxt to raw, rhea felt a sort of attraction that she couldn’t explain. she was happily engaged at the time, she loved her man, so why did she feel the need to have you? to touch you? to kiss you?

you couldn’t deny that you were attracted as much as everyone else was. women and men, all fighting for a chance with the famous rhea ripley and yet she chose you. the first time that it happened it was after her wrestlemania victory. her boyfriend wasn’t in town and she needed to let go some tension. you didn’t mean to sleep with her, you two weren’t even particularly friends. there was just a working bond between you but nothing more. rhea wanted something more. she spent days and days scrolling to your instagram trying to get to know you better. what you liked, the movies you watched, the music you listened to. she wanted to know everything about you. and she was surprised when she found out that you were single. she couldn’t understand how someone beautiful and kind as you were still single.

but right now she didn’t want to know it because she couldn’t imagine someone else making you feel the things she was making you feel.

she loved having you naked and panting for her.

“let them hear you baby” she whispered against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“what…no, damian’s next door, i can’t” but she didn’t help you when he hand moved from your breast to your swollen clit, making you slightly jump over the bed.

“i don’t care…everyone needs to know who’s making you feel so good baby…let me make you feel good” she said. she was soft with you. she wasn’t the rhea ripley everyone knew. she wasn’t the menace everyone was afraid of. no, she was sweet with you, she was kind and loving. she took your pleasure over hers. the way she kissed your body tenderly made you feel loved in a way no one else ever did.

can’t help falling in love was playing softly in the background, mixed with the warmth of rhea’s naked body pressed over yours, her fingers teasing your pussy and her lips prepping kisses over your face and neck. those wonderful sensations were enough to make you cum. rhea let you screamed her name as she watched your blissful face. your eyes closed, your mouth open and some hair stuck over your face. she watched you as you were the most beautiful person in the world. she helped you calm down, licking her fingers and tasting your juices “fuck…” she moaned “you taste so fucking good every single time…” and to proved her point she gently kissed you, letting you taste yourself over her lips “i could be buried in your pussy all night long…”

you softly chuckled, slightly open your eyes. she moved some of your hair that got stuck over your face and she helped you laying comfortably on the bed.

“rhea…i have to go back to my room…” you didn’t want to but you couldn’t risk being caught. and even if you loved her, you couldn’t risk her marriage.

“stay here, just tonight” she whispered, covering your body with a fluffy blanket and laying next to you.

“rhea…”

“please…stay, just tonight, just for me” she had tears in her eyes but she was quick to wipe them away. she didn’t like being so vulnerable. not in front of other people, not even in front of you. she couldn’t understand why now. why couldn’t she have met you before? she was already engaged, and now married and she loved her husband but the things she felt for you, she couldn’t explain why.

you looked at her, her soft face wet with tears “fine…i’ll stay here, just tonight” you saw a little smile on her face as you said that.

“just tonight” she whispered as she moved your body closer to hers.

you closed your eyes, head resting over her naked chest as her hand went through your hair.

you couldn’t explain why but you loved her and the fact that she couldn’t be yours was killing you.

[n30nwrites]

Fetch (Shifter! Tf141 x Male! Reader)

Chapter 4 of Good Doggy

Masterlist

Tw - Drunk Assholes (inspired by real stories from me :)), Slight blood warning, Language (its a COD fanfic??), OKAY SO LIKE I GUESS SLIGHT SUGGESTIVE STUFF?? I WANTED TO MAKE IT LONGER. A SMALL SCENE OF NSFW BUT NOTHING TOO DEEP BUT STILL PUTTING A WARNING, ITS IN BETWEEN THE NSFW GRAPHICS. Gaz has a praise kink.

Beta Reader/Editor - @letmelickyoureyeballs

Updated: 3/5/2024

The bar is filled. It’s a Friday night, of course it is but you hate it. You don’t like dealing with assholes. Not after the conversation with Maya.

“I cannot serve you anymore. If you don’t decide to leave I will call the cops.” The man in front of you shouts profanity after profanity, angered by the law. Humans were stupid that way. “Here’s a water.” You slam it down, annoyed.

Idiots. Drunken idiots.

Yeah by Usher starts playing. The club you worked at was loud, you have ear plugs in just so you wouldn’t be overstimulated by everything, but you could still hear enough.

“Why do you have a mask on?” He's irritated already which means that this conversation will not end well. You usually strive to give your coworkers the assholes, not caring that he'll have to deal with it. 

"It's to stay safe, I don't want to get sick-"

The man cuts you off and you debate on spitting in his drink, "That's not gonna keep you safe, the only way to stay safe is to build your immune system." He keeps yelling, and some spit leaves his mouth. You place down the menu in front of him as he keeps yelling, "That's the only way to stay safe, not a stupid mask!" 

You walk away, going to your coworker and telling him to get his order cause if you do you'll be fired. You instead went over to the list of music that was going to play and put on a favorite song of yours, not caring for some disgruntled noise from other patrons as you bobbed your head to the beat, distracting yourself from the day you had.

"Ye lik' this song mo gaol?" It's the familiar accent and the way the hairs on your arms stand makes you more irritated. It was roughly 1 a.m. and most people would be tired. You'd reckon it would start slowly down in 20 minutes, which meant you could get some work done.

You turned to face Soap.

"I'd hope so, I chose it." You tell him as you get closer to him. "You still stalking me?"

"Ah'ahmnot a stalker, juist wanted a drink." He smiles boyishly, as if he wasn't Sergeant John ``Soap" MacTavish with more confirmed kills than unconfirmed.

"At the bar I work at?"

"Juist a coincidence"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't lie to me." You told him while you mixed a drink. "You obviously have something for me."

"A'm in loue wi' ye"

"Not possible." You tell him, interrupting his "confession". You set the drink down in front of him. "$13" You tell him the price.

"I didnae orda a drink?" He looked cheeky, and you wished some part of you didn't find him attractive. But he looks up at you and you can't help but imagine other scenarios, particularly some where you're both naked.

"Well you can either pay for the drink and drink it, or pay for the drink and I'll drink it and talk with you some more." Soap immediately puts down two 20s.

"Th' rest can go to mah bartender." You slip the extra cash into your pocket, going to your POS system and breaking out for your thirty minute break that was required. You grabbed the drink on the counter and left your work area, Soap following behind like a puppy. You found a booth in the corner most people avoided. Sitting down at what could fit five others at most. Your mind goes back to Maya, who’s probably taking care of Icarus, your dog, and Marigold, her familiar. Maya worked as well, but it was an in-house job where she dealt with customers in need of assistance.

"You hurt our feelin`s earlier," He says first as you take a sip of the drink you made. "Hae we dane something tae offend ye?"

"Don't want to get your hopes up." You tell him, "I'm not one for soulmates."

"So ye know?"

"Of course I do. You reek of wolf." He starts to sniff himself and you want to laugh at how ridiculous it looks. "You wouldn't be able to smell it. And it's not a bad smell, just obnoxious cause there's four of you."

"So ye aren't human." 

"Nope, never was."

"What are ye?" You never felt shame in what you were. Didn't feel shame in general, it took Maya for you to start walking around in clothes. 

But you didn't want to tell him. 

"None of your business."

Gaz knows that Price is going to talk about the bloodshed in the morning. He knows that Price already knows but doesn't care to stop it tonight. Price is just too drunk, Ghost doesn’t care, and Soap is who knows where. It wasn’t like he killed humans tonight, just some animals that were definitely going to get the town's attention (He might’ve killed a bear) but not the hunters.

He's decorated in blood and he loves it. It soothes some messed-up part of him. His teeth still have specks of flesh in it, that he licks clean

He smells you. Heavenly you. You who smells like some plant burning. He didn't understand it, but he loved it.

You're next to Soap, and Soap has the biggest grin as you walk together. 

Though you probably don't see it as together. You probably see it as him stalking you, but you don't seem to have your usual air of distaste. You have sunglasses on, something he hates cause he can't stare at them. Your mask is black, and you also have a hood on. You look perfect, he just wishes you were in his bedroom.

Preferably naked and-

Nope.

He kind of hates it at the same time though. Soap getting so close to you, still determined to find a way to be with you. Soap didn't lose hope, not like Gaz did. But he'd be damned if he didn't do something. He lets out a growl, standing menacingly as he runs forward, towards both of you, knocking Soap down as he growls at him, his teeth snapping. If Gaz doesn't get to be happy, Soap shouldn't either.

He just wasn't expecting your reaction.

"Get off him." He followed your command, staring up at you and following your eyes when you bent down to be eye level with him. "God you are so..."

"Cute." Your voice gets higher as you gently rub behind his ears, the blood not bothering you at all. Gaz almost forgets how you looked at him earlier, your words that cut him melted away and he just thinks he has a chance.

You loved dogs, who wouldn't? Even if that dog was actually a grown (hot) man. 

"Look who's such a pretty boy." You kept rubbing his head as Soap just stared in shock. "Such a handsome boy, who did you eat?" You coo at Gaz, who leans into your touch and praise, enjoying everything about this moment. Gaz has to take a moment to remember himself, that the praise you give him is nothing.

But he can't help but imagine scenarios in a different setting.

NSFW Start

It's such a simple setting. In his room, the lights are low. He's flushed, shirtless and on the floor, while you sit above him.

"Can't you be a good boy for me?" You lick your lip before biting it, you stare at him, your eyes actually showing, looking at him with lust and love. A perfect combination, and your lips, god, you were perfect for him. "Come on, you know you want to." You lower your shorts and Gaz gulps, he stares at your cock, mesmerized.

"You're hungry for it, aren't you whore?"

NSFW End

"Arr ye fecken' kidding me?" Soap says, breaking the peaceful moment, and Gaz's daydream. "A' it took wis a wolf fur ye to lik' us?" 

"I still don't like you all, but dogs are always a great company." You keep petting him, Gaz's eyes closing slightly, and Soap sits up. 

"Ah can do that toh." His accent gets thicker as he rushes to grab your hand, forcing it away from Gaz and instead putting it in his hair. Which was mostly shaved on the sides.

"You aren't a cute puppy right now." You yank your hand away.

"He's fooken' bloody!"

Gaz licks your face, and you slightly smile.

----

NEXT

Listen, hating people is one thing but I could never hate a dog, let alone a wolf. Reader still doesn't feel comfortable around the boys, but he does like the dogs.

[lesservillain]

inmate!eddie munson x reader

cw: SMUT, henry creel is your ex, a threat of violence, divorce talk, baby talks

July 26th, 1996

“It’s been a whole year,” you turn the radio down to better get Eddie’s attention, “we should go out or something! I know everyone was busy tonight, but let me take you to like Enzo’s. Or Benny’s even.”

Eddie leaned for the knob, turning the radio up again. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he yells over the music, banging his head around and tapping his legs along with the beat. “All I need to celebrate is you and whatever that new little number is that you’re hiding under those clothes.”

You turn to him, cheeks feeling hot as you’ve been caught. The smug look on his face annoyed you, “How do you know I’m wearing something new?”

He hums with a smirk. “I saw your bra strap when you were messing with it earlier,” he says as if it was obvious, “I know what your bras look like, didn’t recognize it.”

“You’re insane,” you laugh as you pull into Steve’s empty driveway. 

“Hey, not insane, just very observant of the things that are important to me,” he unbuckles his seatbelt, hoping out of the car and trotting over to your side to open your door for you. It was one of your favorite quirks of his, especially because the looks on peoples faces in public when a rough, six foot tall man covered in tattoos opens the driver door for his girlfriend are priceless. 

As you start walking to the front door you notice Eddie isn’t behind you, still standing next to the car with an unreadable expression on his face. Normally it wouldn’t bother you since he spaces out every once and a while, mostly when he’s nervous or upset you’ve come to find. But, he’s been acting like this for the last couple of days and it’s starting to concern you.

Your morning drives to drop him off at work have been quiet compared to the usual lively talks you two have. He’s also been staying at work later, calling you to pick him up close to sundown as the summer has gone on. One night he told you he was too tired for you to come over and was going to have Steve pick him up. When you tried to bring it up, he just brushed it off saying that he was just tired from repairing the A/Cs for half of Hawkins cars.

“Eddie?” You ask gently. 

He looks at you for a brief moment, eyes barely meeting yours before he starts walking down the driveway. “G-go ahead, I’m gonna grab the mail.”

“Okaaaay,” you say to yourself. 

When you enter the Harrington residence, you find it to be dead quiet, which is to be expected since Robin and Steve both had plans for tonight. But, what struck you as odd was that they had left several lights on…

Eddie came through the door a few moments later, his full attention on the stack of mail he’s flipping through. 

“Anything good,” you joke, unsure why he’s so laser focused on junk mail. He walks past you, setting all but one envelope on the counter. 

“Oh, uh, no-,” his voice is shakey, and you can tell his breathing is off.

“Hey are you-”

“Hey, look at this!” He waves the envelope in his hand, finally giving you his attention. “This says it’s to ‘Mrs.Munson,’ isn’t that weird?”

You reel back, head shaking at the confusion. “Eddie, I thought you said your mom passed? Why would she get mail here?”

He shook his head, “No, it can’t be for her. My mom and dad never got married, so this wouldn’t be for her anyway.”

“What the hell?” You’re totally confused now, “Open it and see what it says?”

He nods, taking particularly good care not to rip the envelope too much. You feel like you’re in an episode of the twilight zone between the letter and his odd behavior today. He pulls out the contents of the envelope, which looks like a single folded piece of notebook paper. He opens it, and you can clearly see the shaking in his hands now. You’re suddenly hit with a wave of realization. 

“Eddie, is that from your dad?” You ask, placing a hand on his arm. He won't even look at you, he just hands you the paper for you to read. 

The first thing you see is your name. 

“What the-”

“Please read it.”

You look at him, but he refuses to make eye contact, body shifting with a nervousness you’ve never seen before with him. When you look at the paper again, you recognize the sloppy handwriting.

Hi, sweetheart. You’re probably really confused right now reading this, and I know I gotta be a nervous wreck right now as I watch you. After a year of spending almost every day with me you’d probably agree that I’m not afraid to say whatever I’m thinking out loud. But, I wanted to go back to our roots for this. 

There are times where I’ve wished things were different. Where I could have the time that I lost in that jail cell back. I just wanted to do something for Wayne, but I would have rather had those years to spend with him instead. I missed out on a lot with the kids, and I was sure that the CC boys were gonna kick me out for ruining our chance to make it big. 

But if there’s one thing I can say made it worth it was you. You showed me that I can still be loved after all that I’ve been through. You didn’t know me before, but you put everything you believed in aside to give me a chance and I don’t think I could ever express how much that means to me. But I want you to give me the opportunity to try for the rest of our lives. Sweetheart, will you marry me?

As you read that last sentence, you notice your body starts to shake. Nervously, you lift your eyes from the paper, and in the time you were reading Eddie had managed to get down on one knee in front of you. 

“Oh my god,” it comes out shakey with a nervous laugh. You have to wipe the tears away as they cloud your vision to admire the ring he’s presented to you. The two of you have never talked about rings before, and yet he managed to pick the perfect one. 

Your teary eyes meet his. Those big, chocolate buttons look at your full of hope. It makes your knees weak. You shake your head, “Yes, Eddie. Holy shit, yes.” You let yourself fall into him, arms wrapping around his neck. He squeezes you tight, and you can feel the air leave his lungs as he sighs in relief. 

Time feels like it’s still in that moment. Since day one Eddie has made you feel more loved than you ever have in your life. It’s not that you never imagined a life married to Eddie, quite the contrary. You wish you had a dollar for every night that you’ve counted the freckles on his face, wishing that you’d been doing this with him instead of laying back to back with your husband for nearly 10 years. But, the two of you hadn’t talked about getting married. Not seriously that is. He would joke at home, calling you his wife, “Mrs.Munson”,“baby momma,” the latter you thought was because of how much of The Maury Show you two watched together on your days off. Now it felt like a serious conversation you would need to have, a pin to later be pulled. 

The sudden sound of the shades moving over the sliding door pulled you out of the moment, and you realize the door was slightly opened. Then, a loud voice from the backyard yells, “GUYS I’M PRETTY SURE SHE SAID YES!” Followed by a symphony of cheers and whistles. When you pull away from Eddie, he’s beaming so bright it’s blinding. And suddenly the sliding door is pushed open and your friends begin pouring in, cheering and congratulating as they enter. Eddie stands as everyone piles in, pulling you up with him. The train of embraces begins as Robin clamps you in with a bear hug. Steve joins in, wrapping the both of you in a big embrace filled with giggles.

You look over and see Eddie and Wayne hugging it out. Wayne’s patting his back, laughing about something Eddie must have said. The kids and his band boys stand around them waiting for their turn. When Robin and Steve finally let you breathe again, Max and Jane are next to congratulate you. 

Max sticks out her own hand, showing you a ring on her finger. “Lucas asked me a couple months ago,” she gushed. You grabbed her hand and admired the ring, it wasn’t over the top, very subtle to fit her personality. “I couldn’t tell you though, Eddie was too nervous that he wouldn’t be able to hold off asking if you knew.”

“Oh my god, Max, that’s amazing,” you pulled her in again, swaying her side by side excitedly. You looked over to Lucas, giving him a cheesy thumbs up that made him blush and shake his head. 

Next is Nancy and Elanor, with Jonathan standing just behind them. Nancy’s belly pushes into you as she pulls you in for a tight hug, Elanor wrapping her arms around you from the opposite side. 

Then it was Wayne’s turn for hugs next, Eddie finally letting him go after giving him a “Let me go boy, gotta congratulate the newest Munson!” When he pulls away, he leaves one arm around you in a half hug and leans in close, but still speaking loud enough for Eddie to hear. “Listen, if you change your mind let me know, I’ll distract him long enough for you to run.”

“Hey!” Eddie shouted over his friends, “Don’t give her any ideas over there, old man!”

After everyone finished making their rounds, the party migrated outside. Sitting around the fire, Eddie kept you planted in his lap, arms wrapped around you tight. While you’re talking, you realize that everyone had managed to flawlessly pull one over on you. Not a single person even gave you the slightest idea what was happening today. 

“You don’t remember us looking at jewelry at the mall?” Nancy laughed. 

“Nance, that was like, what, 5 months ago?” You shook your head in disbelief, “I barely remember saying anything about what I like!”

“You didn’t have to,” she said with her arms crossed over her bump, “I just watched what you looked at, paid attention to what you scrunched up your nose to and what made your eyes go wide. Then, I reported back to Eddie and let him do the rest.” She nodded to Eddie, who looked bashful at the admission of his friend. 

“I picked it out on my own, though,” he said defensively. “Well, Lucas was there, but that was a coincidence.”

You just shook your head, leaning in to plant a kiss on his chapped lips. The whole night your head was swirling with excitement. There was the nagging voice in the back of your head reminding you what it was going to take for the two of you to make getting married possible, but you let yourself worry about that later. Tonight was about you and Eddie, and you made sure to let him know how much you were grateful for him.

“Ooooooh god —SHIT, fuck babe that mouth is-“

Pulling off of him with a pop, you roll your hand around his head and lick from base to tip, making his whole body shudder above you. His grip on your head only gets tighter as you let him sink as far into your mouth as you can handle. Taking his hands in yours, you place them on the side of your head, and when you look up into his eyes you can see his pupils swallow up the remaining brown, leaving two black orbs looking down at you. 

Everything with Eddie was so different, but the sex was on a completely different level for you. With him, sex didn’t feel calculated or like a chore. He was so giving all of the time, which took a while for you to get used to when you had gone so long measuring your worth based on being a pleaser. Once when Eddie ate you out and came in his pants, he was embarrassed, sure, but you had almost cried because you didn’t feel like you had deserved how good he made you feel. He wasn’t having that, though, making sure to let you know at every opportunity he could that just being with you was enough for him. 

“Fuuuuuuuck baby~ God your pretty mouth feels amazing,” he pushes himself all the way to the back of your throat, holding it for a moment. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. His hands shift, one settling under your chin and the other gripping the top of your head. He slowly eased out, letting you take no more than a second to breathe before he starts bullying your throat again.

Drool is dripping down your chin, cheeks hollowing around him as he trusts. He uses his grip to pull you forward gently, bending you at the waist. Fully nestled in your throat again, Eddie bends down to grab a handful of your ass, smacking it to watch the recoil. You moan at the feeling, and his cock twitches in response. 

“Alright, gotta get you up here now or else I’m gonna bust,” he says as he pulls out of you abruptly, lifting you up from under your arms and tossing you into the bed. You eye him giddily as he tore the rest of his clothes off with reckless abandon, squealing when he pounces on you. Hot and heavy, his hands are all over your body, your fingers tangling in his grown out hair. You know what his next move is going to be, but before he can begin his descent you hold him in place. 

“Not, tonight” - kiss - “need you.” ne of your hands snakes down gripping his length, rubbing the tip against your aching clit, your body jumping at the feeling. His head rolls back, any protest dying on his tongue. 

“Shit, okay, anything you want, baby girl.” When he takes over for you, there’s a sudden tension as he lines himself with your entrance. He looks at you, and you look at him. Something about the heat of the moment that makes you want to give in to carnal desires, but before he can make a move you lean over, opening the drawer and pulling out the foil. You don’t miss the tight lipped smile he makes as you open it, but when your hands are on him as you slide the condom on, he seems to forget his qualms.

When he finally sinks into you, he doesn’t give you much warning before he’s going at the same brutal pace he had on your throat. “I’m never gonna get used to how good you feel,” the praises fall from his lips, each one stoking the flames inside you. Adding his thumb to your clit has you gasping, orgasm washing over you and leaving you seeing stars. 

The chorus of curses coming from Eddie paired with sloppy thrusts signaled his own release. He pulls out, throwing the condom away and flopping boneless beside you, face planting into the pillow. You laugh at his goofiness, still coming down from your own high with hearts in your eyes. Hearts for your fiancé. 

You sighed dreamily, taking one if his curls between your fingers, longer now in the year you’ve spent together. His head turned slightly, one eye peeking out looking at your hand. He stared for a moment, until he suddenly snapped his mouth at you, pretending to bite at your fingers. You pulled back your hand and burst into a fit of giggles. He took the opportunity to roll into you, acting like a monster and “attacking” your face with kisses.

“Stoooop you’re tickling me,” you say as you try to push him away. You have to pry his arms off of you so you can climb out of the bed, legs wobbling as you make your way to the bathroom. He reaches out to smack your ass as you do, you flip him off in return.

When you came back to the bedroom Eddie had his pajama pants back on, and was sitting up in the bed with a look on his face that made you worry.

“What’s wrong,” you question, his head snapping up to you like you’d scared him. He shook his head innocently.

“Nothing’s wrong, Sweetheart,” he stuck his arms out in your direction, making fun of the needy way you beckon him to bed most nights. You weren’t falling for it. 

“Edward James Munson, don’t lie to me,” your hands are on your hips, standing naked in the doorway. He gulps at the use of his full name. You’re not really sure how to decipher that reaction with the way his body straightened, but that’s something you’d save in your mind for later. 

“It’s nothing,” he exhales, shoulders falling, “I just figured, ya know, with us getting married now that we, I don’t know, we would maybe stop with the, uh, condoms…” His voice trails off at the end but you still heard him loud and clear. Grabbing Eddie’s shirt he had tossed aside at the beginning of the night, you climbed into the bed next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. He returned the sentiment, kissing your temple before placing his chin on top of your head. “I’m sorry, if it's not something you’re ready for-“

“No, you’re right,” you take his hand and squeeze, “I really only wanted to use them for precaution sake. Not that I thought you were dirty or anything. And I got tested after I found out Henry was cheating, so I knew I was clean, too. It’s — I just figured it was the right thing to do? Right?”

Eddie wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, I think you miss understood. I’m not offended that you want to use condoms, I promise. I was more so talking about…” he shifts a bit, “I meant like, you know, trying for a b-baby.”

A cold chill makes goosebumps rise on your skin. You knew it was coming, knew that you’d have to pull that pin, but you weren’t expecting it to be tonight, not so soon.  

Your silence makes Eddie even more nervous, “I mean, only if you want to have kids. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just, you know, with me turning thirty one, I thought that sooner would be better than later...” 

Eddie bringing up his age only reminded your own clock was ticking, too. But, even though your clock ticks, the hands don't move. 

It was something that you had to face by yourself for a long time, since Henry didn’t seem to feel the need to comfort you, rather ridicule you for your inability to do the “one thing you were meant to do” according to him. When you finally did get pregnant, only for it to end too soon, Henry only made you feel worse. 

After a while you convinced yourself to stop caring.

Now you feel like maybe it never happened for a reason, rationalizing that your body was just protecting you from being permanently attached to the bastard. Thinking that way helped heal some of the hurt, but deep down you knew something had to be wrong with you. 

“Eddie, why do you think Henry and I never had any kids?”

He stills for a moment, unable to see his face to gauge his emotions.  When he responds, his voice has a hint of uncertainty.

“Uh, I honestly didn’t really think about it. I try not to think about you with anyone else, like, ever if I’m being honest.” You gave him a slap on the leg, making him turn his lower half away from you playfully. “If I had to guess, it’s got something to do with him. You like kids way too much for it to have been a you problem.”

Your lip wobbles, because he’s not wrong. You became a teacher for a reason, and you’ve enjoyed the times you’ve gotten to spend with your nephews and Nancy’s daughter. It only makes the lump in your throat feel thicker when you realize you have to say the next words out loud. 

“Eddie,” his name comes out strained, “I don’t think I can have kids.”

And then the dam breaks. Sobs wrack your body, both with tears of sorrow and a sense of catharsis as you can finally come to terms with what you’ve been harboring inside for so long. But the tears aren’t all for you, but for Eddie, too. Tears of guilt, knowing that you were broken, hoping that maybe he didn’t want kids and it would be a non-issue. But that’s not fair. You should have brought it up sooner. Would he even want to be with you if you couldn’t have his kids? Would he just look for someone else, too?

Eddie is immediately in comfort mode, pulling you into him more as he lets you cling to him, chest wetting with the tears falling from your eyes. He doesn’t push you to stop, just rocks with you as you let out your grief. 

When you finally start to calm down, he’s pulling you away so he can look at you, thumbs wiping away the tears that still sit on your cheeks. He tells you to take some deep breaths, feeling better once you do. 

“I hope those tears aren't from you thinking I’d be upset or something,” he said, eyes flickering back and forth between yours. “Because I’m not, and I hope I didn’t come off that way-“

“No! God, no Eddie,” you say shaking your head, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, “no, I just, I mean— I want to be able to give you kids, if you want them. Really bad, actually. But it’s not a matter of wanting, it’s a literal “I don’t think I can” thing. I only ever got pregnant one time our entire marriage and I ended up miscarrying…“

“Oh my god, that’s terrible,” his big eyes are filled with sympathy for you. “Nance and Jonathan had one a couple months before she got pregnant with Ellie. Nancy was a wreck, and I should have been there for her. But it happened the same week as Wayne’s heart attack, and I couldn’t leave him. It was a cluster fuck of a week.”

You were shocked to hear about Nancy. You’d become pretty close in the last year but she’d never brought it up before. Not that you’d ever mentioned yours to her, either, but you’d never have guessed. Her daughter, Elanor, had become your little buddy at the Harrington get togethers when everyone was drunk, finding a 4 year old to be more entertaining than a slew of belligerent adults.

“But, uh, you did say you got pregnant, right?” He asked with a smile. You nod. “See, that’s a good sign then. It can still happen. Maybe you're only compatible with Munson DNA.” 

His optimism wraps around you like a blanket, and for the moment you let yourself believe he might be right. Even if it’s going to hurt in the future. 

“So, you’re not going to leave if I can’t have a baby…” You don’t make eye contact with him as you say it. He grabs your chin, lifting your head to make you look at him in the eyes. 

“Hey, I’d be happy to get a pet rock with you if that’s what you want. We could try and raise some house plants together, but I’m telling you now that when I tried to grow my own weed it didn’t work out well.”

You slide down the bed with a groan, unable to hide the way Eddie’s words have affected you. It felt like a weight had been lifted off of your chest. To finally get it out there, and feeling confident enough to believe Eddie’s words that he wants to stay with you anyway is an indescribable relief. 

He leans over to smother you with kisses again before sliding down himself, pulling you into him once more. 

September 14th, 1996

Of all days, it would rain today. 

Almost a month ago you had Henry served with divorce papers. You’d taken care of everything, making sure all he had to do was sign. You foolishly assumed that it would be something he’d be on top of, considering it’s been over two years since you’ve been separated. Meaning it's been two years since him and the girl he cheated on you with became official. He married you pretty quickly, and you’d figured he would want to do the same to her before she could get wise and leave.

But, here you are. Knocking on your old front door in the rain to confront your husband on why he insists on making things more difficult for you. 

“Coming!” You hear a chipper voice call from inside. You roll your eyes, because of course she has to be here, too. The door swings open, and her face lights up with excitement when she sees you. 

“Oh my gosh, hi!” She squeals, stepping aside to let you in. 

“Hello, Missy.” You were trying to avoid looking at her, the sound of her voice was enough to grate at your eardrums. But when she stepped to the side, your eyes were immediately drawn to the large bump under her sweater. You just stared at her, unmoving, unsure how to process what you’re feeling in the moment. 

“Who’s at the door, dear?” 

You hear his voice call from another part of the house. It snaps you out of your trance, the anger you were trying to keep at bay boiling up again. You walk inside, heading into the kitchen, leaving Missy to follow behind you. 

“Henry,” you cross your arms as you stand in the entryway of the kitchen. Henry’s head snaps up from the book he’s reading, eyes wide when he sees you, wearing the same face as the day you confronted him about his infidelity. 

“Ah, what a surprise,” he tries to recover, putting on the mask of arrogance he always wears. “How nice of you to stop by.”

You roll your eyes at his faux pleasantries, maintaining your stance in the doorway. “I’m sure you know why I’m here,” you cut to the chase, not wanting to draw this out any more than necessary. 

“Are you here for lunch? I just got breakfast put away so you may have to wait a little while, but I’m making chicken salad!” Missy walks past you, grabbing Henry’s mug and refilling it with coffee. It makes your skin crawl as you watch. She brings the cup back to him, something that you’ve done many times over, now the thought only makes you cringe. 

“Darling, why don’t you go rest your feet? I’m sure your stories should be on soon,” Henry kisses her hand. Missy nods excitedly, leaving the room with a wave to you as she does. As soon as she’s gone, the air in the room is sucked away with her. The facade has fallen, Henry’s face morphing into an all too familiar scowl. 

“I’m assuming you’re here because of the paperwork you so graciously had served to me,” he stands from his seat at the table, moving around to walk towards you slowly. 

“Your assumption would be correct.” 

He peered down at you, blue eyes darkening from the shadow of the bridge of his brow. The intensity of his stare almost made you falter, but you’d been practicing for this, in case he tried to size you up like he’d done for years. You doubled down, remaining still as stone even when he’s only mere inches away. You weren’t afraid of his disappointment anymore.

His lips curled into a smile when he noticed you weren’t folding, nodding his head with a small “hmph.” 

“You never returned my call, you know.” Your eyes rolled at his dismissiveness. Huffing out a sigh, you decided to at least entertain him a little bit. He was only going to keep on with this if you didn’t.

“Didn’t have anything to say,” you shrug. 

He takes a step back with a slight bow, looking towards the ground, “I see. Was there perhaps a reason why?” He straightens up again, the corners of his lips pulling into a tight grin, “Too busy with another man’s dick down your throat to try and work it out with your husband, perhaps?”

You reel back, completely put off guard by his words. 

“And a felon’s at that? Honey,” his tone is condescending, and you feel your fortitude slipping, “you know if you were that desperate you should have just come home.” 

Your blood runs hot with every word he speaks. “But I guess you felt the need to prove something to me, or yourself. Doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that I’m not going to be signing those papers.”

Your hands shook, balled at fists by your side. You wanted to swing one, punch him right in his pathetic face and give him a taste of his own medicine. But you couldn’t, you knew that’s exactly what he wanted. And you couldn’t risk the cops showing up with Eddie outside waiting in your car. Henry would absolutely try and pin it on him to get him back in jail. All just to spite you.

Taking a deep breath in, you straighten up, giving him a smug look as you lean against the door frame. “That’s fine, you don’t have to sign them. But, and you may want to listen very carefully to me when I say this. I’m going to make your life a living hell if you don’t.”

The devilish smile on his face drops in an instant, morphing into a sneer. 

“If you actually read the paper in full, which you clearly haven’t,” you see his eyes dart to the side to an envelope on the counter, likely the one he was served with, “I stated in my filing that the divorce was mutual. That I wanted nothing from you, and if there was no issue with you signing, then we could both walk away from each other with our dignity. But,” you raise your brows, lips tugging into a forced frown, “if you want to play this game, then let's play. The divorce is going to go through anyway, and I’m sure you know that. You also probably know that adultery doesn’t have much leverage in the state of Indiana. But…”

“But?” 

You wonder if it’s the tone that you’re speaking to him in, or if it’s the fact that you’re standing up to him for the first time in your entire marriage that’s making him fume to the point he’s speaking only through gritted teeth.

“But, it doesn’t look very good when you’re using our combined finances to pay for the two of you to go to,” you use your fingers to count as you talk, “Hawaii, Italy, Mexico, which I heard really nice things about the resort the two of you went to. Um, where else, Cancun I think? You also shouldn’t have used the bank account to buy her nice new car that’s parked out in the driveway, which you put in her name for some stupid reason. Didn’t think about that because you paid in full for it, did you? You also probably didn’t know that I still have the ability to ask for the statements for that account even though you closed it. That’s okay, I didn’t know either, but my lawyer is really good and gave me that little tip.”

If it were humanly possible, you know steam would be rolling out of his ears. You’ve never seen rage on him like this, and a couple years ago it would have scared the shit out of you. But you had the upper hand for once in this exhausting marriage, and you weren’t going to let up.

“That’s an awful lot of money that went towards your adultery, isn’t it? And you’d have to pay all of that back to me, on top of at least fifty percent of your liquid assets. Maybe more if I felt like telling them you kicked me to the curb to live in an apartment in the middle of the year when I wasn’t working. So, go head, don’t sign the papers. The person that the dick that you’re so concerned about me having down my throat is attached to and I are going to start looking for houses soon, and it would be amazing to pay cash for one. Hopefully you’d still have enough money to pay all your bills and raise a new baby, but that’s not really my problem.”

In an instant he’s backing you into the wall next to the entryway. It happened so fast you didn’t have time to react, only watching as his fist began to rear back. A million scenarios run through your head in the seconds you brace yourself for impact. Funny enough, you’re more worried about Eddie. Because if you walk out of here with a black eye, you know there’s a possibility he’s going to jail for murder. Fully admitting to it, too.

It’s like slow motion as you watch his hand begin its descent towards you. Remembering what you read in a self defense book, you put your tongue at the roof of your mouth and clenched your teeth. Holding your breath, you wait.

But the blow doesn’t come.

“Henry!” you hear Missy’s sing song voice shout from your-- their bedroom. When you open your eyes, you see Henry frozen in place, crazed look in his eyes as his fist hovers next to his head. Your body tells you to move, in case he changes his mind. Run. Run. Run. 

But you’re more afraid of what he might do to her if you do. 

“Henry?” Her voice is closer now, and Henry jumps back. His eyes are on the hallway entrance as Missy waddles back into the kitchen.

“Oh, good you’re still here! I wanted to give you this,” she makes her way over to you, handing you a small envelope with your name on it in her handwriting.

“It’s an invitation!” she exclaims, waiting for you to take it. You stand there for a second, looking at Henry, whose face is unreadable at the moment, and then looking back to Missy. After a beat, you slowly take the envelope out of her hand. She claps excitedly when you do.

“Darling,” Henry’s tone is cautious as he addresses Missy. It reminds you of a zoo keeper approaching a lion in its cage. “That might not be a good idea.”

Her head tilts when she looks at him. “Why? You told me to invite whoever I wanted to the shower, Henry. I want her to come!”

What?

You open the little envelope, because there’s no way, right? This bitch didn’t just hand you an invitation to the baby shower for the baby of the man you’re still legally married to. Like you know she’s not the brightest, but this…

You bust out laughing as you read the card.

“This is a joke right? You’re just fucking with me to get a rise out of me, right,” you look at her incredulously.

“Huh? What do you mean,” she looks genuinely confused. It only makes you feel worse because she’s dead serious, and your hatred starts to morph into concern. Henry takes slow strides towards her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. The delicacy in his movements is something foreign for him, at least to your eyes. 

“Missy, dear, it’s not… not in good taste to invite her.” The way he speaks to her is not what you imagined. You were expecting him to talk to her like a child, slow and condescending like he tried to do with you. But he didn’t.

“In good taste? Henry, you told me I should try and make more friends. So I’m trying to make friends. I know she’s a lot older than me, but you and me get along even though you’re almost my dad’s age.”

Every word out of her mouth gave you whiplash, like being on a rollercoaster. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this point, so you decided it would be best to just leave.

“Um, I will…let you know if I can go…later,” you start to back out of the kitchen, “I should probably go now, though. So, um, Henry,” He looks over to you out of the corner of his eye. You were expecting disgust as he looked at you, but instead he seemed…dejected? 

“I’m assuming that we’ve come to an understanding?”

He’s still for a moment, his eyes drifting back to Missy, “I’ll have everything taken care of tomorrow.”

Relief washed over you, your body easing up after all that had transpired. You gave him a curt nod, then turned on your heels and booked it towards the door. 

Just as you were turning the handle, you hear Missy call your name. She hobbles her way to you, and you try not to cringe as she opens her arms to you.

“Thank you for coming by today!” She wraps her arms around you. You let her get it out of her system. “Feel free to come over any time. Henry told me I don’t have to work anymore, so I have a lot of free time if you ever wanna hang out. Oh, would you wanna go with me to look at baby clothes? There’s a store at the mall I’ve been wanting to go to but haven’t had the chance to go yet.”

Every fiber in your being wants to tell her to fuck off, but you just feel sympathy for her instead. At least you have friends. You know Nancy, Robin, Max-- shit, even Steve would be begging you to take him shopping for baby stuff if you and Eddie ever have a baby. 

This whole situation feels like a sick joke to test you. Is this what you had to deal with just to have the happy life you wanted?

“I--Missy, mmm,” you’re battling yourself as you speak, brain exhausted from the last hour, “Missy, you don’t have any family that can go with you? Friends?”

“I have family, yeah, but all my siblings are younger. My mom died a couple years ago, so I basically had to raise my siblings myself while my dad worked all the time,” she said the last part came out with mere annoyance. As if being forced to raise your siblings wasn’t something that could be extremely traumatizing for a person. “And my friends are all way smarter than me, so they went to college in other states. I miss them a lot, but most of them don’t call me anymore. Actually, none of them call me…”

Fuck.

“Okay, you know what, fine. I’ll do it,” you spit out, feeling disappointed in yourself for caving in to her sob story, “I’ll go with you. I have some friends, one of them who has a kid on the way, too, who could probably help you. I’ll, um, talk to them and give you a call.”

She’s quiet for a moment, until she suddenly bursts into tears. You panic, not sure what you said wrong, until she trusts herself onto you again, hard belly pressing into yours as she hugs you. Her tears wet the corner of your shirt, and you pat her on the back. Looking up, you see Henry watching the interaction from down the hall. He shakes his head before going back into the kitchen.

“Oh, thank god,” Eddie yells from the car, pacing on the grass next to the sidewalk with a cigarette in his mouth, “I was about to call Hopper if you didn’t come out in the next ten minutes.”

You didn’t say anything, still trying to process everything that just transpired. You get a sick feeling in your stomach when you think about it too hard, so you just let yourself fall into Eddie, burying your face in his chest. Tossing his cigarette since he knows you don’t like the smell of the smoke, he wraps you up tight, kissing the top of your head. 

“Do we need to stop at the store for some treats on the way home? I’ll get your favorites,” his words wash over you like a waterfall of comfort, “And we can stop and get a couple movies. Maybe bother Robin and El for a little bit while they work?”

You smile against Eddie’s chest, remembering that everything you’re doing was because of him. When you look up at him, he wastes no time smooching you all over your face. He lets you vent to him in the car, not interrupting as you give him the play by play. You leave out the near miss with Henry, not wanting to stress Eddie out more. He already hated Henry enough as it is.

“Are you actually gonna take her to the mall,” Eddie looks at you with an open mouth smile, the whole situation with Missy just tickling him as you go on.

“Ugh, I feel like I should. I don’t know,” you groan, “What do you think?”

“Well, I want to say that you’re being too nice to the girl who was the downfall to your marriage. But,” he crosses his arms with a shrug, “I’m on her team because she’s technically the reason we’re together. Don’t do anything that would make you uncomfortable, but if you think it’s something that you can handle, go for it.”

Tears soak the front of your shirt as it covers your face, your body shaking silently as you lay curled into a ball on the couch. Eddie had fallen asleep hours ago, but you couldn’t. You were in your head, dissecting everything about your interaction with Henry. It all started when you started to feel guilt for leaving Missy there, knowing that Henry could be violent if he wanted to. But then you started thinking about how he acted around her. The softness in his touch, his gentle voice. He wasn’t even that sweet with you in the beginning of your relationship. 

The fact that he told her to make friends after convincing you to push all your friends away really got to you. Because he knew that if you told your friends the things he did to you that they would tell you to leave him. But he was encouraging her to make friends. Was he not abusing her like he did you? It didn’t seem like it. Missy might not be the brightest, but she also doesn’t seem like the type to not let it slip if Henry were to do something to her. 

But then you have to ask why is it different with her? Why did you never get his soft touch, his gentle voice? Was it just because she was pregnant? Did he even love you? 

“Sweetheart?”

Eddie’s voice startled you. The click of the lamp had you rushing to wipe away any evidence of your crying, but the sting of the fabric against your swollen eyes only confirmed that you were a mess. Eddie drops to his knees in front of the couch, face level with yours so you can see the way his eyebrows are pinched with concern.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, princess?” His hand caresses your cheek, thumb wiping away any straggling tears. You take a deep breath in, trying to regain your composure, but when you think about speaking your thoughts out loud your throat goes dry. The sadness bubbles up again, you can feel the damn ready to break the longer he looks at you with those big, brown sympathetic eyes. 

Without a word you watch through clouded vision as Eddie stands and walks back down the hall.

Oh, no. This is it. 

He’s finally realized that you have too much baggage. That he’s made a mistake and he’s gone to pack his bags to leave. He’ll tell you he’s going to Steve’s to let you cool off, and then he’ll call the next day and say that things aren’t going to work out after all.

And you wouldn’t blame him. You knew that there was no way someone as broken and unlovable as you would ever deserve someone like him. You should have told him no when he asked you to marry him. It’s for the best-

“Are you able to get up?” 

You blink away tears. You hadn’t even noticed that Eddie had walked back into the room. When you don’t respond after a moment, you feel his arms slip under your knees and shoulders, hoisting you up and pulling you into him. The sound of water running gets louder as he takes you down the hall, and when he pushes the bathroom door open with his foot, you realize that he’s filling up the bathtub, the only light coming from two candles sitting on the inner edge of the tub. He lowers you down, sitting you on the edge of the tub so he can test the temperature of the water with his hand.

“Is it okay if I undress you?” He asks as he wipes his hand off on the towel he’s set aside for you. You nod, still in a bit of shock at the tenderness he’s giving you. In the back of your mind you know that you shouldn’t be, that this is absolutely something he would do for you. But you’re still in the headspace that you’d learn to escape to when you were with Henry. You can’t comprehend being deserving of his kindness.

Every touch and manipulation of your body as he undresses you feels like he’s taking another layer from your body. Layers of guilt, shame, self hatred. Peeling away the last bit of shed that stuck to you from the bad conditions of the habitat you lived in for almost 10 years. He takes his hand in yours, admiring your ring, your new ring, that he gave you as a promise to love you for the rest of his life. A promise that you’ve heard before, but you wanted nothing more for it to be real this time. 

“Will you get in with me?” You don’t look at him, eyes on his hand that holds yours. But you hear him grin, a hum of satisfaction as he stands. 

“God, I thought you’d never ask,” he says as he pulls off his clothes with haste. You can’t help but giggle as he struggles getting his foot out of the leg of his sweatpants. His face lights up at the sounds of your laughter. He bends down to give you a kiss, soft and sweet, taking that last bit of sadness with him when he parts. 

November 10th, 1996

“Dustin’s house is in this neighborhood,” Eddie says as you drive slowly down the street, the both of you keeping an eye out for a “For Sale” sign. The realtor you’d been working with called you at six in the morning that day to tell you that this house had just gone on sale and it was yours and Eddie’s dream house. She had said the same thing about the 3 other houses she’d shown you, but to her defense you were being extremely picky. After being the only one to clean the house for as long as you did, you knew what was easy to maintain and what you absolutely weren’t willing to deal with. Eddie thankfully was on the same page after making it his responsibility to keep the 4 bedroom, 6 bathroom Harrington house in ship shape for the entire year he had lived there. So a single level home with at least 3 bedrooms was enough for the both of you.

“Awe, it would be nice to live close by for when he comes home to visit,” you’re taking in the other houses in the neighborhood as Eddie drives, trying to gather ideas for how you might decorate the front of your future home. 

“Being closer to Claudia would be nice, too,” he says as you slow to a stop at an intersection, “It would be easier to just walk to her house to mow the lawn instead of running across town.”

Driving a few more blocks down, the sale sign finally comes into view, your realtor’s minivan that you’ve come to recognize over the last month parked in the driveway. You pull in next to it, and immediately you’re happy to see a two car garage. The house looks promising from the outside, too. Dark brick, a small covered porch that could fit two chairs, a decent front yard with some space where you can plant some flowers; you could feel yourself getting excited and you hadn’t even left the car yet. Eddie opened your door, giving you a look as he holds his hand out for you to take it.

“What,” you match your smile to his, “why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he keeps your hand in his as you close the car door.

“Whatever, Munson,” you tease, the two of you walking to the doorway of the house.

The door opens before you can even knock, Chrissy standing on the other side of the exterior glass door. You can tell by the look on her face that she’s very excited to show you the house, hands on her belly bump as she shuffles back and forth giddily. 

“Come in, come in,” she squeals as she pushes the door open, stepping to the side for Eddie and you to enter. “I watched you from the window and I can already tell this is the one. As soon as I saw the porch I knew you’d love it. But once I got to look around in here, I’m willing to bet you’re going to want to put an offer in.”

From what you can see from the doorway you were already impressed. The open concept living room and dining room was just big enough that you wouldn’t feel cramped, but not too big that you would hate to clean it. The large window brought in lots of light, making you think back to Eddie’s comment about house plants. Maybe it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.

As she showed you around the house more, you were checking off things on your list of needs at every turn. Three spacious bedrooms, master bathroom and a walk in closet, kitchen with an island. The backyard was even fenced in, and you were already mentally mapping how you would set up a garden. Everything was perfect for you, and the look on Eddie’s face makes you think it’s perfect for him, too.

“So,” Chrissy places elbows on the counter, looking at the both of you with big, blue eyes, “Are we putting the offer in today or what?”

Eddie looks at you with wide eyes and a toothy grin, his hand gives yours a squeeze. Your heart flutters at his eagerness. The three of you talk about putting in an offer. Of course there had to be a catch, which was the asking price being ten thousand more than your budget, but Chrissy said that the owners were out of state and just trying to get rid of the property so they didn’t have to keep maintaining it. After deciding on a price, you and Eddie go out to Benny’s afterwards to celebrate.

“Eddie, the house isn’t even ours yet,” you say as you listen to him go on about turning the garage into his music area for him and the boys to play.

“Yet,” he emphasizes, “I bet we’ll be in there before Christmas. Shit, maybe before Thanksgiving if they’ll let us. Not like they need to get anything out of there.”

“We’d still need to get furniture,” you’re trying to play devil’s advocate, mostly to keep from getting your hopes up.

“We can get furniture. And it’s not like you don’t have the essentials at the apartment. We don’t have to make everything perfect on day one.”

“Ugh, I hate when you’re right,” you lean back in your seat, failing at keeping your excitement at bay. “It’s a good thing we ran into Chrissy and James at the mall.”

“Jason,” he corrects as he shovels fries in his mouth, “and me, too. Didn’t think I’d ever be happy to run into Jason Carver again, but I guess fatherhood can change a man.”

“Or, maybe you were both just stupid teenagers back then, and now you’re in your thirties and more mature.”

“You callin’ me old, Mrs. Munson?” The two of you have only been engaged for four months but that didn’t stop him from thinking you were already his wife.

“So old,” you say sarcastically, “That’s why I’m only marrying you for your money.”

“I knew it,” he dropped his fork on the table, over exaggerating his reaction as he feigned outrage.

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” you grin, “There is another thing I’m marrying you for.” You look at him through your lashes, biting your bottom lip. He drops his act when he understands what you’re getting at, leaning in close to you over the table.

“Just so you know, I thought about how I was going to fuck you in every room of that house.”

You felt heat rush immediately to your cheeks, shifting in your seat slightly. 

“I’m having a hard time imagining it, maybe you need to show me what exactly you’d do to me.”

And show you he did.

November 27th, 1996

Eddie thrusts into you from behind, his weight against your back as he presses you into the mattress beneath him. You were still coming down from your own orgasm just moments before when his movements began to falter. His moans in your ear are accompanied with the feeling of his cum filling you up inside for the third time tonight.

Thank god you have the next five days off for Thanksgiving break. There were still piles of boxes to unpack in your new home, but Eddie was determined to christen every room in the house and you were sure you’d need a few days to recover at the rate he was going, jumping you as soon as Steve and Robin left. 

He pulls out of you with a hiss. Hands still on your ass, he watches his cum begin to dribble out of you. “Can’t have that,” he chuckles, and you feel his thumb push the spend back into you, making you shutter. 

“Eddie,” you say with warning before he got any ideas. His thumb leaves you, but he gives your ass a smack before jumping off the bed. You’re envious of the stamina he has. 

He returns from the kitchen with a drink for you, laughing at the position you’ve put yourself in.

“Hey, Chrissy said it works,” you say with your pillow propped under your ass and your feet crossed pointing towards the ceiling, “and they’re about to have their fifth kid so I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he sets the glass on your bedside table next to a half unpacked box that he had distracted you in the middle of unpacking,“I’m not gonna argue with that. You want me to hold your legs for you, Mrs. Munson?”

“No, thank you,” you pat his side of the bed, “Just want you to lay with me, please.”

He trots to his side of the bed, plopping next to you on the mattress. He gives you a quick peck on the cheek before he mirrors you, crossing his legs and pointing them towards the ceiling.

“Alright, how long do we have to do this for?”

You roll your eyes at him, “At least 20 minutes.”

“Jesus Christ, 20 minutes? I’m already feeling the burn over here,” he puts his hands behind his thighs, determined to wait it out with you.

The two of you finally get settled under the covers, Eddie’s arms wrapped around you, his hands rubbing circles into your back. You bury your head in his chest to block the moonlight bleeding between the blinds, regretting not putting up the blinds before Eddie got to you. The up and down of his chest as he breathes is making your eyes feel heavy, sleep begins to take over you. 

“I love you.” 

His voice was low, quiet. Just for you to hear. 

You knew he meant it. Because he’s shown you his soft voice. His gentle touch. He’s shown you what love is supposed to feel like, not what you’ve been conditioned to believe it is. Every kiss on your face when you’re anxious and every sweet caress of your body when you’re writhing under him. Every fight that has had the both of you steaming where he puts your hand in his because he doesn’t want to go to bed mad. The way he talks about your future, where the both of you have grey in your hair and his mind wanders, only remembering your face

“I love you, too.”

[callme-holly]

hiii! can you do either 47 (touching their elbow to get their attention) or 22 (falling asleep on the other’s shoulder) with Darry please! :D

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 [𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - it's been so long since i've written sorry y'all. school has been crazy busy and i saw grease two days in a row so i've had literally no time to write. I'm still trying to get through requests.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 791 words

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - none

Sunlight streams in through the open kitchen window, bathing the tile in a soft golden hue and casting long shadows across the floor. The radio plays quietly in the background, whatever station is being broadcast lost to the loud thrum of chatter filling the Curtis home, voices blending together to create an indistinct buzz of noise. 

Darry stands at the stove, his back turned to you as he cooks up breakfast for everyone, bacon sizzling on the pan, the smell permeating the room, bringing with it the sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken a little while earlier, and even through the fabric of his shirt, you can see just how tense his shoulders are. 

You don’t have to ask to know that he’s stressed, the way his jaw clenches a tell-tale sign in itself, as well as the way his brow creases everyime someone laughs or shouts a little louder than he’d like for 8 in the morning.

He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, which probably has something to do with the steadily increasing stack of bills on the coffee table and the fact he doesn’t slip into bed beside you until late at night, once the boys are both asleep and the house has been tidied the best he can manage in his sleep deprived state. 

You’re yet to mention it, knowing full well that he’ll give you the same answer he always does; a quick “i’m fine, darlin’, stop worrying so much” before returning to whatever chore it is he happens to be working on. You'd be lying if you said you weren't worried about him. 

A soft sigh slips past your lips, heard only by you as the song on the radio fades into another commercial break. It's one of those stations, you note with a sense of exasperation, that seems to play more advertisements than music. 

Someone lets out a particularly loud laugh from the living room and Darry’s entire body stiffens momentarily at their volume. He exhales heavily through his nose, turning off the heat under the frying pan and taking a moment to lean against the counter top, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to drown out the sound. 

Your heart twinges in your chest, sympathy washing over you at the sight, and you reach out a tentative hand, brushing against his forearm with a featherlight touch, hoping to catch his attention. 

“You okay?” You ask softly, voice barely above a murmur despite the volume of the house around you. Darry glances back towards you briefly, a small smile crossing his lips at the sight of your concerned expression, before he turns back to face the food on the stove.

“I'm fine,” He replies shortly, pulling away from you and moving to gather up enough plates for the group of boys in the living room. “Just tired.” 

But, you don't believe him. Not for one second. It isn't just the exhaustion that keeps him tense, but something else entirely. And as he sets down the last plate on the table and goes to call everyone in to eat, you find yourself moving to stand in front of him, taking his face in your hands and forcing him to look down at you.

His blue eyes meet yours, unseeing in their focus as he struggles to keep the unbothered façade up. But you’re no stranger to that sort of reaction from him—you’ve seen that same look many times in the last few weeks, though it never lasts. 

“Let me worry about the bills this month.” Your words come out more sternly than you intended them to, but they seem to get through to Darry all the same. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he shakes his head quickly. 

“No. I can take care of it myself. You don’t need to–”

“But I want to,” You reply sharply, cutting him off before he can make any further protest. “I want to help you, Darry. Please?"  He opens his mouth to speak again, before hesitating , seemingly torn between arguing with you over his financial burden and trusting in your ability to handle such a responsibility. Eventually, his face settles into something resembling resignation. 

“Okay,” He mutters, giving in after only a brief bout of silent deliberation. "alright... just this once." 

Your smile grows wider, and you press a light kiss to his lips. you know he probably isn't thrilled at the idea of relying on you in this situation. he never likes relying on others  for anything, let alone this kind of thing, but you're not going anywhere anytime soon and he knows you'll probably help him regardless of what he says. you're both stubborn like that.

[sugrhigh]

BOY NEXT DOOR - ( c.s )

part two

summary- you and your roommates live beside a bunch of senior hockey players, one of them being the infamous team captain chris sturniolo. he’s effortlessly flirty and undeniably attractive, but he’s also a pain in your ass. you find that you have to fight between lust and hatred as you finally get to know the boy next door, whether you want to or not.

warnings- swearing, drinking, no smut (yet 😁)

neighbor/hockey!chris x fem!reader

a/n: WELCOME TO MY FIRST REAL SERIES! i have a lot of ideas for this cuz i love this trope dearly so buckle up! more parts will come soon. also working on a tattooartist!reader x matt series (thank you anons) that will also be out eventually. in the mean time if you have smaller/specific reqs you’d like to see, my inbox is open babies! and if u just wanna say hello or ask a question i’m here xoxo

the music booms over the speakers inside the house next door, just like it always does on the weekends (and occasionally on thursdays too). it always drives you up a wall, but tonight it’s particularly bad.

you sit up slightly in bed, absentmindedly wondering who the fuck is on aux. you’re not sure why the thought crosses your mind, but you know it’s not chris, because these picks are horrendous.

it’s already past two in the morning, not to mention it’s the middle of the week. you haven’t been able to get a wink of rest, even with your headphones blaring at full volume. usually they do the trick, but tonight’s party is relentless, demanding to be heard.

wine wednesday, you think to yourself sourly.

neither of your roommates are home; they’re both off with their significant others, somewhere that’s not here, listening to fuckface and his friends get drunk.

you’re usually pretty passive about the noise, because they provide free alcohol for you guys when you show up and typically give you notice that they’re throwing something.

but tonight it’s just too fucking much. you’re tired, and groggy, and very much so still in your silky pajama bottoms and oversized t-shirt, but you don’t give a shit.

you jam your feet into some sneakers and grab a jacket, clutching it close to your chest as you head down the stairs to the main level of your own house.

you pass the dark living room, shadows leering in the corners as you’re guided only by the light coming from the street lamps outside.

you step onto the porch and the cold smacks you in the face, breath fogging up the air. it’s the middle of january in boston, and the expanse of dead grass between your houses crunches under your feet as you tread toward the front door.

the rest of the street is quiet, aside from the party. but they’re all senior hockey players, and it’s the beginning of their last semester, so what else can you expect?

besides maybe some basic human decency every once in a while. in fact, you’re so frustrated that you’re going in without backup, and without a real plan of any kind.

for some reason, once you get up the three steps to their door, you pause to knock. as if anyone would hear you over the music, or care enough to open the door for someone who’s fucking knocking.

so you twist the handle next, and it’s unlocked. of course.

it opens to a hazey front hallway that you recognize, stairs to the left hand side, blocked off by a young-looking guy you assume is probably a freshman on duty.

the front area is full of people, pressed against the walls, chatting over the music. well, more like yelling over it.

you can smell weed, which confuses you slightly. you know none of them smoke, not during the season at least. they usually don’t let anyone do it inside the house, so it must be an allowance for a girl.

you’re already getting strange looks as you step inside, which is fair. your shorts are hidden by the length of your shirt and jacket, so you’re just legs and shoes. you’ve got no makeup on, and you didn’t check your hair before you came.

but you swallow the lump in your throat, because it doesn’t matter right now anyways.

you shift your way through the crowd, gaze skipping over the people as you finally reach the dark living room. multi-colored strobes flash, lighting up the hoards of tipsy college kids dancing on the soaked wooden floor. furniture is pushed aside to make room, though the championship banner from last year still hangs on the wall.

his eyes find you before yours find him.

he stares at you across the tops of people's heads, standing by one of the couches that’s shoved against the wall. one of his roommates, connor, is leaned back on the cushions, watching the two girls they were talking to pass a joint back and forth.

but he’s no longer focused on anyone else, because he’s spotted you across the room, and he thinks this is the most disheveled he’s ever seen you. your angry eyes lock in on him seconds later, and they narrow instantly.

you beeline toward him, right through a group of people that are half-dancing along to the terrible playlist.

he lifts his eyebrows at your attitude, but not in fear. he’s actually a little impressed. his friends are watching you warily, just as confused as everyone else who saw you walk in.

he can’t help but stare at your legs as you finally reach him, admiring how cute you look in your pajamas, pale pink bottoms peeking out underneath your shirt with every step. he briefly wonders if you’re even wearing a bra.

then you open your mouth, and the fantasy is over.

“what time is it, chris?” you snap at him, one hand balled into a fist, the other clutching your phone.

“i don’t know, but i have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” he takes a sip of his drink to try and hide his grin.

it takes a lot of self control to keep yourself from slapping it out of his fucking hand, just because of how smug he looks. you hold up the screen to his face.

two twenty-two in the morning. chris almost laughs.

“the answer is way too fucking late to be having a party on a wednesday.” you reply, bringing the device back down to rest by your thigh.

“why didn’t you come? i missed you.” he pouts.

you glance over at the people on the couch, at the girls who are still making eyes at you as they converse with connor. he’s giving you a weird look too, as if no one could possibly understand why you’re here like this.

“yeah, sure you did,” you turn back to him, “now shut this shit down before i call the cops.”

chris puts his hands up in surrender, though he knows this is an empty threat just as much as you do.

“wow, somebody’s grumpy.”

you roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest self-consciously. “i’m serious. tell the puck bunnies to go home for the night or i’ll do it myself.”

he takes a tiny step closer, just a few inches, and yet it still seems suffocating. he looks too good, clad in a simple black tee and jeans, and he’s studying your face with the fire of a thousand suns.

“you don’t have to be jealous because other girls are here. you know you’re my number one.” chris replies easily.

even though his tone remains light, his expression is serious now. it enrages you more, that he thinks he has so much control over you.

“as if i give a fuck. i just want to sleep, so the choice is yours. police,” you wave the hand that holds your phone slightly, “or call it off.”

chris takes another sip of his drink, tipping it back so he can finish the rest of it in one foul swoop. then he nods his head, like he’s admitting defeat.

“fine. i’ll send everyone home.”

you can feel the relief creeping over you, knowing that you don’t have to actually get law enforcement involved. “thank yo—”

“on one condition.” he interrupts, and you furrow your brows.

“no conditions, chris. we’re not bartering right now.”

“come to the game on friday and we can hang out after for a bit. i’ll even give you a practice jersey to wear.” he offers, and the trademark smirk has reappeared on his face.

lights dance across his features, morphing his expression every few seconds. you just stare, because for once, you’re actually not sure what game he’s playing.

“what, can’t get a date without having to resort to blackmail?” you taunt, and he laughs.

“please, i don’t date. and i’d hardly consider this blackmail. just think of it as getting to know your friendly neighbor on a more personal level.”

there’s a humorous glint in his eye, one that’s daring you to say yes. what’s there to be afraid of? all you have to do is watch hockey, eat some popcorn from the concession stand, and deal with his attitude for an hour afterwards.

you’re still not sure what chris is getting out of this, or why he’s insisting that you need to be there, but at this point you don’t care. all you can think about is salvaging the rest of your sleep.

“alright, fine. now you have five minutes to get everyone out, and i better not hear any more shitty remixes for the rest of the week.” you point an accusatory finger at him and he shrugs, though he’s clearly content that you caved in.

“your wish is my command, princess.”

you turn on your heel to head back outside, retracing your steps from earlier as you slip through the mob. you half expect chris to follow, just because he’s annoying, but he doesn’t.

the overhead lights are coming back on now, and you can hear deep voices shouting, combined with collective groans from the crowd as they all realize they’re being kicked out.

luckily you make it out the front door first, and you jog back up the steps to your own place to get out of the cold.

you’ve only been inside for seconds when your phone buzzes in your hand.

chris

see you friday

sweet dreams ;)

[iwillbringyouruin]

Visions Magazine with Tobias Forge on the idea behind Rite Here Rite Now, the importance of soundtracks in general and how he distinguishes between himself and his characters (Visions Magazine issue nr. 377, 08/2024)

Full translation of the included interview by me below the cut - buckle up, this is a long post! There are no spoilers for RHRN in this.

Markus Hockenbrink: Tobias, have you ever watched the movie Metallica: Though The Never?

Tobias Forge: Yes, once, when it had just come out. The topic Metallica came up when we were taking care of the funding for [RHRN]. Every larger production company – and I have to emphasise here that this was before Taylor Swift’s The Eras Tour and her extremely successful movie about it – voiced a lot of concern back then whether anybody would still be interested in concert movies. I had to explain time and again that my movie wouldn’t be a typical concert movie, to which I was asked several times: “Oh, so something like Through The Never?” I had to deny that again. We tell a story in our movie most of our fans are already familiar with. So it’s not an entirely new concept, which is already the first distinction from Through The Never. If you only consider that there is a concert part and a feature film part, then those two movies are probably similar. But that also applies to La La Land.

M. Hockenbrink: You describe your movie as a combination of Kiss’ Alive II, Ralph Bakshi cartoons and silent film horror. Is that a kind of childhood dream that comes true there?

T. Forge: Definitely. For as long as I’ve been interested in music, I’ve also been interested in film and television. Working in film could have also been a career option for me, but I always got the rather annoying impression that one would have to go to film school to really find a place in that field. School was never my strong suit, I see myself more as a autodidact in that regard. That I had the opportunity to work on/contribute to my own movie as a sorcerer’s apprentice of sorts is a real privilege. That is a dream come true but it is also something I can picture more of in the future. Next time maybe without the band.

M. Hockenbrink: Can you remember a specific moment in your life when you realised that you were especially drawn to topics that are slightly morbid and unsettling?

T. Forge: I think that due to my family I came in contact with vastly different kinds of pop culture from a very young age. In more traditional families with more conservative parents and siblings of similar ages, you only really start with your respective journey to find yourself in your teens. Then there are often restrictions that are meant to distract from those darker influences. My parents on the other hand are very liberal and my brother was 13 years older than me. There were never limits or censorship for me. My childhood didn’t go by without rules entirely, but I was always allowed to watch or listen to what my brother was also watching or listening to. That was I was exposed to all kinds of teenage culture from the beginning. Sure, I also liked Pippi Longstocking and He-Man. But that was always combined with the French arthouse films my mother liked to watch or the horror flicks my brother was into. I can’t recall a particularly striking horror film experience, but I still remember the first time it dawned on me that movies don’t just exist, they’re made.

M. Hockenbrink: How do you mean?

T. Forge: My father worked as a documentary maker in television. His job was to connect the video track and the sound track in a fitting way for different film production. I saw Jaws on television with him as a small child. It’s important to note that my father is not somebody who can just quietly enjoy films but somebody who likes to butt in. Thanks to him I already had a kind of epiphany during the introduction. He said: “Look closely! There is nothing to see in this underwater scenery except the algae. Technically completely harmless. But it only takes the ominous music to turn the whole scene into pure horror already!” And I thought: Wow! That’s true! Later in the movie you only have to hear that music and it immediately puts you on edge, even when there’s nobody in the water right now. They don’t even have to show the shark anymore. I found it fascinating that the [viewer’s] senses/perception could be manipulated like that. Ever since I’ve been viewing films with different eyes. I can still allow myself to dive into the story but at the same time I see the practical aspect to film-making.

M. Hockenbrink: I had a similar feeling during the introduction of Shining: technically a cozy road trip in the mountains, but a pure nightmare with the music.

T. Forge: I’m with you on that. Shining is one of the best movies of all time. And funnily enough, only the intro sequence was actually shot in nature. All the other scenes, even if they were outside, were filmed in the studio. Exactly that kind of craftsmanship is what I find inspiring.

M. Hockenbrink: With that in mind, what makes a good soundtrack in your opinion?

T. Forge: We already talked about Jaws, but I can think of Eyes Wide Shut as another example. There is that short piano theme that comes up again and again, incredibly effective. A good soundtrack needs to deliver something that you don’t have to be able to see to perceive its existence. Sure, there are no monsters in Eyes Wide Shut, aside from the main character’s jealousy as an internal monster maybe. But just like the music in Jaws, the theme from Eyes Wide Shut symbolises something that doesn’t have to be shown. The sound is enough. That is also a commonly used effect in adventure and love movies. You just put in a short vignette to describe the love between two characters. In Star Wars, Luke Skywalker also has his own theme, that is used every time when things get emotional and you’re supposed to feel that hope. You’ve got to pay attention to that. Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th also has a personal theme to recognise him by. Every time you hear it you immediately know “Oh shit, he’s nearby!”

M. Hockenbrink: What about soundtracks that are made up of songs?

T. Forge: With that, I’m especially thinking of Silence of the Lambs. In the scene where Buffalo Bill dresses up as a woman and dances around his basement, a song called Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus is playing. I have no idea how the artist felt that since the song is now so irrevocably connected to that awful scene, that you can’t listen to it anymore without thinking of it.

M. Hockenbrink: Do you feel like soundtrack work is more appreciated now than it used to be?

T. Forge: I think that it’s definitely gained importance over the last 40 years. The right song on the right soundtrack can be incredibly powerful. Just think of Stranger Things. Obviously, Metallica and Kate Bush already had successful careers before, but what happened with Master of Puppets and Running Up That Hill following the series was something else entirely. The songs were associated so strongly with the narrative, that way more people listened to them than before. Of course I’m a strong advocate for live music but I also realised that nothing is as strong as the connection of visuals and music. That is still the most powerful way to appeal to a deeper emotion through the association.

M. Hockenbrink: More or less a shortcut to the subconscious.

T. Forge: Exactly. But you can’t be cynical about that either. If I was an A&R person at a big label, I would probably also say: “You just have to find a spot for one of your songs on a popular soundtrack, then you’ll have made it!” That’s really how it is. But when you view it from an artistic perspective, when you want to reach people a certain way or bring across a certain message or a certain feeling, the combination of visuals and sound can’t be topped.

M. Hockenbrink: It especially lends itself to an immersive experience, as seems to be in the foreground of [RHRN]. An album by Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden ends at some point, then you’re gone from that metal world again. With Ghost, however, you get the feeling that the illusion just keeps on going, across several media. Did you plan the Ghost mythology like this from the start?

T. Forge: In part. When I started with the band, I only wanted to make a standalone album. The concept was supposed to be interesting and practical, but I wasn’t planning for Ghost to be a huge thing. The style I pictured has its own limits in my opinion. The band was supposed to function a certain way and appeal to a certain target audience. The concert was supposed to be a theatrical performance in the literal sense. Ghost were never supposed to perform in a normal rock club nor go on tour. I wanted more of a kind of Vaudeville show in a proper plushy theatre. The band was supposed to be as anonymous as the actors that stand on stage and play, say, Faust. The idea behind this was: Those who don’t know who the people are on stage are more ready to follow the story. Then we would perform three days back-to-back in select cities. Berlin, Amsterdam, London. Just like Diamanda Galás who can more likely be found at a culture festival than in a rock shack. But things turned out differently in the end, and I had to kiss my original ideas goodbye again, so to speak.

M. Hockenbrink: Why?

T. Forge: After the success of our debut album, it became clear to me that more conventional concerts were going to be demanded of us and that I could only really say yes or no. This problem became worse after our shift to a bigger label. It became clear that my vision of telling stories clashed with the live sector and requirements for success more and more. At a certain point anonymity doesn’t work anymore and I had to make peace with that in the end.  I originally didn’t even want to do interviews but that’s obviously tricky when you want to sell records. The question that I constantly ask myself since is how I can do those things best in the Ghost way without denying the original Vaudeville spirit.

M. Hockenbrink: In his autobiography Golf Monster, Alice Cooper talks about himself in third person a lot when he is talking about his character. Are you feeling similarly at this point?

T. Forge: At least I can definitely see where he’s coming from. There is a difference between the person Vincent Furnier and the character Alice Cooper. I believe that he was on the verge of completely transforming into Alice Cooper at one point – to the point where one has to decide where they want to live or die. In the end he decided to remain Vincent Furnier and only become Alice Cooper for work, on stage. So far I’ve been fortunate to combine the two pretty well, but had I started Ghost ten years earlier in my life, it would have probably affected me similarly to how Alice Cooper did with Vincent Furnier in his time. But with my humble experience as an actor I have to say: every character you play becomes a part of you to a certain extent. You have to find certain qualities – good or bad – within yourself to bring such a character to life. I think that most actors only play one or two roles throughout their life that they then end up being known for. The different characters that I’ve portrayed on stage are not only very similar but actually also a part of me. Fortunately a part of me that I don’t want to deal with all day long.

M. Hockenbrink: Too cynical and antisocial?

T. Forge: Cardinal Copia or Cardi, as I like to call him, is not an all-around cool person, but that makes him so fun to play for me. He is half Freddie Mercury and half Jacques Clouseau. Kind of clumsy, kind of silly, kind of stupid. The kind of guy who trips over his own feet but catches himself elegantly. That’s also me in a way, but not just. And I think that’s easier to embody than a daredevil hero character who can rival anyone and gets all the ladies. When somebody plays only those characters their whole life, it will probably really go to their head. Especially when there are drugs involved on top of that.

M. Hockenbrink: With all that fondness of doom that can be found with Ghost, that universe also has something humorous about it, benign even. It that an intentionally included contradiction?

T. Forge: Yes, and it is also very important to me that it comes across like that. For me that also has something to do with the evolution of metal. Originally it was mostly a phenomenon connected to the youth, nowadays the musicians and their fans are close to retiring. That brings a certain maturity. Even the Norwegian black metal musicians who were super pissed and extreme 30 years ago and were only made of hate and aggression are well-adjusted people now. Bearded fathers and grandfathers with a pleasant view on life that make others laugh. I see a certain duality there. Everything that has something to do with goth, with metal, with horror, appears dark, dismal and hostile at first. But in reality, that can all be extremely life-affirming and a source of great joy for many people. So pretty much the opposite.

M. Hockenbrink: Speaking of horror: could you imagine making a real feature film some day?

T. Forge: Yes, I would love that. I’m well aware that it’s not going to be easy to make what I’m picturing a reality, just because I’ve done directing once with [RHRN] now. The creative liberty I got to enjoy there also was due to the fact that I funded the movie myself. So nobody was meddling with it. That is likely completely different when you work on behalf of a big studio, because we are talking about different sums here. If I only go off my dreams, I would name two points of reference. One is Shining, the other Bram Stoker’s Dracula by Francis Ford Coppola. I would like to make a movie that’s only shot in a studio, with elaborate sets, matte painting and all that. No outside shots, no special effects, no green screen. And no actors who only gets to see what they were actually doing after the fact. Proper old-school. The way movies are actually meant to look.

[slowd1ving]

STRESS, STRAIN: THE TALE OF YOUNG MODULUS AND A FORLORN PHYSICS STUDENT ゜゜・BLADE DRABBLE

Dealing with a stalker roommate? No problem, Kafka's got the perfect solution: staying with the unapproachable and cold Blade. Teetering the thin line between sleeping on the streets and facing his rumored wrath, it sure is hard keeping your balance when the engineering student is anything but civil. gender-neutral, physics major reader paired with college au + band au (will come into play in another part I swear) see here for some basic designs for them warnings: some violence? consumption of alcohol, arguments, blade being a dick, college au wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✧ Perhaps it’s lucky that your acquaintance Kafka finds you at your most dire of moments, or perhaps it’s your Achilles-level misfortune finally catching up to you. Dorm changes aren’t particularly infrequent, sure—but dealing with a stalkerish, obsessive roommate is definitely story-material for when you’re downing shots. Literature major Kafka isn’t one to turn her magnanimous back on whom she considers a friend, even if said friend is currently wallowing their sorrows away by complaining about the lack of available dorms to make the switch and drowning in hard liquor.  ✧ Saviour Kafka, who plays for notorious metal group Stellaron Hunters (she’s a suave electric violinist), finds this a perfect opportunity to help out the cute guitarist from the rival Trailblazers! Her deft fingers are already sending a message to her pinned contact and drummer: Bladie, finally found you a roommate. Respond. It should be okay to put two college students (in bands infamous for their tense rivalry on– and off–campus) together in the proverbial lab rat cage; after all, neither of you are aware of who the other is behind the elaborate masks. It’s not like there’s a deficit of music groups at the Astral Institute—so who will ever know? Don’t ask how she knows the face behind the pretty Venetian mask. She won’t ever tell.   ✧ Honestly, she’s not sure how the bad blood started (she helped spread the rumours). All she cares about is doing you a solid!

“You think the streets will accept me for who I am?” Even with your head slumped over your forearms and the smell of cheap vodka clinging to your clothes, Kafka thinks you look naively charming in the dim amber lights of a bar pretending to be upscale. And by naive, she means very naive—for real, how can a physics major be so gullible as to not question their roommate’s deranged tendencies until it’s far too late? It’s hilarious. 

She’d dissect how this mood is perfectly, pathetically fallacious to your situation; yet her mind is too honed in on the buzz of her phone as Blade finally replies to her text. 

“Kafka,” you bawl into a stack of papers you’d salvaged from your ransacked dorm. “What if the asphalt doesn’t like me when I’m sleeping in the streets?”

21:48 > ok. 

Kafka, being an expert at metaphorical and allegorical interpretation, translates Blade-speak easily: let’s discuss this tomorrow, please and thank you. 

“Found you a roomie,” she murmurs delightedly, watching with her hawk-keen eyes as you sit up drunkenly. 

“That was fast, even for you,” you wipe your eyes cautiously—still wracked with the occasional hiccup. “Who is it?”

“Blade. You know him?”

✧ That sobers you right up.  Of course you know him. Nicknamed Blade for how cold and unfriendly he is, you’ve personally seen him in engineering lectures: making people shiver from just his gaze alone, and on one notable occasion, making his project partner cry after his infamously harsh criticism of her proposal. It’s common knowledge that he practises various martial arts, but the rumours that circle around him like vultures whisper of how he uses them on the streets. But whilst you doubt the reliability of the latter talk, it’s hard not to picture his hands dripping sanguine when his eyes glint the same shade.  ✧ Honestly, how bad could it be? It’s not like you have any other options unless you want to wake up with your roommate standing over you while you sleep again. After her, you doubt he’ll be any more of a walking nightmare.  ✧ Perfect!—Kafka is a bit too enthusiastic at your reluctant nodding, but you cast it from your mind as you pack your stuff with Caelus and Stelle standing behind you like a pair of twin guard dogs. One good thing about this is that you can finally take your guitar with you (rather than storing it safely at Dan Heng’s room) to the apartment—because of course he’s too good for the dorms. Though, after experiencing your batshit roommate, you really can’t blame him for avoiding this area.  ✧ Maybe, just maybe, the rumours about him being insane too are false and you can finally have a peaceful night’s rest without fearing for your life. 

Yeah right. You hate him. You genuinely hate the man over in the room next door. The passage of time on your phone indicates it’s only been a week since you showed up with five boxes of belongings and a nervous smile on your lips—but the agony you’re going through prolongs this mental period to eternity. 

Sisyphus embodies futility for evermore; as do you when you’re knocking on his door for the nth time to beg him to quiet down on his drums. The timings are so meticulous and calculative that you’re sure you could work out a linear sequence to this situation if you tried. 

Exhausted from the laboratory job you’re juggling on top of band practice and reading on Dirac notations? No problem—Blade’s busy expressing how you feel in terms of loud crashing and banging that you hate to admit is (very technically) skilled.

Recalling your first encounter—your nervous smile and his cold indifference as you moved into the room next to his—it’s not hard to imagine that he’d be inconsiderate of you. Those red eyes had slid right past you like oil on water: judging you to be not worth his time to even greet properly. In fact, it’s like he’s trying to chase you out so you leave him alone for good. 

The deep mahogany door swings inward, and you’re left facing an unimpressed, scowling Blade. With the way he’s clutching those drumsticks, you’d think he was about to skewer you—but you’re a bit too preoccupied with how he’s only sporting a pair of loose navy trousers that cascade languidly from his hips. 

“What do you want?” Laconic as ever, he gets straight to the point with his question—as if he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve come knocking. Just like this morning, just like last night, the night before, the night before yesterday’s—every damned night is a problem. 

“For you to invest in soundproofing,” you scowl back, too tired to keep up the fragile facade of politeness. At least when you practise with the electric guitar, you can easily hook it up to a pair of headphones and protect the sanctity of silence elsewhere. Actually, you don’t think he even knows your guitar exists with how considerate you are of your asshole roommate. 

“Why should I?” he crosses his arms, looking directly down at you. If you looked closely, the slight stretch of his lips resembled a smirk—but you’re definitely mistaken, since the man never so much as smiles. The cold expression accompanying his crude words sums up his thoughts: if you don’t like it, beg Kafka for whatever other solution she has. 

His inky hair sways from where it’s tied back, and you resist the urge to yank it until he sees sense. 

“For better quality of life,” you grit out. 

Those eyes turn into sardonic crescents. “I’m good.”

And the door is shut. 

✧ Fortunately, you’ve managed to fall asleep in the middle of the practise room before on countless occasions; tuning the heavy thumping comes easy after a while when you’re exhausted and practically dead on your feet. The problem is during the day—doing your assigned reading and writing up results from practical work comes much harder when you’re constantly accompanied by the rhythmic percussion of a madman who favours metal. It gets so rowdy that you seriously consider whether he’s part of the Stellaron Hunters and knows you’re a Trailblazer—it would make sense, after all, if he was just feeling extra spiteful. However, from the trembling students claiming to be his previous roommates, this is just common treatment: him basically telling them to beat it and never return.  ✧ Two can play at that game. Upon complaining to Kafka of his (rage-inducing) musical tendencies, she suggests that you get back at him with your electric guitar. Don’t ask her how she knows, no she’s not trying to instigate and watch the chaos—Kafka attempts to reassure you. You don’t trust the shady writer one bit, but both Data Analysis major Dan Heng and Environmental Studies student March 7th give the plan the go ahead. If you’re not mistaken, you can hear a touch of personal grief in the normally composed Dan Heng’s voice—something so poignantly irritated you wonder what the story between them is.  ✧ Contrary to his nonchalant attitude, it’s clear he’s annoyed by the loud chords that buzz through the apartment. As soon as he picks up his drumsticks, you plug the guitar to the amps and thoroughly mess with him. You know enough from Caelus’ repertoire to place each genre of music Blade starts to play (which is limited to metal). No problem—you play various styles that decidedly aren’t metal and are so discordant with his own tempo you can’t help but keep a grin on your lips. He’s much too stubborn to knock on your door, but the irritated twitch of his eyes in the kitchen belies just how aggravating this is. And when you know he’s scrawling down notes for his classes, that’s when you’re practising your metal riffs and playing around with the fretboard. If you’re feeling particularly nice, you’ll play along to some darkwave gothic music—something relatively more calm—but these occasions are few and far between. 

Chromatic eyes pierce your back while you deftly chop vegetables for your dinner. Really, now’s the best time to do work: when you’re busy with cooking and not insistent on plaguing him with jarring melodies. For someone so logical when it comes to his meticulous classwork, he sure doesn’t seem it as he leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen—sipping water and just staring at you while you Julienne an onion. 

You shoot him a withering glance as you toss the slices into a bowl on the side, and he glares at you with a matched fervour. If it weren’t for the fact that you literally don’t have anywhere else to go—Caelus doesn’t even have a couch for you to sleep on—you’d have moved out a long time ago. 

It’s a rustic space: sage green cabinets filled with charming, mismatched plates and cups; glossy white counters that house various herbs and the occasional plant; a lacquered table in the middle that has a vase holding a singular dried flower. An orange lily—still retaining a vibrancy that conceals just how long it’s been there. You wouldn’t have expected this style of decor from him, but at the same time, you doubt it’s his influence so much as Kafka’s. 

“Do you have a problem?” you probe icily, turning back to where you’re slicing a carrot into thin matchsticks; if there was a god somewhere, you’d hope it could transfigure the man behind you into the root vegetable you’re enthusiastically chopping. 

“No.” And when he speaks again, he’s right behind you. There’s a sink to your left, but he’s much too close as his breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. Affronted, you turn around; only to watch as his eyes widen minutely, glass of water slipping out of his grasp and spilling down your front. 

“You dickhead.” Your hands angrily grab at his collar—unheeding or perhaps uncaring of his reputation for violence as you feel the cold seep into your skin. You’re seething; for someone with such good reflexes, this is a new level of low in attempting to chase you out. Or perhaps it’s revenge for finally getting under his skin. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

It’s a little too late when you realise the position you’re in: skin showing through the translucent material, breathing shallow from your infuriation, face glaring right up at his. 

“Sorry.” His voice rings out insincere—and there’s that damn faint smile still toying at his face as he looks directly at you with that heavy gaze. “My hand slipped.”

You shove him back, too disgusted to acknowledge him any further. Maybe if you turned back around, you’d see the tiniest pricks of red on his face as you tossed your soaked shirt into the washing machine—leaving you in a damp vest while you continued cooking for yourself. Maybe if you looked back at least once, you’d see the amusement in his eyes as you maul the bok choy on the cutting board. 

Those are maybes.

There’s particular things you know for certain. One, you despise him and his existence. Two, he abhors you and your entire being—because why else would he be so insistent in making you leave out of your own volition?

✧ It’s the time of year that you hate: joint engineering classes so you can cover the materials aspect for your physics studies. Well, it’s not like you hated it from the very beginning—you’ve hated it ever since you realised that once again, you’d have to be in the incorrigible presence of Blade. While he did finally install some soundproofing in his room, he’s taken it upon himself to linger wherever you’re present. Typing up your notes on the deep maroon couch with a mug of lavender tea perched on the coffee table? He’s in the window seat, looking over a thick reference manual for tensile strengths. Going to meet bassist Dan Heng so the two of you can play around with various lines for your next song? He’s at the convenience store you briefly stop at, gazing at you before he glares at your friend. Practising a slow solo in the living room (it’s really got the best ambience)? He’s tapping out a beat that you can very faintly now hear—one that surprisingly goes with the electrifying chords.  ✧ Point is, you’re ignoring him and his presence—while he’s inching ever closer. It comes to a head at the lecture hall; you decide to sit in the third row, since it’s both far from the back (where he usually frequents) and it doesn’t make you look like a beg. When you glance at his predestined seat, it’s empty—unsurprisingly as he’s there usually a minute before the professor—while the seat next to him is taken by a girl you’ve seen before. Despite his horrible personality and the (probably true) rumours surrounding him, there’s a few stragglers who genuinely want him. And you genuinely want those people to seek help because it’s clear something went wrong in their lives for them to be thirsting over a man who looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.  ✧ He comes in late, as you expect, but you freeze as he places his bag down next to you. Aghast, you can’t help but stare; yet for once he’s not meeting your eyes, and it’s far too late to make a scene and move elsewhere—not when the professor’s just arrived and is keen to start the lecture for materials. He doesn’t talk much, but you’re so distracted by his presence pressing slightly into your sides that you forget that today the professor’s deciding on the pairs for your projects—mouth agape, you stare in shock as she assigns them based on who’s sitting nearby. To be generous, she says, yet there’s nothing generous about this arrangement as his mocking eyes meet yours. He knew, you seethe, storming out of the hall right as the class wraps up. 

“I hate him.” Your molars grind bone-against-bone as you harshly press angry chords into the fretboard. “I hate him so so so so much.”

“Who are you talking about?” March 7th—in charge of the synthesiser—glances first at the bassist to your side, then back at you. Her eyes are wide in sympathy, yet it’s useless in the face of your despair. 

“Blade.” Poetically, the word is accompanied by the deep twang of Smoke on the Water as your fingers move mindlessly on your precious baby. What, your roommate?—she queries. No, a pet fish—Caelus responds, but you tune them both out. 

“He knew the professor would assign groups like that,” you groan. “That’s why he sat next to me.”

“He’s definitely trying to get you to leave his apartment out of your own will,” Dan Heng’s smooth cadence is somewhat soothing—and his conjecture is one you’ve come to yourself—but the accompanying baseline he’s playing to the song makes his theory sound comical. “But he won’t screw up his own project like that.”

You sigh, and the melody falls apart as you bring it to a grinding halt. 

“Believe me, I know just how much he values his projects.” Your head throbs upon thinking about that poor girl sobbing, and the bassist coughs to stifle a laugh. 

“What did he say that one time? ‘Your vapid idea would be better used on death row than as a functioning building’,” Stelle—the vocalist and also the only Psychology major you know who doesn’t unnervingly stare at you—imitates the deep reverberations of his voice, and you’re astonished at how it’s recalled verbatim (down to the exact adjective).

“I’m surprised it got round that far,” you suppress a smile—after all, it’ll be your head on the chopping block next. “You should’ve gone into theatre like Caelus did.” 

What a waste of talent, you shake your head mock-ruefully, which quickly turns to true woe as you realise just the predicament you’re in. 

✧ It’s not a complicated assignment. Well, it shouldn’t be: designing a sound structure based on the whims of the architectural class (whom you loathe); except that Blade is notorious for being a severe critic for civil engineering partnerships—like seriously, out of all hills to die on and it’s civil engineering. You begrudgingly create a new contact for him in your phone; a digital space just for him, which almost makes you throw up at the thought.

(+2 unread messages) <Dickhead> (new contact) 10:11 > library.  10:11 > east block, 20 minutes.

You stare incredulously at the chat, which is neither phrased as a question nor a request but an encrypted demand. The fuck? Infuriated, you take the break between your reps now rather than later, swilling down water while you irritably type out a reply. 

No can do. < 10:15 I’m busy. < 10:16

The reply comes less than a minute later; three dots animating themselves into existence while you wipe the sweat off your face with a towel. This prick. Well, it’s not so much a reply as an acknowledgement of your words—because he doesn’t reply, but rather your phone starts buzzing and you fumble while looking at the expletive lit up brightly on the screen. 

You’re sorely, sorely tempted to press the red receiver on the device. 

“What do you want?” you scowl, and you hope it translates through your voice that you’re revolted by his mere radio presence. 

“Where are you?” He ignores your question; voice vibrating low through your headphones, and you can’t help but shiver, just a little. Even through the thick towel, you can still feel crescents being formed in your palm from your nails—you sincerely wish you were throttling him instead. 

“None of your business.” 

There’s a budding migraine blossoming to life in your temple as you finally hang up. You think that’s the end of it—after all, it was literally yesterday that the groups were assigned. 

But when you shoulder the gym door open—skin still damp and warm from your shower, clean clothes sticking ever so slightly to laved skin—there’s a sleek car parked outside, and you frown when Blade opens the driver’s door. 

“I’m going to report you for stalking,” you grit out, pressing your body to the cool glass of the building. “How the fuck did you know where I was?”

“Kafka,” he replies simply, and of course, that crazy woman was the one who viewed your private story and sent it to him. “I’m picking you up.”

“No you’re not.” Seriously, he thinks you’re that easy to convince—

“I’ll shut the fuck up with the drums for these two weeks.” 

It’s almost miraculous how quickly you slide into the passenger seat. 

✧ You’ve never been in such close proximity to him before (if you don’t count that day in the kitchen). At least, voluntarily. When you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest, you can smell the faint, woody scent of his cologne. It’s different from the putrid tide of Axe the average engineering student drowns themself in—rather, it’s got the deep undertone of oud and something sweeter. You don’t expect it; maybe if he smelled like first impressions, he’d stink of blood and a dumpster fire.  ✧ Don’t fall asleep—he remarks, and you can feel his eyes on you briefly. Eyes on the road, prick—you retort, but your own lids are still tightly shut. Therefore, you don’t see how his gaze traces the remaining water droplets from your shower: how his hands linger on his gear stick so he can feel the emanating warmth from your damp thigh.  ✧ He freezes. Gross. He doesn’t like anyone, and only tolerates the rest of the Stellaron Hunters since they’ve seen him at his lowest and yet still find ways to bug him. And you. He wasn’t expecting you to last as long as you have. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to irritate him in your own way, and actually manage to aggravate him enough to force him into soundproofing his room. Actually, he still doesn’t know why you did that. He doesn’t know why his heart picked up slightly at the sight of you in that soaked shirt. And in the end, he still doesn’t entirely know why he chose to sit next to you for that lecture instead. It’s to annoy you, he decides. No point in deliberating too much about it.  ✧ It’s surprising that the two of you don’t immediately argue over the project; some eco-facility for sports that surprisingly was chosen unanimously by the pair of you. Eyes flitting to each other and back, it was a miracle you both had the same idea somehow. And it’s surprising when despite your lack of experience in civil engineering like this (you usually opt for mechanical on projects like these), you carefully consider the missing parts in his outlines—security cameras, sound systems, and tiny edits to the structure to really amplify the architecture.  ✧ He doesn’t mind your presence. That’s what shocks him. As you doze off with your head pressed into the crooks of your elbows, he doesn’t reprimand you like he would with anyone else. Instead, he places the material reference guide down and stops considering cement foundations. Before he gets the chance to poke your forehead, your phone buzzes against the table—lighting up with a name he didn’t think he’d see.  ✧ Dan Heng. He knows you’re friends with the guy, but there’s a burning sensation as his eyes watch the pop-up turn into another message, then another. What does he want? In real time, there’s a particular irritation that blossoms with each new notification. 

<Dan Heng> 20:19 > Are you still up? 20:19 > My roommate’s going to move in with his girlfriend, so you’ll be able to…

The message is cut off, but Blade isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what the implication suggests, and there’s a certain coolness in his eyes as he stares the message down. Isn’t this what he wanted? Yes, this is precisely the ending he hoped for: you moving out and him getting his space back to himself. 

But the issue stems from Dan Heng. He can’t have that. He can’t have you moving in with that man of all people. Anyone else would be fine, he insists to himself. 

Dan Heng. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. 

There’s a certain hypothesis he’d like to test. With your guard down like this, he snaps a photo of you with the drool leaking onto your sleeve—sending it directly to you. Just like clockwork, your phone lights up once more with a message. It’s not ‘Blade’ that’s texting you. 

<Dickhead> 20:20 > [photo.jpeg attached]

He grits his teeth, clutching his textbook until his fingers ache from the strain. No, he won’t give that bastard the satisfaction of taking his roommate like this. 

He’ll play nice. When you find someone who works this efficiently with you, while managing to hold their ground under his intimidating gaze, it’s hard not to want them to not scurry away. 

Eat shit, Dan Heng.

✧ Somehow, mercifully, you manage to complete the project with that weirdo. It’s strange—he’s surprisingly more cordial than ever. And with his inky hair pulled into a loose bun, glasses perched on his straight nose—it’s hard to imagine he’d ever made that poor girl cry in front of everyone like that, but you’d witnessed it yourself. So with a sigh, you remind yourself that he’s just as much of an asshole as the rumours say. But, staring at him so relaxed like this, these two different Blades are hard to ever merge.

“Something on my face?” He’s still writing with his glasses sliding down his nose. He sounds irritated, as per usual, but the tiny smirk painting his face lets you know that no he’s not irritated, he’s just being an arse just as always. 

“Yeah, pen,” you mutter, looking away as he finally glances up at you. When you glance back at the desk where your laptop precariously shows the still-unfinished presentation slides, he’s gazing up at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes. 

It almost puts to rest the image of a dickhead. 

“There’s no pen, though,” he purrs, voice low while he rests the manual back on the table. “I’ve been reading all morning.”

Nevermind—he’s as much of an asshole as he regularly is. 

“Who knows,” you comment offhandedly, slowly sliding a blue biro your way as soon as he looks back down. There—you attempt to inch forward to draw on his face, but he catches your wrist from across the table between you. 

You freeze. Shit, you screwed up. With how relaxed he is, it’s getting easier and easier to forget the rumours of his bruised knuckles that follow him like a shroud. His eyes glance coolly at you, then at the incriminating weapon within your fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Maybe he’s the questions first, beat up later kind. 

“Getting revenge.” Shameless, you think, but definitely not as shameless as getting told to effectively shut up with the drums yet having the audacity to keep going louder. 

His lips part, and your eyes nearly stray to the pink colour of them. Then, he smiles—something so cynical and disturbing you can’t help but shiver and twist your arm out of his hold, all so you can watch him askance. 

“I can see why people find you scary,” you shudder, tapping your biro on a square notepad. 

“And you don’t?” An innocuous question, but one that almost sounds accusatory. 

“Nah,” you make a disgusted noise, like you’re trying to suppress vomit. “You’re just a prick.”

In the end, that same prick ends up rolling his sleeves upon your request so you can litter blue ink upon his forearms. With how pale he is, it resembles delicate ceramics painted with cerulean landscapes. And while you do include etched illustrations and swirling designs, you make sure to include several phalluses dotted around—just so he lives up to his contact name. 

“Wow,” he remarks sardonically. “Maybe you should quit physics and join the liberal arts programme.”

You ignore him, taking a few shots of your handiwork and sending them to Kafka, captioned I feel like this truly reflects his personality and making sure all the tiny dicks are in full focus. 

“Maybe I should,” you shrug. “Then I wouldn’t have to deal with you, at least.”

“Likewise,” he responds, but it’s not as satisfying to think about you quitting as he thought it would be. 

It’s stupid. He finds that he doesn’t want the ink to wash from his arms, not so soon. 

When you log into your account to touch-up the presentation, you spot the comment he left back in the library on the presentation slides—timestamped to the exact twenty past five. 

17:20 > Maybe if you stopped staring at me, we’d be done sooner. 

It’s the longest sentence he’s ever typed out to you—but that’s exactly what makes it so galling. 

go fuck yourself < 22:31

22:31 > ooh you want me so bad aha

You pause, staring incredulously at the text, then to where the bathroom’s situated. The water’s definitely running.

… < 22:32 damn this idiot’s really getting scammed and hacked < 22:33 crazy < 22:33 [feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:33

22:33 > on the daily lmao 22:34 > same two old man passwords for everything

Types like one too < 22:34

22:35 > right?? 22:36 > we should be friends btw 22:36 > [Blade.] sent contact silver-W

Dang he really put a period after than name too < 22:37

22:37 > top ten edgelords 22:37 > [Blade.] sent laughing emoji

[feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:37

It’s not until the morning when he’s looking over the (surprisingly well-done) slides that he finally notices the string of (highly unprofessional) messages that he definitely did not write. 

His head throbs and his eye twitches as he reads through them—burning holes through the wall separating him and you. He hopes you receive the subliminal nightmares he’s so graciously sending you. 

It’s a fiercely deliberated decision. With a heavy heart, he finally presses [backspace] on the typo next to his nickname. 

He only hopes you won’t notice. 

(Silver Wolf notices—immediately screenshotting the new handle [Blade] and sending it to you.)

✧ Good things come in threes. Getting through this project, not getting beat up by that nerd, and getting through the presentation smoothly. By that, you mean you do most of the speaking while Blade clicks through the slides. However, contrary to all expectations, his voice comes low and rich—neither stumbling through the knowledge nor forgetting the important parts. It’s so shocking you can’t help but stare at him; something he definitely notices, judging by the self-important smirk he sends you.  ✧ Perhaps a little too good. The pair of you leave the lecture hall separately—after all, it’s not like you want to be in his presence any longer, and he doesn’t particularly want to be in yours either. But you do want the sweet energy drink that’s been chilling in the shared fridge for the past few days: as tantalising as the very nectar of the gods.  ✧ It’s when you enter an alleyway shortcut that you witness her—your old roommate. Vaguely, you recall she used to have a crush on Blade (a match made in heaven if there ever was one); perhaps that’s why she’s inching towards you with a pipe that is tetanus’ wet dream—so grimy you think you’ll immediately die if you’re struck by it.  ✧ All this over him?—you think with disgust as you try back out of the alleyway, only to collide with the towering body of her boyfriend: some guy unfortunate enough to be entrapped by her pretty face and definitely not her personality. She doesn’t want you, and he (aforementioned: Blade) doesn’t want her either. It’s rather tragic, but woefully you can’t spare any pity for them: not when you’re about to get beat and for what? A successful presentation with Blade?  ✧ They’re amateurish enough that you manage to evade them for a minute, but the alleyway’s too narrow to slip past them, and you’ve never been in a fight like this.  ✧ You’re cornered when he appears: some twisted knight he is.

“You’re late,” you heave, bruises on your knuckles and that man’s face. 

“You…” Blade trails off as he sees the blood spatters on your clothes, and his expression twists into one he’s glad you can’t see—not when his broad shoulders face you in an impenetrable wall. The two idiots—Tweedledee and Tweedledum, judging by how disturbingly gullible they are—stiffen immediately upon his timely arrival. 

He’ll handle it like he always does. 

But it’s certainly strange. Why does he feel so much angrier than he does normally?

✧ It’s late afternoon: dusk barely kissing the rooftops of the city, stars just about peeking from the violet firmament. You didn’t ask questions when he made enough space for you to slip out the alleyway: heart lodged in your throat as you quietly sat down at the local café with blossoming pain in your ribs and fists. Stupid, you were stupid to think that crazed girl would ever leave you alone.  ✧ Maybe it’s counterintuitive to feel safe when he steps into the small building. He smells faintly of blood: a terrible, metallic odour spilling onto his clothes and flesh. But beneath that, there’s a lingering scent of that woody oud—you can’t help but sink into it.  ✧ They won’t bother you ever again—he murmurs as the door jingles behind both of you. You didn’t kill them, did you?—you mutter back, half-sarcastically. No, but it probably hurt quite a bit for them—he shrugs. “Let’s go home.” ✧ Home. He says that, but there’s still that offer from Dan Heng to move in with him—one you’ll probably accept. Blade may have saved you, but he’s still a dickhead who has made numerous attempts to kick you out. 

“Ow, fuck,” you hiss as he dabs antiseptic on the various cuts on your hand. It’s well into the evening now, and you’re currently sitting on the bathroom counter with your injuries on full display. 

So infuriating. You glare at the man standing in between your legs—unscathed completely. Worst of all, there’s a smug smile on his lips; whatever worry he might have had over you has completely dissipated. 

“You couldn’t let them hit you once?”

“Bitter much?” he returns easily, swabbing another cotton ball with alcohol and pressing it against the large cut on the side of your forearm. It stings, but you grit your teeth and bear it—much too annoyed with him to show any more pain. 

In this position, the resentment you feel towards him turns faint; a veil seems to obscure the burning sensation. 

“You talk too much,” you seethe. “What happened to the prick who kept his mouth shut and ignored me?”

Tendrils of his jet-hued hair brush your cheek as he inches forward. “If you like, we can go right back to that—playing at my whim included.”

He hasn’t felt like this in years—back when he was still a boy named Yingxing and unmarred by the burdens life would eventually place on his shoulders. 

“Let me do it myself,” you argue back. 

“Nah.” Silver Wolf will pay for calling him an old man. “You won’t do it properly.” 

Another brief kiss from the alcohol against your bloody knuckles, and this time you can’t hide the slight wince on your face. It takes quite a lot of self-restraint to not dent the tweezers—he should’ve done so much worse to the two who tried this, besides beating the shit out of them and getting Kafka to land them behind bars. 

“That rod probably had tetanus on it,” he shrugs, rummaging around in his disused first-aid kit for plasters and bandages.

“Yeah, I thought that too,” you shudder. It's this moment of casual, same line thinking that strikes you as being far too strange. He's so close you can feel each puff of air when he exhales: practically scalding the bare skin stretched over collarbones. Too close—and if he keeps talking like this, as if he’s no longer disgusted by your presence, you won’t be able to deal with it. 

“What’d you do to her?” he questions, but it’s not the ‘no wonder she attacked you’ tone—rather than that, it’s like he’s trying to prompt you into distraction. 

“This is actually your fault,” you scowl, irritably casting your mind back to when she used to talk your ear off about the man standing here. 

“How so?” Nonplussed, he starts rolling the bandage across your arm—evidently, he’s experienced with this sort of thing. 

Stalker roommate. Stalker roommate has crush on engineering maniac. Stalker roommate sees that your new roommate and engineering maniac are one and the same—you summarise, too tired to give the specifics. He sees the way your lids flutter closed from exhaustion; for once, he’ll use Kafka to get more of the information you omitted. 

“Honestly, you two freaks would be perfect for each other,” you murmur absentmindedly. At that, he pulls the bandage tighter against your skin and you draw in a pained inhale. 

“You should try stand-up.” His voice is thick with revulsion, and it’s quiet for a few brief moments as he gets started on patching up the scrapes left on your back. You’re sitting on a stool now: unable to see his face but awfully mindful of how his hands brush over the skin layered over your scapula. 

“You still haven’t thanked me.”

“Thank you, my aggravating saviour,” you say, much too insincerely. “But that reminds me that I’ve got good news for you. That should suffice as a symbol of my gratitude.”

What is it?

“One of my friends has a room free, so I’ll probably be able to move out soon.”

The worst part is, he knows exactly who this friend is. His hands freeze on the band-aid he’s smoothing on your skin; too absorbed in his murderous thoughts to notice how you stiffen at the prolonged gesture. He’s not jealous; these are merely stirrings of friendship—this ugly, amorphous thing writhing in his gut and condemning him to senseless anger. 

“That’s not good news,” he breathes, and it’s a little too quiet as he finishes wrapping the final bandage around your bruised ribs. 

For the first time ever, Kafka receives a text from Blade that doesn’t consist of just one word. 

<Bladie> 20:33 > I need advice. 

Oh, this is interesting. 

What are friends for?—she coos, making sure to show Silver Wolf the glaring achievement in Blade’s range of text vocabulary. 

He’s clearly been on the rear end of bad news; while for her, on the contrary, this just means her scheme is moving along very nicely.