#but he rarely gets very high and he's good at hiding it when he's smoked a bit

[didderd]

>.> <.< how would your boys do with a easily flustered shy partner? :o

hehe :3 (under read more, bc it's another long one)

Tic thinks it's cute, and relates a lot to it. he weirdly finds comfort in it, and he'll try his best to make you feel comforted when he's around too. he feels like he doesn't have to be as nervous around you, and might be a bit more straight forward. not very flirty, but takes the initiative more, and where with others his flirting would be very subtle, with you, he'll flirt more obviously (tho still lightly for the most part). he just loves the pretty flush he gets out of you.

Tac finds it adorable. he can't help but push it as far as he can without overwhelming you too much. he takes any chance he gets to make your face light up with that pretty blush, but he'll be patient with you when you do get overwhelmed. Tou has a similar mindset to Tac on this one, but he's not as blatantly flirty most of the time. he'll take any chance to make you blush, but be subtle about it. he plays it off like his flirting isn't intentional, and plays innocent, asking if you're ok and if you have a fever when your face gets so warm. it's hard sometimes to tell if he's teasing or actually doesn't know what he's doing, at least for those who don't know him as well as his brother does. though if you get him alone, and he's either known you for long enough or he's drunk (or very high), his mask will slip. you'll see he will flirt just as much as Tac, and it's all intentional.

Snaps is the worst of them. he is a fuck boy at heart (or soul), and will drive you to the point you feel like your face is gonna melt with how hot it is. he will figure out what makes you the most flustered and abuse that knowledge. he can't help it, you're so cute when you're a stuttering, flustered mess. he is both good with words and touching, and he will use both to get that blush he loves. his only line is crossing boundaries. he has high respect for consent, like anyone should, and he's a pretty good judge of when he needs to back off, or not go any further.

[keys-hellscape-1020]

Stoner!Tim Drake

A/N: to the one nonny who requested this I’m SO sorry I deleted your ask I feel so bad!

Stoner!Tim Drake x gn!Reader

Content warnings: descriptions of Weed, descriptions of getting high, Tim calls reader baby, descriptions of physical touch, mentions of dominant and submissive behavior, mentions of orgasm control, mentions of possessiveness,

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I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, this man very rarely smokes blunts. He typically sticks to carts and sometimes edibles. If someone offers him a blunt he’s not gonna turn it down, but it’s not something he seeks out. He just thinks they’re too much work, plus he typically gets distracted by something else, leading to them burning out before he gets the chance to take the last couple hits.

He only buys the best of the best quality carts however, especially if he’s sharing with you. No half-assed shit for his baby. He also has an insane amount of them. You open his nightstand? Cart. His kitchen cabinet? A Tupperware with 2 different carts and way too many edibles to be considered normal. You go to clean his Red Robin uniform for him? He has 3 carts in his utility belt. When you ask him about why he has so many in his crime-fighting uniform he just shrugs and says “Different types of highs baby.”

He also seems to get high at the strangest times. He has a stakeout? He’ll get blasted. When asked why he says it helps him to focus on the task at hand. He runs out to pick up breakfast for you both? He’ll come back high. You don’t even know how as he was sober when he left and, at least to your knowledge, he didn’t take anything with him that could get him high. Yet here he is. Slightly red eyed and clinging to you.

Despite that if you ask him to be sober for something he will in a heartbeat. If you don’t want him to get high on your date nights, done with zero hesitation. You worry about him getting high on patrol? He’ll do it much, much less, without so much as a second thought. With his work as Red Robin he is all too familiar with how drugs can affect people so if it makes you uncomfortable he will limit your exposure to it as much as possible.

If you don’t mind however and even smoke with him? Be prepared for the best high of your life. You know when you feel like you might be able to take one more hit but you’re not sure if it’ll make you green out or not? Tim knows if it will. He has it down to a science. Tell him how high you wanna get and he will carefully watch you the whole night, instructing you on if you should take another hit or slow down for a while. Even when he gets blasted, he can still do it with perfect accuracy. It’s honestly really impressive.

Speaking of how he is when he’s high, he’s gotten uncannily good at hiding it. That’s part of the reason he gets high so damn often, most people can’t tell. Once you know him well enough however there are a few very minor signs you may be able to pick up on. For instance, he tends to fidget at a slower pace, or do different fidgets than he does sober. And those are the ones that are the MOST obvious. It’s safe to say he hasn’t gone to a Wayne industries meeting sober in years.

But when he’s in private and high? Oh boy he is SO clingy. Sober Tim is anxious and a bit conservative with his affection, especially early in your relationship, but get him high and he will be ALL over you. But only with your permission!

The first few times you get high with him he gives you the best pleading look he can muster before leaning in, lips a few inches away from your skin, so you feel the words more then you hear them. “Can we please cuddle baby?” It’s all you can do to nod dumbly in agreement. Tim lets out a relieved moan and all but falls against your side, hot breath still burning a hole in your skin.

However he’s also very easy to work up when he gets like this. You’re gently scratching up and down his back one second and the next thing you know he’s on top of you, gently grinding into you, almost like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear if he goes to hard. He whispers out a desperate “please baby. Need it so damn bad.” So breathlessly you’d be insane to say anything but yes.

The second he has your approval he’s frantically removing your pants, and shoving his mouth over every inch of your that it feels good on. Tim gets desperate and needy when he’s like this, and the one thing he wants right now? You to feel good. And without a doubt you will be feeling good.

Tim has every inch of your skin memorized in his mind, every movement that he needs to execute in order to make you feel good. That’s nice while he’s sober but it can almost feel a bit… rehearsed. Almost like he’s putting on a performance for a play. But when he’s high? That problem is completely gone. He still has all that knowledge of what makes you feel good but he’s not as afraid to tease or try out new moves. He’s not scared to get a bit lost in his own pleasure while giving you head, and it really makes everything feel that much better.

Speaking of getting lost in his own pleasure… he tends to lean a bit more dominant when he’s like this. A stark contrast to his typical submissive or otherwise pliant behavior in bed. He’ll grind into you, tease, make you beg. He likes to try out orgasm control, edging you until you’re practically in tears and then making you cum so hard you need to tap out for a water break. Don’t worry however, he’ll make sure his baby is always taken care of by the end of the night.

Also this man gets possessive while high. He’s already a bit possessive when sober, he just hides it very well. However when he’s high he’s less subtle. He’ll be clinging to you, unwilling to separate unless absolutely necessary. He also LOVES it when you wear his clothes, and the hickies decorating your neck, and chest, and pelvis, and thighs, and well most other parts of you show it.

All in all Tim can hide being high very well when he wishes. When he doesn’t have any reason to hide it though? Well let’s just say you’ll be in for a long night.

[beforeimdeceased]

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚ bbf dealer!ellie

a/n: there’s three different versions of this and i fought with myself about posting one so here you go! credit to @seattlesellie who i believe brought bbf!ellie to tumblr!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⭑

‧₊˚ ⋅ જ⁀➴๋࣭ ⭑๋࣭ ⭑ Vacationing before the stress of your college classes fully consumed you sounded good at first. Then your older brother decided he wanted to come, and bring his best friend. Ellie Williams, who according to you, is the most annoying person on Earth. She never failed to eat up all your snacks, purposely hide around the house with your brother to jumpscare you, and steal your things to make you chase her around the house to get them back.

This has gone on for what feels like forever. Since the very day they’d met 10 years ago, and they’ve been a menacing duo ever since. And to top it off, she was his supplier. That meant she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. That also meant that while you were enjoying the shade and splayed out on the chaise, she was purposely canon balling in order to splash you. You pull your sunglasses off to shoot her a glare. “Ellie, don’t make me drown you.”

“Threats like that’ll get the cops called on you.” She retorts, arms crossed on the edge of the pool. Her swim trunks puffed in the water as her eyes gleam in the sun. The water was dripping down her freckled face and you’d never admit it but she looked so fucking pretty.

“Where’s my brother?” You change the subject, eyes wandering around the pool. It seemed to just be you and an elderly couple. One playing sudoku while the other flips through a newspaper. Ellie pushes herself up out of the pool, bikini top displaying a playful array of space themed patterns. Something she’d paired with plain black swim trunks. She sits on the chaise next to you, arms on her knees. “He went to go smoke.”

“Are you guys going to be high the entire week?” You ask. “You both ate all of my snacks yesterday when you got the munchies.” Ellie is rarely ever sweet to you, especially not when your brother around, so this is the rare occasion she says something that doesn’t make you want to roll your eyes to the far side of your head.

“Yeah, sorry about that. We’ll buy you some more…” You look at her, raising an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes. “What? I can’t be nice?”

“You can, it’s just that you rarely ever choose to be. Not to me atleast.” You turn your head when you hear your phone chime with a notification and don’t notice her face fall.

It’s your brother informing you, and telling you to inform Ellie, that he will not be returning because he’d met up with some friends he hadn’t seen in a while. You shoot Ellie an apologetic look, but she reassures you that she’s his best friend and none of the people he’s met up with can compare. It makes you laugh as you begin packing up your things and walking back to the vacation house.

You’d thought that Ellie would stay but she goes with you. The short walk is silent. You pretend not to see her eyes wander, and she pretends not to see yours do the same. Your hands brushing up against each other but never intertwining.

You both can’t contain it anymore when you reach the house. She nearly pushes you down trying to get you inside, before cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. You grab at her hips wanting her closer, and it causes her to moan into your mouth. Her knee pushing between your legs and brushing up against your cunt.

“We’re gonna have to tell him eventually.” You breathe after breaking away from the kiss. She looks at you, soft green eyes piercing into yours. Triangling your face in a dazed and hungry stare. “I know. Fuck—” You cut her off with another kiss and almost go weak with the way her hands trail down your body. Fingers pulling at the fabric of your swimsuit. They rub at your clothed cunt while her mouth finds it way to your neck, trailing kisses and leaving rough hickies. She felt depraved, but she’d grown to need you. To need to hear you cry out her name.

The moment is sweet. Your heavy breathing and her soft whispers of “You like that?” and “Want me to touch you here? Use your words baby.” You can feel yourself growing close, legs barely keeping you upright when the sound of a key in the door stops you both in your tracks. It’s too late to run and hide, you hear a murmur of voices as it pushes you both. One of them distinctly being your brother’s.

[thebugcollector2]

Stoned with Dallas Winston

“Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain” (Mary Jane's Last Dance by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers)

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Summary: in which you are a hippie and sometimes get high with your good friend Dallas Winston (fluff)

Warnings: smoking, weed, mentions of drinking

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Most of the time, Dallas Winston preferred getting completely pissed drunk rather than a universal high. He often would go to parties, slamming drink after drink, only to find himself next to a random broad the morning after. 

Now Dallas did enjoy it, don’t let it be mistaken. Though, every once in a while he would find himself longing for the feeling of hot smoke burning his throat until his mind went fogged. 

So, once every few weeks you would get a call from Dally. His voice was alway rasped and gruff over the phone and it made your head spin. He knew you always had pot and that you were always looking for someone to get high with. It always went the same. You guys would spend the entire evening together, and on the rare occasion the night as well. Nothing out of pocket would be done between the two of you, at the most your shoulders brushing against each other if you sat too close, but never anything more.

You were sitting on Dallas’ bed, back against the wall with your knees hugged against your chest. He sat next to you, red eyed with a hidden smirk on his lips. You guys had been together for about four hours and in that time frame, two joints had been smoked and a pack of cigarettes as well. 

“Dallas,” you turned your head to look at him, a lopsided grin plastered on your lips as you spoke “what’s your zodiac sign?” 

Dally’s chest hummed as he stiffed a laugh, “Jesus Christ, man, you’re always asking dumb shit,” he shook his head and took a hit of his cigarette, “I don’t know doll, born in November so whatever that means.”

Doll, your smile widened at the nickname and that didn’t go unnoticed by him. 

You shrugged and looked away “I believe in ‘em,” you rested your chin on the top of your knees. “I think it’s all real interesting when you look into it,” you rambled, not even really processing what you were saying. “I like the stars and moon phases and all that,”

“I know ya do, doll.” He watched as you fell quiet. You reached for the pack of cigarettes that was to your right and lit one. Dallas would never say it out loud, but he always felt a sense of admiration towards you. He had never met someone in Tulas who was so entrancing and calm. You held a peace about you and that was rare for people that hung around him. Dallas watched as the smoke from your cigarette drizzled slowly from your mouth. “November ninth,” he broke the silence and smirked as he watched a wide grin form on your face. 

“Scorpio,” you murmured as you glanced his way. “Very loyal and uh,” you squinted at him as you fell deep in thought, “protective and intense too.” 

A deep chuckle came from him. “Hope that’s a good thing,” he inhaled his cigarette deeply. 

“I think so,” you always found yourself unable to hide your smile when you were with Dallas. It made your face feel numb from it. You’d blame it on the weed, but deep down you knew it was because of him.

“What ‘bout you,” Dallas gestured towards you as he spoke, “what’s your sign, or whatever” he mumbled. Normally he would have left the conversation silent, using the time to fall deep in thought. Though, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted to listen and watch you keep talking. 

“Pisces.” you sighed and hit your cigarette before you continued on. “I would say we feel things very deeply, kinda like um, like a deep emotional connection to the universe.” Dallas noticed how your voice went soft and how your gaze formed a gentle look. “Also very creative but a bit impulsive.” 

Dallas also wanted to blame the weed for the thought, but he thought at that moment he had never seen anyone look so beautiful.

[buzzcutlip]

Cracks and Gaps - The Worst Day (part I) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Mature (Explicit in the following parts) 7434 words ao3

You meet Carmen in Copenhagen through a mutual friend and bond over shared experiences. After following his rising career from afar, you reconnect in Chicago when he renovates his late brother's restaurant. As an editor, you can't miss an opportunity to find out more about the comeback of this chef prodigy.

A/N: I've started writing this story a looong time ago last year. There will be two more parts. I would like to thank @carmyboobear for being the most incredible beta and helping me out on the rocky journey. They're a very special person to me, and also a fantastic and inspiring writer themselves. Please, check their Carmy stories if you haven't!

THE WORST DAY

The first time you meet Carmen, you are both a little over twenty and in Copenhagen. He is staging at Noma, and you are interning at a design studio where everyone is very “green.” From one of your conversations with Carmen, you learn that Pop-Tarts and Cheetos are illegal here. In Europe. Most of the sodas that stained your tongue crazy colors when you were a kid are banned too. He lectures you on Scandinavian agriculture and food production.

Carmen is skinny and short—still a bit taller than you, though—with sharp, high cheekbones and bulging eyes. You don't know enough about each other to be “friends,” but he is a good companion. Your high school friend Becky knows Carmen’s older sister; that’s how you found each other in Denmark’s capital.

On two rare occasions, you get drunk together, and that happens only when he is stressed from work. Like, stressed STRESSED. You'd think he only drinks special natural wine from Lofoten or something, but his choice of poison is canned Budweiser. Maybe he misses home as much as you do. Maybe that’s what leads you to almost kiss him the second time. Carmen lives on a boat, and he takes you there, where you drink vodka mixed with herbs and licorice that Carmen concocts, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. The drink tastes good. Weird. You don't hide your grimace. Neither of you comments on the alcohol ratio. It's more vodka than anything else, that's for sure.

Carmen is not your type, physically or character-wise—you are an introvert yourself, so you need someone to bring you out of your shell. Obviously, doing an internship on a different continent is a huge step, one that is only on you. He also smokes a lot and probably doesn't wash his hair. You've heard about his crazy mother and bonkers family from Becky, so you understand why Carmen is Carmen. Why he’s run off to Europe. It's just—his face—his eyes, when he's telling you about his dream job at Noma or Alchemist—they glow, and he becomes so animated, the quiet excitement seeping to the surface, and there's fondness blooming in your chest. He also knows a thing or two about sports, as you do, the subject bringing you back to Chicago, and the longing for “home” and “familiar” is terribly strong in the moment, enhanced by the alcohol. And Carmen, the boy sitting opposite you, with burns on his hands and ripped jeans, is both of those things put into one.

Nothing happens between you two, but the urge to press your own lips against his lingers after you leave in a taxi, not brave enough to ride a bike under the influence.

You try to stay in touch after Copenhagen, messaging Carmen on his empty Facebook profile, sending a text once in a while, mainly at Christmas, and when you have some terrible junk food, just to make fun of him. When he FaceTimes you, he’s in Paris, and you’re in Dublin. The next time, he’s in California.

He rarely ever answers messages on the phone. Usually, it's an emoji, sometimes a word or two. Soon, there are no answers, and you can't be bothered. You carry on with your life in Chicago, and it doesn’t take long before you start seeing Carmen Berzatto in the paper, on the internet. The young prodigy chef, everyone says. Reluctantly, you read the articles, thinking about the Copenhagen Carmen, smiling at his photos. He's grown up, filled out. His hair is curlier, his shoulders wider, his biceps stronger. He looks good. Good and sad, you think to yourself, and decide not to text him to congratulate him on his star career. Carmen is not one to care about what you think of it.

It's only when you hear from Becky that Mikey Berzatto has died, that you think of Carmen properly, after years full of work in the magazine office, one shitty almost-boyfriend, and summers spent in Europe, writing about sustainable travel and solo adventures. Becky says that he's inherited a restaurant from Michael. You decide against sending him condolences—too personal.

But about ten months later, there's whispering that a fancy restaurant, The Bear, is replacing The Beef of Chicagoland, and it's actually your boss who tells you that you should go check the place out.

You are not into that whole haute cuisine thing, to be honest. You never understood those tiny little portions and strange ingredients and their combinations. You prefer good pasta with Bolognese sauce or roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Sometimes you wonder if Carmen's strange relationship with his family is what's keeping him away from his Italian roots and forcing him to work in pristine, starched whites in sterile kitchens, cooking intestines and antlers, making it art.

---

Becky gives you Natalie Berzatto’s phone number to get in touch with her to try to schedule an interview for the magazine feature. Your boss, Rob, hopes that Carmen could even make it to the cover soon when The Bear takes off. You’re not sure how you feel about bypassing Carmen completely and going straight to his sister.

So one Thursday, in early May, you decide to walk there, unannounced. You corner the building, passing a big glass window, and before you make it to the main entrance, you nearly collide with a very wonky wooden stepladder. With Carmen Berzatto on top of it, fiddling with a screwdriver or a similar tool, and a signboard.

The second you make contact with the ancient stepladder, Carmen shouts, "Fuck!"

“Sorry,” you yelp, and one glance at the man high up confirms that you are indeed dealing with the Chef himself.

“Could you watch out?” he says angrily as he makes his way down, measuring every step carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, waiting anxiously for Carmen to—hopefully—recognize you. To anyone walking by, you must look like an idiot, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting motionless and stiff for a guy to climb down a ladder.

You don’t know what you had been expecting but definitely not Carmen staring at you with his huge, bloodshot eyes for seconds that feel like minutes. You nearly turn around and walk away, no joke.

He looks—

“You look—” you start. Terrible. But also, like, gorgeous. Terribly tired but hot. Is it awful of you to think that?

“Hi,” Carmen says, one hand going into the big mess of his hair, the other one into his pants pocket. He's avoiding your eyes, which makes you even more nervous, makes you think it was not such a great idea to come here.

“Hi!” you say, probably overly enthusiastically. “You're back in Chicago,” is the first thing you can think of.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, congrats on the new place,” you say, gesturing to the building behind him, newspaper covering the windows. “I'm really sorry, I thought it was already open,” you explain, tugging on the hem of your lilac sweatshirt nervously. Can he tell you’re lying? “Becky mentioned something about it.”

“No, we’re opening next week,” Carmen says, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“I'm really curious,” you smile carefully, testing the waters, wondering how he's going to react. You haven't seen each other in more than five years, and Carmen's never been exactly friendly. Not like mean, but definitely not easily approachable. “I work for this magazine, and we would love to do a feature on this,” you say, leaving out that it's you who would be writing it. Who wants to write it. Not only about the place but about Carmen, the enigma, the quiet boy, the excellent chef.

He only nods, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he taps the cigarette against the palm of his other hand. “When we're ready for this kind of thing.”

“Of course,” you agree quickly.

“Might be a while.”

“So what is the big plan?”

Carmen looks at you, measuring you. Like he thinks you have some ulterior motive. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, and you fight not to scrunch your nose in disgust. The older you get, the more you hate the smell. Especially when someone is blowing out the smoke aimlessly—almost—in your face.

“My partner—Sydney, she’s hung up on the stars. So I guess a fine dining kinda place,” Carmen says, flicking the cigarette butt in the general direction of the gutter. The second sentence comes out more like a question than a statement, but you are still processing the first one.

“You run a business with your girlfriend?” you swear you don’t mean it to sound so accusing.

Carmen takes a step back, physically—bumping into the stepladder behind him—and mentally, too. “No! She—Sydney’s my business partner.” The defensive tone tells you exactly how your words sounded though. You wince. “We’ve been working on the new concept together with Nat, and the whole crew, actually. It’s—it’s a family business, I guess—uhm. We had only like three months to finish, and—”

You can see he’s really flustered. He’s starting to stutter, hand nervously scratching his neck. You hate the sight, hate that you’ve made him feel like this.

“I’m sorry!” you interrupt him. “It came out all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say urgently, hoping to see him relax back to his non-caring, nonchalant, tired-looking self. How could you mess up so quickly? Is that your special ability or a curse?

“‘s fine,” Carmen says, and he does relax a bit, shoulders dropping an inch. He doesn’t look friendly though. Or in the mood for a chat. “I just—she’s a business partner,” he repeats obstinately, face red.

The moment grows awkward. In your coat pocket, you touch a pack of chewing gum and start fiddling with it. “I—my office is nearby so I thought I could come around and see the progress,” you say into the void, trying not to cringe too much. “Maybe I would take a few colleagues for dinner.”

“The reservations aren't open yet,” Carmen says in a flat voice. You can’t call him out because it’s probably true anyway. Plus, you just lied again—the offices are not close; you had taken the L—and you feel bad about it.

There’s not much left to say, you realize. He’s not giving you any space to turn this “accidental” meeting into a proper conversation. You shuffle your feet nervously, feeling stupid.

“Alright. It was nice seeing you!” you say, as it’s about time to end this. “Hope everything’s gonna work out great!” you add in a cheerful tone, already setting to walk back to the station.

“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.” Carmen says back, lighting a second cigarette.

What a nightmare, you think as you walk through the busy streets.

—

In the following weeks, you almost forget about The Bear. Rob complains about the nonexistent article on the new, already hyped-up restaurant and wasted opportunities, but what can you do? The not-at-all-accidental meeting with Carmen had been a disaster you actively try to erase from your mind. Working on your regular column and material for the website keeps you busy. Then Becky calls out of nowhere, and you two arrange lunch at The Marq. You end up swapping hilarious stories from the last two months you hadn’t seen each other, and you secretly pray she doesn’t ask about Natalie Berzatto or her brother. You're out of luck, because she does—of course she does—and you have to lay the cards on the table.

“You did contact Nat first though?” is the first thing Becky asks.

“I didn’t,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to exclude Carmen right at the very beginning,” you admit.

“Oh god,” Becky rolls her eyes at you, taking a small bite of her salmon cake sandwich.

“I knooow,” you quickly stop her, feeling like ordering something stronger than the simple soda you’ve been drinking.

“I think you should still call Natalie,” Becky says, pointing at you with a determined frown. “I went to see her and her new baby just last week. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Apparently they could really use some help getting the word out about The Bear. A good excuse to talk Carmen into an interview maybe? An exclusive one?” She wiggles her eyebrows, knowing how cool it would be for you to come up with this.

“Maybe,” you muse, playing it cool. Inside, you are already hyped up about the possibility of scoring the first interview with the former best chef in the world. Is he still good at all? Why did he disappear? Why is he back?

—

The anxiety of the following days forces you to actually text Natalie. You’ve been checking online websites and Instagram accounts apprehensively, worried that a medium might publish something about The Bear before you get a chance. Rob isn’t a dick, but you wouldn’t want to look incompetent in his eyes. So far, you’ve been able to steer away from conversations about the new Carmen Berzatto restaurant at work. Your work ethic makes it difficult for you to let The Bear go without a fight.

That’s how you find yourself in front of Natalie’s door. When she opens it, she doesn’t hide her fervor.

“Oh, finally! Hi! Please come in.” She ushers you inside. You’ve never seen her in person, only on Becky’s Instagram, maybe, and even though the exhaustion is apparent on the woman’s face, you can spot the similarities with Carmen in her features right away.

From the dark hallway, she leads you to the sitting room. When you look around, it’s hard to find a clutter-free space. Every surface is covered with baby clothes, baby diapers, baby wipes—clean and dirty—bottles—full and empty.

“Sorry for the mess,” Natalie appears next to you, snatching away a baby muslin from the sofa. “Have a seat, please,” she nods. “The baby’s asleep. Hopefully for the next—” and she checks her watch, “another twenty minutes.”

As you sit down, Natalie collapses into an armchair, not minding what appears to be a pile of freshly washed newborn onesies and other clothes underneath her.

“Thank you so much for stopping by,” she says sincerely, and you notice the many stains on her purple t-shirt.

You smile. “No problem.”

“Becky said that you know stuff about Instagram and social media and marketing and all that?” Natalie’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I would say so,” you nod.

“I’m not sure what Becky mentioned already,” Natalie says as she starts pulling the baby clothes from under her and folding them absentmindedly. That definitely says something about the state she’s in, without Becky describing the situation to you—not only with The Bear but also Nat herself. “Carmy’s putting so much into the restaurant—we all are—so much hope,” she babbles, “none of us have slept properly in weeks—months! And now the baby...” Natalie’s gaze becomes unfocused for a moment before she blinks rapidly. “The timing’s not so great,” she forces out a weak laugh, and you smile again, already feeling bad for her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I understand. It’s hard,” you empathize, feeling genuinely bad—not for The Bear—but for Natalie.

“I’m not a marketing guru, but I can research things,” she carries on, more confident now. “But I can’t be there all the time, y’know? It’s just not possible. If—if someone could help with keeping the place afloat and spreading the word—” she stops talking and folding, looking directly at you. “That would be just so awesome,” she finishes quietly, her bottom lip wobbling.

You know that Nat’s not trying to emotionally blackmail you, even though the situation kinda feels like it, and you do feel for her.

“I can help, yes.”

“I’ll talk to Carm and Sydney, and we’ll figure out how much we can offer you!” The relief and excitement are apparent in the way Nat jumps up from the armchair.

“That’s alright, really,” you say calmly, putting a hand on her arm now that she’s closer. “We can discuss this later,” and you give her another encouraging smile.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying comes from somewhere in the house. Poor Natalie freezes, her hand going to touch her chest. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you. Thank you,” and she takes a hold of your hand, squeezing it. “I’ll tell Sydney to get in touch with you—or you can actually just go to the restaurant; they know about you.”

That makes you slightly uncertain as you remember your first attempt at an unannounced visit to The Bear.

“Alright,” you nod with a polite smile. After all, you’re getting something out of this too.

—

Sydney texts you exactly 22 minutes after you leave worn-out Natalie and her baby behind and invites you to come to The Bear the next day. To make yourself appear more untouchable, you reply that the soonest you’re available is next Monday. Make them wait.

It gets you on edge, though, and more than once you think of Carmen in his tiny Copenhagen kitchen, how things used to be. How easy it is to grow apart. Not that you’d been friends exactly. Hard to be anything like that with a person as closed off as Carmen Berzatto.

On the agreed Monday, you dare to finish early at work and take the train to The Bear. Your stomach is in knots, even though you’ve been pretty brave about the whole thing. It’s just—you’re not sure how Carmen’s gonna react when he sees you, and you’re already thinking about the worst possible scenarios. Just stop! you tell yourself resolutely, forcing yourself to concentrate on the simple but well-thought-out marketing plan you prepared to present. Without being asked. If Carmen sees that you actually KNOW things, he might change his opinion about you. Not that you KNOW his opinion, but—maybe he would actually acknowledge you finally.

It’s just after the family meal when you arrive. A tall man who introduces himself as Richie lets you in instantly, and he’s clearly been informed about your arrivall. As soon as Sydney is notified of your presence, she rushes to you from the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron. You notice right away that she’s friendly and calm, and it relaxes your nerves. There’s no doubt she loves the restaurant and her job, and you see that she worries as much as Natalie does, or even more.

“We’re opening in two hours, so it’s a bit wild in the back, but maybe you wanna see the kitchen?” Sydney offers as she’s showing you around the newly restored restaurant, opening the heavy door. “A quick peek,” she adds as a loud cracking noise comes out of the exact door.

You’ve been to a couple of kitchens, and you must say that this one’s definitely on the chaotic side of the scale. People in white aprons run here and there, no one’s still, not even for a second. There’s a good amount of shouting and a huge amount of swearing. In the middle of everything, there’s Chef Carmen Berzatto. He looks like a character from Cartoon Network. His wild hair is sticking out in all directions, dark tattoos covering his arms and hands, face sweaty, eyes ready to pop out of his head. He’s shorter than most people you see circling the kitchen, but the loudest one. He shouts orders, and you notice the vein on the side of his neck—it sure is ready to burst. You wonder how far he is from having a heart attack.

“Or maybe next time,” Sydney mutters, gently pushing you out of the way and shutting the door again. She leads you to one of the brown wooden tables where you settle again.

“Is he always like that?” you ask Sydney, actually glad that you’re not in the room where the storm’s currently happening.

“Only when he’s stressed,” Sydney explains shortly, an apologetic smile on her lips.

When it comes to money, it’s obvious The Bear doesn’t have much to spare, that much is clear. Sydney is extremely apologetic and sweet about it.

“There’s a marketing budget—previously non-existent—that we’ve set aside and can offer. It’s just not much, I’m afraid,” she tells you, jittery.

You want to reassure her, to tell her that you're doing it for Carmen, for an old "friend." But from what you've gathered, Sydney doesn't even know that Carmen knows you.

So you just smile and reassure her anyway. "I'll put it on my resume. I can use more cases with social media for hospitality," you lie.

Nodding, Sydney clarifies, "Yes, just Instagram. Please. Carmy doesn't want to put anything in the press. Yet."

When a curious Richie joins you at the table, you present the Instagram plan to both of them. Even though Richie can't help making a few rather stupid remarks that only he finds funny, they both listen carefully. You see a lot of skepticism on Richie's face, probably because he doesn't understand some of the big words, you guess, but Sydney seems to be really into everything from pictures of the food and the weekly specials, to quick reels showing potential customers a little bit of behind-the-scenes action.

"Oh, I'm sure Cousin will be thrilled to have people sticking their noses into his business," Richie says, and you're not sure how serious he is. But Sydney shushes him, and you carry on, showing her the mock-up of the possible Instagram feed to set the mood for the profile.

For the next three weeks, you go to The Bear twice a week to gather some content—photos and videos. You talk to the crew and film those who are okay with it. Your presence is met with mixed emotions, but Sydney's gratitude and kindness make up for every suspicious glare and exasperated sigh when you find yourself in someone's way. Besides the restaurant, you take your neighbor's dog for a long walk every Saturday morning, call your mom and dad to check in, scroll Instagram instead of finally starting an actual book, and often wonder why Carmen is so hostile towards you.

Generally, you try not to hang out in the kitchen directly, especially not when Chef Carmen is present. Being uncomfortable in a new environment makes you positively anxious, causing you to go through a whole pack of your favorite cinnamon Simply Gums a day.

You also remember to always tie your hair up—not that the staff there wear hairnets or anything, but you don't want Carmen to find another reason to frown at you. He's been basically only frowning or ignoring you. Hard to tell which one is worse.

You always clean your hands super thoroughly, like during COVID, singing the "Happy Birthday" song to time it before daring to even stick your finger in the restaurant. Sydney offers you an apron to protect your work clothes, which you refuse. You sense from some people there that you're not entirely welcome.

But the more you avoid Carmen, the more likely you are to bump into him. You know Murphy's Law. So one morning, he just appears from around the corner, carrying a tray of mushrooms.

For a second, you're actually horrified that he's going to introduce himself. Before that can happen, you blurt out, "Uh—do you remember me? Copenhagen?"

Carmen stops and looks at you, wiping his wet hands on the towel attached to the string of his white apron. "Yeah," he confirms, "yeah, I do." He says your name, all soft and correct, along with your surname, and with his eyes fixed on you, you're frozen to the spot, affected whether you like it or not. Then he leaves to taste Tina's roasted peppers.

Obviously, your mind can't let the episode slip away. As you type copy for the upcoming Instagram posts, you pause every so often to cringe at how embarrassing you behaved. Of course, he remembers you, for fuck's sake! You're working in his restaurant—kinda.

"Hey! Copenhagen! You wanna see this?" Carmen yells a bit later from the other side of the kitchen, and you falter, deciding whether you're really going to answer to him calling you that.

You bite your tongue and trail hesitantly to the station where Carmen is with Tina and Ebraheim, gathered around a saucepan.

"Tina, chef, this is excellent. Well done," Carmen says to her as you approach, then turns to you.

"This is what we wanna share with the world. Perfect red pepper sauce. Simple but delicious."

"Okay," you respond, taking in the expectant way all three of them are looking at you. Like you're some kind of magician. Or a fraud.

"Just," Carmen adds before he sets off, "no recipes leave this kitchen," and he waits for you to confirm.

"Right."

Slowly, you start to question why you're helping The Bear. Is it because two years ago you thought of Carmen and what you might have felt for him? What could have been? More than the chef himself, you find yourself growing fond of the place and the employees—some of them! Seeing the Instagram followers number increase fills you with pride and satisfaction. Fuck Carmen.

---

Mornings are usually the only time when Carmen isn’t around, and you try to time your visits so your paths don’t cross.

Wanting to snap photos of the new tableware and make a quick, fun video reel, you head into the kitchen. There's no one around—Sweeps is probably hiding somewhere, and Sydney might be in the office. Not wanting to bother anyone, you set your always-heavy handbag on a chair and start looking for everything you need. There's no reason for you to feel like you're sneaking around, but you can't help feeling nervous. That’s when your clumsiness strikes, and you manage to knock over a glass of water. Rolling your eyes, you get on your hands and knees to wipe the spilled water with a rug that you hope is meant for cleaning, as you’re very aware of every item having its particular function here.

You straighten up and stretch to get one more plate from the shelf. Then you lose your footing on the still-wet tiles. Your foot slips, and the top plate falls to the countertop with a loud cracking noise. You react quickly, trying to break the fall, but there's no use. The plate shatters to pieces.

Of course, it’s Carmen himself who emerges from the door leading to the office, and you wince—both physically and mentally—preparing yourself for a very unpleasant collision.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches you, eyebrows pinched. He’s not wearing his chef whites, just a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans.

“Sorry, I—” you start apologizing as Carmen stands next to you, assessing the damage.

“What—what’re you doing here?” he asks in a very flat voice, staring at the pieces of ceramic.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to tidy this and also pay for the plate, obviously,” you ramble, reaching down for the shards.

“Don’t,” Carmy barks, stopping you by grabbing your shaking hands in his. His hands are big, the tattoos making them look harsh and crude, even though the touch is gentle. “Don’t cut yourself,” he adds quietly, holding you until you relax your arms and then a second longer.

He must sense your nervousness. “It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Carmen assures you, catching your eye. “Hey,” he lays a soft hand on your arm, “step away, I’ll clean this.”

Nodding, you step back and wait patiently, disconcerted, watching as Carmen carefully handles and discards the shards, then checks the floor for any tiny fragments. He turns back to you.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.” And you’re more thrown off balance by having Carmen pay attention to you, all of a sudden, than by damaging the kitchen’s equipment.

He studies you for a moment, his face unreadable, and you’re the one to look away first. Which you hate, by the way.

“You wanna see some stuff I’ve been working on?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking a deep breath to relax further. “I’m sorry. The loud noise—” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Just scared the shit out of me, I guess,” you finish with an apologetic smile.

“You’re alright,” Carmen confirms and disappears for a bit. In the meantime, you have a small meltdown, shaking your head at yourself for being so, so very terribly lame. Luckily, before he returns with a tray of different dishes, you pull yourself together.

Carmen sets the tray down, revealing an array of colorful and sophisticated meals that instantly catch your curiosity.

“Any allergies?” he asks.

“Passion fruit—easily avoidable. Sometimes kiwi,” you list. “And grumpy chefs,” you add cheekily, feeling bold.

Carmen pauses. “I’m not grumpy. I’m focused.”

“You weren’t like this in Copenhagen,” you say softly, leaning a bit closer to him, your body language signaling that once you had been comfortable around each other.

“I’m more focused now,” Carmen retorts, stubborn and maybe a bit offended. “Back then I—uhm—I felt comfortable around you. It was easy.”

“And now?” you almost whisper.

But Carmen ignores the question, pushing the first bowl closer to you. “Here, taste this… or take a picture and then taste it.”

And you understand that the re-bonding is over.

---

Soon, you drop the habit of visiting the restaurant only in the mornings. One reason is that spending time with Carmen, talking to him or watching him cook and explain things, makes you late for work twice in a row. That usually never happens as you take pride in being on time at the office. You don’t work at The Bear for money, but you hardly think about it that way. When you decide to pop in during the morning, Carmen shares his deadly strong black coffee that he mills himself with you. It’s bitter but heavenly. Secretly, you like drinking it while chewing your favorite cinnamon gum, which somehow makes the taste even better—smoother and richer.

The second reason—you discover that Carmen is much calmer in the evenings after service. Less jittery, more relaxed. His blood flows slower, you think. His heart pumps with more ease. Sydney and he share thoughts and plans for the restaurant with you while you all sit at an empty table. It’s nice, you think, while watching Carmen’s hands play with a napkin. His hands are especially nice.

It’s Saturday and raining as you find yourself sitting in Gordon Ramsay's Burger. Nothing could’ve surprised you more than Carmen asking you to go out eat together. Had he felt bad for ignoring you at the beginning? You’re watching the rivers of raindrops on the big glass window, waiting for Carmen. As usual, you’re ten minutes early, and after you order a Life’s a Beach, the first thing on your mind is you're just early, he didn't stand you up, and then: this is not a date, babe! Which instantly startles you into sitting up straight and looking around, as if someone could see your embarrassing thoughts. Why are you even thinking about this?? Then Carmen arrives, wet patches on his shoulders and jeans that cling to his thighs. He chooses the Chicago hot dog and three different burgers with a bunch of sides. While he only nibbles on them and writes down notes on his phone, you feel bad for wasting the food and eat more than you should. Carmen studies the buns very carefully and asks you a lot of questions about the food, some of which you find amusing and actually—endearing. When you go to bed that night, your belly’s uncomfortably full. You dream that you’re pregnant and about to go into labor, and you’re pretty sure that Carmen’s the father. And, honestly, do you need a book of dreams to explain the meaning? Fuck.

---

All goes to hell next week when Carmen sees you eating a sandwich from the corner shop down the street. Instead of having your regular lunch with Becky, you’ve chosen to run to The Bear so you could see Marcus unveil his new dessert. But before that, you popped into the nearby deli to order a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. No one at The Bear had ever explicitly invited you to the family meal, and you would never dare to have free food there. But the way Carmen looks at you while you sit on the step by the back exit, eating the rather dry sandwich, is indescribable. The stern look on his face is back, with a closed-off facade. His eyes are cold. Before you take it all in, you wave at him awkwardly, chewing. Carmen retreats back inside wordlessly, leaving you confused and a little hurt.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere surrounding you doesn’t improve when you return to work, the stupid sandwich sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone. You have a big argument in the meeting room while planning the next month's issue. Then one of your co-workers makes a nasty remark about your single life. The afternoon drags on painfully slowly, which forces you to message your cousin—an astrologist extraordinaire—to check what the heck is going on with the universe.

Tuesday morning is rough. The second you wake up, you know you’ve overslept because you never get up without the alarm ringing angrily. A single glance at your phone proves it to be true. Right after, you notice three missed calls from Sydney and two from Nat. There are no text messages, though.

At first, you intend to call Rob to beg for a home office day, something you rarely ever use. But as soon as you check your calendar, you’re reminded of the big conference happening from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. You rush to work, finishing your makeup on the train, then enter the office building to quickly run through notes with your colleagues. The first time you have a chance to make a quick phone call is when you finally go to the bathroom. It’s Natalie who you manage to reach first, as the lunch rush at The Bear is just unfolding. Over the cries of Natalie’s baby, you hear half-sentences about a recipe, Carmen, and a leak. It’s hard to put it all together. At 4 p.m., Nat finally sends you a text. It says: “Recipe’s published in Taste of Home. Carm’s mad. Says someone leaked it.”

It contains a link to the Taste of Home website, with Carmen’s perfect Berkswell Pudding recipe in the Top Recipes of the Week, marked “Chef’s tip.” You check it again to make sure, and surely—it’s one of the dishes Carmen introduced to you just last week. You didn’t dare to photograph it, much less taste it. You remember concentrating on the way his lips moved when he explained the preparation process, not much on the cooking itself.

What’s clear to you is that the "Someone" from Nat’s message is actually you.

A gloomy dread settles in your stomach as the meeting goes on and on. You barely pay attention, which makes everything even worse. You’re scared of what’s happened in the restaurant, and you’re worried that you’re going to miss something important in the meeting.

When you run for a second quick bathroom break, instead of peeing, you think of your next step. You could try to call everyone in the restaurant, try to find out what the hell is going on. But you don’t want to be seen as hysterical. You check Instagram and possible messages to find traces of a catastrophe. There’s nothing. Again, you open the website with the recipe. The photos are pretty sloppy, definitely not something Carmen would prepare. As you check the ingredients, you notice there are some major differences from Carmen’s dish. All in all, the only thing that stops you from texting Carmen is your pride. And true fear.

Absolutely dreading facing Carmen, you make it to The Bear during dinner time. Which, obviously, is the worst possible timing. You’re only praying that he’s not in the kitchen but hiding in his office, deep in paperwork.

It’s Sydney who you meet first as you sneak into the restaurant through the back door. She grabs your arm.

“Don’t go to talk to him now! He’s in a really, really bad mood. Natalie and I were trying to call you.” There’s genuine worry on Sydney’s face, her eyes big and honest.

“I don’t understand what happened,” you frown. You can feel a headache approaching from the intense day in the office. “I think he should tell me himself if there’s a problem.”

“I’ve been trying to work it out with him, to explain—”

“Explain what?” you question, more sternly than you usually are around Syd.

She falters. “It’s just this stupid thing—and we love having you—don’t let Carmy upset you,” Sydney half-explains. It doesn’t make much sense, and you shake your head, heading to the office. You’re more mad than afraid now.

You don’t wait for an invite after you knock shortly. Closing the door behind you, you find Carmen leaning against the desk, a bottle of water in his hand.

Everything inside of you drops the second he lays his eyes on you. There’s no doubt he’s angry.

“Didn’t Natalie tell you you don’t have to come here again?” Carmen asks curtly. “I’m surprised you think it’s okay to be here.”

Not expecting Carmen to be this harsh from the beginning, you swallow instead of answering.

“I hope that you’re happy now,” he says meanly, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out, sincerely meaning it.

Carmen straightens up, watching you like a feline. “The recipe. It’s out. One fucking thing I asked not to get out, and now the whole of America can see and fucking even cook it at home.”

You’re frozen to the spot. From the very beginning, you knew that Carmen is not a person to mess with, hoping that you would never experience his anger directed at you. Now it’s happening.

You want to say something about no one being able to cook the way he does, but it’s pointless. Instead, you’re fighting off the flush on your face from embarrassment. You feel like a child being scolded, but you don’t want to look like one.

The muted but still loud kitchen noises bleed through the closed door. A shout, clattering. Not loud enough to stop Carmen from piercing you through and through with his ice-cold eyes.

“I promise I didn’t do anything like that,” you say, desperately wanting the chef to believe you. “I swear!”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand propped on his waist. You wait, breathless, for his next move, scared to death. The shirt you have on is wet with your sweat. The really badly smelling kind—the one your body produces when you’re stressed or scared. And you’ve been stressed since the very morning. You flinch when you move your arm and the odor hits your nose, hoping that Carmen can’t smell you. You would be mortified. The strap of your tote bag is digging into your shoulder painfully, but you don’t dare to move to put it down to relieve your arm.

“This all doesn’t—it doesn’t make any sense,” Carmen starts pacing, looking down at the floor and not at you anymore. You’re not sure if it’s better this way. “You come here, wanna do a fucking interview with me, or some shit, then you show up again—this time wanting to work here. For free! So, please, tell me—how does it sound, huh?”

Petrified, you realize how exactly it all sounds. When Carmen says it like this, it makes you look like a fraud. Like a terrible, terrible person. A liar. Your mind goes weeks back, back to the moment you actually thought of maybe digging some scoop in here, maybe convincing Carmen to do the interview after all. But it’s far from how he’s making the situation sound.

“Carmen,” you start without knowing what you want to say. Carmen’s stopped walking around the tiny office like a caged animal, and he’s again looking at you. There’s so much tension in his face, back hunched. “It sounds bad, but may I explain—”

“You may not,” he cuts you off briskly. His neck—normally a place you find sexy—is all red, and the thick vein there is getting more and more prominent by the second. “No one fucks with my business, you understand?” Oh—and he’s shouting now.

The natural defense, you didn’t know existed, is to make yourself smaller. Somehow, anyhow. You hang your head, avoiding looking at his face. You just can’t meet his eyes, even though Carmen’s bowing and tilting his head to force you to.

“It’s like I have to start asking the staff to sign an NDA,” he carries on.

Carmen’s getting slowly closer and closer to you, pushing you against the wall by the door. He’s not touching you but only because you’re not allowing it. You’re sick with humiliation. Lost for words, probably for the first time in your life.

“—and Nat fucking leaves me here—us, all of us—and that’s just not fair. I would expect so, so much more from my sister. Not that my brother was much better,” he chuckles humorlessly, but you see it’s more like an effort to catch his breath. “Lousy fuckers… Do you think you do your job well here, chef?”

He’s scaring you now. The hair by his temples and above his forehead is damp, and his gesticulation is wild and weird.

“Do we disgust you here, is that right, hm?” Carmen probably finally sees your frightened expression because he adds, “Why would you buy food somewhere else and then come here to eat it?!” You understand that he’s referring to the day he saw you eating the sandwich by the rear exit. Unsure whether he expects you to reply, you decide to stay quiet. Your knees are starting to shake, from exhaustion after the long day and perhaps, from Carmen’s current behavior.

“It made ME sick,” he says, his face just inches from yours when one of his hands slams into the thin wall right next to your head. The noise echoes in the room, and you’re desperately hoping it’s not loud enough for the others to hear from outside. You would die on the spot if they knew what’s going on here.

“Who do you think you are?” Carmen shouts some more, loud, by your ear. It vibrates through you and never stops. You’re shivering all over, you notice. It’s not okay, not okay!

At last, you raise your head, chin jutting out. “No one’s going to talk to me like this. No one,” you spit out in the chef’s face, taking him by surprise. “Don’t you ever shout at me again,” and you jab him right in the middle of his chest, instead of punching him there like he deserves.

When you’re leaving his office and rushing to the back exit, you hear Carmen yelling.

Everything feels tense and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is set so hard your teeth could crush from the pressure. The fresh air hits your face, and you focus on breathing deeply through your nose. The sounds remind you of a steam engine. You walk for about a minute, mind blank with the shock. Only when you turn a corner do you allow yourself to stop, which causes the first tears to fall. You’re so mad at yourself. Why the fuck are you crying?! There’s so much frustration in the crazy mixture of emotions you’re feeling. You’re completely overwhelmed with it, not knowing what to focus on at first.

Out of habit, you look for your phone in your handbag to check the screen. The fucking heavy bag that’s been killing your shoulder. Frustrated, you let it slide off your arm and down to the sidewalk. You don’t even care if it breaks, as it lands with a noisy, dull sound. It had been years since you got properly yelled at, and you’re angry that it affects you this much. You promise yourself to take a few seconds here, in the middle of an empty street, then call a cab. At home, you can cry.

PART II

[drdemonprince]

I was talking to some relatives about our comparative sensitivities to substances. As a young person, I had the classic Autistic hyper-sensitivity to drugs. Two beers could knock me out. Anything past that was disgusting to me; at Ohio State I was constantly hiding half-drunk solo cups of Natty Light on bookshelves and in basements because I couldn't keep up with anyone else. I had no taste for weed or anything harder because I hated how tired it made me feel. At the same time, I always remained lucid on substances. I was always the person who could snap into practical, problem-solving thinking and put on a sober face if a member of my party got in trouble for pissing in the street or started fighting or ran afoul of the cops.

growing up, my friends were always trying to get fucked up so they could escape their brains and their realities, and then falling into huge problems because they'd done so. they'd get drunk and piss themselves. drive drunk home. fall in love with some dude on cocaine ten years older than them and then have to bust open a garage window with their fist when he was freaking out threatening himself. they'd blow out their caffeine receptors on weird drug store cold medicine and not be able to drink coffee for years. they'd drag themselves hung over to work or have to run a 5k still stoned. i didnt understand why they'd be so irrational. i was always the person sitting on the floor, a little tired but fine, watching them wrestle eachother drunkenly or cry when they'd started taking whatever drug it was to make themselves feel good. i didn't understand why someone would choose to weaken themselves and make themselves feel even worse. but nothing ever really felt good to me. i was just a flat line.

My sensitivity has changed thanks to testosterone, specifically because of muscle growth. I can throw back a number of drinks that startles me now, and feel almost nothing. A few months back a friend was being very generous with the boozy slushies at Sidetrack and the shots. I don't know how many I had. But more than I'd had to drink in many, many years at least. Which is probably still a small-seeming number to the real professionals, maybe something like 6 or 7 drinks total. But I felt completely fine, nothing past a little silly. I ate a taco on the curb, sipped some water, and then I was fine.

My sister is barely feels substances at all. She can't tell when pain medications work. In college, during a spat with a sorority "little" of hers who began to stalk her, she spent every afternoon at the bar downing shots from a shot-club list in exchange for a t-shirt, and it didn't affect her. She hates food and eats very little because of probably ARFID, but she will drink just about anything, and can do so in abundance if she wants to. But she rarely wants to, because it doesn't make her feel any more fucked up than a couple of cocktails. She smoked weed and took edibles sporadically for years without them ever kicking in or doing anything to her.

I am reminded of that story I read about the guy with really high social anxiety whom the CIA gave like ten tabs of acid, as part of some fucked up experiment, and he remained completely lucid, polite, present, and normal-seeming the entire time. Because he was just such a fucking tight-assed neurotic person that he couldn't let go of his iron-tight grip on reality. After his 12th acid tab, he got a little bit sleepy and went off to bed, or something like that. (If someone remembers this story and can find a link, send it to me!).

I don't know that I'd be the same, I've never tried, acid, but I imagine that it would play out something like that. I'd clench my firsts tight onto reality and keep masking as normal until I reached the absolute fucking brink of my ability to cope, and then I wouldn't enjoy the high, i'd just be so fucked up that I needed to go lie down. Mushrooms didn't affect me much, either.

I can't seem to escape my constant neurotic rumination and compulsive need to attend to the reactions of others and modulate myself. I wish I could let loose, but then again, when a person says they want one thing and they behave in a completely different way, trust the behavior. Clearly I don't want to lose control. I'm obsessed with maintaining my perspective. The one time I got properly zooted high at Nowadays in New York I nearly lost my phone, and I don't want to risk anything like that again. Anxiety is such a protective thing. we evolved to survive not to be happy. and all told i'm pretty good at keeping shit together, looking after myself, looking after others, and not fucking things up. my anxiety and rigidity has spared my ass a whole lot of problems, saved me a lot of money, helped my career, helped me escape arrest. i wish i could relax once in a fucking while but also i dont. im in love with what a tight ass sharp edged tense little bitch i can be. i dont know who the alternative version of me even would be. if i were to let properly loose and get sloppy it would feel like some abdication of duty, because I know that I *can* keep it together no matter what, and it seems so many people can't.

[mi-i-zori]

When Her Blood Burns

CoD - Krueger x Fem!Medic!OC/Reader (Callsign : Nephilim)

SYNOPSIS : What I think Nephilim and Krueger’s relationship would be like.

WARNINGS : NSFW. Mentions of wounds, violence, blood, death and torture, smut, switch!Krueger and OC/Reader, mention of kinks. Kind of religious metaphors, though they do not indicate any of the character’s beliefs.

I do not give permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

Based on his Reaper skin, as well as other similar attires of his, it’s obvious Krueger doesn’t mind going on a battlefield without any kind of protection for his torso and arms. Just him, and his massive balls I guess.

So my headcanon is that he could be at least a little bit masochistic, and definitely a sadist sometimes. Addicted to the adrenaline flowing from the idea of being injured, in a dangerous environment or in the middle of a certain type of stimulation.

On that note, I also don’t think he would mind his carnal adventures being a little risky too.

So I’m gonna throw him into Nephilim’s life like a goddamn feral raccoon. Always up to no good, enjoying being scolded when the pretty medic patches him up after inevitably getting injured in one way or another. Focusing on her soft, steady whispers as she comforts the injured soldiers and civilians who end up in her care ; coming up with fascinating stories whenever she needs to soothe the minds of the terrified children she holds in her arms after saving them from the wicked hands of the terrorists she and her group are trying to destroy. He is shameless when it comes to flirting, drinking up the tiniest reactions that slip through her tough façade. Loving the way she sometimes allows herself to actually be shy in front of him.

He takes the time to slowly unravel the web she hides behind as he holds her flushed skin against his. He drinks every noise flying past her lips, hands holding her hips and breasts in a bruising grip - grunting and growling as he pounds into her. The feeling of his teeth sinking into her shoulders sends her over the edge, pleasured tears dripping down her face and nails tearing through his arms. Waves of scorching heat never fail to rise from every touch they share, burning flesh and mind as their climax drips between them like lava flooding an endless valley, filled with their most primal wilderness.

As he watches her struggle to catch her breath afterwards, pressing corrosive kisses down her spine and slowly descending from his own high, Krueger thinks he could not have found a prettiest angel.

Yet those thoughts come to a screeching halt once he actually witnesses first-hand the real reason behind her callsign. When he sees her fly through the ruins littering the battlefield, all bloodied and bruised, leaving a trail of utter destruction in her wake. Her curses rise like a storm as she tries to maintain everyone in one piece, the emergency medical supplies working flawlessly in her dexterous hands. She doesn’t hesitate when it comes to dragging the enemy soldiers’ names and faces in the dirt, tearing their own supplies from their soon-to-be cold carcasses whenever she can.

Krueger shivers madly when he sees her bring the most cold-hearted war veteran to shame during an interrogation, making her targets whimper and beg before filling their very souls with lead. The burning wisps of her cigarettes light her blood-soaked fingers with each drag, a cold breeze whisking the smoke away from her lips as soon as they part, frozen eyes staring into the night before meeting his.

An Angel and a Demon live in harmony behind the humanity of her mesmerising features. Should any of the Sacred Texts hold even the slightest ounce of truth, he might indeed be the only man to taste the flesh of a Nephilim, at least since the first Divine Purge. The first mortal to savour this rare kind of danger multiple times and come out of it as unscathed as one can be.

It makes him wish he was in her enemies’ place as he watches her with a new kind of interest, lust rippling through every single one of his muscles.

And he does ends up being in their place, in a way, once she really gets more confident with him and their relationship. He realises the façade was not always a fluke when she forces him to kneel, not budging under his touches - for she’s in a bad mood tonight, and it’s finally time she let go of her own chains. He acts like a brat when she digs her nails into his skin into a series of scorching touches while restraining his hands, smirking and not uttering a single sound. Until he can’t take it anymore. Her scent is too tempting behind the blindfold, her touches too mesmerising, her voice too hypnotising.

She takes advantage of his heightened senses, turning his own little tricks against him. Whispering honeyed threats in his ears, pressing her bare self against his back, hands wandering up and down his body without ever going where he wants them to be.

He’s never been so hard.

And he cracks, savouring her coos as he pleads and begs, fighting against his restraints. Whimpering when she finally goes down on him, only to deny him his release. Stimulating him far beyond his limits like he has done countless times to her, biting his lips until blood floods from under his teeth. She licks it up, the flavours of his skin, sweat and blood mixing with the taste of her lips as she kisses him, riding him feverishly until there nothing left of them but groans, moans and pants - whimpers, cries and thundering heartbeats. Rendering them both as brainless as one can be.

After this, Krueger realises that, as dominant as he likes to be, he may or may not have a huge mommy kink.

[missingexaltation]

(Just some post-Vecna D&D shenanigans because Hellfire looked so, so serious, and D&D (IMO) is rarely like that.)

Eddie's a brutal DM. He loves putting his players through the ringer, because their victories against him are then so much sweeter. He knows they get frustrated, but they also get a sick satisfaction from the campaigns, so it works out.

Even after Vecna, when Will comes back to Indiana and joins their excommunicated Hellfire sessions, Eddie doesn't change too much. Vexing them is one of his favourite things to do, he's spent hours creating this storyline after all, and he loves watching the party flounder and pull together to succeed.

It all goes to pot when Steve first tries to play. At first, he can't remember any of the races or NPC names (OR the party's names, actually), so instead he gives them all his own nicknames, which Eddie fucking hates, but puts up with because Steve just gives him the 🥺 eyes. 'I'm new at this, Eds, I'm sorry.' And to the surprise of everyone else, it actually works.

(Eddie does not tell them why it works, and why he's immune to everyone else trying that same tactic. He and Steve have been together for a couple of months and are very much enjoying exploring that by themselves for now. Steve's not above taking advantage of Eddie during D&D though, if anything, dating the DM makes him more bold.)

The thing that winds Eddie up the most though? When Steve starts to get it together, figures out what he's doing, and starts joining in with character role play. He's competitive, gets frustrated when he rolls low during combat, but absolutely lords about when he does roll high, echoing his kingly jock past when he gets a rare kill.

It becomes a running joke, Steve only rolls high on dumb shit, never when it's important, so although he can vague his way through some encounters, he has to rely on the rest of the party (Will in particular) to heal him up again. Unlike the others, Steve doesn't have any particular attachment to his character, so he's happy to 'fuck around and find out', and risk getting killed. (He knows Eddie's already got him a new one drawn up...just in case.)

The dumb shit he gets away with cracks the kids up. Steve gets away with so much through poor ignorance and sheer ballsy plays. Everyone finds it hysterical when Steve gets a nat 20 on completely irrelevant rolls, (the worst was when he gained an NPC to adventure alongside them, causing Eddie a complete fucking headache when said NPC was fighting alone against a dozen enemies and Eddie was stuck.narrating and rolling dice against himself for fifteen minutes), but alongside all of this...there's a more horrifying realisation.

Eddie loves it too.

Sure, this particular campaign is easier than any they've done before (purposefully designed so Eddie can catalogue how his newbies play), but it's so much fun. The kids, Steve, Gareth and Jeff all find it entertaining when Eddie bangs his head against the desk in annoyance, pauses the game for a much needed smoke, when he's forced to bring yet another NPC alongside with them, or when Steve crit rolls for dumb shit like how many beers he can down at the local tavern during a short rest.

Eddie's not sure if the kids know that he's grinning like a maniac behind his DM board, or that he's hiding his face because he's laughing and not despairing, but he's sure they'll find out eventually. He keeps up the facade as long as he can though. His boyfriend, kids and his boys are having fun, so he does too.

Eddie starts only putting his foot down for really ridiculous things, enjoying the weird fucking tangents the party starts to take, and rewriting the story on the fly, not even trying to get them back on track. It's a new challenge for him, and it becomes less a game of tactics and more of a combined storytelling. And Eddie loves weaving a good story.

--------

'So...only one person can go through the portal?' Steve asks.

'Yeah, if you want someone else to try, you're gonna have to come back out first.' Eddie replies, braced for whatever fucking shenanigans he's about to try. Steve's got that face on, which means he's gonna push his luck.

'What about that bag thing, can I put someone in that and go through the portal?' He asks. 'It can hold a person, yeah? I put David Toadie the fifth in there last week.'

That immediately starts the table gossiping, and Eddie sighs, leaning back and waiting for them to all talk themselves out. The fucking bullywugs, he thinks. Steve had called them all David Toadie, because 'bullywug' was apparently too difficult.

'You could put everyone in the bag of holding.' Eddie agrees, once they've calmed down. 'But only one person can go through the portal, regardless of whether they're in the bag or not. Plus there's a time limit before they suffocate to death.'

'What if I turn the rest of us into gas?' Will chips in excitedly. Steve snaps his fingers and points at him, grinning with agreement.

'We're not people if we're gas! And we don't need to breathe!' Dustin yells, 'We can all go through!'

'They all start chanting 'IN THE BAG, IN THE BAG, IN THE BAG', while hitting the table, as they turn to Eddie, wide eyed with glee.

He groans theatrically and rubs his hands over his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms into his sockets. Jesus H Christ, these fucking kids. They weren't this disobedient before Harrington, that's for sure.

'Eighteen.' He says, begrudgingly, 'Natural eighteen or above on your D20 and you can shove all your kids in the fucking bag, Harrington. And roll where I can see it.'

Steve makes a big show of getting all the party to touch the die for luck, and rolls.

It's another fucking nineteen. His fifth of the session.

They all look from the die, up at Eddie, sitting at the head of the table. He sighs.

'I'll allow it.' He says, glumly.

The room EXPLODES with cheers. Dustin and Mike are squealing, grabbing onto Steve, and the others are hammering on the table with huge smiles on their faces. Gareth and Lucas are on their feet, twirling around like lunatics, and Eddie just sits there, utterly defeated and trying not to laugh. Steve catches his eye and winks, and Eddie just knows he's getting lucky tonight.

There's nothing but an empty room with a note, on the other side of the portal. It just needed one person to read it and memorize the runes before they came back through. It was supposed to take a minute, if that, but it's been nearly an hour because they're all terrified of what trap Eddie 'might' have set up there.

It's not defeating a dragon, or Vecna, or any other mythical, legendary monster, but already this session is easily in his top 3.

This. This is why he plays.

[ribbonsandhair]

hey everyone……… funny seeing you here 😀😀 I am SO SORRY for disappearing??? school got cray cray but ITS SUMMER BREAK AND IM BACK SO HIT ME UP WITH REQUESTS 🗣️🗣️🗣️ nobody requested this but I wanted to make a comeback. And it’s EXTRA long for my Rodolfo lovers out there (me) and also to make up for my disappearance.

——

General Headcanons for Rudy

Rodolfo Parra

He reminds me of Loving Machine by TV Girl, like it’s just how it sounds that reminds me of him.

Definitely affectionate; only shows it behind the curtains though.

PDA makes him a lil shy, be careful.

He seems like a very organized and clean person, he would appreciate it if you were somewhat the same.

At the same time, he looks like he would be in a “opposites attract” situation.

He’s the calm, reserved, and somewhat quiet person in the relationship. You? Oh girlllllll-

You would probably be the more loud, outgoing, and (hopefully) confident person. Someone pokes fun at him and he doesn’t like it? Oh naw watch out 💀💀.

“He asked for no pickles,” type thing.

DEFINITELY smells good AUGHHH.

Would probably smell like the rain, or a fresh cologne.

Has THE SOFTEST SKIN EVER even with the scars he has.

Likes it when you play with his hair, just twirl his curls with your fingers and he’s melting right there in your arms.

Some days, he’s either SUPER cold or SUPER warm. No in-between.

“Rudy, tus manos están tan frías…” (Rudy, your hands are so cold…)

“Mejor me los puedes calentar con tus manos.” (Maybe you can warm them up with your hands.)

Bro is smoooooth with his flirting, he leaves you a blushing mess.

Tbh, he looks faded most of the time. It leaves you wondering if he probably smoked weed beforehand.

“Cariño, you look high.”

“Just tired.”

On the topic of tiredness, he looks like he needs a well-deserved nap.

Likes it when you’re in his arms, but DIES when he’s in yours instead.

Definitely falls asleep in a matter of seconds when he’s just cuddled up in your arms. It’s only better if you got some muscly ones.

Call him “Guapo,” or “Papi,” bro loses it.

Loves it when you praise him or say words of affirmation. He missed out on those when he was little, so he’s in need of some love.

Kinda likes it when you’re the dominant one…

He’s a pretty introverted man in my eyes, so you kinda have to be the one to make the first move.

At first, Rudy is nervous to be physical just in case he makes you uncomfortable. So make sure you show him it’s okay to give you a little kiss.

Dies for forehead or cheek kisses.

IS THE CUTEST THING ALIVE IN THE MORNING.

Let me set the scene. Whenever it’s the morning, he wakes up with a cute bedhead and you find out why you were cold for most of the night.

You let out a small laugh as you saw the scene right beside yourself. Rudy’s hair was slightly messy and disheveled, appearing as if he just came out of the trenches. Although, it was endearingly cute. It was rare you got to see him out of his collected, reticent shell, and rather in this cute and–just a little–meek state. However, you noticed how he was hogging almost the entire blanket up.

At the sound of your voice, he blinked his eyes open. He raised his eyebrows in an amused way, and turned his body around, facing away from you.

“No, Rudy-” And there went the quarter of the blanket you had. Now you were left with nothing, staring at the pile he had on him.

You lightly smacked his back, and he made a small grunt. “E, give me back my part of the blanket.”

Grabbing his shoulder, you turned him around. You slipped under the covers while you stuck close to him, almost being able to hear his heartbeat.

Shifting your gaze towards his, you brushed away a few strands of his hair away from his forehead, and planted a small kiss against it.

“You look cute in the morning.” You muttered with a small smile.

He scoffed playfully, hiding his face into the pillow. It’s so painfully obvious that he’s not used to it yet. And probably never will be.

Poor lil meow meow also gets nightmares :((. He’ll need a lot of comfort after he wakes up from one.

Won’t admit it, but loves it when you trace the scars he gets from his job.

I feel like he enjoys baking and cooking, and probably makes BANGER tamales. Tamales are probably his favorite food. OR OR mole.

Has a childhood plushie that he (eventually) shows you.

Loves floral and clean perfumes. Especially if it’s strong enough to leave a lasting scent on something or in a certain area.

Let me tell you when bro has THE BIGGEST ASS EVER???

And the way he walks doesn’t make it any better yo 😭😭. If you’re in a relationship with him, smack dat ass at least once cause GYAAAAT

Only in private though, never in public cause he will blushhhhh ooo

If you slap his butt, he gives you his signature ‘are-you-serious’ look.

“Did you just slap my ass?”

“Yeah, what about it? Not my fault you walking around with that truckload back there.”

Although he does let out a small chuckle whenever you do. It’s like an inside joke between the two of you.

Arguments with him are like, wowwww.

Since he’s more thought out, he would be the one to step back and take a moment. He hates arguing cause I imagine that he grew up with parents that argue almost everyday (real Rudy, so real.)

So even when it feels like to you that he’s probably pushing the problem away, he just doesn’t want the arguing to escalate to anything more hurtful.

When he comes back, he tries to talk it out with you. And to make up for it, he gives all of his attention towards you. Just make sure to reassure him that you would never actually hate him for arguing.

He’s literally just too cute to hate or not fall in love with.

In the end? 10/10, would smack his butt again.

[railingsofsorrow]

Colorless Mountains

[BAU team x reader]

request: “Hello, hope you're having a good day/night. I was wondering if I could request BAU Team x GN reader who has Marie Antoinette syndrome?

[...] maybe reader has a dark past and that's when it first started but what if it got worst after being kidnapped and tortured by an unsub?”

A/N: based on some research, I'm using the assumption that the marie antoniette syndrome is not permanent, meaning that reader suffered from hair-whitening after something traumatic that happened and then her hair became colored again. just keep that in mind so it doesn't get confusing, okay? that's all. thank you for the request and good reading!

summary: during a case in New York, you come in contact with an unsub whose backstory hits too close to home.

pairing: platonic!BAU team x gn!reader

w.c: 6.2K

warnings/content: case related violence; explicit discussions of past trauma; mentions of sexual abuse and PTSD and being taken advantage of; the alternation in the use of pronouns to refer to the unknown subject is intended (hate that they only use He to refer to a suspect, completely ruling out women, who are just as capable of committing crimes); mention of scars and substance abuse; hurt/comfort; reader is mean at some point; recovery is not a linear path; smoking; platonic relationships are the main focus; grammar mistakes probably; for the love of god do not take!! the profile!! seriously!! I am not an expert; nerds geeking about scouting knots; friendly banter.

navi

masterpost

requested by @xweirdo101x

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝ some memories never

leave your bones.

like salt in the sea; they

become part of you

— and you carry them. ❞

[ paper wings ]

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION — BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT DEPARTMENT

Getting back to work after a traumatic event can be unnerving.

It's actually the hardest part of a recovery process; turning back on your fears — or rather facing them face to face without running to hide in a corner straight away.

You've done that a few times in your life. Running away, hiding. Although, back then, you didn't have anyone to catch you if you were falling. So why shouldn't you hide? Why shouldn't you run? It wouldn't have made a difference. Leaving the past behind is the best alternative you've got. It's not cowardice, it is a matter of protection.

That's what it was for you, anyway.

The scars don't disappear when you leave the place that broke you, they decorate your arms and scrape the skin that once was clean. They stay as a reminder. And looking yourself in the mirror becomes a rare occurrence because you fear what you're going to see is merely a shattered reflection. Which is true.

In your case — besides the white lines across your body — there is your hair.

The Marie Antoinette Syndrome is not very well-known. Despite your skepticism, you couldn't simply deny the fact that it was very much real after your hair turned sheer white overnight when you were seventeen.

The syndrome is caused by high levels of emotional stress on one's body. Surprisingly, age is not a determining factor in this case, people of all ages can be affected by this hair-whitening process.

You spent four days in the hospital, three of those had doctors coming in and out of your room, doing blood tests, repetitive questions, throwing you into MRI's and whatnot so they could attempt to figure out why your hair lost all its color.

Attempt failed. If they had done some reading, maybe, they could have spared you from being poked and prodded and exposed so much. It was a psychiatrist who cracked your case. She gave you one of many explanations, of course, and that's when you remembered reading about the condition but never giving it much thought — until it happened to you.

The Marie Antoinette syndrome, also knowns as Canities Subita, was named after Queen Marie Antoinette. According to historical facts — which Spencer rambled on and on about when you first entered the BAU — the queen's natural hair turned white the night before her execution in 1793. She was only 35 years old.

What happens is that the amount of hardships and distress a person goes through can cause the production of melanin in the color of one's hair to be compromised.

Nine years ago, in the first night you spent on the hospital after the worst day of your life, your hair had lost all the darkness it always carried. Besides the innocence that was striped from you that night, every time you looked in the mirror you saw a stranger staring back. A ghost, if you will.

Nothing had been the same.

It's a common thing to happen to a human being: you never believe something awful is going to happen to you, until it does.

And then, you end up in the hospital again. Usual hair color gone and a new trauma to add to the list. That's the nicest way to put it.

“I told you I am fine.”

You said to Penelope for the third time that morning. She had cornered you as you poured coffee in your mug in the kitchenette area.

“You weren't supposed to be back yet,” she hissed, poking your shoulder. “Hotch gave you a week off. More if needed, may I add — don't look at me like that, yes, I overheard.” She interrupts before you even said anything. “Why are you back after three days?” You ignore the way her voice softens at the last part, admitting the tone of pity. You didn't need anyone pitying you, especially people from your team.

“I'm fine,” you shrug, lifting the mug to your lips. “My leg is perfect, I'm sleeping like a princess and I'm ready to work.” You're also very good at lying but that was not your best act.

Before the blonde could call you out on your bullshit, her phone chimes with a text.

“We have a case.”

Saved by the bell.

The surprised looks you receive when you enter the conference room are enough to increase your annoyance, but you mask it. It's fine, that's expected. You'd be surprised if any of them had returned to work three days after being abducted. That's not enough time to recover, but you couldn't stay at home with the presence of intrusive thoughts looming over your brain.

You needed to do something other than laying down in fetal position on your bedroom. Anything to make your mind occupied, and working helps with that.

“Three bodies were found in Forest Park, New York. Lewis Jenkins, Mason Reeves and Caleb Marshall. And before you ask, crime fighters, yes, they did have a connection. All three went to the same university, St. John's. They even attended most of their classes together and formed a fraternity house of some sorts.” Garcia couldn't stop her disgusted expression. “I honestly think these should be extinguished.”

“Fraternity houses?” Derek chuckled softly, clicking on another page of the casefile on the tablet. “They are not that bad, sweets.”

“I can say that sorority houses can be a nightmare,” Emily mumbles under her breath. “Were all of them found in that same position? And tied up?”

“Yes,” Penelope zooms in on one of the photos that displayed one of the men's bodies with his arms tied up behind their back, as well as their feet, with a rope. “However, Lewis Jenkins...” the slide switched to a body with a slight difference in the M.O. The man's hands were tied up in front of his body and his legs were untied unlike the other two.

“What if he was the first victim?” JJ chimes in.

Rossi nods, “Jenkins could have been a trial run and then he evolved.”

“The other two clearly have a pattern.” Emily says. “Both are positioned in the same way with almost the same lacerations.”

“They used the double overhand knot.”

Spencer's head snaps into your direction. “I was about to say that.”

You clear your throat, noticing every pair of eyes fall on you. “That's one of the knots you learn when you're in scout camp. They have categories like boating and climbing...” You examine the picture more carefully, studying the threading with familiarity. At least those three summers you were forced to be on scout camp were worth something now. “The double overhand knot can be used on both situations.”

“It's also a stopper knot,” Spencer's voiced as his eyebrows knit together in mild confusion. “That's an... interesting choice.” You stare at him with amusement after hearing the slight judgy tone he let slip. He clearly did not approve the use of such knot.

When Hotch checks his wristwatch, you know it's time to head out. The discussion is interrupted and continued on the jet as you flew to New York.

QUEENS, NYC — FOREST PARK

As you arrive at the disposal site, that you, Derek and JJ were responsible to check, the heat immediately made you wish you had bring a bottle of water. When you saw the warning about a heatwave you didn't expect it to be that bad.

“This is just a dump site.” JJ observes the surroundings as the CSI professionals collected physical evidence. You quietly analyze the location of each body while pulling your strands up into a bun so your hair would stop sticking to your neck.

“The unsub may come out here to relive his work.”

“They obviously has a vehicle, most likely a truck or a van.” You agreed with Derek, not seeing any possibility of the crime actually happening there. Not the entire thing, at least.

JJ brushes a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, “Still...” she drawls, “there are no tire marks close by. And the road is at least thirteen thousand feet far from here.”

“Maybe he had help?” Derek seems doubtful of his opinion.

“Or we could be close to where they keep the victims hostage.”

“Either that or there's something significant to him about this place. But what?”

Both JJ and Derek share hums, exhibiting they were on-board with your idea.

INTERROGATION ROOM 3 — 112th POLICE PRECINCT, NYC

Four out of the seven FBI agents watched the interrogation happen through the one-way mirror. Inside the room, Spencer and JJ conducted the interview side by side as the witness, Felicity Lance, sat in front of them. Her arms folded across her chest as she stared holes at the grey table.

She was nervous, that much was clear. What was left for you to know was the reason for her uneasiness.

Last night, Garcia gave you some interesting information on a few of St. John's students.

“So she was the last person to see Mason alive?” Emily asked.

Garcia hummed in agreement. Then a gasp echoed through the audio. “You won't believe what I just found.”

“I would be great if you shared, baby girl.”

“Okay, so remember that I told you all three belonged to the same crowd in college?” A collective yes echoed through the room. “Guess what: Caleb Marshall's brother, Riley Marshall, and Patrick Moore were also part of that disgusting crew. And why disgusting, you may ask? Because both faced harassment charges filed by Riley's ex-girlfriend, Felicity Lance.”

Thus, the witness you were currently questioning right now wasn't only the last person to see one of the victims, but also someone who had motive to hurt Lewis, Caleb and Mason. After building up the profile, she was also a suspect.

“You keep saying he but what if it's a woman?” You muttered with annoyance at their choice of words.

Derek had given you a skeptical look. “She'd have to have a lot of strength to carry out all of this herself.”

“She doesn't necessarily has to be working alone.” Emily catches your point. “What if her best friend is just as mad as she is by Riley Marshall and his friends that they decided to take justice into their own hands?”

You had stopped focusing on the interview half an hour ago. The main reason was the incessant pounding in your head that got in the way of your thinking. You didn't have the best sleep last night, tossing and turning the entire time, besides your leg, where you had been shot four days ago, was giving you trouble.

You missed the time when painkillers used to be magical. Ever since you started working in the BAU no amount of pills would diminish your migraines.

“She kept the same story she told the police,” JJ informs as they strode back into the room you were gathered in.

“She's consistent.” Spencer adds, walking forward. “But any time we mention Sylvia she gets defensive. It could be a coping mechanism for her death.”

Leaning back on the wall, you press your thumb against your forehead, taking a deep breath in for two seconds and exhaling for three.

“Does the last name Marshall carry any relevance in New York?” You blurt out, forcing the discussion in the room to halt immediately.

Deputy Ray is the one who speaks up, “Gary Marshall.” He pauses. And you don't need to have your eye on him to realize the way he's cautious about his next words. “He's a politician that has a strong influence in the city. Also part of the city council.”

You let out a scoff and the room becomes silent. Of course he's part of the city council. This is how the charges were dropped. Why wouldn't Gary Marshall fix his son's problems if he has money to spare? And you have the assumption that this wasn't Felicity's idea.

You know you should avoid reacting like this, but your body seems to be having a mind of its own and your mood is getting sour by the minute. You just really needed to lay down.

The voices again felt like far away waves in your ears and you suspect part of the dizziness in your vision is due to the lack of water in your system. There's a heatwave happening and when was the last time you hydrated yourself?

Derek's voice nagging you to drink water echoes through your mind. Okay, you would admit that he was right after you followed your gut.

“Hotch, can I try something?” You prompt, eyes glued to Felicity's fidgety frame.

You realize that the Deputy was gone and the only ones left in the room are you, Derek and your boss. The rest was probably in the other interrogation room to question Riley and Patrick.

Your eyes snap to him. Stern gaze studying you thoroughly, scrutinizing every twitch he could find in your expression. He's caught your attention drifting somewhere else. You bet he even knew where your mind wandered a minute ago, you just hoped he didn't catch the wave in your step.

“Are you alright, Y/L/N?”

Derek was about to ask the exact same question when you cut him off.

“Yes. Can I try something with her?” You bring back the focus on the real matter. You had lies to dig around here, lives at stake, certainly your well being wasn't more important than that in the moment?

Hotch seems to internally struggle but he settled for accepting your request. You ignore the look of disbelief Derek offers him before you enter the interrogation room, where Felicity is.

You introduce yourself and offer her some water. She looks hesitant but she takes a sip of the plastic cup.

Felicity has kind eyes — it's the first thing you observe when you enter the room. Her make-up is smudged and that's not the only thing that reveals she has been crying, another indication of that are the bloodshot eyes that you weren't able to see through the one-way mirror.

“So you think Felicity Lance and Sylvia Kosorog did this?”

“I think it's a way too personal and specific M.O to be ruled out.” You sigh.

“The bodies didn't have any sign of sexual assault, did they?” You ask Spencer and Rossi, who were responsible to check the coroner's reports.

“No,” Spencer said. “And the ligature marks were made post mortem. However, when the garrote was used, they were still alive.”

The wall between the two of you bothered you. But now you could analyse from the tone of her voice to every movement she makes without mistaking it for your declining senses. The fact that you were no longer standing helped on stabilizing your breathing for the moment. You feel fine.

“Am I a suspect?” Felicity gulps down the water fast. “Is that why you haven't let me go yet? Cause I was in my dormroom the entire night Caleb was killed.”

You brows raise in faux surprise. “Oh, no. Don't worry, this is just protocol. We don't think you lied in your statement.”

Her shoulders slump as she leans back, visibly relieved.

“I do have something that made me curious though,” you pull up the file that had been laying on your lap ever since you sat down. Felicity's eyes narrow at the manila folder. “was it you that filed a harassment charge against Caleb two years ago?”

She looked back up at you, frowning. “Caleb? No. I didn't file anything against him though he certainly deserved it.”

Tilting your head, your eyes scan over Felicity's statement in front of you. The silence was too much for her as you expect it would be, so she gave you the starting point you needed.

“You took what back?” You ask, folding your arms. “The charges? The ones that claimed he sexually harassed you along with Patrick Moore?”

“I used to date Riley Marshall. He's, uh, he's one of the last people that saw Caleb alive. They're friends so I'm sure he'll be here anytime now too...” She was picking at her cuticles. “We had a fight, I was mad and I wanted to get back at him. That's why I took it back.”

“He didn't do it.” You watch the clench in her jaw and how she struggle to swallow the lie she is about to say. It sounds rehearsed as if she has been repeating that out loud for a long time. “I told you, I was mad and I wanted to—”

“—get back at him. Yes, you mentioned that.” You push the crime photos towards her. It took a whole minute for Felicity to absorb what are in those images and even when her eyebrow twitches, her expression remains almost emotionless. Not looking away. “Have you seen these before?” You know she has. JJ and Reid had brought it up when they were interviewing her. She had the exact same reaction. There is hatred underneath that mask she worked hard to keep impassive. It was hard to remain numb over crime scene pictures, or feel something other than disgust for the people who have hurt you. Physically or emotionally. You could say that for sure.

Felicity gives you an unimpressed look. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing.” You shrug. “Well, I mean. If someone that hurt me had ended up like that... I wouldn't be sad either.”

“He deserved it.”

You give her a careful look, she pushes all of the pictures back to you harshly.

“Felicity, why do you keep saying that? You dropped the charges, right? I don't see any reason why boys like that would deserve such an awful death.”

She scoff, eyes glazing with fury. Bingo. “Boys like that. Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that? How brilliant they are. How lucky I was to be dating Riley Marshall – He is not the prince charming people claim he is! None of them are. You think my charges were dropped out of nowhere? How many girls do you think didn't do the same thing just so they could have a peace of mind? Sylvia got the worst of it!”

“Sylvia, your best friend?” You ask, offering some tissues. You have dropped the act now. There was no point in playing devil's advocate now that you got what you wanted.

Spencer tapped his pen against his knuckles. “Felicity didn't express any other emotion beside forced indifference while seeing the crime scene photos.” He paused. “Beneath the mask there was anger. More than that, rage.”

“As if she wanted to be relieved but their death brought only the despair of injustice.” You completed his train of thought.

She was seventeen. First year in college with the major that she chose and work her ass of for. Then, in a random night five assholes ruin her life because they simply wanted to have fun. Death is the least they could suffer. Hell, it's too easy. How can people escape unscathed as they destroy you?

Long story short, your theory was right. Sylvia Kosorog was responsible for the murders and Felicity Lance knew about it, but she was not involved in Sylvia's plan, which consisted on murdering Riley Marshall, the man who had raped her during a party back in her first year of college, and the rest of his friends and brother, Mason Reeves, Patrick Moore and Caleb Marshall, who had covered for him and lied when she tried to get the justice he needed.

Felicity nods, sniffling. “She... She was never the same after what happened.”

And well, Gary Marshall tried paying her off as well as he did with Felicity Lance.

Lewis Jenkins was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Sylvia never planned on hurting him because he was not involved, although he was friends with Riley's crew.

“We're going to follow a lead,” JJ approaches you as she readjusted her bulletproof vest. Her meticulous gaze laid heavily upon you and you had a suspicion it was about the cigarette dangling from your lips.

You acknowledge her with a nod, “I know, I was in the room when Garcia found the location.” And when Hotch ordered me to stay back.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” You slowly let out the smoke, turning to her.

JJ sighs, her frustration is very much explicit but that doesn't phase you.

“You're compartmentalizing.” She firmly stated, diverting her attention from your cigarette to you. “Ever since you came back, it's like you're not here. Your mind is always elsewhere—”

“I'm doing my job just like you are, JJ.” You snap, throwing the cigarette in the nearby trash can. She had hit a nerve.

“I'm not talking about your professional skills. But this is not how you heal, you avoid talking about it all together and...” Her hands clasp on both of your shoulders, bringing you closer. “I'm worried. You're not being you, Y/N.”

“What is there to talk about?” You step out of her reach, earning a hurtful look. “I was kept hostage and tortured for a day and a half, almost killed a man, I can't take off this fucking sweater or else all of the barely healed wounds on my arms will be on display and just as I was getting used to the normal color of my hair, this happens.” You pulled some of your white strands irritably. “Is that what you need me to say? Do you need be to scream it from the rooftops, JJ?”

And I can't get over my past. It follows me and it buries me beneath the earth of my sorrows. I can't crawl out of that endless mountain.

She's taken aback by your response, you can tell when she almost flinches at your jab.

“And who are you to tell me I'm compartmentalizing?” You run a hand through your face as a humourless laugh escapes you. “You were back to work not even two days after being held captive and tortured as well. You couldn't stop looking over your shoulder for more than ten minutes and your trust on anyone was definitely compromised—not that you trusted people completely before either. Don't point my flaws at me when you have no idea how to deal with your own issues too, Jennifer.”

That was a low blow and you're plenty aware of that. But you are tired of your friends trying to fix your problems. You are an adult and you've been dealing with the same things your whole life, by yourself, it is none of their concern.

MOTEL — ROOM 72, NYC

“Okay,” she says shortly, shoulders tense. “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.” She walks away when Hotch announces they are leaving.

The jet wouldn't be ready until the morning, so you were stuck in New York for one more night. Granting you one sleepless night in an itchy mattress of an old motel room. If you were at home, at least you could stare at your blue ceiling.

The case didn't end well.

They were able to find Sylvia, who had Riley Marshall as hostage. He was her endgame, had been all along. Riley Marshall was the one who took advantage of her as she was drunk. He was the one who spiked her drink as all of his friends watched the scene happened like it was a TV show on display.

Riley lured Sylvia out to the beach, tied up her arms and legs with a rope and raped her. A couple of pictures from the incident were found in his dorm room and he was finally arrested. Along with Patrick Moore. Nothing much Gary Marshall could accomplish with his strong influence now. Thankfully.

Sylvia killed herself.

You kept wondering that if you had been there, you could've talk her out of it. But ever since the beginning, her mind was set. Still, the what if's haunt you.

They have haunted you for nine years. You are aware you can't go back in time and make different choices; the only choices that matter are the ones you make in the present. But what if you had accepted your friend invitation to go to the party instead of choosing to stay reading in your college bedroom? What if you had chose to lock your room instead of leaving it unlocked for your roommate? What if you hadn't fallen asleep so quick? What if you hadn't trust him enough to let him come to your room as he pleased in the middle of the night? What if you hadn't accepted that joint?

What if...

From the moment you left your apartment, three days ago, your skin had been on fire, your brain replaying memories you didn't want to relive ever again. That night. That person who you used to call your best friend. The unsub who burned scars into your arm a few days back.

Why can't your brain repress those things as it did to childhood? Why can't it feel like a fuzzy flashback which you wonder if it is true or if you made it up? Those memories, you know they happened. You know for a fact because you can feel them everywhere.

Maybe getting back to work right away wasn't the best option. But deep down, you chose gruesome pictures and murder facts over the horrifying silence of your apartment for a reason you didn't want to admit.

Recovery is hard. But does it ever get easier?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You flinch at the sudden disruption of silence in the room. Your breath hitches before Derek's frame cleared up for you.

“Sorry,” he says softly, inching closer to sit at the edge of his bed. The old wood creaking loudly. Right, you were divided into pairs because of the budget. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's fine, I just didn't even remember we would share a room.” Your stance relaxes bit by bit. It's been a while since your trust issues bothered on sharing a bedroom with another person. Thanks to therapy. You needed to get back to that.

You can feel his stare burning on your cheek and you request him to spit it out.

“You can talk to me, you know that, right?”

Annoyance wash over you. “Did JJ put you up to this?”

Derek furrows his eyebrows, “No?” He scans you for a brief second then sighed. “I just want you to know that you can. If you want.”

“I would appreciate if you all just stop babying me.”

“We're not babying you and you know that.”

“Feels a lot like it,” you say through gritted-teeth, searching for your nightwear.

Derek leans back on the headboard, eyes slipping shut. “I'll be here when you stop being a brat about it.” He let out in a whisper, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth as if he knew you better than you knew yourself.

He probably does. He most certainly does.

Derek Morgan is the person who you are the closest to in the team. Penelope coming right after him.

At first, you had warmed up to Spencer due to you being close in age, though your interests weren't that similar. Derek had this whole flirty persona going on that intimidated you at first but you quickly became attached to each other. He understood your silence and you understood his. He didn't force you to speak up, he just reminded you that he was there, like tonight.

Sometimes, it is nice to have that reminder.

“I can't stop thinking that that could have been me.”

You don't meet his gaze, knowing for a fact he is listening because he had only one of his headphones on before you got into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

“It's not you,” the bed creaks under his shifting. “It will never be you.”

When you finally turn your attention to him, he's patiently waiting for you to carry on with a reassuring smile.

“Y/N, you're not a bad person.”

“It could have been.” You push, pulling your knees to your chest. It's such a vulnerable topic; your past. It never gets easier talking about it. It's never something you cherish in remembering. “There was a point in my life were all I could think of was revenge. Even if he went to jail. Even if he was rotting in there. I wanted him to suffer the same way that I suffered. But it still wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough.”

“I wanted to kill him.”

“Well, when you told me what happened, I wanted to kill him too.” Your best friend admits, causing your brows to shot up. He offers you a look that silently asks what? “And let me tell you something,” he pauses, completely taking off his headphones and moving to a sitting position. “If I had found the bastard, I would've ended him right there.”

Your lips twitch slightly, “You would've kicked a door in his face?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He points at you as you laugh, a grin stretching up on his face. “Keep giggling, Snow White. But I'm not joking around.”

You turn your body on the side, bringing the comforter to your torso. You take a long breath before speaking. “You know, what happened that night... What he did, doesn't bother me as much as what I could have done.” And you keep going, interrupting his protest. “I could have fought harder. I could have screamed louder. I could have— I could have— kicked or grabbed the pocket knife in my bag that was so close... but I didn't. I didn't do any of that. I couldn't move, Derek. I was— I was useless. When I look in the mirror, all I remember is how I woke up in the next morning.” The white in my strands make sure of that. It takes me back to the worst day of my life every time.

“You were seventeen, Y/N.” You shook your head, groaning. He wasn't having any of that though. “You're telling me you should have been prepared for something terrible to happen to you? For someone you trust your life with to just break you into pieces?”

“I was a coward,” you say shakily.

“Don't you ever say that. Hey, look at me. Y/N,” he calls out sternly. When you glance up at him, he's giving you a serious look. “Don't ever say that again. You are one of the bravest people I have met. And despite of everything you went through, you are nothing but kind and loveable. If you tell me that's cowardice, then I'm sorry but you're very wrong.”

“What happened that night,” he adds with caution, “it was not your fault. The only person to blame is him and him only, do you hear me? And he will rot in jail because of that. He doesn't deserve anything but that.”

His words sit in your head for a while and he allows you to bask in the comforting quietness.

“Thank you.” You whisper to the darkness after you both have turned your bedside lamp off. “You're one of the bravest people I've met too.”

“No need to thank me, Snow White.” You can hear his smile. He throws you one of his pillows and you shriek, dumbfounded. “And you're beautiful. Colorless hair or not.”

You stay quiet, smiling softly.

“Call me Snow White one more time and I'll rip the hair you don't have in your head off.” You say after a while and the sound of his chuckles is the last thing you hear before you fall into a deep slumber.

That's the first time in a long time that you sleep through the whole night.

BAU PRIVATE JET

JJ is pouring coffee in seven mugs when you approach her. You can't help thinking she should throw one of those mug at you, it's what you deserve.

“Need help with that?”

Her smile is tight and she doesn't look at you.

“That's okay, I got this.”

You bite your cheek, “JJ.” She halts as she's grabbing the tray, you take that as your cue to continue. “I'm sorry for the way I treated you, it wasn't fair. You were just trying to help and I was too in over my head to notice it. I am truly sorry.”

You feel as if you can finally breathe when your friend looks at you. “I get it, it's... it's okay. I shouldn't have pushed you to talk about it either.”

“What I said, it was way out of line.” You insist. “You're my friend and it wasn't right to throw that at your face. I know how much you struggled getting back to work, I— I was just angry. Not at you, at myself.”

JJ nods understandingly, a smile curving the corners of her mouth. “I know, Y/N. And I get it, really. If anything, I should apologize too, it wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

“I'll forgive you if you forgive me.” You give her a cheeky smile that she replies with an eye roll and promptly orders you to take everyone's coffee to them. That's when you're sure the two of you are okay.

You feel a soft squeeze in your shoulder, when you turn around you see Aaron walking past you to sit down in his seat beside Rossi. Earlier this morning, he had praised the way you conducted the interview with Felicity Lance. Then, proceeded to lecture you about your interrupted recovery process while giving a pointed look at your still unhealed leg.

You have the next few days off. And Penelope is already sending never-ending lists of options to make you busy. Your phone is blowing up.

Your head snaps up mid-typing as you feel eyes glued to you. Spencer is leaning on his hand, head tilted to the side as he lazily blinks up at you and downwards. Confused, you follow his gaze and immediately understood what he meant.

The chess board stared at you and a black piece had already moved forward.

“You know,” you turn your phone off after sending a quick reply to Penelope. “it's not fair. You already had a wide angle of the game.”

Spencer shrugged, unbothered. “You took too long to make your move.”

“I need a verbal warning, Reid. Surprisingly, I still can't use telepathy.”

“Telepathy is overestimated. The most unique and not very well-known supernatural ability is chi manipulation.” You watched amusedly as he happily gesticulates his hands to ramble about the topic. “It consists of the fortification of the mind, body and soul in order to acquire bodily functions like self-healing, pain resistance and superhuman strength. This kind of ability actually gained more recognition in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, through Doctor Strange's character.”

You gaped at him, letting the chess piece slip from your hand. “You watched the film!”

He paused, lowering his hands to his lap. “You recommended it.” He said as if it were the most obvious thing.

“Yeah, but it's Marvel. I didn't thought you'd actually watch it. What did you think? Who did you love? Who did you hate?”

“And... There we go.” Rossi mumbles a few seats back with a soft sigh.

Emily snickers. Her eyes were shut but she could hear the conversation in the seat beside hers. She stole a look at yours and Spencer's animated comments and hand gestures.

“Kids, hush!” Emily exclaims, throwing a paper ball at them. She hit Spencer's forehead and a laugh bubbles out of her. Ouch.

Their paper ball rustle made everyone let out a collective groan as you watch everything silently, your face slowly breaking into a grin.

Recovery is hard. But you haven't been the only one that went through it. And if you have these people by your side, your team, you believe you can do anything.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝ I can't abandon the person

I used to be,

so I carry her. ❞

[ unknown ]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

sources: [1] [2]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: sorry for taking so long to post, I hope it was worth it <3

[lanawinterscigarettes]

put on your records and regret me (Whittaker! Master x reader, Dhawan! Doctor x reader)

Summary: after a long and less than healthy relationship with the Master, you find yourself searching for love in the arms of another

Warnings: cheating, Master and reader have a pretty toxic relationship (Master's controlling, possessive, doesn't think reader deserves bodily autonomy, etc.), reader doesn't really have a good basis for what a healthy relationship looks like so they just go along with it, ending could be seen as somewhat bittersweet (Doctor and reader end up happy but Master doesn't, and it's pretty obvious)

A/N: another song based fic because I cannot and will not be stopped (this time based on high infidelity by taylor swift) I hope you enjoy the pain </3

You didn't think when you first started your affair with the Doctor that she'd find out. Not if you told your lies well enough. Not if you were careful. Clearly, you underestimated the Master and what she was capable of.

She would always find out. It didn't matter what you did or how well you thought you'd covered up your tracks. Sooner or later she'd find out what you were hiding.

After all, she was nothing if not persistent. The only reason she hadn't figured it out sooner was the blind hope she had. The delusion that you still loved her when you didn't.

Maybe a part of you still did, but not the way you had before. You didn't love her nearly as much when you first met. But then you figured it's easier to love someone before you find out who they really are.

The Master vowed to give you everything, and yet all of her promises were empty. You made plans, and they fell through. You gave so much, and in return she took it all and left very little behind.

She didn't know how to give when it came to love, only take. So she did just that until there was nothing left, and kept taking even after.

It really shouldn't have come as a shock when you started becoming more and more withdrawn. You loved her, you really did, but what good was a person's love if they didn't receive any back?

And yet, still you stayed. You'd been cut off from your friends and family, and she would threaten anyone who so much as looked at you for too long, so there was nowhere for you to go. You had no choice but to stay there with her, forever.

Until he came along; the Doctor. He took all of your darkest gray skies and swept the clouds away, repainting them as the most vibrant shades of blue.

He actually took the time to get to know you, the real you, and not the version of you that you had been manipulated and molded into by The Master so long ago. It was like a breath of fresh air after spending so long being trapped in a house full of smoke.

If she wasn't so self obsessed, she might've noticed the change in your personality sooner, but the Master rarely paid attention to things that weren't based on or around her.

You used to find it to be an endearing trait, a slight character flaw, but after being around someone so selfless like the Doctor for as long as you did you couldn't stand going back to thinking that way. In fact, there were a lot of things you couldn't stand going back to.

The curfews, the jealousy, the possession over you, the randomly picked fights- none of those things seemed like the fairytale you once thought them to be. The Doctor had taken off your rose colored glasses and finally exposed the Master to you for who she really was; a major walking red flag.

All of this was completely unbeknownst to the very problem herself, of course. She had just assumed you were growing so distant and moody because you were upset with her for all the times she threatened to handcuff you to your bedpost if you tried to leave.

I mean, honestly, what was she supposed to do? Sit down and talk it out like a normal person would? Actually acknowledge your feelings and take them into account? As if.

She finally got wise as to what was going on when she was going over the TARDIS travel logs one day and saw several trips that she didn't remember taking. She never bothered to shut the TARDIS off whenever she left you alone with it, as she figured you were much too ignorant to know how to fly it and much too fearful of her to try.

It was her constant underestimation of you that helped you get away with doing so much. Of course you weren't trying to escape that one time when you ran off into a random alien marketplace. You were just scared of some of the locals, you would never try to actually get away from her.

One or two crash landings would have been one thing, but multiple trips to the same star systems back to back? That gave her reason to be suspicious.

She also noted how any possible crashes had repairs done to them almost immediately after they took place, another thing that was definitely unusual as she never let you learn how to do maintenance on the TARDIS, either.

Knowing how to fix anything wrong with it was just a few steps away from being able to fly it, and that led to the possibility of you leaving her.

The Master frowned slightly, her brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and annoyance as she studied the repairs that had been done. They were far too advanced for some silly human like you to do, at least not by yourself.

In fact, the only person who could be possibly repair it so well was someone who knew their way around a TARDIS. Someone who was well knowledgeable in Gallifrean technology. Someone like...

Her nostrils flared with anger as the hand resting on one of the control panel's several knobs tightened into a fist, clutching it harshly in the center of her palm. The TARDIS let out a beep in response, almost as if to tell her to loosen her grip, but she ignored it.

It was all starting to make sense now. How could she have not seen it before? Of course it was him that was behind all of the weird things that were going on.

The Doctor was the only one other than her that could possibly teach you how to do repairs on the TARDIS, as well as fly it. She also happened to know that he often frequented the star systems you'd been traveling to in your spare time.

It was just then that she realized she hadn't heard from you in a good three hours. She'd dropped you off on some random planet so she could spend some time alone in the TARDIS, as she was custom to do when you got too aggravating.

You'd usually send her a distress signal on the small communicator she gave you after just thirty minutes, begging and pleading with her to come pick you up again. And yet, nothing. There were no new messages on her end.

It made her think; if you'd been taught how to fly and fix the TARDIS by the Doctor, it wouldn't be too much of a leap to assume he'd taught you how to message his own TARDIS.

The Master felt her blood go from boiling hot with rage to running ice cold in fear. How could she be so stupid? She was so focused on keeping you with her physically that she hadn't even bothered to make you want to stay.

She quickly pulled up the tracking information for the communicator, relieved to see it pinpointed you as still being on the same planet she left you on. Maybe if she hurried she could catch you before it was too late.

The TARDIS was put into overdrive as she flew it back to the planet where she'd left you, nearly crashing as she was too caught up on the thoughts of getting you back to worry about parking correctly.

Tree branches reached out, scratching at her limbs and snagging her coat as she ran through the woods, calling out your name. When she finally reached the field where she last saw you, she half expected for you to be there, waiting for her like you always were.

You'd jump up and run into her arms, and she would apologize over and over again for all the ways that she'd managed to hurt you. But you weren't there.

The Master fell to her knees, her chest aching as her eyes darted around the empty field, trying to find you.

A glimmer of something reflecting off the rays of the sun caught her eye, and she felt her heart break in two as she realized it was the communicator. It had been ditched on purpose, left there as a red herring so she wouldn't spend time trying to find out where you'd actually gone.

A strangled cry of sorrow and frustration tore from her throat as she felt her eyes become wet with tears. She looked up at the sky and bitterly shouted for it to bring you back, someone, anyone.

Nothing happened, just like she'd expected. She thought with time she could learn how to show her love to you in a healthy, unburdening sort of way, but apparently she was wrong.

You were gone now, lost in the love of another, of her worst friend, of her best enemy. And as much as she wanted to hate you, she couldn't.

After all, you couldn't be blamed for leaving, as she knew she'd run away from her own self, if only she could.

felt like gifting y'all some angst today <3

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated <3

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🏷 taglist: @theonetruepotato87 @sessa23

[theycallme-thejackal]

How Do You Get Back to Carnegie Hall?

Pairing: Lenny Bruce & Midge Maisel Rated T

Midge arrives at the restaurant a little after seven to find Lenny already sitting in their booth.

It’s become a sort of tradition for them. Any time one of them has a career milestone to celebrate, they meet here, where it all began.

There’s a silent agreement between them that smaller gigs don’t get this particular treatment. It’s been reserved for special occasions. When she booked Gordon Ford’s show, Lenny’s run at the Apollo, her run at the Copa opening for Sinatra, his first New York show after he won the appeal…

It’s been three years since that first night together. Three years that they’ve been a little more than friends but not quite together. These nights that they share terrible Chinese food and excellent banter almost always end in a perfect night spent in his arms.

She wishes she had it more often.

She heads for their booth, and when he spots her, he smiles. It’s rare to see him truly smiling. Usually she’s gifted with that very sexy smirk of his that she also loves. But his smile makes her feel warm in a very different way.

He stands and greets her with a kiss on the cheek. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she replies, flashing a grin of her own as she pulls her coat open. His lips part in surprise when he sees the dress underneath. “What?” She asks with a coy grin.

“Miriam,” he drawls, his voice low, and it may be the first time she’s ever heard her full name come out of his mouth.

“Yes?”

“You are a very evil woman.”

She laughs and swishes the burgundy skirt of her dress. She thought it would feel odd, letting him see her in a dress she’s already worn with him before - one he deftly peeled off of her body already - but it feels surprisingly normal. “What can I say? I was feeling sentimental,” she explains as she slips into the booth across from him.

He grins. “Any particular reason you decided to pull out that dress on this particular night?”

“It’s my lucky dress,” she answers primly. 

He arches a brow in amusement. “You have a lucky dress?”

“I used to have a different one,” she explains. “But then a friend of mine rescued me from a raid in the middle of a blizzard, so…” She gestures to herself.

“Sounds like a good friend.” He lifts a cigarette to his lips, taking a slow drag.

“The best,” she answers, gazing at him softly.

Lenny looks back at her, his gaze as intense as ever, and he exhales a bit of smoke before resting the cigarette back on the ashtray as the waitress comes over to take their order.

“So…what are we celebrating tonight?” He asks, leaning forward on his elbows when the waitress leaves. “Or did you just have a sudden craving for the world’s worst egg rolls?”

She laughs quietly, reaching for his cigarette and taking a drag for herself. “I have some very exciting news.”

“The paternity test came back and you’re not actually my sister?” He jokes.

She shakes her head with a giggle, exhaling smoke before putting the cigarette down again. She looks him in the eye and smiles. “There’s a very specific reason I chose this dress tonight.”

“Your lucky dress,” he intervenes.

“The last time I wore my lucky dress, you played Carnegie Hall. It has been sitting in my closet ever since, waiting patiently for the day…” She watches his face change as he realizes what she’s telling him.

“You…?”

Midge nods. “Susie got the call this morning.”

“You’re playing Carnegie Hall,” he breathes.

“I am playing Carnegie Hall,” she confirms, unable to hide her joy. She did it. She finally fucking did it. Five years of hard work, of the highest highs and the lowest of rock bottoms, and now she gets to play the venue every comic dreams of.

“But the important question…?” Lenny prompts, waving his hand a little.

“Yes,” she answers. “I have become important enough for redecorating.”

He smiles back at her. “I imagine it will be a very pink room, then.”

Midge inhales deeply, feeling a faint blush find her cheeks. “Actually…I may have told them blue,” she admits.

His smile softens, and he looks at her with immense affection. “You really are feeling sentimental,” he murmurs.

She can feel her heart racing as his gaze pierces her very soul, and she reaches for his hand before she can chicken out. Their fingers lace together perfectly, the way they always have. “With you? Always,” she breathes.

He chuckles quietly. “Congratulations, Midge,” he breathes. “I can’t wait to see it.”

She looks at their joined hands and strokes his skin with her thumb. “Lenny…” She meets his gaze. “I love these nights with you…”

“Me too,” he agrees.

“But I want more,” she finishes, and he looks at her without saying anything. “Before, back when this started, we had a lot of reasons we couldn’t be together. And we sort of silently agreed on some ground rules. 

“But you’re clean now. You won the appeal. I’ve established myself as a real comic - I’m playing Carnegie Hall, for fuck’s sake…It feels like…”

“Like the rules don’t apply anymore?” He finishes.

She nods slowly. “I don’t want to be friends who occasionally sleep together. And I really don’t want to date anyone else.”

“You’ve dated other people?” He asks, arching a brow.

“Solely to keep my mother off my back,” she answers. “Haven’t you?”

“My mother doesn’t give a shit if I ever date again.”

“Lenny.”

He takes the last drag of his cigarette. “I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest right now,” he says before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “In the last three years, I have gone on many a first date. But the only woman I have had a second date with in that time is you.”

Her heart jumps into her throat. “Oh?”

He nods affirmatively. “I haven’t wanted to be with anyone else. Since long before that night…you’ve been the only one I want,” he admits, his gaze falling to their joined hands.

She reaches for him, cupping his cheek with her free hand. “You’re the only one I want, too,” she whispers.

“So…we’re doing this?” He looks up at her again.

Midge gently runs the pad of her thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m in if you are,” she whispers.

He turns his head, kissing her palm before looking back at her. “Sweetheart, I am all in.”

[wjehfshs]

Some head-canons for cod characters while I work on a request and I’m at a family birthday party

Kinda suggestive on Keegans part, mentions of alcohol and smoking

Gaz

Held his mums hand in public until he was 17

Mamas boy

Had the type of father son relationship where they would play catch outside

Hot chocolate >> coffee

Absolutely terrified of kids but kids are all over him when he’s out in public or anywhere with kids

Whenever he got face paint as a kid at birthday party’s or something he always either got a tiger or Spider-Man

Gaming nerd

Constantly worried for Price because Price smokes

Most in tune with pop culture and social media

Has a tik tok account with 40K followers

He just posts training videos and self defence and people eat it up (people meaning me)

Pretty average childhood

First job was at a hotdog stand when he was 16

Ghost

Goes mute on rare occasions

Complete opposite of Gaz, loves kids but they’re terrified of him

Was a hot wheels kids but considering his childhood he would always just play with his friends hot wheels

Autistic

Secretly really attached to Price in a father son way but would rather die than admit it

Body is a HEATER. Literally never cold always complaining about how it’s hot

Insomniac (probably a trauma response but we don’t talk about that)

Joined the military to feel stronger than his father but stayed because he actually enjoyed it and made friends

On the rare occasion he does sleep he’s out like a light for at least 10+ hours

Type of kid in high-school to have no friends but didn’t care

Price

Favourite food is a scone

Scotch drinker

Trying to quit smoking for Gaz but struggles, needs a stress reliever from time to time

Body is also a heater but not as bad as Ghost

Was a sports kid in high-school

Kids are all over him and constantly think he’s like 97, he doesn’t mind tho he’s like a father

Typa dad to play catch with his kid

Recovering alcoholic

Very much popular nice kid in high-school. Everyone loved him and he got good grades

Sneezes like an explosion went off

Probably needs glasses to read

Soap

Basically deaf, “Huh? Huh? Huh?”

Kids hate him and he hates kids he likes it that way

Ate straight up mud and worms as a kid

Eats cereal RELIGIOUSLY

Body feels cold but he’s always saying how hot it is

Typa guy to walk an old woman across the street

Has a god awful amount of hair gel that he doesn’t even use because his hair defies gravity

Plays the bagpipes but not very well

Wakes up first. Without fail.

Ate dog food as a kid

No one touches the Mohawk (except Ghost)

Has a tik tok but like 72 followers and he gets so excited when he gets over 10 likes, he shows Gaz and Gaz doesn’t wanna break his heart by telling him that’s really not a lot

Loses his train of thought mid sentence

König

Also goes mute sometimes

When he gets too anxious and someone tries to talk to him and he’s not mute he’s speaking German and German only

Cold, all the time

Bounces his leg when he sits

Cant sleep properly for shit

Cuts his own hair because he hates having to communicate to people

His first birthday present was a fake crown from his parents

Kind of kid to hide behind his parents legs when he was little

Doesn’t drink or smoke or anything because it makes him sick

Likes soup idk why he just likes soup

Animal person but he’s so scared of hurting them especially really small animals like kittens

Gets sunburnt really easy

Sleeps with 5 thick blankets + 1 weighted blanket

Like soft fluffy things

Has to sometimes make his own clothes or blankets considering his size

Had a childhood cat that he considered his best friend

Keegan

Calls everyone who’s younger than him “kid” even if they’re just an hour younger or smth

Swears he’s a good driver (he’s canonically not)

Bit of a perv honestly (by bit I mean very much). He’s not creepy or anything just dirty minded

Was a Lego kid

Avoids children like the plague

Drinks beer but ever rarely

Also chronically cold

Was always the cooler older cousin

Like his steak burnt to a crisp

Spicy food enjoyer

Also good with pop culture and social media

Has a Twitter with 60K followers

Posts stuff in tactical gear

Knows what he’s doing if you know what I mean

Listens to metal

Also likes playing games

Really really nice hands

Ok that’s it for now. Can you tell I like Gaz and Keegan the most? Yeah. I want them

It’s so cold outside rn wtf

[supa-suckers]

Vince:

Dating Headcanons:

Let's start by addresing the elephant in the room; this man's lack of trust and dis-attachment from people in genral.

Try not to take it personally s/o ,that's just who he is:two files of your background on top of his desk where you can see it, dosen't talk about his emotions unless it's anger.

Planeterium dates, it's relaxing to him to imagine that in the when looking at the bigger picture all of his failures, shortcomings, sins etc. are just specks in the garnd tapestry of the universe.

Also it's educational so it's not a TOTTAL waste of time.

Fancy restaurant dates, big event dates, İ.U match dates and of course sabotage dates.

Not big on PDA at all get off of him eww but will hold your hand under the table or bump his knee/shoulder to yours if he's been too cold/he senses your struggling.

Loves your neck and back, the palm of your hands and the michevious little shine in your eyes. Will press his forehead to yours when he's had a hard day (everday), will never tell you but adores it when you hold his hand or his face or smooth your hand on his chest/back.

Will introduce you to İ.U after a month or so after you guys start dating, he dosen't care for their approval but it's a bonus if they get along with s/o.

Won't ask for it and most likely won't force his s/o into it but would greatly appriciate help in The Business(s)™.

Do you smoke? Well you better learn how. This guys high wired and stressed enough as is and with İ.U added he needs his smoke and s/o breaks every now and then and it just feels awkward if it's just him that's puffing and it's alright after all since both of you are responsible, mature adults, right? RİGHT?

Loves dancing especially the slow, sensual sort if s/o dosen't know then he'll teach them, he also likes card games and luck games (gambling) in general so he'll teach them those if they don't know as well.

He has a tendency to apologize with gifts rather than words so it might be up to s/o to initiate the conversation that will take them to the root of the problems.

Tottaly fine with s/o preffering not to go public his confidence isn't so fragile as to get hurt by that but won't sweat too much to keep them off the headlines either.

Calls his s/o when work get's too stresfull to either talk it through to them so they have both heads on deck or to listen to their day, the sound of their voice helps him.

Will get his s/o expensive ass gifts that fit the İ.U -and the mafia- brand; poisnous looking perfume (Dior apple one, Lost Cherry Let's Rock etc.) , thick, long dark coats with either fur lining or hidden pockets (or both), mesmerizing rings, one of those location lockets, leather gloves (not latex eww), fancy cigs (Djarnn vanilla or black, Millano strawberry), designer shades just to hide your -pretty- face, lingeries if you will.

Sends you this -im tired of this- face when his team start acting up. Also not really on the protective or jealous side but will order some of his man (İ.U or mafia) to tail his partner when he can't be around them himself luckliy they're good at their jobs so they won't notice, hopefully or not.

Speaking of the team they will most likely joke about s/o being the 'chill' manager if they're included in S.L work regardless of wheter or not they're actually chill.

Arguments last long and are hurtfull, both sides will need some time to themselves afterwards but Vince dosen't argue over small or silly things -no matter how much they might bother s/o- so they occur very rare.

Break-up is cold and final you're out of his life buh bye.

[creepywrites]

Jeff the killer

Warnings: cannibalism, body dysmorphia, animal cruelty, suicide, death.

Jeff was in and out of therapy, eventually getting transferred to a Psychiatric hospital for 1 year.

He made really good progress, his psychiatrist didn't want to let him go yet since he wasn't prepared, but he wasn't deemed bad enough.

Jeff was trying to get his life together the best he could, though without the support he had before, he slipped up a few times and started losing the progress.

Peter and Margaret brought him to Barbara's for the weekends to meet new people like him and get out of the house, hoping it'd be a fun alternative to a mental hospital.

He would get bullied constantly, to the point he felt safer at the hospital loving the routine with a lot less harassment.

He felt like a failure the moment he went into a ward.

Jeff was always a bit of a troublemaker, and was labeled a problem child.

It begin with him being to talkative and playing to rough, eventually teachers would punish him for things he didn't do because he's the one always messing around.

As time went on, he started fitting that mould and became more of a bully.

Jeff was very dependent on his parents, Jeff hated it and wanted to be more independent, though wasn't able to get a job.

Once Jeff turned 15, he started fantasising about killing people, to distract himself on the urges he'd draw out the ideas on paper, he never told his therapist because Jeff stopped trusting them after the last one reported it to his parents and police.

At 13 he started dressing very masculine and cut his hair very messily and short, and tried deepening his voice to present more masculine.

Jeff was bullied throughout high school by Randy, Troy and Keith because he started bullying Sully.

It went from name naming and shoving to stalking, robbing and bashing him

At one point Jeff brought a knife to the fight and stabbed Troy.

This is when they realised how far they went and stopped, but Jeff was obsessed, he was waiting and waiting for something, and wanted to continue and it was driving him nuts, to the point he started egging them on by going to their house, breaking windows, and stalking them.

Jeff killed Jane Arkensaw's dad first, they planned it together to help her, but Jeff was just fulfilling fantasies.

Jeff made up a fake party for Jane and to set everyone, including himself, on fire to end everything whilst getting the thrill and being remembered.

Jeff has severe body dysmorphia. He can't perceive his body. It's at its worst when his face is in the process of healing, which causes him to redo it to try and ease the feeling.

This self destructive behaviour caused a lot of pain, swelling and pus, to the point where he had to stop and let it heal for a while.

Jeff is particular with his clothes and hair, and it annoys him to no end when he can't control his hair without it falling in clumps.

He is impulsive most of the time and very rarely thinks about the consequences before doing something.

He hides his weak sides. If he ever feels as if he is being backed into a corner he will lash out by getting very physically aggressive.

Jeff hate's feeling small and insignificant like before, and is another reason he can come across as arrogant and aggressive.

His vision had gotten worse after the fire.

He was very close with his grandma and the only one he didn't go after.

He drinks occasionally, he tried smoking as a stress reliever as well but hated the bad cough and smell.

He always has the blood on him from previous victims, it's most of his hard work and he doesn't want to remove it but instead show it off and his dedication.

Jeff was really into sports before his leukaemia started getting worse, his favourite being football.

He has always hated the name Jeffery, because he thought it sounded stupid especially as he got older, and everybody just started calling him Jeff.

His only friend is Nina, he doesn't make much of an effort to talk to anyone else, but when he does he'd usually screw it up.

He used to be friends with Vicky, Hannah and Jane Arkensaw in school.

He got along really well with them before he attacked them.

He's scrawny and tall.

Before becoming a killer, he wanted to open a restaurant with authentic Italian and even though he knows he can't do any of that now, he still sometimes dreams of doing it.

He's a cannibal, and he'll often eat his victims to hide the evidence and for a source of food. He was curious about human meat when he was in his early 20s, after he found out about ghosts, the next time he killed he tried it, as a way to get rid evidence and eventually had gotten a craving for human flesh.

He doesn’t bury the bodies as often and either burns or eats them.

Jeff became paranoid after finding out about ghosts and couldn't sleep without seeing his families rotted body, he always woke never knowing if it was real or not, he slept with an axe just in case.

He's fluent in Italian and English, with an American accent.

He used to kill animals, and dissect them when he was a kid, it was small ones like mice or birds, he never went for animals like cats or rabbits, ect because he cared more about them than smaller ones.

There were tons of rumours about him becoming a school shooter one day.

He's addicted to caffeinated drinks, his main one is monster energy drinks. His favourite one is the original.

His favourite artist is Eminem and Yungblud.

He can play the acoustic guitar, he'd play it for Victoria, Hannah and Jane, now playing for Nina.

His life now is a lot more exciting; it allows him to be himself, express himself in ways he couldn't, previously. It does have its hardships, but he's willing to take them head on since it means having fun.

He doesn't shower often, this is because of all the wounds and scabs on him. It irritates him when he does shower so he only showers like once every few months, and he smells horrible.

His relationship with Liu has been nonexistent for a while even before trying to kill Liu, their relationship was never that close to begin with, because they were so different and were civil at best.

Though they weren't the closest, they still hanged out together occasionally and Liu tried helping with the bullying when he could.

He doesn't feel remorse or regret for most of his actions, he doesn't care who he affects as long as it benefits him.

Jeff was best friends with Nina, they were horrible to each other when they got into arguments but loved the good times and hanging out, being competitive and seeing who's better.

He recorded all of his kills in his early days and uploaded them to various sites. He loved the attention and all his acquired fans. they've made edits of him before, and would always watch the videos, no matter how disturbing they are. He still has a small amount of people defending him to this day.

He has 1 movie about him, a reimagined version of his childhood leading up being a killer.

He's very sloppy and weak, many of his victims survived the initial attack.

Them surviving is a constant reminder that he's not good at anything.

Jeff targets happy families the most, out of jealousy, but won't bother unless a door or window is unlocked.

He stabs people in their sleep repeatedly and writes "go to sleep" in their blood.

Jeff doesn't get caught because he has multiple hideouts under ground, well hidden and stashed with essentials.

He died by Nina, who back stabbed him to become the best.

[kookoofufu]

I am having A Moment with this fic and feel very much like a loser hack fraud, so here's a bit of the beginning which I'm proud of and the only part I'm confident about not changing because if I don't post something somewhere I will go insane.

Summary: In a certain town in a certain island of the Grand Line, a young waitress thinks she’s got Sir Crocodile figured out. She couldn’t be more wrong.

Week 1

In a certain town in a certain country of the Grand Line, the arrival of ex-warlord Sir Crocodile just a few days after the events of Marineford caused a stir. Norah, waitress at the seaside cafe-slash-bar Caffe Dante, pretended to read as her fellow townsfolk gossiped about their encounters with the scarred man in town.

“That warlord is a hell of a smoker. Bought up all my cigars,” said Luka, the smoke shop owner, while drinking bourbon.

“They came to my shop for custom suits,” said Giovanni, the tailor, over a glass of wine. “Didn’t say much. Bodyguard flinched a bit when I measured him. Seems like they’re injured from the war and recovering here.”

“Then this is the perfect time for the Marines to come get them!” cried Bianca, the hotelier, banging her stout onto the counter. “Corner them in their room! They could slip out any day now!”

“Then why don’t you call?” asked Leo, the bar owner and Norah’s boss, drying glasses behind the counter. 

“Hell no. Don’t want to get mixed up in that high-level stuff. Besides,” she added with a whisper, “what if they found out?”

Then Norah saw them herself.

She was alerted during her mid-afternoon Wednesday shift when the patrons inside started murmuring and casting fearful glances toward the outside seating area. When she looked up, her heart dropped.

Norah played rock-paper-scissors with her fellow server Marlon and lost.

“W-what can I get for you gentlemen?” She clung to her notepad like a shield. He was her height when sitting down.

“Whisky,” said the warlord around his cigar, draping his fur-lined coat over the seat. It probably cost more than she made in a year. He didn't look at her as he flipped open the newspaper and leaned back, making himself comfortable. 

“Tea, please,” said the bodyguard, arms crossed. His face was unreadable from behind his sunglasses.

Norah got the drinks. Her trembling hands caused her to spill tea on the newspaper skewered on the warlord’s golden hook. When she looked up, his eyes were on her.

“Nervous?” He sneered, blowing smoke in her face. She didn’t answer, blinking away smoke-induced tears and quickly walking inside.

“Are you okay?” All eyes on her. The patrons looked ready to bolt, if only they could leave without him noticing. She nodded, then rushed to dry-heave into the nearest trash can.

“I’m calling the Marines,” said Leo.

“Good idea,” she replied from the trash can.

-

The Marines weren’t coming. Something to do with structural reorganization and paperwork over a special bounty for the criminals who participated in Marineford. Ridiculous. “Try to keep him around,” said the Marine on the other end of the line. “It helps us to know his location.”

The warlord seemed to like Caffe Dante, to Norah’s dismay. When the customers outside abruptly left and she smelled that unique smoky blend of leather and tobacco on the wind, she knew they had returned without needing to look.

“Oh. You’re… back.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice as they took up the same positions and casual attitude as last time. She went through the motions of tucking the serving plate beneath her arm and plucking the pencil from behind her ear to take their order, almost able to hide her shaking. Almost.

“Calling the Marines didn’t work, eh?” Of course he knew. And despite Leo’s warning not to say anything, she couldn’t help but deadpan:

“I didn’t call them, my boss did.”

He stared. Then, God help her, he cackled. 

“Brave one, aren’t you?” He commented after calming down. “A rare find in a world full of cowards. What do you want, Daz?”

“Tea, please,” Daz said, uncrossing his arms.

“Whisky.”

She brought the drinks and made herself scarce. The rest of their stay passed without incident until he beckoned her with his ringed fingers to pick up the check.

Her eyes widened. “You tipped?” She blurted out, disbelief overriding any sense of fear or self-preservation.

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t last time.”

“You called the Marines last time.”

Touché.