#but i have also remembered his cheese order

[shinkei-shinto]

Let's see if I can add MORE confusion in with my previous close reading of every single book in the series so that I could write my own Redwall novel!*

I see that you OP have heard of The Cookbook but for everybeast else: there's a cookbook! Most of the recipes are extremely simplistic but we'll get to why I think that is in a second.

WRT dairy: they make mention of "greensap milk" and I don't think any of their cheese comes without nuts. In ahhhh the one with the badger and his hawk, they talk more deeply about how cheeses are made (after you have the cheese) including wrapping them in nettles. So I Guess So since it apparently acts Just Like Dairy Cheese.

Yes! We are! Society doesn't exist yet! If you look at the books in chronological order, they move from using spears and sharpened stakes to swords and daggers and simple bows, and - in the last couple of books - crossbows. There's only one smithy and it's made in a dormant/dead volcano. They're literally just not that advanced at this point (although who knows where this would have gone if Jacques had been able to continue!) In earlier books, he refers to various tribes of species all living together in groups, such as squirrels in bands of trees, or the molehill of the Longladle family. Actually circling back to this there *is* one society that sort of rises up as a "city" -- in the Rogue Crew. There's a group of peaceable beasts who all live (mixed!) together in an enclosed sort of fort. It's one of the only other mixed-species places that exist, besides the Abbey and technically Salamandastron. (does Martin's temporary home have other species? I can't remember.) So this is also why I think recipes are a little simplistic. While they have so many vegetables (and don't UTILIZE THEM why are potatoes ONLY USED IN DEEPER'N'EVER PIE!? HUH??!) I think we're given to assume those are local and grown in their own ground, and they don't. have. spices/trade/etc yet.

*I* think the only idea of 'currency' is 'the currency of goodbeasts to do slave labor'. I think this one I would lean more heavily into "he was telling these stories to children" as an excuse; kids don't want to hear about money and capitalism they want to hear about pirates and heroes. But I also find this aspect of society confusing so I was mostly glad we didn't have to deal with money.

There's a bread dimension. That's my only excuse. As far as we know, the Abbey is very large - the front gates are tall enough to admit a full sized ship on wheels (a casualty of one mast) which is able to roll fully into the Abbey, hit a tree, and stop, without ever coming within weapons range of the front doors. We know there are lawns on either side of this path, a graveyard, a small-to-medium-sized spring-fed-lake, and a generous orchard. I assume Jacques was modeling this after abbeys in Europe/England, which I don't know jack and shit about, but that they did live there year round. shrug? I will note that there is a scene in a book (no I don't remember which one) where a gardener explains to a peer that 'we don't plant or harvest it all at once because then we'd have a bumper crop of parsley and what use is that? by planting some seedlings now, some later, we will have parsley throughout the season instead' so he was thinking about it, at least, even if it doesn't quite work out to reality terms. but there's just a fucking bread dimension, there just has to be, there's not enough room to grow the plants needed nor mills to grind them nor processing or ever making or even mention of flour. I GUESS we could talk about nutflour and other flour-like-flowers which the mice would have access to but BREAD DIMENSION. This was my one concession in my writing, I gave myself an out here because it drove me NUTS.

I don't think Jacques ever thought about this. We get ONE instance of a mouse adopting a. rat? what the hell is he. I think he wasn't the same species, I don't remember that one well, but there's him and Tagg, and that's "otter adopted by vermin" which isn't quite this either. I think this is probably another "kids story concession" which isn't an answer I like to give but it's the best I've got.

ha! ha! he actually retconned this! if you read Redwall the first book, he makes mention of several species (beaver? horse) which are WIPED FROM EXISTENCE in the rest of the series. There is a cart drawn by a horse which makes it seem like the mice and rats are living in a world with humans & human-sized equipment but that is RETCONNED. I do think the trees vary in size because we have various scenes of "two maidens bound hand-to-hand around a tree to keep them confined for the night" and "tied all [4-6?] of the vermin together with their belts, around a tree" in various locations in Mossflower and its environs. I don't? think? we ever hear of trees large enough to be giants to mice like they would in our reality. an addendum to this: I have never bloody been able to figure out the size of the fish. shrimps are the size of shrimp to us because otters eventually 'Skipper popped one in his mouth' in the kitchens which gives us an idea of how large they are to otters, at least. but fish??? ha. HA! we have the feast-day fish catching where multiple beasts are needed to reel in a huge trout or carp. we have pike, which are enormous man-eaters (mice-eaters?) but can also be beat to shit by a big otter and his rudder (Lord Brocktree iirc) and there is one kept as a tame uh, "pet", by an otter tribe. there is ALSO the wolf question. Gods know I don't remember which one this is but there's a book where a ... big fox? i think he is? is up far north, and he finds a dead wolf? and takes its skull and pelt and puts knives in for the claws? or some such. so we DO have extra-large-predators like wolves and wolverine, but then when we get. to the wildcats. oh the wildcats. they drive me NUTS. by rights they should be as big as badgers? when Martin fights Verdauga it feels like Martin is half the size of the cat? but then in every other way the cats seem to be as big as otters! or hares! uugghhh. BIRDS TOO birds are WILDLY inconsistent in size, I don't know how a mouse helps an osprey re-set his wing nor how a mousebabe rides on a flying eagle's head without disappearing.

do I have any burning questions still. hmm. OH I want to know what they make! their clothing! out of!!! WHAT IS IT. I also want answers about the far west, the scorpion??? and lizards??? as well as what the other side of the continent towards the east looks like, because in Martin's history we get to visit that coast AND we learn of several locations (TM) like Noonvale, which are never referred to again.

which BLOWS MY MIND because he made Brockhall + Castle Kotir literally affect the landscape temporally throughout his books. Brockhall is discovered and rediscovered and lost again and again, and Kotir eventually rises from the dead to menace the Abbey wall because fucking Germaine built a wall over the top of it when it sank into a mire. MA'AM. Even when we get to Doomwyte, the cavern they are in is a cavern mentioned in earlier texts! this is not our first interaction with the deep deep fissure in the earth that emits green gas!!!

oh and The Tapestry. I have so many questions about the tapestry. canonically the image of Martin was sewn by his (mother? wife? someone) and preserved through many things to eventually be set as the 'cornerstone' for the tapestry. And it "depicts vermin fleeing from him in all directions" and his "calm easy face" which seems to smile at Redwallers etc etc. but then. the SWORD. sometimes it it set next to the tapestry which to me makes sense; held vertically along the side it is accessible to many but not to babes. I don't think it is ever placed below the tapestry. but it IS placed ABOVE and there is a part where a goodbeast does acrobatic parkour to SNATCH IT FROM THE NAILS and I want to know HOW??? how big is the tapestry. how did you get that. is it landscape or portrait. what. WHAT. also where did the shield go! where did the sheath go! those were so important aaagaggghhhhhh.

Okay that's it I think I'm done. I hope any of this was useful or amusing, or better yet caused more chaos and questions 👍

^* I did in fact write most of this, 50k/100k words over two NaNos, but I could never get anyone to fucking read it or give me any feedback, despite handing out the first fifteen chapters to like seven people, so I lost steam. So if you're reading this and going "wow! I sure would like to read even more Redwall content and I would LOVE to get into in-depth discussions of shit in a fanbook, this sounds like a great way to build community," HI PICK ME.

hobbies include: close reading the Redwall series to answer my most burning questions. such as:

- can I replicate any of these delicious-sounding foodstuffs and would they in fact be delicious if I was able to

- corollary to the above: are we just supposed to read “oat cream” and “nut cheese” every time we see the words “cream” and “cheese”? I think so. bc if not, what tha hell are their livestock animals

- what is Society like? I don’t think we ever see a Mouse City or even Mouse Town though we do see castles and obviously an abbey. are we supposed to believe that most creatures are either in wandering bands or these societies based around a single structure (castle/abbey?)

- they appear to have an idea of what currency is (the bad guys always want treasure — maybe just to have, not to sell? but less ambiguous is some dialogue I just read, “acorn for your thoughts?” “you can have them for free”) but again, we never see anyone using money or making goods for the market. is this after the fall of Mouse Capitalism? are the bad guys (the idea of rat pirates gives me a headache, vis a vis the political/economic systems needed to power piracy) raiding preindustrial mouse societies for treasure/meat?

- corollary to the above: the abbey creatures have oats and wheat but we don’t see anybody farming or trading for farm goods on a large enough scale. is the abbey “orchard” really a like an indigenous forest farm of mixed foodstuffs? is that possible if you live in the same place the whole year or only if you travel each season? I have to do some googling

- both the lack of mixed-species families and the idea of mixed-species families give me a headache. has a squirrel never fallen for a handsome otter? what is the culture shock like if you marry into a subterranean mole family?

- this is the least “important” question but this read through I’ve been desperately trying to figure out What Size Everything Else Is. i’ve come to the conclusion that everything other than animals are at mouse scale, given that they can make seaworthy vessels their own size (a mouse sized vessel with real-world-sized waves seems impossible) and pick and eat apples and plums. but so far it seems like they’ve avoided mentioning how tall trees are — like a person compared to a tree or a mouse compared to a tree?

[krukel]

Today I was hit with a reminder that I am from a fucking village:

We had german friends that were visiting, and they really liked the cheese we had at my house, but they forgot to ask the name.

So, they went to the cheese shop (cheesemonger?) (does american english have a name for kaasboer?) and asked the lady for the cheese [my dad] always buys.

"Which one" (my dad and granddad have the same first and last name.)

"Well, his wife is [my mom]"

AND THEN THEY JUST FUCKING KNEW!!!

[soft-serve-soymilk]

Having salivated over European food yesterday, here’s the head children’s takes on gastronomy:

[g1rlken]

┏ Like real people do 2. ┐

Aemond Targaryen x wife!daemon’s daughter reader

⋆˚࿔ read part 1 here ˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

summary: blood and cheese, where daemon [the best dad (satire)] also orders for his daughter smuggled back to him, violent aftermath

an: there is no brothel Aemond subplot involved

word count: 5.2k

warnings: blood and cheese, canon violence, violence, daddy issues being mocked, arguments, once again blood and cheese

The war was afoot, degeneracies increasing, treacherous plans and endless councils. Amidst all of that y/n still found time to pay Haelena a visit as frequently as she could. Both of them had found impeccable friends in each other and the twins were always a delight. Striding through the halls of red keep, prodding her head inside with a soft knock on the queen's doors which were wide open as it is, "look!" y/n entered with a wide smile on her face. Twirling around she showed Haelena the dress she wore, it was a dress Haelena had embroidered for her with special spiders and other custom animals. Haelena had remarked on y/n's elegantly plain dresses, the edges could all use embroidery and y/n was more than glad to let Haelena design on her dress. "You made it so much better, the small bugs in blue thread it’s so beautifully assembled-" before she could comment more on the beauty of her queen sister's embroidery she was there to showcase, y/n was under attack of her niece and nephew, "why good morrow to you two!" she giggled as the two tugged at her dress for consecutive raise-me-ups. 

"I am very glad!" Haelena said offering her a smile as she scanned those designs, Haelena was warmly elated that y/n chose to wore the dress she had embroidered and the fact that she let her do it in the first place.

"You must teach me your ways" y/n commented whilst actively engaging with jaehaerys and jaehaera, she couldn't carry both the babies at the same time but she was trying to entertain them regardless, the two were latched to their auntie's knees like monkeys.

"I could always make you more, save you the time!" Haelena offered instead, she tried to distract whichever one of the children with a toy but both were way too smitten with their ever so busy aunt, now that she had the council she spent supposedly lesser time with the twins.

"That too would be so convenient!" Y/n said, Jaehaera was raised on her back, making mischief with her aunt as she tried to close her eyes with her tiny hands from behind. Both the twins laughing as she did so, regardless y/n laughed along trying to maintain her balance the best.

"That is enough..." Haelena trailed off in amusement as she helped Jaehaera off of y/n's back. The babe did not let go before whining about it, jaehaerys still tugging at his aunt's dress to get her to bend down so he could talk.

"It's alright" let out a small chuckle y/n's attention was caught down to the little heir pulling at her dress, for her to bend to his level. "Yes little prince?" She asked, attentive to her nephew's whims and demands.

"You said you were going to read to me" Jaeherys reminded her in a rather witty sense, having a sense of one upping her since she forgot about it.

"Oh did I now?" She paused for a second trying to remember when exactly was the reading session arranged for.

"Yes! The-the one with the fox and the-crows...where you do the voice!" The little prince was soon to remind her of which exact story they had left off from. He liked it better when his auntie read it to him than the wet nurses or his mum because she often did those giddy voices and the stories she read in were more entertaining than the ones with septa.

"Gods I must have forgotten" she said in a somewhat melodramatic tone to make the child think she took their reading session as a serious matter, "I have got some work on my hands at the moment but I assure you I will come continue the story-"

"When!" Jaeherys whined with a sort of tired expression given the delay in his story.

"Tonight." She answered genuinely, "Right after dinner!"

"Do you promise?" He asked wanting to take her aunty's word for proper surety.

"I promise." She said holding his tiny hands in hers giving them a gentle squeeze to assure him of her promise. Kissing both her niece and nephew on the forehead as she stood up, in attempt to take her peace Haelena stopped her.

"Are you not afraid?" Asked her sister in law with a tense look on her face, like those times when she would be out of it. As if she spoke another language and saw other things. "When the stones call you back?"

"What...what stones?" She asked, at first y/n thought Haelena was referring to some palace. Could this be in correlation to something with the council, is what y/n presumed.

"The stones. They will call you back!" Haelena gripped her elbows tighter, to emphasise the gravity of the situation she felt. "They'll take you away!"

"Nobody is taking anyone away..." y/n trailed off, shaking her head slightly as she ran her hand down Haelena's in a soothing way. "We are all safe here and there is nothing to be scared of. I promise you. I am not going anywhere." She assured her. Y/n assumed that it would worry Haelena to lose the best friend she had in herself if she were to go back because of the war waging. In her father's name perhaps, her worry was not unsolicited but y/n was sure her father's was a house not hers that is even before her marriage with Aemond.

Haelena could never seem to get her point across for some reason, she couldn't digest her wearies in a coherent way herself so she nodded with a small smile. The restlessness still consistent within her as y/n took her leave. Ever since the intimate moment with Aemond, their relationship had grown rather awkward. Aemond was closed off as always, unable to convey his infatuation. Awkward in this area, the young lovers found it difficult to navigate through a conversation. Bristling fingers through glasses, stealing glances, speaking out their love in small gestures.

That did not account for the fact that the council matters too seeped into the newlywed's marital bliss phase. Aemond too had a seat now, on the king's word. He would attend those meetings and at times the two would have drastically counter opinions. His lady wife, she would sit in the same line of seats after the hand and his mother. Speaking their minds against him, just as they had intended for her. A council within the council. "All you do is account for grand sire and mother, no such thoughts of your own. A mere puppet." Aemond scoffed as they were currently in a conversation in their chambers reflecting to that day's council meeting.

The day was at its end and as was y/n, end of her wits. His bickering was just what she needed, "And you?" she said in a tone more accusatory than his, rightfully so "all you add to the discussions is the warpath Ser Criston weaves."

"I stand for it, you just chew out what the council within the council spews" he scoffed, coming out harsher than intended but now this had become usual."I know you informed the hand of my meetings with Cole."

"Didn't do it as a snitch, had you asked me I would have told you I informed the hand." Y/n said trying to counter his condescending remarks. She wasn't a 'puppet' how he implied "Just because I do not agree with you doesn't make me a puppet to those with better judgment than yours."

"Better judgment than mine?" He let out a low huff finding it absurd that she believed Otto and his mother had a better judgment over the war than his, "you think writing to other castles, pleading, awaiting their help whilst we have three large dragons is a better judgement?"

"And what? What do you plan to do with the dragons? Burn all those against us?" She asked him growing agitated having this conversation again, "You are in favour of a lot of unnecessary bloodshed-"

"It is necessary. To make an example, to lay out a path." Aemond interrupted her, taking in a small breath "Raise your banners or watch them burn. This is what the blacks are already set to implement whilst we sit hand on hand sending out messengers!"

"You want to create a sense of fright! That is all you will accomplish with burning houses." She said in an assertive tone as she crossed her arms. This is what Ser Criston had told him too, the words struck him a small remembrance.

"Are you eavesdropping my meetings with Cole?" He questioned, as the reference resembled similar words to Cole's. Cole didn't exactly have the same notion as his wife but the words were vaguely same.

"You sit right across this room" she gestured to the adjoining room after their bedchamber. The small opening after their room led to the table against the wall where Cole and Aemond had their meetings, "The meetings you have after you assume I'm asleep, as it is too loud enough for me to not eavesdrop or be able to sleep."

"Of course" he couldn't help but roll his eyes, "You must have told the hand about it word for word yes? Like a parrot"

"Don't think of yourself too highly, your conversations are rather predictable even to those who aren't present" she replied. He wasn't wrong that she informed the hand about it but she took accountability for that.

"At least my conversations hold a spine" in two strides he reached the table she was leaning on to pour himself a glass of wine, "Unlike yours, but well that is what was intended for you" he shrugged.

For a moment, y/n sighed shutting her eyes "What are you implying?" She asked trying to maintain a calm composure because she was aware he would have words that would make antagonise her.

"You know, why you are in the council in the first place" he said in casual harshness. "Otto needed someone to voice his opinions like the righteous little lady that you are."

"I am on the council because of the seat I have inherited through my father." Y/n referred to the original conversation for her being on the council, he wasn't even part of that decision yet acted like he knew better than anyone. Smugly sipping his wine as he set his cup aside, the inherent smirk on his face irritated her to no end.

"You are claiming the father's seat who didn't even want to claim you?" He scoffed, Aemond could attest for the fact that he did not hate her in full surety. Rather fond of her too, but he was fond of his lady wife. The soft lover he did not knew he needed, big eyes that held love for everything they were laid upon. Tenderness and warmth seeping out the cracks of her which would mend the hollow cracks in him but it was the council member in her, otto's silent weapon which he could not stand.

In the process of wanting to get back at righteous council member he couldn't stand he truly hurt the daughter that begged for her world to sun, tears brimmed her eyes and she could not help it. She struck him across the face, the nerve of him. Shattered the home she thought she might finally have. He simply flinched at her action, his eyes widened a bit not at her gesture but at her tears. Registering her tears before the slap she landed her, at loss of words. "Leave." She spoke with a shuddered breath, couldn't even meet his eyes. Feeling stripped of the hope and pride she spent days building. Y/n had never raised a hand to anyone, that didn’t exactly harm Aemond in any way still the gesture in itself made her feel ugly after a moment’s silence marinated the interaction.

Without saying a word Aemond did leave, he didn't want to retaliate with her in any way. Because in that very moment both of them took a misstep and he did not want that moment to last longer. In a few strides he was out of their chambers. Y/n gripped the table to steady herself as the tears streamed down her face, a restlessness made home within her chest as she took heavy breaths.

The weight of all her despair was so heavy, at times she would just shut them in case and shove them deep inside her heart and inside her mind so she wouldn't have to face them in retrospect. It all just felt so inescapable, how she begged to be her father's daughter and how she was rejected the whole time. Now, farther away from him, bit by bit being at peace with the people she now surrounded herself with. Even in such state of distress she didn't feel alone any longer, she even felt loved. As far stretched as it sounded she even felt at ease with Aemond and he shattered all of it with just one sentence.

She lost the track of time since the moments of Aemond walking out as she just stood there falling apart, but when she felt some footsteps behind her she wiped her tears trying to compose herself. If there was anything she learned from her father it was that, nobody ever cared how much you fall apart so don't give them a reason to hold against you. Daemon always hated weeping children. Quickly she wiped her tears, she wouldn't want Aemond to think of her weak in these times. With a deep sigh she turned to face the footsteps she assumed was Aemond.

Apparently it wasn't. "Yes?" She asked with furrowed brows to the stranger who just walked into the room, not even a knock or an announcement like the guards or servants. The man wasn't even dressed like a guard or a servant. She stood alarmed taking a step further into the table as the man forwarded towards here without a word. "Guard-" she tried to yell as loud as she could but the man grabbed her head in a swift motion and shoved her into the table's edge. As if to knock her unconscious.

"Not another word or I kill you." Blood said with his hands around her neck, about to choke her as she struggled against him. Trying to grasp against his hands on her, trying to suffocate her she kicked her legs. Tried to scream regardless of his warning. With an extreme distaste for her, obviously, in blood's eyes the princess wasn't even worth so much and too much trouble to smuggle out. "Your daddy wants you back."

-

By the time the guards did find the princess, in the hallways, she was already half unconscious. Immediately rescued into the safest place in the keep, the council. Retrieved but not at all unharmed. The council was already set into course for the subject of the young prince when Larys walked in with y/n. He had previously informed her of what had happened with her nephew, his passing it hadn't really struck her yet given she could barely process all that had happened.

Queen alicent gasped as she stood up quickly running to y/n's side, all the bruises on her face, open cuts and bleeding out the torn sleeves in her dress. "Gods..." she exclaimed in horror as she helped her onto her seat. "What happened to her?" She asked Lord Larys.

"The guards found the intruder, trying to smuggle the princess out of the keep. A gold cloak known for his brutal nature, found with her, having inflicted his brutality upon her and...the prince's head, in a sack." He briefed the council as they all listened to him, everyone else but the king at loss of words. As Lord Larys left alicent was still tending to y/n, cooing at her, she seemed to be in a half conscious state.

"I am alright" she muttered to her mother in law as Alicent nodded but held her hand in hers to provide her whatever consolation she could. Just the sight of having suffered such assault sent the queen into a huge distress. Weakly holding her hand back as if to steady herself into this nightmare. When Lord Larys told her of Jahaerys's tragedy she did not believe it at all. She was confidently positive there must be some mistake in his information because that would not be possible at all.

If it wasn't for Aegon screeching in the background, y/n couldn't make out if she was actually awake in this very moment. The ringing in her ears still hadn't gone out and she wished that she would perish with that same ringing if it were to happen because living through this seemed so difficult. No way to navigate, circumstance so heavy she felt paralysed to meet anyone's face. Aegon was screeching as he wept for his son, blind with rage to kill the man found guilty for the crime. The member advised otherwise saying the king has a lot of enemies and they don't know for sure whose hand it could be.

"I suppose you are right..." Aegon trailed off slowly pacing down the table back to his seat, with an accusatory demeanour towards everyone else "it could be anyone of you, in this room."

A small silence fell, strengthening the tension and grief in the room as y/n just stared at the empty seat beside her. That very morning, just the day prior, where her nephew sat. Then Aemond after him, empty now. "It was Daemon." She declared of what she knew for sure, first time in her life she referred to Daemon with his first name instead of her father. After everything that he did, every misery she endured at the hands of her father, what happened now made her want to be distanced and foreign from him as much as she could. "His doing." She breathed and looked at the council, the drained colour on everyone's face she just registered-it was blinding her. "The man—the gold cloak" she continue, "trying to get a hold of me, h-he—he said 'your daddy wants you back.'" Repeating the words sent a chill down her spine as if she was in that very moment again, she still felt those hands on her, suffocating and heavy. A disgusting play in the mix. “That man came here, on Daemon’s order.”

The rest were comprehending that still, how a man could be so crude not only killing a child but having his own assaulted and kidnapped back home like this? " In one sense, as we determine what happened and...if we in the keep are still in peril. In another sense of course...it doesn't matter." Otto said and looked at Y/n. The princess surely did not seem to understand the hand's implication.

However Lord Tyland did so, "You mean to blame Rhaenyra." He said in a beat. "Tell the realm she had done this." Tyland spoke out Otto's implication.

"I'll have the realm told nothing! We were assaulted within our own walls, within our own beds!" Aegon spoke up almost immediately "Y/n, my brother's wife! The fucking princess almost beaten unconscious—being smuggled out?" He emphasised on the word brother, enraged even for his sister in law and the lack of his brother's presence when it must have mattered the most. "I will not be seen as weak!"

"You are already seen as weak aegon." Otto replied once again sending the king into a manic breakdown as he threw around more cups and vases. Otto theorised about how important it was to name Rhaenyra as a cruel person. Killer of infants, despite of whose direct orders those were. The narrative would be what they made.

"You would change, the blood that is on daemon's hand just to spite Rhaenyra." Y/n questioned, red eyes and characteristically on the verge of tears since she walked in here. Alicent found it so hard to look at her face, the cuts and bruises, poor thing. The heavy torment inside her head must be unimaginable, Alicent thought whilst holding y/n's hand a bit tighter. It felt like one of those moments when she was just a child, so many years ago. She would recall, the girl child was such a loner, always speaking in short words that is if spoken to. The shy little girl, who would just sit in a corner and colour or read. So much like her Aemond yet so different. When they would be in public settings, too many people, she would meekly hold Alicent's hand. Amongst all those unfamiliar faces. Little y/n just deemed Alicent familiar, comfortable. What was so wholesome years ago held such horror now. Alicent holding the lady's hand to provide her comfort her words won't be able to, the protection she could not. "Why won't you paint that man for the monster that he is?!" Y/n spoke as her voice broke, it felt unfair. Daemon not being held accountable yet again.

"Because, Daemon isn't the pretender to the throne. He would be the king consort. Banners are being declared for Rhaenyra, not in his name." Otto explained, to his preference narrative was just a useful toy. One name here or there did not make a difference.

"That is unfair." She said shaking her head, tears brimmed her eyes, taking in short breaths. In all these council meetings she did not speak up against Otto considering him respectable and more learned yet today, "how can you keep on accounting for him...again and again?!" Y/n asked but she was begging in agony. "Y-You were here. Always present. And you never did anything—all his heinous crimes! You always had the opportunity to hold him responsible and you did nothing!" She exclaimed, not being able to help herself as she thought back to a conversation at this very table. A conversation she must not have been there for, but the hand would have.

"It is perhaps your shock and grief speaking for you." Otto replied, not moved by the young lady's accusations at all. "I for one, do not understand your place of reference"

"When he murdered my mother!" Y/n said, growing more and more restless with her speech. Otto must be right, it was all the piled up grief inside of her speaking for her in this very moment but she could not let the monster that was her father be off the hook again, "You could've held a proper council, had him pay for what he did and we wouldn't be seeing this day today! We have that chance now and yet again you would rather Rhaenyra take the blame for his barbarism!"

Otto felt silent for a moment, the girl's rage was justified to the extent of him having no answer for her but he knew to trust his wit more, "I cannot undo...my regrets. I assure you I hold a lot of remorse in having a part in letting daemon go from daemon to the rogue prince and now this...monster. But if we don't do this, he would become king consort. The word consort is a feeble adjective." What he said was supposed to make sense to y/n but she could not see past the rage and need for vengeance she held against her father. Looking away, she wiped her tears. "A funeral progress. Let them see the child. Let them look upon the works of this pretender to the throne." Otto proposed once y/n was assuming-ly settled.

"Father" Alicent said with weary and concerned eyes, such tragedy being shouted out as a public funeral procession sounded so vain.

"My king..." Otto waited for Aegon's presumedly understood voice.

"No..." Aegon answered firmly "I will not have my little son's body dragged through the street like a dead dog." As he said that y/n felt nearly faint. To this very moment she did not accept that the child had passed.

"Not dragged, honoured." Otto corrected. "Escorted to the dragon pits to be burned as a Targaryen prince!" Otto went on and on about how he loved his grandson, his heart was in the right place with the grief yet the path he set was in accordance with the warpath. Just plots and schemes. Falling silent, paralysed y/n looked down to her lap. She refused to even register this conversation because it meant registering the fact that a darling child, Jahaerys...was gone.

Aegon couldn't stomach this proposal which came as an already arranged firm announcement either, looking around the room nobody said a word against the hand's plan. "You would say nothing?!" He demanded of y/n, why won't somebody help this mad notion. "Your dear nephew, have you nothing to add?" He was almost begging, hoping she would get the hand to change his mind for this funeral procession. She didn't, y/n just looked up at Aegon and then Alicent, tears in her eyes which just didn't seem to stop flowing. "Mother." Aegon called out when y/n couldn't speak up.

Leaving y/n's side Alicent walk's up to aegon, "the hand sets a difficult path, my darling. But it might be the right one." She told her inconsolable soul.

"Let the silent sisters ready the prince for his final journey." Otto said without waiting a moment for the king or anyone to come forth with opposition "And riding behind him, his mother the queen, the princess and the queen dowager."

"No, I do not wish to be spectacle." Alicent opposed instantly, the weariness and fright in y/n's eyes speaking the same "Especially y/n, not in this state. She can barely talk-stand, she has been terrorised. You can't simply—"

"The realm must see the sorrow of the crown. A sorrow best expressed through its gentle souls." Otto said followed by alicent sighing, then he looked at the side to y/n, "We need to display our heavily victimised as well" he said, the bleeding wounds on her face seemed like little trophies of sympathy to Otto. "I think you'll all agree the king himself must be spared."

-

A deafening silence lingered within Aemond, he had been out, sharpening out his swords, practising. Fucking practising on jute bags when he should've been there. Y/n was in Alicent's chambers because she could not walk into her own, couldn't even take in the sight of it. The thrashed furniture, from her struggling against the intruding gold cloak. The...the sack. In which he had stored the boy's head. Where the man had placed it in her chamber, at the entrance, it had created a circular stain of blood. Jahaerys's blood. She could not even think about the room within those four walls without picturing the insidious crime. She sat on the floor against the bed, windows open and soft white light of the day seeping in yet to y/n it still felt like a night of hailstorm. She didn't even look up to the footsteps of the stride coming inside the room, Aemond. He walked to her, kneeling down to the floor to her level.

Aemond was drenched with so much guilt in his heart, he felt pathetic to even breathe the same air as his lady wife. She had her face turned away from him, he could just see the small cuts on her face, the torn dress, still seeping out dried blood, her weary stature. It was all mortifying in the first place. He was so livid, with himself, with the intruder. Even with Larys, who informed him about the happenings at the last. By the time he rushed back inside the council was already done with. He had nothing he could say to y/n, no way of consoling her either.

It's not as if she would want to be consoled by him too, the emotional support he would want to offer her walked out with him when he walked out after their fight the previous night. With the disturbing things that had happened with her, she had almost forgotten the words he said. She couldn't even remember why she was crying before it all, that sick with grief. Aemond gently held her chin, hesitantly afraid she would turn him away. She had every right to do so. She didn't move him away, had no energy to do so. His heart sank as he saw the blood streaked stitches, poorly done and most of her wounds left untreated. "Why are these open?" He asked her softly, referring to her wounds, "Where are the maesters?"

"The hand, has asked for these to be left raw as they were planted." Y/n briefed him, her voice was so wavering, all that crying. "He means for them to be displayed for the funeral procession...so the realm can see" y/n scoffed softly as she repeated otto's exact words.

"You don't have to go." Aemond told her in a firm way, sure that he could get the hand to change his mind whether he liked it or not because y/n's comfort was his priority.

"No..." she trailed off, in agreement refraining to look at him her voice held no emotion. "But I do. I have to." She continued "Wouldn't want Haelena to be alone"

"Mother would be with her." Aemond added taking her hands in his softly, finally getting her to react to his presence as she looked down upon his gesture. Apparently to take her hands out of his grasp.

"But then I would be alone here..." She trailed off, a hint of frustration and fright in her tone. "I don't want to be alone."

"I would be with you, y/n." Aemond cooed softly fixing the loose strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear as he leant forward. “You won’t be alone.”

"I find myself unable to put faith in you, Aemond." She breathed looking down, she felt like a cornered animal, just so scared and full of distrust. "...in your assurance. I'd rather not."

Aemond had nothing he could say to that. She did not trust the integrity of his principles and rightfully so. He knew he had broken that trust of security within her. "My heart, I apologise for the distress I have caused you. I did not mean any of it" he told her but the heaviness in his heart told him his words would change nothing. She couldn't talk either, bursting into tears and her stitches seemed to hurt because her face moved but she was so much numbed to the physical pain in comparison to how she felt inside. Aemond could just offer her his embrace in this time and that is what he did. Enlacing her into her arms, rubbing her back in soothing circles her let her cry into his chest. "They will pay for this." He muttered softly as he continued to hold her. Even with the pain he made her feel, the distrust and hurt she felt just in seeing Aemond could not let her turn away the familiarity of his comfort. His was the only comfort she had ever known.

-

Once again clarifying that the brothel subplot is absolutely NON EXISTENT in this fic Aemond Targaryen is a lot of things but not a cheater <333

Pls let know what you think about this + added to the tg list🫧

-

🏷️ @love-is-a-dagger @daddzawa @1109002 @void21 @annedub @teapartydreams @batmans-love @ih8books @oopsdownloadedrumblragain-blog @aemondwhoresworld @unsweetenedpeatea @immyowndefender @aleemendoza2425-blog @vane282-blog @atargaryenlover @targaryenswhxre @sabii5 @vibescanner @darylandbethfanforever9

[nouearth]

red right hand.

pairing. henry cavill x male reader.

word count. 7.3k.

summary. if there was one thing to give your dad credit for (other than helping create your very existence), it was that he has an insanely hot best friend. it was a universal admiration your neighborhood shared with one another. though, how many actively feasted upon their fantasies regarding that hunk of a man? probably only you, because mr. cavill was more than a crush, he was an addiction. and on one summer day, mr. cavill realized that so were you.

content warning. college!reader, dad's best friend!henry, neighbor!henry, age gap, blowjob (r!giving), degrading, throat-fucking, choking, gagging, spitting, kissing, humiliation, body and muscle worship, rough-play, size difference, dirty talk, verbal, praising, size kink.

The warm wind fanned the sweat off your forehead when you slid your window open. The ledge stained your fingers with particles of dust. Grimacing at the fuzz and simultaneous stickiness, it also provoked a storm of laziness as steel reminders from your dad got caught up in the commotion: CLEAN THE HOUSE.

CAR MAINTENANCE.

STOP ORDERING TAKE-OUT AND COOK.

SORT THE ATTIC.

TIDY GARAGE.

CHECK STOVE IGNITIONS BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE.

LOCK THE DOORS.

Ya-dah, ya-dah…

Honestly, how could you check-off any of these tasks with this heatwave currently going on? You were sweating bullets, been sweating enough to bathe in your own salt for days now—which you technically were already doing. It was summer, the long-awaited season after the agony of allergies. A temporary relief to your studies as well, until the humidity hit you like a truck and made you realize that living back in a dorm wasn’t so bad. 

At least the building had a functional air-conditioner. 

“Uh-huh, yep.” Your dad’s voice was going in one ear and out the other as you rummaged through your cabinets for a snack. Cereal; stale. Canned meat; too heavy. Potato chips; not heavy enough. “Dad, you know you’ve gone on business trips before, right? This isn’t the first time I’ve been alone.”

“I know, but I’m just making sure. It’s a new house, and I’ve been watching these true crime documentaries about men leaving clubs and—“

“Well, the first mistake was going to a sketchy club in the first place…” You muttered, peering into the fridge, and then lingering, because refrigerator air has never felt so cooling against your skin. You duck your head to puzzle yourself into the cold box, dumbfounded that the heat had gotten you irritated enough to claim a bag of deli meat as your bunkmate for the time being. The sound of your dad’s frustrated sigh on the other line curled your frown into a smile, and you laughed, “I’m a big boy. Stop worrying, and go enjoy—Ow!“ You bumped your head against the door on your way out.

“How can I not worry when you just referred to yourself as a ‘big boy?’ Not even a man?!” You never realized how theatric the man was. It was like his presence never left the house, exaggerated hand movements and all wafting the smell of his homemade meals whenever he would scold you in his favorite place: the kitchen. You smiled at the fond memories.

“Good point—“ Though they were made at your old house, you were sure that once he’d returned, your dad wouldn’t be opposed to creating new memories of scolding your ass off on whatever trouble you’d get into. If you do, that is. You’ve grown since then, finding yourself too tired to socialize.

“Remember, spare key’s in the birdhouse. There’s a compartment at the side of it. Hopefully birds haven’t evolved enough to pick it open.”

“If they have, they’d be picking at our locks right now to kidnap me and probably feast on my body.” Luckily, the fridge was stocked before your dad had left. You crucified him for being overly-prepared at times, but for this month, it was an exception. You picked at a slice of deli meat and cheese, and stuffed it down your mouth.

“Not funny, (M/N).”

“I’m kidding, Dad. Lighten up! I know you’re nervous about presenting, but they invited you to talk to an audience for a reason. They like you. Just be yourself, and remember not to speak so fast. Have some water on standby too.” And speaking of the devil, you gulped down a glass of iced water to cool down your body as your dad chuckled in your ear.

“I know, I know, thanks.” A muffled sound on the other end filled the silence, sounds of people passing and cars honking passing through your ear. “Alright, my ride’s here. I’ll call as soon as I get to the hotel, okay? You better answer—Oh! I forgot to tell you! Henry’s coming over later to look at the car.”

“Henry—Oh, Mr. Cavill? He’s in the neighborhood?” The name rattled a familiar feeling inside of your stomach. Something rather warm, suddenly ravenous when you thought about the last time you saw him.

“Actually, he was the one that told me about this house! He lives down the street. But tool’s in the garage if he asks for them, okay?” 

“Y-yeah, okay. Got it.” You hadn’t seen him many times. Only when you’d come home from semester breaks, yet the mere mention of his name had you flustered as if he was a long-lost friend or something. 

“Okay, gotta go. Love you, and remember, lock your doors! Bye!”

“I will! Bye…” Your phone blinked back to your previous app after ending the call.

You knew he was your dad’s best friend; a divorced father and a bachelor unsurprisngly made a match in heaven.

He was someone that shared your father’s interest in tabletop games and comic books. A replacement for yourself you thought earlier on, but he was way more knowledgeable about those interest than you ever were. You grew up on your dad’s nostalgia. For Mr. Cavill and your dad? These memories altered them who they would be in the future.

He was a friend that would help your dad out on building projects, like that birdhouse he had mentioned. He was a charming man that built the PC you currently use after hearing you complain about the previous laptop you had. And best of all, his looks were as abundant as his kindness. Standing over six feet tall, with a chiseled face that matched an equally sculpted body; he’d been a little crush since you first met him, being the only man who was capable of rendering you utterly speechless.

And in present, the only man who had the power to tighten your briefs and shorts with only a passing thought of his body; muscular and athletic in all the right places. If only your dad could somehow muster up a beach day before summer ended. Either way, the image of his bare body excited you, the blood flow immediately rushing south in agreement. Your dick kissed your shorts at the thought water cascading off his hulking body like meltwater over an ice shelf, freezing you in your place to not-so-subtly gawk.

“Jesus…” Your body couldn’t catch a break, could it? With the ramping heat and the constant sweating, your erection only added fuel to the bonfire that was the pores of your skin. Your cock pulsed madly within the constraint of your briefs, teasing yet begging to be released, to be sheathed from its slick, because it knew you had the key to its relief.

Or rather, Mr. Cavill did.

It was pathetic. You’d been at this for a year now. As much as you were unfamiliar with Mr. Cavill’s disposition, it was certainly the opposite regarding his physical appearance. Though it hadn’t exactly occur to you when this crush of yours had been tiptoeing along the lines of obsession. 

Wait, was it an obsession..? No, no, it was just a crush. 

You hadn’t done anything wrong. All you had done was browse through his social media—he did follow you, and you mutually pursued—and stalked—no—scrolled through his posts. Thank god, he was an avid poster. Pictures of his selfies, his knack for grilling, his love for his pet dogs, his pride over his geeky hobbies, his friendship with your dad and mutual buddies—all of these pieces attributed to allowing you to get to know him more as you were rotting away on campus, missing life back at home. Like clockwork, looking at his feed brought a sense of comfort, a hope that maybe you could be part of his life as well.

“God, what I’d do to ride that mustache…” You blurted out your thoughts, hyper-aware that you were alone in the house. You’d been waiting for this. You’d been surrounded by your roommates 24/7, and then once break started, your dad wanted to insert himself into your schedules as much as he could before the next semester starts. 

As much as you loved them, you needed space. A space bigger than the privacy of your own room. You deserved the whole house to yourself after enduring months of agony from overdue assignments; stress from bickering roommates that led to chaos within the dorm. You haven’t jerked off properly in months, often resorting to a quick session that comforted you on the occasions you’d have to pull multiple all-nighters to get a project done.

You needed relief.

You needed pleasure.

“Fuck,” Your eyes had been fixated on Mr. Cavill’s social media feed as you stripped yourself free of clothing. On one hand, it helped your body cool off from the heat building in the house. On the other, you felt vulnerable, like someone could walk in on you any second, and god, was that a turn-on. 

A grid of his life displayed happily before you, and your thumb scrolled aimlessly in pursuit of multiple pictures ingrained in your brain that had your cock throbbing in your palm. You laid flat on the couch, earbuds fit snug in the canals after briefly switching apps to play your favorite porn in the background of your search. Your stomach sunk deep when the man began moaning in your ears. Hot like the blistering sun outside; you can imagine Mr. Cavill breathing against you like that, as you took his cock in like the video you had playing. Your balls pulled when the man grunted, “Right there,” and you couldn’t help but pull at the ache of your cock, then at your balls to fondle at the loose stretch of skin.

“Right there,” you repeated when your thumb paused at the desired video of Mr. Cavill. Another major part of his lifestyle was working out. Strength training, cardio, marathons. You name it, Mr. Cavill did it all, exceptionally well, and the crème de la crème of it all was that he bared his torso for most of his videos. “Fuck, you’re so big… Fuck, fuck…” 

It was like watching a warrior prepare for battle. Sweat dripped off the holiest parts of his body as he pumped his muscles with heavy weights. Grunts, heavy and lewd sounds filled your ears while Mr. Cavill powered through his body’s resistance. You wondered to yourself if he could take you like that. Force you to take him with brute strength like the weights in his muscular, veiny hands. You were stroking yourself to him, every part of him, palm slick with sweat and spit. Two fingers would get the job done, stretching you out in preparation for his cock. Though, you knew deep down that it would take more than that. Three, or maybe even four, considering the hunk of a man was seemingly built from metal. The video replayed multiple times before you remembered that he had more than enough content for you to jerk off to. You were barely five minutes in, but this was already more pleasurable than whatever you had endured back at the dorms. Your cock felt pleased, spitting out dribbles of thick pre-cum that loosened the stick of your palm as donation to your generosity.

“Fuck, Henry…” You rarely referred to him by his first name. It felt unusual. You were much younger than him. Addressing someone closer to your dad’s age felt rude, like you were trying to assert your dominance despite your age difference. You were many things, but disobedient was not one of them. However, you couldn’t lie. His name felt polishing to your tongue, something that could improve the taste of dreadful meals if one were to whisper it before taking a spoonful.

His name felt like a miracle.

Your sexual appetite was nourished by the frames of Mr Cavill’s second video. He was completely unaware he was bulging, free-balling in his sweaty shorts while he pursued his vitality through jumping jacks, lunges, toe-touches—cardio galore that made his heavy cock bounce in rhythm. You could tell he was large, gifted with insane girth to the point where you could make out the shape of his cock just from him stretching. And the smell; sweat sticking on thick curly hairs on his chest, and a happy trail that seemed to promise a world of musk if you ever had an opportunity to endeavor upon your curiosities. You were practically salivating for him, saliva pooling where your tongue sank, while your cock leaked. You pumped yourself quicker and harder at the frustration that your desire to taste Mr. Cavill’s cock would remain a pipe dream.

All that left you was your imagination, and your own musk. Pulling up at your glans, you squeezed out thick loads of pre-cum before swiping it with your thumb and tasting it off with a suck. Salty, bitterly pleasant on your tongue, and satiated enough to not let your libido falter at the disappointment that it wasn’t Mr. Cavill’s pre-cum, but rather smolder.

“Oh, fuck my mouth… I need that cock, Mr. Cavill. Please—“ The frames of the third video showcased him flexing his arms and torso. His body bursted with pride, veins surging through every fiber of muscle like they were charging him and his very existence. It was veiny too, wasn’t it? His cock. Large and veiny, like how you’d like it. You would struggle fitting him inside of your mouth while his cock veins pulsed with great pleasure knowing that it was Mr. Cavill’s kink that you couldn’t take him. 

No one could.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—“ Your eyes rolled back. The slurping sounds from the porn increased by tenfold as you pumped the volume by a few decibels. Lewd, slick sounds you wished you could perform on Mr. Cavill himself violated your ear drums. Pleasure him. Thank him on your knees for being so kind to your father. For building your PC without compensation. For providing you temporarily relief while you were away on campus, and could only jerk off under the blanket. You were grateful for him. For Mr. Cavill. For his thick arms. For his veiny forearms. For his dashing good-looks. For his muscles. For his strong cock. You’d give yourself to him if you could. Worship every inch of his step, every inch of his body, and that still wouldn’t be enough to show your appreciation towards him. 

Your fist tightened. Your other hand had grown limp by now, dropping your phone to the floor by mistake, but you were too fixated on the pleasure your cock was receiving to retrieve it back. You could watch it from where you were laying, just like this, slickly twisting and pumping your cock to the sound of the porn, to the sound of Mr. Cavill grunting simultaneously as if his thick cock was being feasted on like a hungry beast. “Mr. Cavill, please—I’m going to—“

One earbud slipped from the sweat building on your body, but you were close. So fucking close to coming. And when you do, you’d come on your phone.

All over Mr Cavill’s pecs. His abs. His crotch. His face. Anywhere, as long as it was your friendly neighbor, because—

“Enjoying yourself, (M/N)?”

A voice from behind you alerted your body to jolt and whip around upon instinct to defend yourself. Naked or not, you weren’t going to die, not in the hands of a burglar.

Though, as soon as you did, you regretted it. You felt like stone. Cold, hard stone as all signs of life seemingly felt like it had been sucked dry out of your body, with your erection taking up most of the produce surprisingly as you confronted the intruder.

The six-feet, muscular, handsome, and familiar man of an intruder. 

“M-Mr. Cavill?! What—When did you—“ You were flustered. Radiant heat blooming like the season of Spring across several patches of your naked body. It also didn’t help that your porn could be heard from earbuds once you took the remaining one out, albeit a bit muffled. And your phone, it was facing the ceiling, looping the video of Mr. Cavill training over and over again. Right before him.

Your body was shaking, physically evident despite your efforts to conceal the tremors as the man stared you down, unfazed by the drama of it all. “Fuck—“ You didn’t know what to turn off first. The porn? The video of him working out? Or maybe dressing yourself should be a priority because—Mr. Cavill was still staring, blues lingering on your naked body, seemingly outlining every drop of sweat that followed the contours of your figure. There was movement that naturally caught your attention. 

It was his hand, large and muscular over the center of his shorts. Rubbing, squeezing, fondling at an evidently large mass that made you dry-swallow. You mustered up the courage to finally pause the porn, then clicked your phone off. “H-how long have you been watching?”

“Since the beginning.” He chuckled, stating matter-of-factly. “Your dad told me to come look at your car. Your garage was open. Thought you did that for me, but I guess you really just forgot about closing it considering…” He nodded towards your cock, licking his lips when it acknowledged him with a throb. “Was coming to get you, and I found you like this.”

“And you just watched?!” You sputtered out in distress, hastily dressing yourself back into your clothes, stumbling over your feet in the process. Sweat always made it more difficult to put on clothes.

“Well, I did call you for while I was coming in. You didn’t hear me over your video, and…me, I suppose.” It was smug. Amusing to him that you were in this state of embarrassment after being caught red-handed. You groaned, burying your head into your knees after sitting back down on the couch. The heat was unbearable, but to face Mr. Cavill after being caught jerking off to his videos, you were overcome with horror at the ghastly spectacle of the situation.

“Don’t tell my dad about this,” Your fingers scraped through your scalp out of frustration, but also to keep your head pressed to your knees as they interlaced around you. You refused to even spare one more glance at the man when you felt him practically hovering over you, a gentle smile riding along the coattails of his composure. “…please.”

“I won’t,” Mr. Cavill’s voice sounded clearer, closer than before. Right above you, but still, you maintained your position despite the pleasant scent of his cologne almost breaking away your focus. “Just as long as you suck me off.”

Those final words hit you like a truck. 

You were astounded, confused by the turn of the situation. It felt like a taunt, and it was treated as such because it worked. You whipped your head up upon Mr. Cavill’s demand, almost insulted because it was how guys on campus used to taunt you.

What you expected to grace your eyes with was his face; charming as ever with a mustache that was reliable in stirring immense feelings inside of you.

Instead, you were met with a face full of flesh, Mr Cavill’s heavy and large cock. It sported a strong curve, throbbing veins to prove its accelerating lust, with thick balls swinging low to entice you into a hypnotic state. If someone was to grade you upon your predictions, you’d score a perfect mark, because god damn, he was huge. Hairier than you’d expected, though just as arousing, if not more, because this was unexpected for Mr. Cavill as well. He would’ve cleaned himself a bit if he had a plan to meet you under these circumstances.

“I—You’re serious?” With the string of thick pre-cum dripping from the very slit of his head, it seemed like your question was answered. You could smell him. The musk of his pre-cum. It tingled your nostrils, enchanting you akin to what fresh pastries would’ve done for you on normal, non-libido provoking circumstances.

“Does it look like I’m kidding? Come on, I’m waiting. You didn’t even say ‘thank you’ to me in person when I built you that PC for Christmas. It’s the least you could do, right?” Without warning, he took ahold of his cock and tapped the center of your lips with it. Your orbs shook as you looked up at him, hesitant through the tremor of your lips as Mr. Cavill stared back, determined for you to accept his plea offer with some kind of answer—with your mouth preferably. “Been teasing me for so long… Think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me whenever I came over? How you kept massaging your cock under the table during dinner? Always in those shorts too… God, you were begging to be fucked with your thighs showing like that.”

“No—I-You’re my dad’s friend, I can’t—“ Your hand said otherwise with your fingers taking initiative on their own, wrapping over his large cock, right above Mr. Cavill’s fist. It was a two-hander, a fucking two-hander, yet your fingers struggled to close around his girth. “Fuck, you’re so…”

“Your dad doesn’t have to know, right? I won’t tell. You won’t either. We don’t want to hurt him, right?” One of his hands found its way to the back of your head while he took a step closer, bringing his cock closer to your face. Before you could pull away, there was true grit to the palm of Mr Cavill’s hand as he applied pressure to the back of your head, pressing your cheek flush to the underside of his cock. “Look at you, you don’t have the heart to say no, do you? You’re obsessed with my cock, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Cavill…” You were under his control. Locks of your hair bundled under a grip while he ground his cock against your supple skin, making you smell him; his musky cock, the sweat buried in the deep hairs of his pubic area. It was a glorious scene that returned your cock back to its original state of arousal by tenfold. 

“You’re going to be a good boy and suck my cock off, right?” Almost in your mouth. You parted your lips open to trap his cock into your mouth with the way he maneuvered your head like a rag doll, a brute strength your nape now, pulling and pushing your head as his cock rubbed against your face, but Mr. Cavill pulled at the last minute, right when you were one lick away from tasting meaty flesh. “Close your mouth. You will open your mouth when I tell you so.”

“I—I—Yes, please...” You were pathetic. He held you still, head tilted upwards to face the ceiling and his towering body while his cock and balls laid over your face like a table runner, a perfect heater to warm his meat. A t-shirt remained on his body, and that was a true testament to his appeal, being able to get you off like this half-naked. You reached down, back to fondling at your sore cock, at the blue balls you’d given yourself earlier, sniffing, inhaling the heavy delightful scent of his sweaty cock. Guess his house was having air-conditioning difficulties too.

“I can use your mouth however I want?” He dragged his cock over your face, the head leaking out pre-cum in midst of its journey to introducing itself to every one of your facial features, saving your lips for last. 

“Yes,” You gulped at his rousing speech, breathing in the drying musky pre-cum on the perimeter of your skin. “Please fuck my mouth, please—“

“If you’re good, then this can be a regular occurrence, yeah?” You slipped your shorts and briefs off again, jerking yourself off to simply the teasing taunt of his cock, tapping at your skin, brushing over your eyelids, pushing up against your nose. You felt humiliated. You’d been marked by Mr. Cavill, pathetically as it only took his huge cock to make you submit to him. “You’d like that? Sucking your dad’s best friend off?”

“F-fuck, yes…” His cock was a wand to your body. Every time Mr. Cavill was seemingly about to push into your mouth, you willingly opened it to no avail, even if it was obvious that he’d pull away. You could only get off on his scent for so long. He’d draw your tongue out when he squeezed pre-cum out the tip of his cock, right above your pink flesh. It would sink, drip, slowly like syrup, in thick strings, until it wasn’t anymore with the sudden obstruction of Mr. Cavill’s finger swooping in to nick the sticky web, and letting it waste away on the carpet. “Please, Mr. Cavill… I-I’ll be good…”

It was amusing to him, watching you desperately try to taste and watch him in any way you can, to the point of going cross-eyed as he would center his cock in your vision. He waved his cock like a flag as if he had conquered you. Humiliated you with several heavy slaps to your face, thick smacks that you took in whimpering grace because Mr. Cavill had stolen the resources to your insanity.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Mr. Cavill didn’t waste a single second for you to prepare yourself. The pressure on your nape steeled, bruising to make you open your mouth and whimper, and maybe that was the point, because he seized the opportunity to charge his cock inside of your mouth without warning, making you gag on your own desperation. It was a forewarning. A brief prologue on how you should take his cock as he quickly pulled himself out to properly prepare yourself. In the meantime, he slapped your cheek multiple times with the spit you had already layered him with, cooing at how incredible hard and big he was against your dazed face.

“Fuck, your mouth is so warm. That’s it, you can take it. Good boy.” Saliva spilled out of your mouth like a popped water balloon when he pushed himself inside of your mouth again. You couldn’t control it. You couldn’t control what Mr. Cavill had stripped away from you with the strength he had on your neck. Not to mention, the mass of flesh gagging you into oblivion, leaving you completely incapable of stopping him, as if you wanted him to. “Come on, use your hands too. Don’t be lazy.”

“Mm-mmf…” A compliance that was muffled by a slur of slick sounds, but Mr. Cavill knew what you meant. Amusement played on the corner of his lips as you struggled to fit a hand around the base of his sticky cock, sloppily stroking what was left neglected by your mouth, or rather your inability to take in. You suckled on the head of his cock, plump and heavy on your tongue as it throbbed with every lick you provided him. Stroking its slit with the tip of your tongue, you then dug and slobbered over the salty taste of his pre-cum. “So big… Just like I’d imagined.”

You pulled away to marvel at the size of his cock, taking your time to lube his cock with your spit from tip to shaft before your fist flushed to his pelvis to slap his meaty cock on the pouch of your tongue, lewdly flinging your spit in the air. It was your favorite move, often reliable in coercing a reaction out of the men you’d sucked off previously. The roll of his eyes, the flex of his muscles, the grunt from his gut; you slobbered all over his cock, worshipping every inch with your mouth, polishing the cock knob clean with your tongue and stroking what you couldn’t with two deft hands. Mr. Cavill was no different, he was a man with needs like you, with needs like the rest of the men you’d given head to, and you exploited the hell out of it. You loved making them feel in power, making them feel like you were worth time out of their day, despite their original pleas to use your mouth.

He briefly pulled back to rest a kiss on your lips, one that you’d treasure for the rest of your life. Not only was it because it was your first kiss was him, but because of how delicate he was with you. Warm and inviting like he usually was, his large hands cupped at the end of your jaw, holding you as if you were made of porcelain. “Making me so proud right now, fuck. Take in more of my cock, would you? I like it when you gag.”

“Mm-hmm…” They always do. You mumbled against his lips, no longer needing his guidance to finish what you’d started. Your eyes were glued to Mr. Cavill, aroused by the look he was giving you. A famished stare that demanded to be satiated, by means of sheer persistence as you knew it was going to be difficult to down him with your throat.

Mr. Cavill drove a hand into your hair, cuffing the strands to keep you still, to keep you from pulling away, to dominate you. He watched you without an ounce of kindness, muscles flexing, cock and balls hanging obscenely as you found a better position on your knees with a throw pillow guarding you from bruising. “Want you to throat-fuck me, Mr. Cavill.”

“Fuck, who knew you had such a mouth on you…” He sturdied his stance, spreading his strong legs while manhandling your head between them. You licked a stripe over his balls, then the underside of his cock until your tongue reached the scorching skin of his precum-slicked tip. Approaching the end of the journey, your mouth opened wide to welcome Mr. Cavill back into your mouth, and like tugging on a loose knot, you drew out moans from within his gut, his body loosening in turn of your hot mouth. “Fuck, just like that…”

With a thundering heart, and a building pleasure so morbidly big, you sunk and lowered your head lower, taking in Mr. Cavill’s horse-cock like a fleshlight. Crimson rose to your cheeks, to your neck, as you strained to maintain him inside of your mouth. He was too big. You’ve utilized all the tactics you’ve learned on campus, on a few buddies, on your roommates. Breathe through your nose, relax your tongue and jaw, let your saliva drip out. Yet you’d barely taken a few inches more than you had done prior before a couple of gags alerted you to take a breather. Your head pulled back, but it was met with violent opposition as Mr. Cavill brought your head back down to further shove himself down your throat.

“Mmm—gggrgh!” Your body jolted in defense, stiffening your body into an upright position when you couldn’t refrain from gagging on his cock. Your hands braced on his strong thighs for balance, squeezing at the muscly flesh of skin to distract yourself from the uncomfortable stretch your mouth was receiving.

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck, fuck, just like that. You’re taking it like a good boy.” You were making him proud, so fucking proud. You coughed, gagging, almost choked on your own spit, but the stuffing of Mr. Cavill’s large cock simultaneously emptied your mouth of saliva as it all came flooding down your mouth in lewd webs. “Shit, look at that. I’m making your mouth water, aren’t I? Fuck, what a waste.”

He yanked your head back, pulling him out of your throat, and you had never felt such relief. Breathing, exhaling and inhaling deep to compensate for the prediction that Mr. Cavill wasn’t going to let you spare a second of abandoning his cock like that. Your eyes watered, reddened from straining your muscles to make him fit inside of your mouth. You knew there was a shift in the room when you looked up at him like that, glossy in the eyes, tremors involuntarily making your knees unsteady, coughing as you held onto his thighs. He towered over you, you were beneath him, beneath the ravenous gaze he simultaneously terrified and seduced you with. You couldn’t complain now. You did your job. You made him feel powerful like you’d wanted. Dominating, as his cock leaked in your spit, and spit your saliva back onto your face.

“You were fucking hungry for my cock, weren’t you? Look at you. You’re a bloody mess…” With one swipe, he gathered the layers of spit you had generously supplemented his cock with, and smeared it across your face. You took his humiliation with good grace, moaning at your loss of pride with every smear. It deducted the more he messily layered your face with your own spit, but as demeaning as it was, there was immense merit to the satisfaction on Mr. Cavill’s face. “Open up.”

“M-mm, ah—“ Your mouth opened with a vulgar sound. If Mr. Cavill had something to compare it to, it would be like sticking a spoon into a cup of jello, and then scooping its content out. Sweet and glorious to his ears, salty to your mouth as he bought your head forward again, and plunged his cock back down your throat, deeper, and further within the confines of your throat. You squeezed around him, eyes clenched tight while he brought your face flushed to his pelvis, the hairy bush of his public area gentle abrasive against your nose. He smelled as delectable as he tasted. A hint of spice, sweat, salt, you could lick at it if it was made into a popsicle, lap it up if it was in a bowl and you were on all fours, bowing to his feet.

Your cheeks bulged as your mouth churned internally to produce more slime to seemingly ease the slide of Mr. Cavill’s cock thrusting inside of you now. He was careless, half-bent over your head to lock you into a tight embrace while his spit-polished cock rubbed at either side of your cheeks, rut against the roof of your mouth, then thrust himself into the depth of your warm throat. You couldn’t have escaped if you had wanted to. He was too strong. Two hands unrelenting around your head while he packed his large cock deep into your mouth, pelting into your gags and whimpers with fast, sharp thrusts, the sound of his wet dick choking you mutually turning you and Mr. Cavill on. You want to quit, yet he was choking you too good. Water streamed down your cheeks. Whether it was your own spit, sweat, or tears, you couldn’t comprehend it because Mr. Cavill was uncompromising, refusing to yield for your comfort.

You were fucking grateful. That was what had been missing from your college experience. A man. Someone taking charge for once. Someone utilizing you like the whore you made yourself out to be. Mr. Cavill saw right through you, through your taunts from several breaks ago, and he was fucking furious for making him wait.

“Shit, I’m close,” Fucking your mouth furiously. You could get off like this. Fuck, no. You were getting off to this. Fucking your cock with your fist, doing your best to match the pace of Mr. Cavill’s hips. You wanted to look up, to watch his face morph from admiration to animalistic desire as he utilized your throat at his own disposal.

You blinked away your tears, even if they had stung, and gawked at how captivating Mr. Cavill was for being selfish, thrusting into your mouth with one hand keeping your face free of your hair from obstructing his view. A frown permanently framed his mustache, and his dark brows furrowed at the approaching climax. He wasn’t looking at you. Rather, he was scrutinizing your wet mouth as it was jam-packed with his cock. How could a mouth look so pretty while doing something absolutely obscene? How could a throat feel so tight, so addictive, even after piping his cock down its drain several times? How could you let him treat you like this, a complete stranger, completely violate and humiliate you on your knees, like a broken doll whose purpose was to fulfill a man’s deepest desires? Maybe he needed to have a talk with your father. Talk about how broken you were, and that you needed fixing. Spend a nights with him at his house, and he would help you rewire your brain. He’d fix you. Fix you with his cock. With his lips. With his hands. With his body. Your eyes rolled back at the thought, fisting your cock faster, twisting to his heavy grunts as he was nearing closer and closer to the edge of his insanity.

“Mfghm!” Your throat felt raw, the subtlest whimper scratching at your throat like claws on chalkboard. But you persisted, pumping your shaft vigorously, your ears lapping up Mr. Cavill’s constant appraisal for your performance. Good boy. That’s it. You’re taking my cock like how I want it. You want your reward? Fuck, sloppier. Spit on it. Spit on my dick. I like it sloppy. 

Sweat pebbled every inch of your skin. You couldn’t take it. It was coming. Your stomach sank and steeled upon the sudden rise of fulfillment, and you quickly released your grip after a final stroke before coming into the air. Thick ropes catapulted upwards, your cock throbbing with every pulse, and your balls emptying itself more and more with a bounce, a twitch, and a jolt. “F-fuck, ugh…”

“Fuck, yeah. Look at all of that cum. Fuck. You came that much just from my cock, look at that…“ Your body spasmed as the carpet soaked up your semen. His voice gruff yet gentle at the same time, making your cock twitch once more before softening. 

“Come on, not done yet. Suck me off.” He spat out, tugging your head forward after a quick breather.

Something in you clicked, and you began sucking his cock off like it was your job. Twisting, stroking at the slick shaft while nipping at the head while you caught up to your breath. Suddenly saltier on your tongue as some of your cum had landed on your hand before it was smeared across Mr. Cavill’s dick. You’ve never tasted yourself before, but it was a found contentment you didn’t expect to turn you on.

Then, you took one last breath, cleared your throat, and charged forward. Long, thick inches slid into your throat once more, and you’d hold yourself there upon his final warning, mouth agape, lips pressed into the fur of his pubic hair. Your tongue flattened at the underside of his veiny cock, and your nails dug into the back of his thighs as you felt a thick warmth rush down and coat the inside of your throat. His cock throbbed, and Mr. Cavill’s grunts emptied from his gut with every spill. You could feel every heavy pulse as Mr. Cavill came down your throat in heavy, creamy spurts. You didn’t want to swallow. Not yet. You wanted to savor him. Savor the taste of his cum. You’d pined for it for so long, for all you could know, this could be your last opportunity to properly taste him. Slowly, but surely, his loads rose and pooled in the back of your throat upon barricading it with a tighten of your trachea. The rest of his spurts emptied on your tongue as he pulled himself out, and milked himself to completion. 

“Don’t swallow yet.”

You nodded, panting, awaiting for his nuts to be emptied as he flung his cock a few times, hurling drips of cum and your spit over your tongue and face. When he was seemingly emptied out, his gaze fixated on his cum pooled in the back of your throat; semi-translucent and filthily swimming with your own spit, and then Mr. Cavill’s own saliva, as he then spat into your crowded mouth. 

“Now swallow.”

You whimpered at the vulgarity of this affair, yet you were highly-aroused by this shame you were feeling. Mr. Cavill’s gaze stilled, anticipating with calm amusement while petting at your cheek. With one clean gulp, you downed your guilt, scrunching your nose when the salty taste of his spunk throttled your tastebuds, and sighed in satisfaction.

“Does your throat hurt?” He was on his haunches, carefully examining your throat as if he had his hand around you from the outside. It was a surprising return to his normal self, at least, the man that you knew as your dad’s best friend. Caring and patient, as he tended to your neck with apologetic kisses, and a gentle massage around your nape, where he must’ve gripped too hard upon your jolted reaction.

“A little… Didn’t take you were one to be rough like that.” Your knees gave out, letting yourself fall back onto your butt knowing that the couch would catch your position.

“Not usually, no… You just… happen to rile me up for some reason.” He was smiling, joining you on the floor, and nuzzling his furry mustache into the crook of your neck as if he wasn’t choking you with his cock a few minutes ago. It was unusual, yet charming. “Seriously, don’t tell your dad, okay?” He whispered into your ear before turning your cheek to look deep in his eyes.

A meaningful stare, a beat of silence, before you spoke, “Only if you promise me something.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Cavill pressed a kiss to your swollen lips, another apology for stretching your mouth without much warning.

“You really meant it that this would be a regular thing if I did a good job?” Mr. Cavill scoffed at first. It was almost embarrassing. Were you being naive? Was this too good to be true? Your cheeks flushed red, and you solemnly casted your gaze downwards, defeated because that was that it felt like. The sound of rejection always came with a scoff, everyone knew that. 

“Well, it was going to be a regular thing even if you had accidentally bit my dick off.” He suddenly laughed at how susceptible you were by the smallest actions, and at this moment, you were surprised that maybe this crush wasn’t so one-sided after all. He teased at your frown, kissing the corner of your mouth until it was a smile, and then prodding at your sides when you resisted. “Come on, you couldn’t possibly think this was a one-time thing.” 

“Tempting…” You snuck a head in between his thighs, reaching for a certain tool that had brought in so much pleasure and pain to your body. “I don’t know… we don’t talk much. I don’t know you that well.” 

“Don’t.” Mr. Cavill teasingly warned, stopping you by taking ahold of your wrist. Though, one step too late, as you already cupped his flaccid cock, tormenting his balls with a few tugs and squeeze of your palm as an act of revenge for your throat. “Well… then let’s get to know each other. No problem doing that, right?”

“Mm-mm, guess not.” Pursing your lips, you nodded, feeling placated by his words.

He sighed into your mouth, kissing you again, licking at the inside of your mouth, tasting your tongue and then your cheek, to soothe his selfish stain on your body with the work of his mouth. 

“First, I want to hear you say ‘thank you’ for building that PC of yours before I promise you anything.”

“Jesus, we’re still on this?”

“Yes! Do you know how long that took me?”

“I didn’t ask you to build me one—“

“God, you’re an ungrateful brat.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

the platonic little sister relationship aegon has to someone like reader 😭 i hope we can see more, but like without the darkness of house of the dragon nor gore of it, just aegon ii staring at his little sister and vowing the world and even the throne for her, relinquishing it the first chance that he gets to rhaenyra whilst in tears holding his littlest sister 😭 he wishes no throne, no treasures, no liquor, only her safety and nothing more. i can imagine him trying to escape with her to the free lands because she is the only good in his world and he’d be damned if he let otto try and spoil the only kindness that the gods have give him. i can also imagine him stowing away on his dragon and flying on dragonback to the blacks to proclaim his loyalty with little reader bundled up in his cloak. i can imagine him fiercely protective but also relenting when he knows she is happy, being by her side as her older brother and uncle to her children to whomever it may be 😭

(sorry for the long anon, i just wish to see more 😭)

- familial issues anon 😔

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x READER ) [ Pt. 2 ]

author notes: I promise, I'm gonna write a fluffy part 3 after this.. pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Younger Sister! Reader ( Platonic ) prompt: When Blood and Cheese attack, the feeling of being safe in the Red Keep dies along with your sweet nephew and son. word count: 1, 000+ words

The night of Blood and Cheese, you had wandered into the children's bedchamber. Something pulled you from your dreams, telling you that the children needed you. You did not know a thing. The night was quiet and cool, the gentle pouring of rain filling the air. Everyone was safe and content. No harm could come to any of you with Vhagar in the City. But, as you got closer and closer, blissfully unaware.

You did not know the horrors that awaited you. Helaena held at knife point, her eyes so wide and full of silent horror. Your son cuddled up next to Jaehaera and Jaehaerys like he always did, all three of them dead asleep and unaware. Two men, one tall and imposing. The other thin and chuckling like a mad man. A debt they said, "A son for a son."

A son for a son. A son for a son. The world that that point is going silent and you think of was, why? Why? Why? Why?

You don't remember much of anything, no matter how much you tried to, just the muffled screams and sound of flesh being cut. You stumbled and wandered down the empty halls of the Red Keep, a dead look on your face. A thousand unspoken words on your tongue.

A son for a son. A son for a son. A son for a son. A son for a son. Where the fuck were the guards? Where were the maids? Where was everyone? They liked to snoop, so why this time were they gone?

You did not know when Helaena had departed from your side. You just vaguely remembered bumping into one of Aegon's friends, the drunken smile on his face falling. His face went pale and a stuttered call for Aegon.

Staring dead at the man, you could not remember his name, just that he was kind and one of Aegon's friends. Feeling your bottom lip wobble, you tried to hold back the sobs, emotions bubbling up. Feeling familiar hands on your shoulder, you dreadfully become aware of the wetness in your nightgown, though it was not your monthly blood or rain that soaked the linen. The realization trickled in that it was blood sinking in. Blood. Jaehaerys blood. Your son's blood.

"Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, look at me, not the blood. Tell me what's happened." A voice faintly orders, "Y/n, look at me. Look at me."

Blinking back the tears that bubbled up, your vision clears up, seeing Aegon standing right in front of you. He reeks of strongwine. But, the look on his face was deadly sober. Seeing his lips moving, you couldn't hear him, the haunting sound of Jaehaerys and your son slowly being beheaded still ringing in your ears. Son for a son. A son for a son. Jaehaerys was just a boy. He was barely six years old. A baby. Helaena's baby. Your boy was a year his younger, only five.

"You weren't there. Why weren't you there?" You hiccup, "You were always there. Why weren't you there?!"

"Y/n?"

"You said you'd be there if we were in trouble. That⎯That⎯That if we need you, you would be there. Why weren't you there? Why weren't you there?!" You scream out, your pained voice echoing loudly.

"Who's blood is that? Where is your son?" Aegon asks, his face and voice of panic.

Son for a son. A son for a son. Son for a son. A son for a son. Your son. Why him? He wasn't Aegon's heir. He wasn't Aegon's son in any way. He wasn't anyone's but your own. Your baby. Your sweet baby. Why did they pick him? He was no threat. He was just sleeping. He wasn't harming anyone.

"Gods damn it, Y/n! Where is your son?! Where is he?! Who's blood is that?" He demands, "Tell me, tell me."

"The...They took his head..The boy...My boy..Blood..He's in the bed...They came from the walls..Helaena.." You choke out, not able to properly string together a sentence.

Bursting into a fit of tears, the throne exploded into chaos the moment tears were spilled, orders and demands being spouted out to anyone in ear shot. Why? Why? Why? The Red Keep was safe. Aegon told you it was safe. It was supposed to be safe. That they would not dare to harm any of you. It was supposed to be safe.

'You will never have to marry again. You and your son are under my protection. No harm shall come to you whilst you stay in the Red Keep, sweet sister. I swear upon it.' He had said, tucking back a strand of hair from your face.

'No harm shall come to you whilst you stay in the Red Keep, sweet sister. I swear upon it.'

'No harm shall come to you whilst you stay in the Red Keep, sweet sister.

'No harm shall come to you...I swear upon it.'

When did your big brother become such a fucking liar?

Watching you collapse to the ground, Aegon swiftly follows you to the ground, cuddling you close to his chest. He may have been a little tipsy, but now he was dead sober. You stumbled in, looking more like a ghost than a person. Your hair down, you always loved to leave it down when going to bed. Your nightgown, white with little butterflies sewn into the hem, now stained in blood. Who's? He did not know and dreaded finding out.

Stroking your hair tenderly, he prayed, truly prayed for the first time since his youth. Not for your safe return home. Not for his Father's love or a fragment of his time. Not for the Seven to rid him of all the bad in him. He prayed that you were just spouting out about some nightmare. That this was just like all those times in your youth, when you'd sneak into his chambers. A whimpering mess, spouting about the monster under your bed.

"It's just a dream. It's just a dream." Aegon tries to reassure, not sure if he was trying to convince you or himself.

"Aegon, what⎯what⎯what do we do?" One of his friends stutters out, a shell shocked look on his face.

"Get the fucking guards! Wake the fucking Keep up! Damn it!" Aegon bellows, his face flushing red from anger.

Struggling to figure out what to focus on, he couldn't keep up as the Red Keep seemingly exploded. Guards are everywhere. Orders being spouted out. He wasn't sure if his voice was one of them. It was all just a blur. This could not be real. This had to be a nightmare or a figment of his drunken mind. Soon enough he would awake. You'd come into his chamber's like you do every morning, warning him that your Mother was on her way. Yes, yes, that was it. He would wake up and everything would be good.

"Aegon. Aegon." Someone calls out for him, his grip tightening on you instinctively.

"Your grace, the Prince Jaehaerys and Prince⎯" A guard stops speaking, the look on his face enough to make his blood cold.

"No, they are alright. Tis' just a minor wound, no?" Aegon shakes his head, not wanting to think of the worse. "Just a bloody nose or.."

"Your grace.." The guard shakes his head, "I am afraid tis' more grave than a bloody nose."

Feeling tears bubbling up in his eyes, he shakes his head, laughing bitterly in disbelief. This could not be true. This had to be some jest. Some dream of his. There was no way that his son and your own were dead. The Red Keep was safe. Rhaenyra would be a fool to attack with Vhagar flying above. Hearing your wails grow louder and more heart wrenching, it felt like the world just fucking snapped. Tears of sadness morphing into red hot anger. His face hardening.

They killed your son. They killed his son, his heir. They fucking made you cry. They made you and Helaena watch. Fuck the peace treaty. Fuck being kind and being cordial. Fuck doing this the proper way. Fuck all of them. He'd killed them. He'd kill them all for this. He'd kill anyone who dared to do this. He'd fucking murder all of their bloodline for this. This was war. This was fucking war.

"I'll kill them! I'll kill them all! Traitor's and murderer's!"

---

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@nightvers

@zaldritzosrose

[carmenized-onions]

Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

logline; it's time to retrace your steps. both of you.

[!!!] series history, this is the thirteenth; nothing distresses me more than when i see people read this out of order PLEASE BABY PLEASE

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. constant headache was actually in season 3? my brain. my power.

Or, maybe you'd like a playlist made especially for this chapter? Consider this my Fishes special.

portion; 17k new record again, please god tell me it gets shorter from here on i'm so. tired..

possible allergies; you will know exactly what trigger warnings you need upon reading seeing the first line. Also! I watched Season 3, and injected some lines from it into this, including the finale. I don't consider it full spoilers, because it's an entirely new context, but you might wanna catch up before you read this one!

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader so excessively gendered, in this chapter. my bad.

it's my birthday so if you typically lurk legally you have to tell me your thoughts on this one! Also it's once again the new longest, so like. cmon.

“What are you, Amish?”

You blink, craning your head back to look up at this annoying giant. You’re too tired for this shit. This is your one day off this week and you’re spending it fixing faulty lights with your dad, at some shit diner. Why did you agree to start coming on jobs? Why’s this guy gotta bother you on your lunch break? What’s wrong with you not wanting to smoke? Pardon you for not wanting to kill yourself with tobacco—

“Ah, no, I’m just uhm—” You gesture your hand to your head. “I get migraines, kinda easy, so I can’t, uh— Can’t indulge.”

He nods, he opts to stand next to you, while you’re sitting on the curb. At least the smoke will blow over your head, this way. You try to eat your lunch in peace. He does not let you have this moment of peace.

“Jack, right?” He nudges your foot with his. “That’s what your pop’s calls you, at least?”

“Yeah. Everyone calls me Jack.” You nod. Guess this is a conversation now, whether you want it or not. “You’re Mikey? The owner?”

“The Original Chicago Beef, in the flesh.” He nods, and he says it like he’s proud but he doesn’t look it. He leers at your partially consumed tin foil wrapped sandwich. “You bring your own lunch?”

You shrug. “Uh, yeah, grilled cheese with pork—” 

“Why would you—”  The door to the kitchen swings open, as Mikey grimaces. You both turn your heads to see another guy come out— Oh it’s that one, the one that cannot stop talking about his divorce— Mikey consults him. “Yo, Rich, do I look like some jamoke, to you? Just wonderin’.”

Rich, tilts his head, and his legs follow after him, “No, cousin, whatssup?” He takes the cigarette from Mikey, when it’s offered up.

“Well, our little fixer friend here—” Mikey nudges you, again. “—seems to think me a fuckin’ ass.”

Now when did you say anything like that? “Wha—”

“Stop making lunches, I’ve been watching you come in here with your little lunch pail the past few jobs, you eat free ‘ere, aright? You’re workin’.” Doesn’t matter what you said. Mikey sees you. Mikey’s always seen you. 

‘workin’’ is a bit generous. The most you do is hand your dad tools, hold a flashlight, and ask too many questions. You definitely could do more, but he knows you're too tired. He really just wants to spend time with you. You pretend to not know his ulterior motives.

“We’re gentlemen here, sweetheart.” Rich bends down, so you can see him past Mikey’s frame, at your level. He reaches a hand out for you to shake. “Richie. Jerimovich.”

You’re not gonna remember that. You take his hand and shake it. “Jack. It’s— I’m just Jack.”

You’ve only got one hand on your sandwich, to shake Richie’s hand. So, like a school bully, Michael takes your loosened grip as his opportunity to grab it from you. “Yoink—!”

You whine, “C’mon—” “Let me make you a real fuckin’ sandwich, sweetheart—” “I’d just like my sandwich, alright?” “Oh, it’ll be your sandwich, alright? You think I don’t make good sandwiches? Richie, she doesn’t think I make good sandwiches.”

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

You attempt to defend yourself from the peanut gallery of one guy. “Not what I said!”

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

Because it’s easy? Because it’s orderly? Because you’ve been in a full state of autopilot for the last threeish years and every day you’ve eaten the same breakfast and made the same lunch and then you go on your shift and then someone nearly dies and sobs in your arms and then you sit on the edge of the ambulance and you eat your grilled cheese and pork? Because if you break the routine it’s all gonna hit?

“I just like making my own lunch.”

“Well, stop. You’re breaking my heart.” Michael takes a bite of your sandwich. You click your teeth. Germs. You’re going to chastise him, but he doesn’t let you. “You like pork more than beef?”

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

You take too long to respond, meaning the lie won’t be believable, so you have to tell the truth. You have to tell The Original Chicago Beef that— “I… I like pork more.”

“How dare you—” Barks Richie, the guard dog, apparently. Mikey stops him, putting a hand up.

“No, no, I asked the lady a question. She’s wrong but I asked. Fair’s fair. We express our fury like gentlemen, Cousin.” He nods, to himself. Thinking. About what is beyond you. God, so much for a lunch break. You point to your sandwich in his hand.

“Can I have that back—” “No. I’m makin’ you a goddamn real sandwich.”

You all but growl, really. You start to stand up. God, this guy is pushy. “I just said, I prefer—”

Mikey’s already making his way back into the kitchen, with the last half of your lunch as hostage. “Oh, I’ll make you a fuckin’ pork sandwich, aright?”

Mikey’s guard dog stamps out the butt of the shared cigarette, walking backwards into the kitchen, following Mikey but watching you. “He’s gonna make you fuckin’ pork, aright?”

“Aright!” Is all you can yell back, at your wits with the two dumbest most stubborn middle-aged geezers you’ve ever met.

Richie holds the door open for you, so you don’t get locked out. Alright, maybe he is a gentleman. You hear Mikey’s voice ring, from inside the kitchen. “And if you’re not doin’ nothin’ for your dad, try to fix the fuckin’ coffee machine, would you?”

This fucking guy. 

You have waved at him a couple times, here and there, while helping out your dad. But now, you’ve officially had Michael Bear Berzatto in your life for a solid ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it.

Carmen Anthony Bear Berzatto has officially not had you in his life for ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like you’ve been gone for years. But you’re probably still just outside, talking to Richie and Syd. How is it still Friday? What time is it? Almost six? They’ve still got four fucking hours of service to go? No, that’s a good thing. This is a good thing. Doesn’t give him time to think. Everyone needs to stop staring at him. 

What a fucking monster. What did he even say? He can’t remember anymore. He remembered ten minutes ago, and now it’s gone. Completely walled off in his memory. What did he say? Why did you make that face? What did he say to Richie, again? Why did you step in front of him? What did you say, again? What did Richie say? What happened? He can’t remember. He knows he did something fucked up but Carmen cannot remember what happened twenty minutes ago. That’s bad, right?

“I need hands!” Carmen does not recognize the fact that he’s working until he hears his own voice.

Right. He’s on expo. He’s doing expo. That’s what was happening twenty minutes ago, he thinks. That’s what was happening, right? Doesn’t matter. This is what he’s doing now. Fak comes back in and takes the tray to run. He looks around for a moment, confused. 

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

Fak pauses. You don’t leave, that doesn’t match up in his brain. It doesn’t really match up in Carmen’s either, but this is what’s happening now. “What’d’you mean she’s gone?”

“I mean she’s fucking gone, Fak.” Carmen barks back, practically. Such a fucking monster. Could Fak tell him what he said? Doesn’t matter. Carmen nods to the plate. “Table twenty-five, go.”

“...Where’d she go—” “Fucking go, Fak!”

There is a loud, thrumming buzz. The type that goes off after a game. Or maybe after a wrong answer. Expo clock. Since when did it have a sound setting? The kitchen flinches, including Carmen, including a meek-made Neil, and look to the clock behind them. 

Time has stopped. 0ERR is all it displays now. The sign ‘EVERY SECOND COUNTS’ is real ironic, now. What the fuck happened? You would know. You’re still outside, Carmen could get you. Carmen could get you and say he’s sorry for whatever happened. The back of his head feels like it’s hemorrhaging. He needs to go to a doctor. Maybe a paramedic. Carmen could get you, ask you what he said, and also ask if he is actively dying, right now.

“Fak.” 

“Carm?”

“Table twenty-five.” Carmen points at the plate again, with his sharpie. Then points behind him, to the broken clock. “Then fix that.” 

“Why not call To—” “Do you want a fucking job here or not?” “I—I do—” “Then do your fucking job, Fak.”

Carmen doesn’t need you. The Bear doesn’t need you. They can function just fine. Everything’s fine, without you. Everything’s normal. Everything is the way that it should be. He is shaking so much— When did he eat? Has he eaten? What the fuck is wrong with him? What happened twenty minutes ago? Or was it twenty-five? No. That’s table twenty-five, he’s mixing up his numbers. What time is it? He doesn’t know. The whole kitchen doesn’t know what time it is, anymore. You are gone and so are the minutes. 

Fak leaves, with the plate. Shrunken. Following orders. Carmen just turns everyone into himself, doesn’t he? What a fucking monster. He knows how bad it is to be him, and yet he still does it. Look at the orders, Carmen. Run fucking expo. So fucking slow, Carmen. Look at the orders. 

The crumpled piece of paper you handed him twenty minutes— Thirty? Fuck. The fucking note you handed him some amount of time ago. It sits on his table, next to all the actual orders. He rereads it, instead of the five cavatellis he’s supposed to be yelling about, right now.

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

Advanced Payment, M. Berzatto. -$2,500

You forgot the booths. And taxes. And you should probably get paid a half day, for serving for the past half hour. You also forgot all the times he called you, texted you, came over, the bookshelf you brought him, the basil, the rosemary water, cleaning up his trash, every time you tried food for him, every time you told him everything was going to be okay, every time you made everyone breath in here like it was going to be okay— You forgot everything you do. Priceless. Easily, you are owed millions, from Carmen. 

He flips over the note. He reads Sweeps’ quick scribings from David, the fucking asshole out front, the fucking asshole in his head. 

Cherry + Lamb, good flavour. A lot of elements. Fresh, Unique. Overall good? Ig? Weird tone.

Said he’d like to speak to ‘Wine Girl’ (ick), mentioned Michelin connect? Number = Connect? (Ick)

You didn’t eat the cherry and lamb dish. That just connected, in his head. You didn’t get to eat it. Not only did you not get to eat it, the motherfucker outside did. Fuck. You were trying to be nice, but you’ve fucked him. Unique is practically a slur to his Exec. Carmen has fun when he makes things for you— He plays— That’s not what his Exec wants. He wants two elements, max. The fact that David actually liked the flavour is nothing short of a fucking miracle. Carmen could throw up. He’s definitely getting an ulcer, again. Where’s your Tums? Fuck, you took it with you, didn’t you? 

It’s embarrassing how many rules he forgets to implement, when he cooks for you. Boundless, unrestricted— When he cooks for you. Doesn't cut a single concept. It’s mortifying that someone other than you ate it, let alone David fucking Fields.

Carmen’s eyes feather, almost closing, but not completely. He scratches his fingers through his hair, destroying the cast of gel it’s been stuck in. His curls are desperately trying and failing to reform. It doesn’t matter how much he runs his hands through it, he cannot get it to smell like you again. He cannot find you in himself, he cannot find you in his kitchen. That’s what annoyed him, earlier, wasn’t it? That you were everywhere? That you were carved in, everywhere? He thought he didn’t want that?

His knees bounce where he stands, he bumps into his jacket under the table. Right. You left it. Are you cold? Turtleneck was thin. You looked so good. You always look good. Better, in his clothes, but you always look good. Did he remember to tell you that? Probably not.

“Where—” Fuck, he really is going to throw up. “Where we at on Booth Twelve’s dessert tray, Chef?”

You said it was okay for Carmen to give your number out. You gave your dish out. You shelled yourself out, for Carmen. It feels like a cave is being hollowed out, in his throat. He is so angry and he doesn’t know who it’s for. He doesn’t know where to put it. Is that what happened twenty-three— twenty-four minutes ago? Did he give it to you? No, he gave it to Richie, right? That’s how it started. Marcus hands off the dessert paddle to expo, silently. No one wants to talk to Carmen. That’s probably fair. What did he say? Probably bad. It’s already huge they haven’t walked out on him, yet. Has anyone walked out, yet?

Marcus is here, Syd is still out back— Well, actually, she might’ve left with you, she should if she can. Are you still out there? Tina wipes her eyes, working at the oven you fixed thirty— No, forty— Fuck— Earlier. It’s probably the onions from the broth making her tear up. No, it definitely is. Fak is out front, Sweeps is out front, Richie is still out back.

What did he say to Richie? Something about kids? There are no servers to hand off dessert to stupid fucking booth twelve. Carmen cannot keep looking at the family he’s ruined, in whatever way he managed to ruin it. He grabs the dessert tray. He’ll deliver it himself. He can do it all himself. He’s good by himself.

You’ve been out of Carmen’s life for 0ERR minutes. Yeah. That’s exactly how long it feels like.

“Try it try it try it.” You mumble, hurriedly, excitedly, to Marcus. The bread guy. He’s the nicest of the bunch, so far. You hand him the mug. He takes a sip of the coffee you’ve been perfecting for the last six jobs here, give or take. You’ve been in The Beef’s life for two months or so.

“Holy shit.” He nods, digesting it— Actually digesting it, which means— “It’s edible.”

“I know!” You all but shout, too excited to hide it. You’ve finally figured out how to make this thing produce what it’s supposed to— Instead of what is essentially arsenic with coffee flavouring.

Your excitement makes a line cook behind you grimace. The one you’ve still got yet to win over. “My ears, kid.”

“Sorry.” You reply lightly. Your back is turned to her, so she can’t see you cringe to Marcus, crying for help, practically. He’s sympathetic. He kept saying you just need to prove yourself, but it’s been taking forever, what else can you prove?

He decides to fast track you. “Yo, T.” She nods. She respects Marcus. But you’re just some girl that’s been in her walkway for the past seven weeks. “Try it.” He hands her your edible coffee.

She rolls her eyes, already nonplussed, but she takes the coffee. She is genuinely impressed, for a split second, before it turns into a coy sarcasm. “Wow— You’ve made not poison, great job, baby.”

“I’m gonna get better.” You respond instantly. That’s something you noticed Tina likes. Quickness. “I’m gonna make you a good coffee.” Determination, too.

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

“No.” She pushes the coffee to your chest; you grab it before it spills. “I like it bold.”

God, she’s so scary. “Heard.” She’s so cool. 

She watches you, for a second; wants to see if you crack. You don’t, thankfully. She folds. She finally kinda likes you— Or rather, is willing to admit it, in some small way. “You can come tonight.”

You can come to family, tonight. It takes everything in you not to cheer. You should mix them drinks. Or is that too try hard? No, it’s the perfect amount of try— Right? It was your old party trick in college, you should use it. Prove yourself.

“Cool.” Is all you can say, without seeming like a desperate nerd. 

You've been slowly cutting away at every relationship in your life, par for your family— And even that hangs by a thread— And you thought you were fine with that. You thought you were good like that, but once you got used to The Weirdos of The Beef, you cannot help but desperately want friends, again.

Every moment you get outside of your twelve to twenty-four hour EMS shifts, you spend it here. You’re tired, but it might actually be worth it; to talk to people instead of rotting in your apartment for half a week every week.

What month is it? March? When's Squid's birthday again? Did you miss it? It's the one time a year you get to talk without the underlying pressure that you have to hang out now.

Happy Birthday, what have you been up to? Oh, same thing as last year? You're irrevocably a different person now but you're also still the same? Nothing much? Same here. We should see each other soon. We won't. I won't say I love you because I don't want to be weird. Even though we used to say it every day. I will never know you like I used to, and so I won't even try. Same time next year?

Working in The Beef reminds you of her. Reminds you of the other stubborn cook in your life. Was in your life? Don’t think about that. Sometimes you hear her dad's voice out front, buying himself a half-hot half-sweet braised beef sandwich. Sometimes you think about going out there and saying hi. Sometimes you think about asking about Syd. Sometimes you think about asking how the catering gig is going. Sometimes you think about asking if she needs you anymore.

You never do.

“Aye.” Mikey claps your shoulders, bringing you back to earth. You didn't even realize he was behind you. He digs his hands in, a sudden and always painful massage. His preferred way of saying stop fucking tweaking. He leans over your shoulder, looking at the coffee cup that doesn't look as pitiful as it usually does. “Good job, kid.”

“Thank you—” “Now figure out how to make it worth drinking.”

You scoff, rolling your shoulders to push him off you. “I'm fuckin’ trying!” 

His hands stay in place, but his massage does become gentle, and actually decent. Per usual. You’re not sure how he always manages to get the knots. “T say you can come to family?” 

You had to get all yeses that you are now in fact family to join for family. You look over your shoulder to face him. “Mhm.” 

“Good.” He looks around. “Your dad here?” 

You nod. “In the basement, something about your furnace? It's fucking beyond my skill set, so I'm up here until he needs me.” As much as your dad started doing this to hang out with you, heads got too hot with you fucking up which tools to hand him one too many times; repeatedly yelling same team in a more and more distressed tone did not seem to be helping either. Whatever. Gave you more time with the coffee machine. You’re going to make this thing your bitch, one day. One day this thing is going to sing for you.

“Oh, good.” And with that, he's already pulling you to his station. “You can help me with family brisket, then.” 

“Nooooo—” “If you want family you gotta be family, Jack.” 

You whine, but you don't mind this at all. Mikey sees you. Mikey knows you; probably better than he should. He knows you always need something to do.

“Pork?” “Pork.” “Fine.” It's your recipe, so you must oblige.

He's good. Mikey is good. Mikey pays attention. Mikey's made the cycle break in a way that doesn't hurt.

Carmen needs to apologize to Richie, for never taking his stress over running front of house seriously.

Carmen hates being out front already and he’s only just stepped out. Why is everyone looking at him out here, too? He should also apologize for whatever he said forty minutes ago. Thirty-five? Doesn’t matter. What’s important is handing this dessert tray to the fucking jagoff. The man who Carmen dreamed of becoming, the man who he’s now scared he’s become. David Fields. Former Executive Chef. Too many accolades to list. 

“Dessert is served, hope you enjoy, Chef.” Carmen manages to bite his tongue for this guy, so why can’t he do it for the people he actually gives a fuck about? He’s a fucking coward. He swallows, setting the dessert paddle down in front of the stupid five fucking guests. Far too big a party, for a fucking walk in. And all they got for dessert was the fucking tasting paddle? Why are they skimping now? Assholes. All of them. Carmen knows all of these people. Well. Knows their faces. Remembers working with them, but never really talked to any of them. Why would he? He was focused. He was good.

“Thank you, Chef.” Says David. It feels like lightning, to hear those words. But not in a good way. It should feel like an accomplishment, to hear this guy say anything remotely positive, to Carmen, but it doesn’t. It feels the opposite, honestly. Feels like something’s wrong. Getting this guy’s approval is wrong.

This is the part where Carmen is supposed to leave. This is the part where the server goes back to the kitchen and continues their job. But he can’t. He’s stuck in place. He’s back in front of the fire, and he’s not putting it out. Carmen swallows hard and his spit feels like glass all the way down his throat. His Exec stares at him, nearly coy— Like he knows. Like he can see the invisible snake coiling around Carmen. Like he knows that Carmen desperately has something to say. 

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

Fuck it. Fuck everything, fuck it. Not like the night can get worse. “Can we step out, for a second, Chef?”

“Lookit this.” Mikey pivots his phone to you, for you to see a photo he's just been sent.

It's of… “What the fuck is that?” You've got no clue. Some weird spiralling array of colours. 

“I've no fucking clue. Food? Apparently?”

It's April, and Mikey has let you in. You will not realize how big a deal this is until it's too late. But right now, you're just happy to be hanging out with him before open. Without your dad, too.

Their most frequent regular’s favourite chair broke, one of the legs just fully gave out underneath him. It's an easy fix. Mikey could probably do it himself. Fak or whatever the fuck his name is could absolutely do it himself. Mikey called you, instead. Called you. Not your dad. You think this'll be your first and last solo job. Naive.

“Carmy?” You assume, he's the only person that's on that rich people shit. Michelin Star Chef, baby boy with big dreams.

“Yessir. He’s still killin’ it.” Is all Mikey says, tucking his phone away. You frown at him, screwing the chair leg in, sitting on the floor. He groans. “Don't gimme those eyes, Jack.”

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.” 

You tilt your head, the look you give him translates to ‘Are you forreal?’

He just sighs, exasperated. “You don't get brothers, Jack.”

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

“Yeah but it's—” He gestures to the general air, attempting to explain nothing. “It's different. We communicate different.”

“Sure.” You can admit that. “I'm sure the dynamic is very different brother to brother, brother to sister. But like—” You jiggle the chair leg, alright maybe it's not that easy of a fix. “It sucks bein’ the baby, I know that much.”

“You're the baby?”

“Yeah, why?” You lift your head from the chair back to him. “I got middle child energy? I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” 

“No, no— Oldest.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Thought you were one of me, Jack. My own blood.”

You scoff. But it’s not something you haven’t heard before. You’ve got the blood of people who’ve had to take care of people. “Well, being the only sister kinda made me the oldest sister.”

You pad your hand around the floor, searching, before looking up to Michael, again. “You see the fuckin—?”

He tosses you the chair leg cap, before you can finish asking for it. “You’d like Nat. Similar ideologies.”

“I would love to know how your younger sister fuckin’ survived you, that’s for sure.”

He laughs, at that. “She’s a trooper. Surrounded by some of the worst men Chicago has to offer.” He looks at the coffee that you painstakingly crafted for him, this morning. “This is actually kinda fuckin’ good, Jack.”

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

He rolls his head back, neck straining. “For what you had, it’s fuckin’ perfection, alright? Happy?”

“Fuckin’ delighted.” You throw the chair up onto its legs, and it stands. “You?”

He gets up from his seat to try out the chair. He takes the coffee with him. There’s a split second where you’re scared that actually this was too hard a job for you and Mikey is going to fall and the hot coffee is going to careen everywhere and fucking scald him and you told him he needed to get a first-aid kit in here but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet—

Mikey sits, and the chair works. He takes another sip of your chai coffee blend, like a vote of his confidence. He never had any doubt you could get the coffee machine to work, never had any doubt you could make a good coffee, never had any doubt you could get the chair to stand strong. Mikey has always always believed in your capabilities, even when you haven’t, and has always been happy to prove yourself to yourself. Mikey is really good at being an older brother, you think. And forget that he never texted back the real baby of his real family.

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

Two executive chefs stand in front of a restaurant, there’s probably a joke in here somewhere. Carmen doesn’t care to find it. He watches your car drive out onto the road, out of the corner of his eye. That’s it, then. You’re gone. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out from the chest pocket of his chef’s uniform. 

“You should quit.” Says David, so high and fucking mighty. As if he doesn’t house a bottle of wine daily.

“I’m aware.” Carmen lights it anyways. You don’t smoke. Did his mouth taste bad, every time he’d kiss you? Probably. You probably just bore it for his sake. Maybe that’s why you so rarely went for his lips. He takes a puff, it doesn’t calm him down. 

“Your hair is fucked.” 

“And the food?”

“Busy. You can lose the basil and eggplant. You’ll re-learn.” David tilts his head, thinking, smarmy. “Someone got in your head.”

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

“Awe.” David smiles, something he so rarely did in the kitchen, but perfected in public. His tone is so perfectly pouty, like it’s disappointing he’s not the only one living rent free in Carmen’s brain anymore.

Carmen steadies his eyes forward, to the street. He cannot look his own personal nightmare in the eyes, but he can say what he’s always wanted to say. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

“How am I an asshole?” “Can you stay ‘til after close?” “You’re welcome.”

Carmen turns his head to face him now, eyes wide like plates. “I— I’m welcome? For—For-for what?”

“You were an okay chef, when you started with me.” David doesn’t fear eye contact. David’s probably never had a bad day in his fucking life. “And you left an excellent chef, so you’re welcome.”

Carmen’s never even heard the fucking word excellent come out of this man’s mouth. Let alone to describe him. It doesn’t feel good, for some reason. It still doesn’t feel good to receive praise from him, despite the fact that he’s everything. 

“You…” Carmen needs a second, to catch his breath. He probably should quit smoking. “You gave me ulcers, and panic attacks, and— and nightmares— You— You know that? You understand that?”

“Yeah.” David’s entirely unfazed. All he’s heard is a list of benefits, in his head. “I gave you confidence and leadership and ability— It fucking worked.”

Is this what it working is supposed to feel like? Is this what it feels like to function? Is this what it means, to make it? If it is, then what the fuck does not making it feel like?

“I’m— I’m, I’m— I’m actually fuckin’ stunned, right now, I—” Carmen rubs his hands over his eyes. “My life stopped.”

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

“You wanted to be excellent. You got rid of all the bullshit, you concentrated, you focused— And you got excellent. And it worked. You’re here.”

You’re not bullshit. You’re not bullshit and he shouldn’t have done whatever he did to make you leave. Carmen is anything but excellent, without the people behind him, and he’s realizing that now. He’s an idiot, because you told him this, the second day of knowing him you told him this. He has a wonderful team— A family— A family he now considers you a part of. And he tanked all of it, everyone— Why? Because he had a bad fucking day? Because a dish got sent back? Because he fucked up tremendously? Boo-fucking-hoo, Carmen. It takes an idiot like David, who thinks he’s a genius, for Carmen to realize they look exactly the fucking same— And that is the actual thing that’s mortifying, tonight.

The real mortifying thing, isn’t that you were so fucking sweet and considerate of his stupid fucking brain and his stupid insane aspirations— It isn’t your dish. The mortifying thing is he prioritized the man in front of him, in any regard. It’s mortifying that Carmen made you feel like you had to prioritize the man in front of him.

“I just— I just made the—The only fuckin’ good thing in my life leave because— Because you got in my fucking head.”

David just raises his brows, like Carmen’s fucking stupid. Like there’s not a problem here. Because to him, there isn’t. And once again, the stupid fucking Exec repeats. “You’re welcome?”

“I’m—” The door opens, and for a moment, despite the fact that he watched your car disappear minutes ago, Carmen still thinks there’s a chance it’s gonna be you; begs a higher power that it’s going to be you. It’s not. It’s Richie. 

“Hey asshole—” Richie stops, when he sees David. “Ah. You’re needed, Chef Carmen.”

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.” 

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

Richie’s had a habit of calling you cousin, lately. You pull your head out of the back of the Ball-Breaker arcade machine. Its controls are allegedly on the fritz, but you’re pretty sure Chi-Chi just sucks at this game. “Whaddya need? Do I have to run front a-fucking-gain?”

That was a fun out of nowhere three hour shift with zero restaurant experience— Par for bar. It will not be the last.

“Nono— Just a cuppa coffee? More like six.” 

You kiss your teeth, tutting him. “You know how the fuckin’ machine works—”

“Want your coffee?” He corrects, like stroking your ego will make you fold. It does. You stand up, stretching your legs.  

“Fine. Just get me a list of everyone’s—” He slaps a folded note against your forehead. “Orders.” 

“Fucker.” You take it off your head to read. “Whatta ‘bout Mikey’s?” He’s missing from the list.

Richie shrugs. “Surprise him, he’s out back— In one of his moods.”

You don’t know how uncommon it is for Mikey to be so out of it. You’re meeting Mikey during his slow but certain downward spiral, but you don’t know that. No. How could you? No, so you think it’s normal for Mikey to occasionally leave rooms and turn inward. 

“Aye aye, Rich.”

He kisses your temple as you pass him, making an all too aggressive ‘muah’ noise, because that’s what fake Italians do, as a form of thanks, and lets you go work your magic on the coffee machine. 

You’re pretty integrated into The Beef, at this point. How long has it been? You don’t really need this list of orders, but it’s good to visually ingrain in your brain. You’re thankful to Mikey for investing in a bunch of Torani’s syrups for your coffee dreams. You’re here enough for it to be worth it, anyways. 

You’re probably gonna start being here a lot more, soon. Well, maybe.

You haven’t told anyone yet, about what your dad told you this morning. That he’s gotta retire, soon. Like soon, soon. Now, you’re faced with a decision— Keep going with this EMS thing until your body fails and you need to be wheeled out by your own coworkers, or take on ownership of a small family business directly after the fucking pandemic. Really good options, here.

You’re leaning towards the latter, at the moment. You’re leaning towards being called here, for half your jobs. It’d be hard to make ends meet on just whatever crack change Mikey is able to pay you— But you used to bartend in college— You could work dailies whenever you’re short. Probably. It probably won’t be that hard. Could it be harder than what you’re doing now? Could it be harder than watching someone flat line? Probably not.

Ebra, watered down black coffee. T, two sugars, one milk, cinnamon and chocolate syrup. Marcus, spiced coffee. Sweeps, water in a deli cup— A delicacy. Richie, two sugars, cinnamon syrup, ideally boiling hot. 

But to be fair, people need someone like you. People need paramedics. Is it selfish for you to decide you can’t handle it anymore? Should you let your body break before you let yourself go on one? Fuck. Fuck. Where’s Mikey? You’re feeling the knots build up again. 

Out back. Richie said he’s out back. You pick up your coffee, and Mikey’s— cinnamon and caramel, this time— And head out back. 

And you see a sight that you’ve actually seen plenty of times.

You’ve just never seen it in the back alley of The Beef. You’ve just never seen it happen to a friend. You’ve just never seen it happen to Mikey. You don’t drop your coffee cups in some sort of dramatic shock, or anything like that. Because that would take time. It’d take too much time to be shocked. You just turn around, immediately, partially crashing into the door as you run back in, breaking the mugs and spilling scalding hot coffee over your hands and chest— You don’t feel it, you don’t give a fuck. 

“Cousin!” 

You’re a mom friend. That’s what Syd used to say. You carry Tums, painkillers, cough drops, pepto— All in your purse or pockets. You keep a lighter on hand. You keep safety pins— All ranging in size, just in case of a clothing mishap. You keep kid’s band-aids in your wallet. You’re a mom friend. Everyone used to find you also carrying a naloxone kit a bit dramatic, like you were overdoing it. You always hoped they were right; that it would never be used. Regardless, you'd always replace it when it expired.

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

“Right.” Carmen’s honestly kind of surprised, to be needed. But it’s probably just cover, to talk. People don’t typically need people like him, especially not Richie. He nods to David. “Chef.”

“Chef.” David nods back. He looks at Richie. “Where’d your translator go?”

The fuck? Richie does not look phased, at all. He also looks like he’s been crying— So it might just be that nothing phases him, right now— But at the very least, Carmen would expect some surprise. So this disrespect must not be new. Why didn’t he tell him?

Maybe he did, actually. Maybe that’s what happened forty minutes ago? How’d that lead to you leaving? 

“My what?” Richie knows exactly what David’s getting at, but he asks anyways, to embarrass the fucker.

But David doesn’t feel embarrassment, it’s just not in him. “Your somme.”

“She had to leave early.”

“Ah,” He nods, “You’ve got her number, by chance?”

A deep and sharp exhale, through Richie’s nose, as he desperately tries to be a good host. Tries to be star material. But he runs his tongue across his top teeth and he just can’t bring himself to bite it. Richie hates both of the men in front of him right now. “I do, I do, actually— I’ve had her number for three years, memorized, y’know why?”

David shrugs, delighted to upset someone. “She your wife or something?”

A sharp, terrifying chuckle, honestly— One that hides any sign of a smile. Rich steps forward. “Oh, I should be so lucky. I would be so fucking lucky, if a woman like that—” And he pivots his head, to speak very deliberately, to Carmen. “Decided for some Godforsaken fuckin’ reason, that I was worth an ounce of her precious time— Let alone her hand.”

“If only, truly, David.” Still looking at Carmen, squarely in his face. “If fuckin’ only. If I had someone like that— I’d be on hand and fucking knee, for her.”

“Chef.” Carmen’s talking to David but looking at Richie, but that might also be because he can’t look anywhere else. 

“Chef.” David shrugs, whatever fight here is beyond him. He doesn’t fucking care. Carmen knows the Michelin thing was bullshit—Certainly David can put in a good word, but inspectors are anonymous, that’s the whole point. But his stupid fucking Exec wanted to see if Carmen would stoop so low as to take the bait. It also wouldn’t hurt to get your number, you’re perfect. Carmen doesn’t think he’d have taken the bait, but the fact that he’s not sure speaks volumes.

David steps back into The Bear, and an Executive Chef and his dead brother’s best friend stand outside their restaurant. There’s a joke in here somewhere, and it’s probably Carmen.

“I’d fucking kill him.” You shake your head, when Mikey tries to brush off the end of his story like it’s no big deal. “I can’t believe no one fuckin’ said anything.”

“They might’ve.” He sniffs, arms crossed— Guarding himself. He sits opposite of you, both sitting on the floor of his office, backs against either wall. “But I couldn’t fuckin’ hear anything but him— And then the fucking car, obviously.”

You can tell he’s trying to move on. He wants you to ask if his mom was okay. You don’t honestly care, and you don’t care if that makes you a bad person, either. 

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

It’s close to midnight, a humid but cool August midnight. A week or so, since Mikey’s overdose. You’re finally christening your jumpsuit with a patch from The Beef, on the left shoulder. You do keep stabbing yourself with the sewing needle— If you were sleeping beauty you’d be fucking dead. 

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” You both laugh, but you’re still stuck with him, at that dining table, in your head. You’re still hearing Uncle Lee screaming, despite never actually hearing it. “They should’ve said something.”

“It’s different when you’re there.” He shrugs, again. “Hard to speak in those rooms.” 

Your lips stay tight, for a moment. There’s a long silence of just staring at each other, because you want him to know that you’re completely serious when you say— “I would’ve said something.”

“Sug tried to say somethin—” “She told you to stop, that’s bullshit.” “She was mediating—”

“And why the fuck were you the one that needed to calm down, exactly?” You frown, deeply. You don’t have anything against Sug, but this story just rubs you the wrong way. The way no one was on his side verbally. “Just cause you’re the guy, means you can’t stick up for yourself? I hate that shit.”

He thinks on that, for a moment; because no one has ever said the thing out loud, never acknowledged it. He nods, tucking one knee up to rest an arm on it. “It sucks, being the guy.”

“It fucking sucks to be the guy!” You shout back, emphatic, practically jumping to agree— You jab yourself again. “Fuck, ow— Yes, it sucks.”

“And—” You’ve really opened a faucet for him. “And no one wants you to acknowledge that you’re the guy— Like you can take the compliment, but you can never say ‘I know, I’m doing it on purpose.’”

You poke at the tip of your nose with one hand and then to Mikey with the other, bang on. “No one wants the guy to know they’re the guy!”

“We always know!” “We always fucking know!” “We’re the guy on purpose!”

It’s rare for people like you two to talk and actually get along. The typical stereotype is that two sweethearts will always end up butting heads, too intimidated— But instead, you’re both just able to honestly commiserate over being who you are. The Guy. The Dependable One. The Head.

“You shouldn’t have to always be good and—and like, understanding of every single fucking person— Especially when they’re a dick!” You yell, exasperated. “You are allowed to fucking stick up for yourself!”

He tightens his lips in a line, because he agrees, but he has been so trained to lay down and take it. To take the teeth; it’s one of the many many jobs of being the guy. You know it just as well. He sighs, “I know.”

“You’re worth standing up for, Mikey.” You emphasize. They should’ve said something. It shouldn’t have been on you. You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself. They should’ve protected you, like you did for them. Like you always do for them. 

His eyes flicker, a bit. He clears his throat and punches his chest, shaking his head out of it, because if he doesn’t, he might actually fucking cry, and that’s not what the guy does. “Okay.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He kicks your foot with his. “Now tell me some fucked up thing that happened to you, Jack.”

You laugh, and it quickly turns into a groan as you try to come up with something. “I uh… Oh! I fuckin’ hate the nickname ‘Jack’, that’s something.”

“Oh?” He leans forward, teasingly intrigued— You’ve thrown him a bone, because you’re the guy, too. He’s able to focus on this in lieu of himself.

You nod and continue. “My dad gave it to me, when I was really really little, like five or six— And it was ‘cause I like— For a kid, I was really into uhm, like— Like everything?”

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

You chuckle. “I liked helping him go on jobs, and barely being able to hold flashlights. And I liked learning what all the wires and the pipes do— I liked doing chores and like— Making shit for people, or doing shit for people, if it made ‘em happy.” You’re a little too zoned in, on your sewing. The motion helps keep you grounded. “And so he would go like Awe, my helpful little Jack of all Trades, you can do it all.”

You pull the string up and out of the fabric, taught, dramatically high. “Which like, of course he was trying to be like, a good dad and hype me up— But my kid brain just garbled it and translated ‘you can do it all’ to ‘you have to do it all.’”

“Damn.” He cringes but laughs, sympathizing. “You got ‘guy’d’ at fuckin’ five?”

“Well, when did you get ‘guy’d?!” You snap back, he takes a moment to think about it, sighing.

He shrugs. “Probably five.” “Exactly!”

You both laugh, a bit too aggressively, honestly; compensating for the sting. Mikey sniffs, adding. “So that’s why you hate it? ‘Cause of the weight?”

“‘Cause of the weight.” You nod. “Like a constant reminder, that I need to be like— constantly at service.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyes looking down. Thinking about far too much, and though you have become his closest confidant, there are still parts of him that he won’t show. “Drinking helped?”

“Drinking helped.” You close the last stitch on the patch. “Which is funny, because that whole thing started from wanting to be helpful.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“There was uhm—” You can’t help but laugh a little, at the ridiculousness of it. “There was this girl, and she was my best friend, and she fucking loved— Or I guess still loves— Cooking. And even as a dinky little highschooler, she’d have me try shit, and it’d be like— So luxe.”

“Right.” Mikey smiles, thinking of all the dishes that have been foisted on him by the precocious cook in his life.

“And I wanted to be like… equally impressive. So I started doing research on wine pairings and shit, so I could have something to talk to her about, have somethin’ to say other than wow great job— Because I could tell she always wanted more.”

“And so you became an alcoholic?” “I haven’t gotten there yet!” “Well stop burying the lead!” “Oh don’t you point a finger when it comes to burying a fucking lead.” “Oh, fuck you.”

“Anyways!” You clap a hand on your knee, casting aside the completed sew job. “I’d give her pairings based on research— still teens, so we couldn’t drink yet, but she appreciated the thought. And then I went to college and she went to CIA and we were talking and then we graduated and suddenly we weren’t…” You knock your fist against your hand a couple times. “We weren’t talking, anymore.” 

“And so you became an alcoholic?” “Kinda.” “Oh. I was being sarcastic.” “Yeah, dontchu feel guilty as fuck now?” “What happened?”

“It was easy.” You shrug. “I started working at pubs in college, I was getting free drinks all the time, I was trying more wines for her— I didn’t really see it as a problem, because like, I didn’t do it to function, I never reached for anything like ‘oh I fucking need this.’”

“That’s how it starts.”

“That’s how it fuckin’ starts.” You nod. “Then suddenly we weren’t talking and I became an E-M-T, and then suddenly I was watching people y’know, live through the worst moment of their lives or die, and I— Suddenly I did need that drink.” You should’ve just called her. She would’ve done a lot more for you than a bottle could. But you were stupid and tired, and still are.

“Who coulda thunk it?” “I know! Ridiculous.”

“How long you been stable, again?” 

“Six months, four days… But who’s counting?” You laugh, and so does he.

You’re both very literally counting. And the buzzer of a timer going off on your phone reminds you of that. You both stare at it, in a daze, as it officially hits Twelve in the morning. Once you silence it, you look to Mikey. 

“Michael The Bear Berzatto, you have officially been sober for twenty-four hours.”

He smiles, no teeth, but he smiles. “Gimme.”

“Be patient!” “I am being the most patient a person can be.” “Yeah that’s fair.”

You opt to go for the cupcake first, a big One candle sticking out of it. “This is stupid.” Says Mikey. “Have some fucking whimsy in the face of adversity.” Says you, pulling out your disposable camera. 

“Do we need photos?” “What the fuck else are we gonna put in my folder?” “I dunno, write me sonnets.” 

“Do you want sonnets?” You ask, and the worst part is Michael can tell you’re being sincere. You would write him sonnets, if he only asked. You would do anything, if he only asked. You quit being an EMT, immediately after seeing the state he was in, last week. You are here for Michael, and he only has to ask.

He shakes his head and blows out the candle when you lift the cupcake to his face, and he makes a wish to whatever higher power exists, that he won’t drag you down with him. 

You thread a 24 Hours in Recovery chip onto the embroidery thread you were using and tie it off. When you present it to him, he bends his head down. “Chip me.”

“That’s not what chip me means.” “It means something?” “I’m pretty sure chipping someone means shooting someone—” “Well Google it, Chip.” “Well, fuck, ok— Chip?”

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

You throw the necklace over his neck, like you’re knighting him. You grow a great degree softer. Even when he’s deliberately not supposed to be The Guy, when he’s supposed to be working on himself, he’s still your guy. Still looking out for you just as much as you look out for him. He will never realize that you consider the exchange equal.

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

“This sobriety thing is going to be easy.” “ —Okay, so— The thing is, everyone kinda says that after twenty-four hours and then a week or two in, it actually hits—” “It’s gonna be so easy.” “I love that you think that and I want you to keep that hope up, I also think maybe let’s just be easy on ourselves if it gets hard—” “It’s not gonna get hard.” “That’s what she said—” “Fucking gross!”

He throws his arm over your shoulder, a loving noogie, but a noogie nonetheless. You try to hit him from below, it’s a failed flailing. You both start laughing and he stops, opting to just hold you there. You hold his forearm with your hands, and sigh.

“...Even when it’s not easy, we’re on the same team, okay? Don’t forget that. That we’re on the same team and I love you.”

He squeezes you a little, bicep curling. In fifteen seconds you will complain that he’s choking you, but right now, he says, “I’m not gonna forget you love me, Chip.” and neither of you know this is a lie, yet.

“I’m sorry.” Carmen sniffs, is he actually going to cry? Holy shit, he might cry. “I don’t know what I said—”

“You don’t know what you said?” Richie scoffs, he can’t help but laugh. “You don’t know what you fuckin’ said? Ah— It’s— It’s all good, man. You don’t know what you said, so it’s all good—”

“I’m apologizing—” “Nonono— No— It’s all good, I don’t need a fuckin’ apology. I know how you feel now, so it’s all fuckin’ good.”

“I love you—” “You love me? You love me? Oh, that would’ve been nice to hear half a fucking hour ago.”

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

“No— No, you know what?” Richie takes a choked breath, pressing his index finger over his nose and mouth, then points it to Carmen. “If that’s what your fuckin’ love is— I don’t fuckin’ want it. And I don’t want that shit for Chip, either— So leave her the fuck out of your fuckin’ love or whatever the fuck you think that is, too.”

That one hurts, because it’s true. Carmen can’t say anything to that; the silence just eggs Richie on more. “Oh, was that a low blow, to you? Cause I’d say saying it was her fault was a pretty low fucking blow— Kinda below the belt shit, if you ask me—”

“What?”

A silence louder than anything either of them have ever heard hangs in the air.

“Fuck you mean what?”

“I said what?” Carmen’s spit still feels like glass, he is destroying his throat. “What—What did I say?”

Stunned, Richie is stunned. And he can’t tell if Carm’s lack of cognizance in the situation makes him more or less angry. He’s pretty sure it’s more. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Cousin, what the fuck did I say to her?”

“You said she failed him.”

Yeah, Carmen’s gonna cry. Carmen is absolutely going to cry. Not weeping, but a tear. Just the one. Just the one, and the dry heaving. The dry heaving and just short of falling over, managing at the last minute to fall onto his rear. He slides his back against the full length window of The Bear. All the guests will get to witness his full blown meltdown. Who fucking cares. He cards through his semi-matted hair, again— It’s not fucking working. It’s not working and he might as well tear his hair out because there’s no reason for it anymore if you're not in it.

“I am a monster.” Not said like a question, not said with emphasis, not choked. Completely monotone. Zero pulse. Said as a fact as simple as the sky is blue. And it is. Because now that he remembers that one thread, he can follow it back. “I am bullshit.”

It’s hard to kick someone, when they’re down. It’s hard to say all the things you want to say to a person, when they’re just saying it about themselves. Richie just stares, debating his options. He could so easily choose to destroy what’s left of Carmen. Frankly, Carm’s sitting at the perfect angle to kick his fucking teeth in. Richie came out here with full intent of throwing Carmen through the window. Came out here with the full intent of proving he’s a fucking problem.

“...I don’t know how to fix it.” But Carmen looks up at him, with a never before seen level of humility. “How do I fix it?”

His best friend loved this guy, and unfortunately you also seem to be on the verge of loving this guy. And even more regrettably, Richie loves this guy. He shrugs, and to any onlookers, his response would seem to be lacking any level of empathy. 

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

Like tidal waves, Richie and Mikey crash against either side of the walk-in freezer door. Mikey desperately trying to escape the freezer; you and Richie desperately trying to keep him in. 

Your phone rings, in the middle of this. “Ah, shit, she’s calling back, hold on—” You slide your back off the door slowly, giving Richie time to place extra weight where your body was to keep it closed as Mikey relentlessly slams. He’s pivoted to screaming like— Well, a bear, now. 

You move just a few feet away— Enough to fog up the yelling, but not enough that you couldn’t run back to Richie if his arms start to numb. 

“Yo, T.” You answer, thankful that somebody has finally returned your fucking calls. To be fair, it’s painfully early— But how is no one awake an hour before they have to clock in? C’mon.

“We’re doing this because we love you, fuckin’ numb nuts!” 

“Don’t be fuckin’ mean when he’s in a vulnerable state!” You kiss your teeth, yelling to Richie behind you, just as Tina tries to say hi. 

“I am not a fucking patient, Chip!” Another slam, another violent jiggling of the door handle. You’re pretty sure that shit is going to break off one day, if he keeps doing that. You don’t know how right you are now, but you will in a year or so. “Open the fucking door!”

You only remember you’re on the phone with Tina when she pipes up, vaguely hearing the yelling on her end. “...Two week milestone going well?”

“Just fucking peachy, T.” You grimace, rubbing the space between your brows. “You think it’s healthy to lock him in the freezer? I feel like we are fucking this up.”

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

“Guess who was—” You turn your head to Richie, when you speak into the phone. “So fucking stupid— And left his fucking xanax just out in the open with his unfinished breakfast?”

“I apologized—” “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Cousin! Now open the fucking door!”

“Yeah, I think freezer is the right call.” Says Tina; you’re both not sure if that’s true, but at the very least when he’s in there he can’t hurt himself or either of you. But fuck, he must be cold. Maybe that’s good for his nervous system? Every yell just mounts with guilt— But you’re his sponsor now. You are not his friend right now, you’re his mentor and you’re meant to do this. This is definitely— slam— the right thing—scream—to do.

“Yeah, probably.” You nod, to no one. “Well, basically, if you can let everyone know to just— Not fucking come in, today, or at the very least not come in for like— At least three hours. Maybe six. It’s not like you can work anyways, the freezer’s off limits until further notice.”

“You sure you don’t need us to come in?”

“Ah, T, that’s a nice thought but—” You wince, as you hear a crash from inside the walk-in. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse, for more people to witness this.”

Richie can tell what the crash is, because he himself has dropped shit an innumerable number of times in that walk-in before. “—Did you just knock over the fuckin’ stock—” “Fuck yourself! Fuck yourself! This is my fucking restaurant! Let me the fuck out, Richard!”

“Let’s just say call me back in three hours.” Is what you settle on. You don’t want to see this, and you don’t want anyone else to have to see this. And when Mikey eventually comes out of his rage state, he will be glad that the only two people that actually saw him like this, are his two closest friends. “Can you let everyone else know?”

“Yeah baby, I’ll let ‘em know.” First time Tina’s called you baby with sincerity instead of sarcasm, you wish you could savour it, but you’re so distracted with everything else that you really don’t even notice it. “Keep yourself safe too, alright?”

“Okay, Mama.” You reply with what is really only half sarcasm, and let her go. You sidle up to Richie, back on holding the door closed duty. Backs against the walk-in door, holding Mikey in, despite punch after punch after punch. He’ll wear himself out, eventually, but you’re terrified about how long that’s going to take. So is Richie.

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

You don’t need to check to know. “In six hours, he’ll be at two weeks.” You wince as one of Mikey’s hits against the door very directly targets your back, putting it in knots. “But it’s not like he’s suddenly going to go, oh well it’s been two weeks so I’m normal now, though.”

Richie just nods, pensive. “M’sorry.” 

You shake your head. “I was just bein’ a bitch, we’re all getting used to it, I gettit, just try to be safer.”

He nods again, looking down at you as the beating seems to slow down. Richie tries to imagine a world where you two aren’t here right now; for some reason, he finds that universe more miserable. “We’re so fucked.” Because here it’s you two. You’re so fucked but it’s you two. It will take more than a year for you to figure out that’s how Richie feels.

“I know.” You punch back against the door, alerting Mikey— Not that he wasn’t already alert, and speak to both of them. “Same team, though!”

One last resounding body slam into the door, with everything Mikey has— It moves, just a bit, but not at all enough to open it. And then, a long silence. To the point where you and Richie look at each other, worried if Michael has somehow just died in there. But then a quiet voice speaks, like a white flag being raised. 

“Same team.”

You look to Richie for permission, he’s just as clueless as you are here, as to what the right call is. With the most trepidation one could have, you put your hand on the handle and just start to pull on it, not even close to opening it. But Mikey notices the way the hinge moves by a hair, on the other side. 

“Don’t open it.” You know he’s up to the door, just opposite of you. Not capable of looking at you; not capable of looking at him. “Six hours. It’s just six hours.”

But you can hear each other. And maybe that’s all you really ever needed. To be able to hear each other, even when he’s not here. 

“Six hours. Same team.”

“I don’t know how.” Carmen’s nose twitches. “I don’t know how to stop being fucking—Garbage— I’ve tried—” “Have you?”

It’s a bit knife twisting, from Richie, but necessary. “Have you done the work? Cause it’s— I don’t think you have, Carm.”

“...What the fuck kinda work can I do, to fix me—?” Richie snaps his fingers, pointing at Carmen, interrupting him. “That— That is the exact fuckin’ problem with you, Cousin.”

Carmen almost rolls his eyes, putting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “What, that I’m self-aware?”

“That you just fuckin’ give up.” “I don’t just give up—” “You do! You give up and you go wah, I’m a Chef with issues and I’m gonna make it everyone else’s fucking problem—” “I am asking for help—” “Are you? Because the last person that helped you just ran out crying.”

Richie exhales, eyes closed. There’s a long forced silence, as a few tables full of patrons exit The Bear, awkwardly shuffling past what is clearly a crisis between the people that have been serving them tonight.

“That was below the belt, I’ll admit.” Says Rich, once they’re out of earshot. 

Carmen just shakes his head, though he cannot look at Richie, though he can’t refute anything. 

Richie steps next to where Carmen sits, and like an olive branch, Carmen lifts up his arm to offer his cigarette. Richie accepts, thank God— Thank you, for softening him up, because if you hadn’t, again, Carmen would be going headfirst through the fucking window right now.

“Don’t yell ‘t me—” That honestly hurts more than getting thrown through a window. “But I don’t think you got Andrea, at all.”

Andrea? Oh. “Chef Terry?” The Ever’s owner, Richie means. 

“Andrea.” Richie nods, taking a puff. “Every second counts— I don’t think you got it.”

Carmen just shrugs, shaking his head, sure, he worked there for years and Richie worked there for days, but sure, he’s the one that didn’t get it. “Yeah? What’d I miss?”

“It’s not meant to make you fuckin—” He gestures to the general form of Carmen. “Tweak. It’s not about speed or— or— like firin’ off on all fuckin’ cylinders.” 

“Then what is it?”

“It counts because it counts.” Richie hands the cig back to Carmen. “It’s— The fucking—” He kisses his teeth, trying to figure out the best way to explain. “When you took like, a million goddamn years to make that fuckin’ mont— Mont— What was it?”

“Montmorency.” Your cherry sauce. Carmen spent too fucking long reducing it, yesterday. He redid it like five times. He’d redone it so many times the autopilot in his brain fucked up that fucking plate yesterday, and it threw his entire life into a spiral. No. That's not what happened. He threw his life into a spiral.

“That was worth it, cause it— Cause it took time. Does that— Am I making any fuckin’ sense? Terry did this shit better, fuck.” Richie rubs a hand over his face, you’d probably be able to explain this better too. “It’s not the thing you’re doing that makes it count, it counts because you’re doing it.”

The value is in the time, not what is delivered. It does not need to be the most special, hyper condensed, hyper focused, upper echelon second to count. It will count because it counts. Time spent is worth it, no matter what was bought. Every second you spend, will always count. All the work and the not work and the love and the not love— It all counts. It counts because it counts. You care therefore you care. Any effort made is good effort. 

Why does Carmen keep taking eons to learn what you are always trying to tell him?

The door opens, again. Instead of more patrons, Syd steps out— Wondering where the fuck her Exec and Host have gone. “Are we good?” 

“No.” Says her Exec and Host. She nods, that’s good, cause she’s not good either. 

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

“No one.” Lies Syd, Tina’s running the back, Sweeps is running the front, but she wants to freak Carmen out a little. She grabs the cigarette from Richie. “Burn the money, I say.”

“So, what you’re asking me to do— If I’m understanding, correctly, which— I might not be— You want me to take all my money, okay, and place it in a fucking furnace? Is that right?”

“So I’m sensing—” You curl your hand in the air. “A touch of hostility, which is fair.”

Bargaining with Uncle Jimmy isn’t the easiest thing in the world— Especially when this is your first time meeting him— And you’re begging him for money. Well, helping Mikey beg him for money. 

“Listen, Uncle, please.” Mikey swallows, leaning in, elbows on the table. It’s nearly the end of January. New year, fresh start. No better time to pitch a half-baked pipe dream in the middle of The Beef’s dining room. “It’s not like I’m brand new to the restaurant gig— We turn profit, here, we can fuckin’ pay people.”

“Can you pay me?” “We will—” “Or you could just let me cut my losses—” “I wanna do something real, Uncle.”

“Why’s she here, again?” You shrink, when Cicero points at you. You swallow. 

“I’m here as… Proof… That he wants to do something real.” You have to stop yourself from doing jazz hands, doubling down on the awkwardness will not make it go away, that is sadly not how that works.

Jimmy stares, for a moment, the cogs in his brain almost audibly whirring, as he stares at the space between you and Mikey, where you sit, at the other side of the booth. “Are you having a fuckin’ baby or somethin?”

The visceral reaction from your side of the booth is immediate. The worst part is he’s not even the first one to ask something like this— No, the manager at Wells Fargo was.

“What the fuck!” “Come on, Uncle…” “Do I— Do I look like a Milf, what the fuck is going on—” “She could be my daughter!” “Alright— So that is a little far, but the sentiment—”

“Alright, shut the fuck up, what is so fucking real that I’m suddenly going to hack up—”

Mikey tosses his necklace onto the table. It shouldn’t be physically possible, because it’s on a string, but it still manages to roll for a comically long time, like a coin, over to Jimmy. To thine own self be true. One Month.

“You will not be giving your money to some fucking junkie, Uncle—”

You wave a hand, interrupting Mikey. “Verbiage.” 

He swallows and nods, taking the note. A hard lesson to learn. “You will not be giving your money to— To— You— You’re gonna give your money to someone who is trying, alright?”

Uncle Jimmy hasn’t looked up from the chip since it landed; Mikey continues. “And— And I’m gonna bring Carmy on, and we’re gonna do like—Like high level shit. Like a real fuckin’ Michelin level—”

“How many times have you gotten to a month?”

“First time.”

Jimmy frowns, crossing his arms. “How many times have you tried getting to a month?”

“Five.” Michael says, “Six.” you correct. Christmas was hard. Christmas was extremely fucking hard. You weren’t with the Berzattos, upon Mikey’s request— And neither was Carmen, upon Mikey’s ignoring him completely. And that made things a little fucking hard. 

Jimmy just nods, arms still crossed. He’s forming some sort of plan, in his head, you’re just not sure what it is yet. He looks to you. “So you’re his sponsor, then?”

“Yessir.” “Do you feel qualified to do that?” “No-sir.”

Mikey kicks you under the table, your proclivity for honesty is not doing a great job selling this whole restaurant idea. You kick him back. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to feel qualified.”

“You sober?” “Not really.” “Well that’s kind of a key factor, I’ve heard.”

You sigh and lean forward, putting your hands in your lap. This is Mikey’s Uncle— Well, is he, actually? Unsure. But he gives as much of a fuck as you do, so you spill your guts, because you know he’s poking because he’s worried that some kid is taking care of Mikey and it’s the blind leading the fucking blind. 

“I’m stable. I drink, sometimes— But never more than one glass, and never multiple days in a row. I’m coming up on a year, I still attend A-A— Though not as often as I’m told I should— And I’ve told Mikey that turbulent month long benders and a full blown decade long opioid addiction are not the same thing and I really shouldn’t be his sponsor.”

Mikey leans forward as well, then, meeting your level. “And I told Chip— And our coord— That I won’t do the program without her.”

After a long moment of silence, taking his time to digest every bit of information, Jimmy nods to the folder on the table. “N’ this?”

“It’s like a… Proposal?” You look to Mikey for help, he shrugs. This motherfucker— You’re not even a stakeholder in this, why are you talking? You turn back to Jimmy. “It’s like a promise.”

You open the folder, there’s loose sketches you’ve put together of The Bear’s signage, plus Carmen’s original piece— It was fun and weird, to work off of an artist you’ve never met before. There’s also cut outs from the New York Time’s and Food and Wine magazine showing off his award winning talents. 

“We make money now.” Mikey finally chimes in, crossing his arms. “Imagine what we could do with him.”

“It would be cool!” You wingman. A little too excited for someone who’s never even breathed in a Michelin restaurant. “It’d be cool to have, like, a fine-dining establishment on North Orleans.”

“Or you’d completely cut out the audience that already likes The Beef.”

Mikey defends, “The people don’t know what they like, yet.” while you spread out some more papers across the table, showing off screenshots of food Carmen’s texted, that Mikey has never replied to. “They will like this shit— It’s— It’s art, Uncle. When they see this, they won’t give a shit about sandwiches.”

“They’ll give a shit about the price.”

“Uncle, I’m the guy.” Mikey uncrosses his arms, straightening up his posture, because now it’s serious. “I can— We can do this.”

As you continue to spread out papers, Uncle Jimmy stops you, seeing a peculiar page in the pile. He points to it, so you fish it out and hand it to him. He squints. “Joint bank account?”

You nod. “It’s so I can keep an eye on his spending and withdrawals.” Mikey tries not to wince at the fact a kid is in charge of managing his finances. You try not to wince at the fact that despite managing his finances, he's still reset six times.

“Y’know banks are a fuckin’ scam, right?”

You do not entertain Jimmy for a second, finally losing your whimsy. Your leg is shaking underneath the table— Thank God these tables are bolted. “I know that this is the first time in twenty years that my best friend is keeping savings.” 

Not just living paycheck to paycheck, anymore. Not spending every penny on painkillers, anymore. Mikey is saving up because now there is a future to spend it on. Cicero swallows, nodding, eyes looking down, thinking deeply. 

When he speaks again, it’s to say the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. “Ten grand a week.”

Your reply is in sync with Mikey, both jumping forward in your seats. “What?”

“Every week.” Jimmy pushes the chip back to your side of the table. “Every week that you keep going, that’s ten grand.”

You flail your hand under the table, grabbing for Mikey’s— He does the same, and it’s like a contest for who’s going to break who’s hand first, with how hard you’re holding each other. 

Mikey’s first to ask the question, “Is that… Starting now or starting since I—”

“I’m so glad you asked, fuck no, that’s starting now.” He points to you, now. You flinch. “You’re gonna piss test him every fuckin’ week. I’m not fucking around about this.”

“Right. Heard.” You can only nod, because if you express anything else, it might just be screaming forever and ever. He pivots back to Mikey.

“And it’s gonna be cash— It’s not going in that fuckin’ joint, aright?” “Heard.”

“...Alright. Deal.” Cicero comes forward in his seat, and shakes Mikey’s hand. And despite not being a stakeholder, he reaches for yours, too; you shake it, and after a moment, he ruins this excitement stirring in the room, moving out of the booth. “I gotta piss, now.”

When he leaves for the bathroom, Mikey leans his head to you, putting his chin on your shoulder, whispering, “Art of the deal.”

You push his face away immediately, laughing. “Shut the fuck up! Why did you make me lead that shit!?”

Tomorrow Mikey will relapse again, and you’ll reset his necklace for the seventh time, but you don’t know that yet. Carmen’s gonna be so excited, when he finally comes back to Chicago and gets a sober brother and his dream restaurant. You’re excited to meet the guy, one day. Fingers crossed he likes you. 

“That was fucking nuts.” Sydney decides that’s the best way to surmise it. “Like more than usual.”

“I’m aware.” Carmen can only nod, and despite the fact that he’s just going to lie down and take this, it does not remove the bitter feeling in her heart at all. Syd’s fucking mad, and she wants him to know. 

“I’ve— I’ve literally only ever seen her cry like, like during Pixar movies or when we graduated. Like she just— That’s not a thing she does. I, I’m so— I literally don’t know what the fuck to do, right now.” For a second, she thinks her vision is flickering. “Oh my god, am I finally having a stroke?”

The three restaurateurs look up to see their neon white logo of a bear’s head, flickering and occasionally buzzing out. Richie’s the first to speak, as they all blankly stare at it. “Who are we gonna call, f’this?”

If this was yesterday, or maybe even if this was an hour ago, it wouldn’t be a question as to who they’d call. Carmen scratches the back of his head, the flaking hair gel is getting itchy. “Ted?”

“Who’s Ted?” Asks Syd; that’s not Tony, Terry or Tommy.

“Ted Fak.” Richie and Carmen answer at once, she almost gasps. 

“They’re multiplying?”

Richie rolls back into his memory. “There’s eight— No, fuck, nine of them— I always forget Avery.”

Sydney just nods and hugs her shoulders for warmth. They all keep staring at the flickering bear, like moths.

“I don’t—I don’t have anyone, except her, y’know?” Syd sniffs. “Like after my dad, it’s— it’s literally just her. She’s my best and only friend.”

Carmen presses the palms of his hands over his eyes, “Heard.” 

“I don’t want to choose between her and my career.” Carmen thinks she’s pausing, so he waits, but she’s not talking. That was the end of the sentence.

“Heard.”

“If that’s what getting a star takes, I don’t want it.” That’s huge. That’s a big statement, from Syd of all people. That gets the men to turn their heads from the light to her.

Syd continues to stare at the flickering bear, which lights up the two single straight streams of tears perfectly. It’s silent. She’s not snivelling or anything, she just shakes her head in tight swivels, biting her inner cheek. “It’s just— it’s just not worth that.”

“How can I fix it?” Maybe Syd will have a better answer than Richie did, something a little more actionable. She finally flits her gaze from the light down to Carmen, where he sits. 

“Can you stay after close?”

“—Nobody in this motherfucking city knows transit etiquette— Why does everyone get on and go ‘wow I love standing in the walkway’— I’m so— There was so much seating just ahead of the blockage, Mikey, I’m so pressed, I’m literally—” You massage your brows, finishing up your rant from this morning’s commute. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“If you weren’t a little passenger princess, this wouldn’t be a problem, Chippy.” “I have my fucking license! I just don’t have a car!” “Then buy one!” “With who’s money!?” “Mine?”

A terrible running joke, from Mikey, is telling you to spend his money— The money he gets from staying sober. The money he’s saving for The Bear. The reason why he thinks this is funny, is because you have no fucking idea where he’s been putting it. But you know he hasn’t spent it, so that’s all that really matters.

You just huff, leaning back against the wall of his office as you watch him work, arms crossed and cringing as he futzes with the wiring. “You’re going to light us up like a Roman fucking candle.”

“It’s Jewish lightning—” “Top twenty-thousand reasons we do not say that— Number One—” “It’s gonna work! Just trust me!”

Mikey’s office looks a lot more lively, lately. He never cleans up the mugs of coffee you give him, every morning. He says it’s his way of tracking which flavour is his favourite, since you’re always switching up. It will never change from the chai spiced blend, and you both know that. It’d be more accurate of him to say he likes the sticky notes you tack on to each mug, saying you love him and saying he needs to keep going.

“I could fix it, y’know.” At that, Mikey turns away from his distressing handiwork to look at you. 

“I know. But I wanna prove I can, too.” 

That hits you right in the chest. You want to tell Mikey that he never has to prove anything, with you; never has to lift a goddamn finger. But he would hate to hear that. “Okay.”

You hear from outside the office, the back door opening. “Child incoming, no expletives please!”

“What the fuck is an expletive?” Mikey asks you, whispering.

You whisper back, leaning forward off the wall to close in on him. “It’s what you just did.”

Eva runs in, the way that kids do— The way they kinda waddle. Immediately up to you and Mikey. Uncle Mike and Aunty Chip, she calls you both. Sometimes Uncle Jack— Because she hasn’t completely grasped the concept of gender yet— Good, no one should.

“Watch!” You have yet to even say hi, before she immediately attempts to do a cartwheel in the middle of this very small office. 

“Good job, Evie!” You clap, after she just barely lands safely on her shins.

She nods, “Can you do that?”

“Honestly? I don’t think I can.” You look up from her to Mikey. “Can you?”

“Can I cartwheel?” He stumbles back, slapping his hand over his chest. Gutted. “Can I cartwheel? Eve— She doesn’t think I can cartwheel.”

“Insane, Uncle.”

“Not what I said!” You can’t hold back your laughter, what a shining this kid has taken to her dad. “I’d love to see it, I really would!”

Mikey just shakes his head, kissing his teeth. How dare you offend his honour, in this way? This forty-two year old man can absolutely cartwheel with the best of them. In five minutes he definitely isn’t gonna eat shit in the dining room of his restaurant. He pats Eva on the shoulder. “You go with your dad and clear out some tables out front, I’m gonna need space.” 

“You’re gonna break your neck, Mike.” Richie chimes in, standing in the doorway now, waiting for Eva to return to him. “I don’t wanna plan your funeral.”

“Please, you would plan a terrible funeral.” “That’s bull—”

“Expletive!” You cover Eva’s ears. She just laughs, looking up at you with that cute and bizarre blank kid stare. What a little patoot. 

Richie looks to you, forgetting the bit for a moment, “Y'need a grocery run, tonight?”

You nod, removing your hands from Eva, but then she holds them there. Goddamnit, kids are an awful idea but she's fucking cute. “Pay you gas money in the form of Wendy's?”

“Marone!” Richie exclaims, poorly, grabbing your face by the chin and top of your head to kiss your cheek just short of a million times. “The perfect woman—”

“Not Italian!” is the synchronous reply from you and Mikey.

Richie rolls his eyes, “Not Italian— Fu—”

Eva interrupts him, taking as much as a shining to you as she does her father. “Exp—Expultive!” She looks at you for approval and you nod in delight.

“Just go set up front, would ‘ya?” Mikey brushes Rich off, the man just rolls his eyes, picking up his daughter from you to fly her off like an airplane. 

“Let's set the stage for your Uncle’s neck injury, sweets. Bwwwwrrr—” Richie makes good airplane noises. Richie’s a good dad. You will never find a good time to tell him this. You watch Mikey’s back flex, as he cracks back into the hole of wires in the wall. He's been working hard on a lot of little things lately. 

You will not realize he is trying to make things clean and square, until it is too late. Right now, you’re just happy, because, “You’re already at three weeks again, and you haven’t even noticed.”

“Oh, I fucking noticed.” He doesn’t face you, when he says it, but it’s with a hearty chuckle. He’s noticed it violently, he’s just getting very good at the first month, now— Well acquainted with the burn out. “But now there’s money on the line, I can’t lose.” 

It’s not that money’s on the line. It’s that his brother is on the line now. And Mikey couldn’t do this for himself— but the guy could do it for his brother. So he’ll just be the guy, that’s what the guy’s do. Six hours, same team. Nine weeks, Mikey, come on.

“Well you’re doing good, I’m proud of you.” 

“You believe in me?” He says it like he doubts your conviction. You nearly punch him in the back of the head.

“Of course I believe in you.”

Mikey bites his inner cheek, though you can’t see his face. “...Why are we keeping the candles?”

Ah. You’ve still got the one and two candles in his drawer with a lighter, ready for the next cupcake. They’re slowly but surely melting with each reset, eventually they’ll be incomprehensible. Do you believe in me? If you do, why are you saving them? Do you think we’ll need them? That’s what Mikey’s asking. You scoff. 

“You’re so stupid.” “What the— I confide in you and I get this—”

You interrupt him, arms crossed. “One day, one week, one month, one year, fuckin— When we get to double digits? Ten months? One decade?”

He’s mum, at that. You add. “We’re getting our fucking mileage out of these candles, Mikey. I believe in you.” You think Mikey has a future, still. Mikey knows he doesn’t. He changes the subject because if he doesn’t, he’ll tell you everything and you will stop it.

“I want you to start talking to Carmen, when he comes back.” You should’ve asked Mikey why he was so certain Carmen would be coming back. But you weren’t smart enough. 

“What the fuck?” You snort. “Okay, out of literally nowhere—” “You’d like him.”

“He sounds very nice.” “He’s not. He’s a—” “Ball buster, yes, you’ve told me.” “He’d like you.” “Why?” “Cause you’re you.”

“Wow, pretty inarguable there.” You can only smile, unable to see the wheels turn in Michael’s head. “Guess we’ll be besties.”

“I meant talk like talk—” “Are you trying to hook me up right now?” “He’s a virgin, so it’s definitely not a good deal for you—” “And— And why are we talking about your brother's sex life— Did we already explode and this is hell?” “I just want you to be prepared for what you’re getting into, he gets performance anxiety so—” “Mikey!”

“You’ll talk to him?” Mikey turns away from the wall, wanting you to look him in the eyes and promise him.

You shake your head and roll your eyes, but stick a hand out for the Berzatto to shake. “Yes, Bear, I’ll talk to your virgin Michelin star ranked brother.”

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

After close, after everyone but Carmen, Sydney, and Richie leave, the three make plans to meet in Michael’s office. Carmen will go in ahead to hide your folder because he doesn’t want to see it himself and he absolutely doesn’t want anyone else to see it. Even if one of them could very well explain it, because he’s fucking in them. It’s fine. He looks at your wrapped up painting in the corner of his office. Carmen considers for what feels like a decade, whether or not he should open it. But he hasn’t earned a gift from you, so he doesn’t— Not for now, at least. He hasn’t earned your art right now. 

Underneath your ICE folder is his notepad— The one he was scribbling recipes for his Exec into, the one he scribbled your recipe into, and underneath all that torn up paper— His list, from this morning. The non-negotiable rules he wanted— Wants? To add to The Bear. There’s twenty-seven. Half of them are spelt wrong as he wrote them while absolutely losing his shit, this morning. This list did not go over well, when it was proposed during family, at two in the afternoon. Some of these could still work though, right? At least the technique and the boxes and the—

Richie comes in, not knocking, and immediately spots the list. “Oh good.” He grabs the notepad and rips off the twenty seven points. Leaving only the title, NON-NEGOTIABLES. 

“Come the fuck on—” Says Carmen. Richie rolls his eyes, tossing the list onto the desk. Richie can tear him and his stupid fucking list a new one another time— Richie and Carmen can sort out their own part of the fight in a week, when they take a twelve hour road trip. Right now though, they are both completely focused on you. 

Sydney comes in with two labelled deli containers of coke. Time codes and everything, she can't turn it off. She hands one to Rich, the other one is for herself. That’s fine, soda on Carmen’s shredded throat really wouldn’t be great right now anyways. She takes a sip, looking over Carm's shoulder. “Oh, we’re doing a real list, now?”

Carmen just sighs, letting the dig go, because he deserves it. He clicks his pen, sitting down, ready to write, without hesitation. “Go.”

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

“Lay off her,” Sydney waves her hand over her neck. “Leave her the fuck alone, for like a week, minimum.” 

“No— What? No— You should call her like now—” “Absolutely not the right move—” “Solve it hard and fast—” “Why hard—?”

“I’m just gonna wait.” Carmen decides, typically Syd is the right one, anyways. Plus if he hears your voice right now he might throw up and he doesn’t have your tums, anymore. “Next?”

“An exorcism.” Richie doesn’t laugh, when he says it. “Also read fuckin’ Runnin’ on Empty— By Doctor Webb.”

The two cooks just look at him, like Richie’s grown five thousand heads. He groans before they even say anything. “I’m fuckin’ well read, shut the fuck up— It’s—” He snaps his fingers, pointing to Carmen’s list, “It’s an audiobook, too, on fuckin’ Spotify— Listen to that shit on your commute you have no excuse.”

“Yes, Chef.” Carmen writes it down, he also writes down under things to look into, catastrophizing, while he’s at it. Richie watches over his shoulder, and adds, “Look into sublimation and behavourial dysfunction.” 

Syd’s still reeling over the sudden character growth. “You need to relax with the self-help books.”

“Yeah, well you need to read Mark Wolynn’s ‘It Didn’t Start With You.’” Richie’s got lists of books now, instead of zingers. They somehow hit harder.

She’s got no come back for that other than a surprised pout and nod, taking her own phone out to write it down. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmen pipes in, not looking up from his list of to dos “Should I also read that one—” “Yes.” “Heard, Chef. Next?”

“It cannot be on Tony to be your fucking punching bag. If you’re tweaking— Keep that shit between you and your therapist—” Syd switches from her notes app to search, “We’re finding you a fuckin’ therapist.”

“Is that covered in our contract?” Didn’t he write it? Carmen doesn’t know.

“Doesn’t matter. Also I don’t know, but doesn’t matter.” Syd hasn’t read it yet. She also doesn’t know.

You are worth a couple out of pocket fees. Well, more importantly, Carmen is worth a couple out of pocket fees— Well, alright, he’ll discuss his weaknesses of self-prioritization with the therapist. 

Before Carmen can even say next, Richie adds. “Also you smell like shit.” The hair gel is pungent in a bad way.

And before he can defend himself, Sydney adds, not looking up from her phone, “We’re going to fuckin’ Kohl’s after this and we’re getting you a skincare— And haircare— routine. You’re seconds away from breaking out, I bet you use fuckin’ Palmolive dish soap.”

“Well— I’ve been using Tony’s, actually—” “We know.” It’s a completely synchronized interruption. 

“It’s been her signature scent, since highschool.” “Who do you think took her grocery shopping when she didn’t have a car?” “I thought I was having a flashback everytime you walked by in the kitchen, this past week.” “You should go back to it.”

“I know. I will.” He’s got every intention of re-upping on your shampoo and conditioner, when he’s taken on a shopping spree to get his shit together. Hopefully you won’t mind him copying you. “No more Five in One.”

“You’ve been using fucking five in one!?”

Carmen thought, yesterday, naively, that he would do right by you on Friday. He didn’t, he did the very opposite— But even if he did, that’s weak shit. Carmen’s not gonna do right by you for just one single fucking day. Carmen’s gonna do right by you, for the rest of his life. The three get to well over twenty seven points, and he has every intention of showing up to it. He’s gonna be your man, and he’s going to fucking earn that title. He’s going to prove it.

“Okay. So can you tell me what happened on February 22nd?” She’s a shit therapist. You’re imagining both you and her dead in your head. You’ve been imagining a lot of people dead in your head, for the last two weeks. Every time your dad comes to check on you, you imagine that he’s a ghost. 

You imagine having a passing conversation with someone, maybe catching up with Syd, one day. And she’ll ask you ‘Meet any interesting people?’ and you’ll say ‘Yeah. But he killed himself.’ That’s gonna suck. You didn’t prepare for that one. So you need to prepare now. Look at all of your friends and family, and imagine they are dead— And introduce them as such. ‘That’s my friend Richie, he died.’ Make it hurt now, so it doesn’t hurt then. 

You didn’t prepare enough. Didn’t do enough. Countless little mistakes and moments you missed. The therapist is looking at you, oh right, it’s your turn to talk again. You’ve told her all these cute little stories but now she wants to hear how the sad shit went. Or maybe it was all sad shit. Maybe it’s all coated in a film of grief, now. 

You’ll tell her that Mikey was very thorough, with his plan that you didn’t know about. He waited until he thought you were out of the city— When he knew you’d be out of the city. When your sister in law delivered your nephew and you went to Oak Park to visit. 

Just days before, you celebrated three months of sobriety with him and Richie— You’ll tell the therapist, excitedly, that this was his longest streak so far, it took him a year to reach three months— It was a big fucking deal. You were beaming all day. You didn’t realize, however, that days after Uncle Jimmy had made his deal with you two, that Mikey did the math. Figured out exactly how many weeks he’d have to be sober, to get three-hundred grand. 

Thirty weeks. Roughly seven months and two weeks. He did it. Not in sequence, but he did it. You’re still not sure where that money is. Uncle isn’t either. Maybe Carmen will figure it out. It’s meant for him anyways. You’ll say that Carmen will figure it out in such a way that she asks— “And do you hold animosity? Towards his younger brother?”

You look at her like she’s a psycho, because she is. Replying incredulously, “I don’t fucking know him.”

‘My best friend Michael is dead.’ ‘My best friend, Mikey, is dead.’ Doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. 

“Do you wish you did?”

“I really couldn’t say I give a shit, ma’am. Can I tell you about the guy I did know, though?”

She nods, you roll the fuck on. You tell her that the morning after you got to your brother’s place— February 22nd, you all decided instead of staying for the week, as you’d planned, as Mikey planned, you’d instead go home early. Because as much as you wanted to be helpful, having more people in the house was stressing the new mom the fuck out. Understandable. So you took a train back to Chicago early. 

You got home, and you found that you’d gotten some mail, waiting for you on the floor, shoved through the mail slot of your door. Bill, bill, invoice, spam, coupons, handwritten envelope— Ah. Mikey’s handwriting. A deep unsettling feeling burrowed its way into you. It just says For Chip. There’s no letter inside. No. There’s a debit card, his, of your joint bank account, there’s a key, yours, a copy of your key to this apartment, and a necklace, his— With his three month sobriety chip hanging off of it. 

You call him, immediately. He doesn’t answer the first time. You call him again. He answers on the last possible ring. 

The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life—                Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call with an old friend.

“Yo, Ice-y!” A classic nickname, reserved purely for phone calls with Mikey. Because in his phone, you’re 0ICEChip, so you’ll show up at the top of his contact list, if he’s ever found unresponsive. Typically a pro-tip reserved for those in hospice care.

You don’t entertain him. “Where are you?”

“I’m just out for a walk, sweetheart.” “Shut the fuck up out for a walk— Where the fuck are you?”

He hums at your snarky tone. “Nephew didn’t take a liking to you?” “I came home early.”

The silence is long, and you can hear the heavy wind coming through his phone. He’s outside. He’s somewhere outside. It’s a cold night. It’s usually not this cold at the end of February, but it really fucking came down, this morning. 

“Oh.”

“Why did you leave this shit at my door? Where are you?” You thought of 0ICE but you didn’t think to have him turn his location on? Fucking idiot. Fucking idiot. You didn’t do enough. ‘My friend, Bear, is dead.’ You didn’t prepare enough. “Bear, c’mon, what’s going on? I told you, if we need to reset, it’s two steps forward, one step back, it’s okay—”

“It’s not.” “It is! We will get there!” “I’m not. You’re gonna get there, I’m not.” “That’s not true!” “I love you but we both know this was a pipe dream.”

“Mikey—”

“Chip, I’m not going anywhere. You’re— You’re fucking going somewhere. I can’t— I can’t let— We both know where I’m going and it’s nowhere you should begin to be.”

“You don’t get to make that choice for me. You don’t get to make that call. I decide what I bet on— Mikey, where are you?” You’re walking out of your place, you hadn’t even closed the door before leaving again.

Fucking idiot, you should’ve bought a car. How are you supposed to get to him on foot and train? Fucking idiot. The snow is beating down, the wind is cutting into your face. ‘My best friend died on February 22nd. On the State Street Bridge.’— Why didn’t you get a fucking car? You didn’t do enough. You can’t remember any of your training, right now. What are you supposed to say? “Are you using?”

“No. No. I’m— This is me, Chip.” “No it’s fucking not, Mikey! Shut the fuck up, where are you!?”

“I love you, I didn’t want this to be— I-I—I’m not killing myself, Chip.”

“You’re not?”

You shouldn’t have believed him. You should’ve just kept walking. You would’ve figured out where he was, eventually. You should’ve called the coast guard, or some shit. Should’ve just figured it out.

“I’m not. I’m— I’m okay, I’m really just going for a walk— I-I just— I had a… I— I don’t want you to be my sponsor anymore. That’s it.” It made sense. He didn't want you to feel hurt, so he was hesitant. It made sense.

“Why?”

“Cause you’re a kid, and I can’t make you responsible for what I do.”

“I’m not a kid.” “To me, you are.” “Then we’ll find you someone else.” “Yeah, okay.”

You pause, for a good bit, listening to the shakiness of his breath. “You’re cold, Mikey.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re just cold.” That’s all that’s wrong. He’s just cold and he doesn't want you to be his sponsor anymore. “Go inside, soon. Come home.”

“I will.”

Mikey always had that way of making you think everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t. “Okay.”

“I want you to start treating our joint like an advanced payment, by the way. A million things are always fucking breaking at The Beef, there’s no point in wiring all the time.”

Mikey wants this to be clean and square, too. Because he couldn’t figure out the wiring by himself— He needs to make sure his baby brother is taken care of, he needs to make sure his restaurant is taken care of, he needs to make sure that you have something to do because Michael fucking saw you. 

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You nod to no one. “I think your toilets fucked, speaking of.” You laugh, everything’s okay. There’s a long silence, and you think he’s hung up. 

“Good. Okay— You should— You should come fix it, sometime soon… Love you, Chip.”

“Love you, Bear.”

You will tell your therapist that after that phone call, you went back inside, cleaned yourself up, unpacked unused toiletries, changed out of your borrowed brother’s sweats into your nice pajamas, because Mikey said he would come home. He said he would come home and you believed him because he never lied to you before. You set up the things he left for you in your handmade clay dish tray; so he can take them back. Just because you’re not his sponsor, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t keep his chips. 

You will tell your therapist that you fell asleep on the couch, waiting for Michael. You will tell her you woke up to a phone call from Richie, and all he said, wavering, was, “You should come over.” Richie doesn’t ask things. Richie will always say, come over. You don’t know why that’s the signal you get, since you seemingly must have missed so many other obvious signs, but you know then that your— Your— Your best— Fuck, the knots are fucking debilitating, fuck fuck fuck. 

You will not come over. You will walk, in the cold, to your dad’s place. You will not bring anything with you. You will stay there and rot for two weeks, as will everything in your apartment. He will force you to go to this several hour long therapy appointment because he can’t keep watching you do this, and you will resent the woman you are telling all this. 

You will continue to see her, for five more sessions, because the first six are covered under your insurance. She will help in a lot of ways, she will hurt in others.

Wells-Fargo will ask if you want to close your account. You don’t want to, but it’ll accrue monthly banking fees, so you take the money out and close it. You buy a shitty maroon 2004 Dodge Intrepid off Facebook Marketplace with the two and a half grand. It barely functions as a car. But it will drive. The next time someone needs you. You can drive. Next time you’ll think of everything, next time you won’t fail.

You stop paying the phone bill, for your business line. It goes defunct. You just don’t think you should be trusted to be helpful, for the next little while. You will blame your father for this, when people ask about it.

On the day of his funeral, you will go. You will go, and you will sit on the curb across from the church, and you will not go inside. It's just not possible. You will buy a pork chop-cheese sandwich from a bodega nearby and you will eat it on that curb and it’s only then, after shoving it down for so long, that you will scream and cry.

You will leave before anyone sees you, and you will go to State Street Bridge, and you will set up a small vigil. You will finnick with the candles and the flowers until you feel they are perfect. They will never get perfect. You just don’t want to leave. You have a tendency to do that. 

You will stare at the little stuffed bear, the roses, the picture frame of him, and you will finally say it aloud. 

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

When Carmen shows up, two hours later, not honestly that long after you finally left, he will add a bouquet and a prayer candle. He will readjust all of your work, to his preference, and then readjust it again and again and again— and he will finally say it aloud. 

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

No matter how you say it, it won’t roll off the tongue.

And about thirty-nine weeks from that day, you will be in New York, at a wedding, talking with the virgin Michelin star ranked brother, as you promised.

You will have abandoned your bar after making confessions under the counter, and have instead co-opted the single stall gender-neutral bathroom to have ample time and space to tell each other everything you’ve told your therapists. Even now, neither of you can get the words to roll off the tongue. 

But Carmen manages to make “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry— I will never be able to surmise, how sorry—” roll off well enough. Alas, he’s interrupted, by a knock on the gender-neutral bathroom door, made by the only fuckers that knows you two are in here. 

“Guys I— Guys I don’t know how to run bar, and I don’t think I should’ve been trusted, with this.”

Carmen will not look away from your bleary-eyed face, he will not break his focus even when you laugh at the sudden tension break. He will just tell the Faks to fuck off and figure it out.

“I’m gonna fix it.” Carmen will tell you, and you will nod and say, “I will too.”

Because it’s not just on one of you, anymore. It can be both. The shared burden. The shared grief. No more fucking shoes, because it's all out now.

It’s not negotiable.

I love when tumblr drafts fully start to lag and my macbook lights on fire because the post is too fucking long. I have so much to say about this chapter but I think I will just make a separate post entirely about this. Because I’m. I’m really proud tbh not to toot my own horn but I think I kind of maybe a little bit ate with this one. 

Fun fact, that you may or may not believe: The Carmen scenes? Not planned. Fully did not plan to do any of that. This was going to be entirely Mikey flashbacks, originally— There might’ve ended up being more honestly, if I didn’t add Carmen, but after Something to Do when I started writing I was like,,, these cats aren’t cooking, Carmen’s side is missing a second beat before the third. And so, here it is. 

I know everyone was expecting a depression week for Carmen— And to be fair, I also kind of was. But I then thought, nah. They’d done too much work, and I don’t think Rich/Syd would allow him to wallow. Like get your shit together, not for you, for her. Ugh. 

Speaking of Rich and Syd— FUCK man my heart. The way their scenes from the past and present meshed together in such a deeply painful way I’m sooo SICK WITH IT!!! WHAT DID YOU THINK?!?!! Just fuckin— The way Tony was too scared to reach out to Syd but it’s SO FUCKING OBVIOUS that Syd was on the other side of Chicago thinking the exact same shit i’m SO SICK!!!!! I’M HACKING UP A LUNG HERE!!

Anyways it’s my birthday send me well wishes and an essay on what you thought I’d love to hear it. I know this was a tough one. Thank you for getting through it with me lmao. Tag list! Hope I didn’t forget anyone, pwease note i ownwee add pweople who swend theiw twoughts— It also may or may not hurt my feelings when people don’t read this text at the bottom. It might. It might a lot.

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

Next Part

[rafeandonlyrafe]

pizza night

words: 2.2k

warnings: mentions/implications of sex but no actual smut, best friend!rafe, jealousy, angst but happy ending, friends to lovers, rafe with another girl, reader sleeps with kelce

“PIZZA NIGHT!” you shout, rafe letting out a whoop as you carry in the two boxes, plain cheese for you, and a mess of toppings for rafe.

“was worried you weren't gonna show up.” rafe glances at the clock. you're only about five minutes late, only running behind because the pizza place was busy and your order wasn't ready on time.

“as if i would miss our weekly pizza night.” you roll your eyes. you've had to shift times around occasionally to make sure you get the pizza night in, like for rafes football schedule, or you having to help your parents out at a fundraiser. for the past three years, it's been every thursday night, even both getting pizza from your respective locations while you facetime when you're not both in the outer banks.

“come here.” rafe opens his arms up to you. you step into his familiar hold, strong arms wrapping around you, tugging you against his chest. you inhale his scent, so uniquely rafe.

he's been your best friend for as long as you can remember, your parents being friends when both became pregnant around the same time. you did everything together. pizza nights started as plum puree, as your mom loves to joke.

“what do you wanna watch tonight?” rafe asks, knowing whatever you put on will soon become background noise to your chatting, rafe happy to listen to any gossip you have to say.

“umm…” you tap your finger against your chin as rafe plates your pizza for you, loading his plate with three slices for himself. you know he's already got your preferred drink sitting on the coffee table. “mulan.”

“sure.” rafe nods. he used to argue when he was younger. you'd want barbie swan lake or a romcom while he prefered superheroes and action. he learned throughout your friendship to just not fight it.

you immediately start to tell rafe the latest gossip, filling him in on everything he's missed since you saw him last, even though it was only two days ago.

“oh and you'll never guess!” you squeal. “callie, my friend from florida?” you see if the name jogs rafes memory, which he quickly nods. how could he forget. the one other friend that competes with him, despite you only seeing her for weeks at a time when you went to visit your grandparents in florida. “she's coming to the outer banks! she's gonna stay with us for the summer while her parents travel.”

“oh, nice.” rafe nods. he's happy for you, he really is, but he hopes she's not going to get in the way of his time with you, especially pizza night.

--

“girl, why didn’t you tell me rafe is hot as fuck?” callie giggles, looking out the window where rafe and a couple of his friends are chatting on the patio.

“ew.” you scrunch your nose up. you mean the criticism about callie finding him attractive, not about rafes looks, but callie doesn’t take it that way as she rolls her eyes.

“seriously, he’s so fine.” she slices into another lemon, handing one half to you as you squeeze it to make fresh lemonade.

you just frown. you don’t want callie to find rafe attractive and you’re not sure why the jealous feeling builds in your gut, so you quickly change the subject.

“wanna come to a party friday night? at kelces.” you question.

“oh my god, yes.” callie nods, helping you carry out cups while you bring out the pitcher of lemonade, pouring a glass for yourself and whichever one of your friends also wants one before sitting next to rafe.

callie takes the open spot on the other side of him as the conversation instantly strikes back up. you remain quieter than normal, eyes flicking between them as you watch them interact. you’re glad they’re getting along, truly, but you feel like gouging your eyes out when callie laughs and places her hand on his bicep.

“you okay?” rafe asks after everyone else had gone home, callie having taken your car back to your place to shower while you plan on asking rafe to drive you home.

“yeah.” you put on a wide smile. “whats up?”

“you just seem quieter than usual.” rafe watches your face carefully, noting the way your face falls before you perk back up with a shake of your head.

“nope, im fine. just glad you're getting along with callie!”

“speaking of…” rafe pulls his phone out, handing it to you. “can i have her number?”

“oh… yeah.” you nod quickly, grabbing his phone and typing in her number. you have it memorized along with rafes and your mom and dads, the only ones you’ve typed in enough to know by heart. “why do you want it though?”

“i thought i’d get to know her a bit.” rafe shrugs. 

“okay.” you force a smile on your face before standing up. “im gonna walk home. see you thursday for pizza night!”

“y/n, wait-” rafe tries to call you back, but you’ve already disappeared into the house.

--

you struggle to knock on the door with the pizza boxes in your arms. usually its unlocked, or rafe is there to open it for you the second your car pulls in the driveway.

“shit.” rafe opens the door, his face pale.

“what?” you shove past him, needing to set the cardboard boxes down.

you walk into the kitchen, going to place the boxes down on the counter when you realize there is already a box sitting there, opened up with a couple slices missing. you carefully slide the boxes out of your arms onto the marble before looking at rafe.

“i-i forgot-” rafe says as you look into the living room, seeing callie sat on the couch, her eyes on the television screen as she takes a bite of pizza. 

“you forgot about our pizza night?” you question, not even trying to hide your tears this time as they form in your eyes.

“i just didn’t realize it was thursday, y/n i-”

“its fine.” you shake your head, heading towards the door. you need to leave before your emotions explode. 

“y/n, please.” rafe grabs your hand right as you reach for the doorknob.

“no.” you turn around to look at rafe, knowing that there are tears streaming down your cheeks, yet you still attempt to force a smile. “no, go. have fun with her.”

you pull out of his grasp and leave, rafe standing on the front porch watching you drive away.

--

“coming to the party?” callie asks, wearing a tiny dress with high heels, showing off her flawless legs.

“nah.” you shake your head. “im feeling kinda tired.” 

“alright.” callie frowns, but doesn’t push you any farther as she walks towards the front door, looking back once before leaving. 

you are genuinely tired. you stayed up all last night waiting to hear callie arrive back at your house from rafes. she didn’t get home until 10 in the morning the next day. you know rafe has slept with girls before, but usually when he’s way too drunk after a party, and never with a girl you considered your friend.

you turn the tv on to a random channel, just needing something to distract yourself and stop you from crying again.

hours tick by as the sun sets, your eyes burning from staring at the television and holding back tears when a sudden knock on the door makes you jump.

you stand up, hoping its rafe, hoping he’s coming to apologize and to put all his attention back on you. you feel bad when you open the door and see its topper, your face no doubt giving away your disappointment.

“y/n, are you okay?” he asks. “you aren’t at the party.” he states the obvious as you stand in your sweatpants and a flimsy tanktop.

“just not feeling it.” you shrug. 

“is it… callie and rafe?” topper asks. he doesn’t need you to confirm as tears well in your eyes.

“i-i like him. i didn’t even realize until i saw them together.” you finally admit it to yourself why you’re so upset. 

“shit.” topper pulls you into a hug as you cry into his shirt, glad for his comfort as he rubs his hand up and down your back, hoping he can help you feel better.

“i shouldn’t be telling you this…” topper sighs. “but kelce has a crush on you. if you want to go to the party and… i don’t know, make rafe jealous back.”

“he won’t get jealous.” you shake your head. “he likes her.”

topper just stares at you with a look of pity. so in your head about your friendship that you can’t even put together the pieces that rafe likes you back.

you look down at your outfit. honestly, you can’t even manage to put on anything other than your crocs, you’re not going to change into a dress and heels just to dance up on a guy you don’t even really like.

“just come wearing that.” topper says, sensing your apprehension. “im serious, you look good. it’ll show how different you are then all the other girls there.”

you look back into your house at your couch, the tv still turned on before looking back to topper. he nods at you with encouragement.

“i need to get drunk immediately.” you tell him as he laughs, pulling you out the door.

--

you let out a groan as you turn over, snuggling into water warm body is wrapped around you as sleep slowly clears from your head.

“good morning, beautiful.” kelce says, making you blink your eyes open as the memories of last night come back, of ignoring rafe and callie dancing together as you move to kelce. topper was beyond right about the outfit as you captured the eye of most of the guys there, especially rafe as he tried to get your attention, but you were up in kelces room before he could steal you away.

it felt good to sleep with kelce, but not completely right.

“morning.” you smile. kelce is handsome, especially with the warm morning light shining in on the two of you, but your heart hurts as you wish it was rafes face you were looking into.

“can i have you again?” kelce asks, reaching down to grab your ass.

“yeah.” you nod with a smile. another distraction won’t hurt.

--

“where were you?” rafe asks as you arrive home, not expecting to see him snuggled up to callie on the couch.

“sleeping with kelce.” you say with a shrug. if rafe isn’t gonna hide his relationship with callie, you certainly aren’t going to hide what you were doing either.

“he doesn’t care about you, y/n.” rafe stands up, callies face shifting to one of worry as she looks between the two of you, realization sinking in. “he just wants to sleep with you.”

“okay, and?” you laugh, a bitter, spiteful laugh. “he’s got a big dick, and maybe i just wanted to sleep with him too.” 

you stomp away towards your room, blaring music from your speaker the second you’re inside. you don’t want to hear any noise rafe and callie might make as you flop down on your bed, quickly falling asleep despite the blaring music.

--

the music being turned down wakes you up as someone sits on your bed. you groan and turn onto your back, expecting to see rafe.

“callie?” you question, glancing at the bag slung over his shoulder and the suitcase sitting in your open doorway. 

you sit up quickly. “are you going to stay with rafe?”

“no.” she says with a gentle laugh and shake of her head. “im going back to florida.”

“what?” you question. 

“i didn’t mean to come between you and him. i thought you didn’t like him. i… i don’t want this to ruin our friendship, so i’m leaving. he was fun to be with, but it was never serious for either of us. he’s serious about you.”

the words sink in as you look to her with hope in your eyes. “you talked to him about it?”

“i did.” she smiles with a gentle nod, glancing towards the clock on your nightstand. “the taxi is waiting outside to take me to the airport.”

you shoot forward to wrap your arms around callie, pulling her into a tight hug. “thank you.” 

“of course.” she holds you back just as tight. “come visit me in florida, okay?” 

you nod enthusiastically before she gets up to leave. 

--

“finally.” topper sighs with relief as he opens the door to tanneyhill. “i’ve been trying to get him to go over and talk to you for the past four hours.” topper pulls you inside before you can even react. “seriously, you guys just need to date already. he slept with callie, you slept with kelce, and now you’re even. go make out.” topper shoves you into the living room before fleeing.

it takes a second for rafe to look up, his eyes red with tears.

“i had no clue.” rafe shakes his head. “i had no clue you liked me. i never would have done anything with callie if i knew. i thought i’d never get to have you, so i thought settling for your friend would be the next best thing.”

“i don’t like you.” you say before quickly clarifying. “i love you, rafe.”

rafe is standing and making his way towards you so quickly that you don’t even process his movements until his lips meet yours in a fierce kiss.

you hesitate for a moment before kissing back, feeling his arms wrap around your body, holding you tight to him, not allowing you to escape or leave ever again.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @sourkittie @rafeyslove @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @vogueprincess @auryyz @raysmayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl @ditzyzombiesblog @chiaraanatra @tobiaslut @drewsephrry @1aarii1 @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie

[absolutebl]

We've had recent disappointments with the endings to series. For me, Last Twilight, Only Friends, and 23.5 stand out. While I loved the Sign to the end, there was that unexplained Tharn getting his freedom from Chalothorn, which made the very ending not quite perfect. And while I loved Century of Love all the way through, I know some folks were disappointed at the ending.

What are some QLs that you consider to have really strong endings?

OOOO what a great question!

10 BLs With the Strongest Endings

Some BLs had better endings than the rest of the show deserved, and some were saved by the ending, while still others built up to a good ending throughout. So I suspect it kinda depends on ones definition of strong. But here are mine (you'll never guess what's at the top? but...) it's in no particular order

Seven Days - no but ACTUALLY think about it. That ending is truly phenomenal. It ties everything together, gives hope for their relationship without being cheesy AND is crazy romantic, plus it brings the narrative full circle. That ending shot, the direction, the plot, the characters, and the story ALL tied in a neat little bow. It ends by indicating that something is starting for them, something familiar it's just now they are together. Fabulous.

Light On Me - on the beach, the whole friendship group, the kiss that mirrors their couple habit of cheek squiging? Peak YA BL. It reminded me of Make it Right, and that's no bad thing... for me.

Our Dating Sim - domestic boyfriends and then the pan over to all their couple photos. So exactly them.

To My Star - yeah, the sex scene, but remember this was when we finally realized that JiWoo not only liked him all along but actually desired him all along. The tsundere character breaking open for us to see the soft underbelly. Suddenly, all of his behavior made sense in retrospect. They used the final ultra romantic sex scene as a CHARACTER REVEAL. Fucking genius.

Semantic Error - the BOYFRIENDS of it all, the harken back to both the anime and the manga (with that spank bank file), the teasing and then the breaking of the forth wall. It was multiple cheeky punches out to the audience in a tiny stinger of a scene. Not to mention it had a kind of BL "ending fairy" thing that connected to them both being idols. Perfectly executed.

Love For Love's Sake - back in beach territory but wow. I mean this show starts with an ending. And it takes a lot for me to believe in the happiness of a parable about death and self worth. They managed it with this show. But that ending was killer.

My Beautiful Man - the ending made me reassess everything about the show, the story, and the characters. The ending made me love the show. It changed my mind. It BLEW my mind. I might have kinda lost my mind. In real time.

Unknown - there were struggles with this show and not everyone enjoyed the ending but I totally flipping loved it. FINALLY. You can't tell me that "you don't even know what I dream of" line doens't live in your head rent free.

Unintentional Love Story - not the ending scene so much as the whole final episode, it's so good. It brings the story together, we get multiple big realizations, sad baby, learning that baby was abused too, defending baby, baby defending himself. RINGS!

The Eighth Sense - so much peak boyfriend after so much angst. The casual language play and teasing, the stealing of the drink, just everything, and also how very very college it all is.

10 Others I just LOVE

Be Loved In House: I Do - ultra pasteurized cheese fest

Laws of Attraction - THE CAPED WEDDING OUTFITS

About Youth - rainbow kiss cheese fest

Long Time No See - BLOOD COVERED KISSES

Restart After Come Back Home - the pan around lens flare kiss and everything it MEANS

Bad Buddy - It was so CLEVER

DNA Says Love You - the claiming and then the tussle at the cafe? Gorgeous. Adorable. No notes.

Oh! Boarding House - a family gathering while the dads are holding hands behind the couch, adorable

Where Your Eyes Linger - that damn glow up

Tinted With You - perhaps... poly?

Wow... so few Thai BL. I guess this is Korea's strength in the BL sphere? Also more Japan than I expected and outsized rep for Taiwan. (I actually could have stuck a few more from Taiwan on here but they just get SO CHEESY.)

(source)

dated mid August 2024, not responsible for great endings after that date

[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

Something something the concept of granting meaning and importance to an object/phenomenon/person by giving them a name

It is especially relevant in the world like the one ASOIAF is set in, where the name serves as an extremely important defining factor for many characters (mostly a family name but also their given one). And boy, did HotD writers lean into this - in their own way.

I am not the first one to point out that Jaehaera's name hasn't been mentioned in the show at all - not once. But guess who got to have one?

Sure, everyone absolutely needs to remember a girl who was raped by the prince (who is now the king) and who, except for that fact - which serves the purpose of vilifying said prince (and, in some way, by association, the entire TG) - had zero relevance to the plot. And so we have Dyana - because this absolutely unbiased show can't have anyone forget that the Greens' candidate for the throne has some deplorable proclivities. She even got some extra screen time in season 2: once again, absolutely unnecessary except for reminding the audience of her existence - and of Aegon's sins.

But who cares about the only remaining child of the king; the girl who came within a hair's breadth from death and then lost her twin brother; the one true joy left to her mother? Why would she even need a name?

Jaehaera's fate in the show is uncertain (the writers didn't do away with her at the very least) - but for now she is not even a tool of the story but merely a dead weight that just had to be there for Blood and Cheese to have someone to choose from. And then she was simply conveniently (nearly) forgotten becoming just "Helaena's daughter" - no name, no face, no emotional attachment from the audience. I just wonder if the writers' unwilingness to actually involve Jaehaera in the story (or just let the viewers properly see her) comes from them being equally unwilling to make the audience remember her brother whose death and its consequences they are so eager to sweep under the rug in order to minimize the PR damage done to the Blacks.

P.S. Speaking about the importance of names - they need to be not only revealed but also remembered. Jaehaerys didn't end up nameless - but how many times was he actually called by his name in the show? Right off the bat I can remember only one such case: Aegon asking Helaena where he was in episode 1. And while I believe this was not the only time (I am terribly sorry but right now I can't make myself rewatch any part of season 2, not even for science - so feel free to point out the rest), I have a distinct feeling that he still was far more often referred to as "boy", "child", "son", "heir to the throne" and whatnot. Once again: no name, no memory - which IMO is exactly what the writers were going for.

[neolxzr]

OK so heres some of my favorite things that were talked about during the enter the florpus commentary thing yesterday:

one of jhonen's favorite things in the whole movie is the writing in zim's kitchen that says "do anything is real?"

they clarified specifically that gir was not lying and he did in fact eat a baby at the crazy taco

gir smells REALLY bad. theres like rotting organic matter in his body at all times. he stinks

zim's human suit is made out of actual human skin

zim is acting drunk on nacho cheese during that scene in his house because richard horvitz recorded it while drunk

they planned to have this whole thing with tak's ship only agreeing to go to moo-ping 10 because it knows tak is there. they wouldve shown her in silhouette during that brief explosion and she wouldve stowed away on the ship without anyone knowing and then wouldve shown up towards the end of the movie, but they decided to cut it out

zim did not need to frame membrane for a crime in order to get him into space prison and likely just tossed the guards like 5 bucks for it. its a shady place. they did specify though that if he did frame him for something, it would have been jaywalking

they pointed out during that scene where zim is celebrating peace day on dib's lawn that zim's reaction to seeing dib was very much genuine and that's just how his brain works. he is genuinely surprised to see him pop out of his own house. (they also described his reaction as like "being surprised to see your best friend")

the ham joke was ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL to the film and at some point jhonen remembered it and was like GUYS. WE ALMOST FORGOT THE HAM

there was supposed to be this joke where it cuts to and from gaz and dib in tak's ship and they would've had to stop at like a warp station or something and theyd be waiting in a long queue of spaceships and the radio is broken in the ship so theyre stuck listening to that one song. then itd cut to them like totally braindead drooling from listening to it for so long. and then a little later itd cut back a FINAL time and theyd know all of the words and both be singing along to it. but this was also cut out so only the last bit remained

when asked "who would win: minimoose or mrs. bitters?" the answer was along the lines of "neither, i think all of us lose in that scenario"

the tallest are just two dudes who happen to be the same height and therefore have to share the same job. they are not brothers and they are also not gay lovers ("as much as you want them to be, they are not. there is no love in this universe")

skooge is in fact alive and lives in zim's basement. they wanted to keep the number of "hey remember this thing from the tv show!" moments to a minimum so he was not mentioned in the movie. but he is there

[dekariosclan]

Hello my friend!

So we all know how amazing and wonderful Gale is, how kind, good, caring and funny he is. He is, in so many ways, a perfect man.

He is, however, only human. I have the tendency to idealise him, and forget this.

My question to you is - what do you think his flaws are? Both generally and as a husband/life partner.

💜

Ohhh I love this question so much ❤️ I am a hopeless romantic, and I adore Gale’s charming, sweet, loving adorkableness! He is truly amazing—but I can confirm NOBODY (and no relationship) is ever 100% perfect.

The thing about a long-term committed relationship is that, while your partner’s charms make the relationship wonderful, their flaws are what make it REAL. And that’s just as important.

So let’s talk about our charming Gale’s less-than-charming aspects, shall we?

[warning: this went from a short & concise answer to a rambling dissertation, please prepare yourself accordingly! Also I know this ask/answer was supposed to make Gale a little less perfect and help lessen our obsession, but uhhhh, I seem to have veered hard in the opposite direction 😂]

———

First off: The Pomposity™️ (I’m not 100% certain that’s even a real word but you know what I mean right) So we all know that by the end of the game, (human) Gale has come to accept himself as he is, and decided to henceforth be known as ‘Gale Dekarios, a most brilliant wizard of intentionally limited reknown.’ He’s come a lonnng way in cutting down his ego, but let’s be honest: some of it will never truly go away. And that’s fair, because he IS brilliant, and he IS talented, and he IS extremely passionate about magic.

…but it’s tough to remember all that and give him a pass when that usually-oh-so-adorable-finger-in-the-air is now aimed at YOU, as he declares that ‘after all, he IS an expert on [*insert topic here*] because he WAS awarded [*insert scholarly award here*] from the one and only [*insert impressive Blackstaff Academy professor here.*]’

And all you wanted was for your opinion to be taken into consideration regarding the wine selection at dinner.

———

Second: The Disarray / Messiness. Gale has a brilliant mind, one that he applies full throttle to any and all situations: concentration on magic spells, lance board strategy, calculations, poring over ancient tomes, and even figuring out how to cook something edible out of rotting fish heads and some moldy cheese (no veggies, though!)

The problem is, while his mind is brilliant and he will keep it laser-focused on his chosen subject at that current moment, from a day-to-day perspective he is straight-up scatter brained with all the things he has his hands in. We can see this in his vision of his tower: BOOKS. BOOKS EVERYWHERE. Some stacked in piles, some shoved onto shelves, some left open on the page he was reading when he got distracted, etc.

We also get confirmation of this from Tara in the epilogue:

Tara: The way he leaves his potions in absolute disarray—I know for certain he wasn’t raised in a barn, but you’d never know it.

It’s one thing to have books & potions & scrolls scattered throughout his library and sitting room—you have no complaints against that, you HAVE moved in with/married a wizard, after all—but to find them in the kitchen, wine cellar, even occasionally stuffed into your own wardrobe? It’s a bit much.

TLDR: Our rizzard is a hot mess.

———

Which leads us into perhaps his biggest flaw: The Fussiness.

So about all those books everywhere, on everything, all at once? You didn’t try and ARRANGE them or organize them for him, did you?…You did?! Oh, gods! No, no, he had an ORDER to them, you see, and he knew that the exact spell he needed could be found in the third book down in the stack next to the piano, page 453, why did you ever decide to move it?

Well, you explain as patiently as you can, it was in the way, and frankly you could tell from the dust on it that he hadn’t touched it in several yea—

BY ELMINSTER’S ELBOW, did you ALPHABETIZE his illusion scrolls??! Oh, for the love of—!

You get the picture.

There would undoubtedly be moments when you found yourself fully exasperated by this man and his exacting, fussy nature.

———

All that being said: true fights would be rare.

The occasional huffy remark or quickly-forgotten gripe would occur now and then as in any relationship, but a real, anger-filled argument? With heightened emotions and hurt feelings? Rare indeed.

The only thing bigger than Gale’s brain is his heart. And while his mind is dedicated to a great many things as mentioned above (magic studies, lance board, etc) his heart is 100% dedicated TO YOU, and you alone. So on those rare occasions after a fight has occurred, it does not take long for him to come down from the heat of the moment and realize, oh, hells, he’s been an ass, hasn’t he?

He knows you love him. His anxiety about not being enough for you has long since disappeared, and he’s calmed his worries that you would ever leave him, but still…there’s always a lingering concern that maybe you’ll grow distant from him after an argument.

If you are in the wrong and he is certain of it, he will be stiffly polite until you offer an apology, and then he will be taking you in his arms, kissing you passionately and telling you ‘all is forgiven my love, let’s never speak of this again’ (and trying hard to hide his relief that you apologized first, because he was not sure how long he would be able to hold out and stay mad at you.)

If HE is in the wrong, though? And you are truly mad at him? And he knows he really stuck his foot in it? Oh, boy.

You’ll be treated to an apology so eloquent it would make poets weep, and it will come packaged with hand-holding, pouting, pleading, and Gale getting down on his (bad) knees.

And if you’re still mad at him after that?

Well, then you’ll have to complete a gauntlet harder than anything Shar could ever throw at you. You’ll have to try and stay angry, explain your anger, AND explain to Gale why he won’t be easily forgiven, all while looking directly at this:

And this:

AND THIS:

…

…needless to say you will be failing, and hard.

Not that you mind, because the make-up sex will be absolutely phenomenal. Gale doesn’t just want to repair your loving bond after you’ve had an argument, he wants to improve it. Which requires much study and experimentation, of course.

And for awhile afterwards, all will be bliss again.

…until you find a pile of scrolls shoved under your side of the bed, and some open books scattered across your dresser, and you decide it time to do some organizing. ———

So yes, my friend. Gale definitely does have some flaws, and at some point they WOULD drive you crazy in any sort of relationship you have with him. Gale is wonderful, Gale is loving, but Gale isn’t perfect!!

…but when he takes you in his arms after you’ve made up, and his mouth is hungrily devouring yours, and he’s murmuring words of adoration against your skin as he trails his kisses down your neck, chest, hips—

Nevermind! I take it all back. He’s perfect. 😂

[axellis]

good morning im politely requesting people look at my post abt how the ancients see each other

under the cut some closeups + a ton of additional thoughts

hollyberry + golden cheese are also part of the crew of 'thinking pv is a bit naive', but he's also the most emotionally intelligent out of all of them and incredibly empathetic and thats something they both respect a whole lot .

dark cacao on the flipside can see how much of a mental toll being empathetic can be

white lily seems to have the most "whole" thought of pv - which would make sense, she's been with him the longest and has seen every facet that is pv. but even still her worries that he's too trusting of her are eating away at her thoughts- as such a pv shapeshifter made of her subconscious Would be way more naive .

in my head white lily's pv would be the last shapeshifter and in order to tell the difference between them white lily would ask if he ever doubted her . the real pv would say that he definitely struggled and had been lost and confused- but ultimately trusts her above all else . vs the shapeshifter who would just say "no I'd never doubt you" .

i didnt have room for it but i think dark cacao also recognizes hollyberrys seriousness . if you get drunk with someone enough times you'll start to piece together the really vulnerable moments you had with eachother . i think hollyberry and dark cacao have the closest relationship and im not saying this because im in love with both of them

golden cheese has a bit of a recollection issue and you can see that with hollyberry + cacao the most. golden cheese reminisces a Lot and that affects how she remembers the othera . hollyberrys is a bit of a trickier thing but in this instance golden cheese doesnt remember the braids. she knows hollyberry has a different outfit than before but doesn't pay it much mind

you might have noticed the pattern at this point of pure vanilla having a bit of a cutesy interpretation of all the ancients. he loves his friends so much that he has a bit of a harder time being critical of them. he thinks dark cacaos seriousness/grumpiness is endearing. to be honest its partly an inverse of shadow milks interpretation of the ancients (simple and positive vs simple and negative) but that wasnt entirely intentional. just interesting to notate now that im thinking of it

hollyberrys dark cacao is a bit of an inverse also to what i was talking about with dark cacaos hollyberry . shes seen the sweeter more heartfelt side of dark cacao and that shines through to her

if it wasnt for the outfit + hair, golden cheese's dark cacao would have probably been the last shape shifter standing

and i will stand by the dragon cacao headcanon till the day i die

golden cheese's was fun to think about bc of the little details that are different between the different shapeshifters- specifically in the neck area (bc thays the only portion you guys get to see) . dark cacaos is a bit more of a hanbok style, white lily has a turtleneck thing kind of happening, etc etc. i think pure vanilla has the most accurate idea of what she looks like .

i think white lilys interestingly enough would be the last one standing because i honestly dont think her golden cheese would even be talking with her :(( so we'd only really find out the difference when white lily's gc is forced to talk to her . white lily thinks that gc hates her and wants her gone but golden cheese's feelings are wayy wayyy more complicated. golden cheese doesn't want white lily gone she Is glad that she's back but its also hard. everything she loves is gone right now . but she's going to find a way to get it back- and if white lily can help than maybe that'll rekindle their relationship.

the cuteification beam still reaches for white lily despite how much pv knows her . i doubt this would help with white lilys feelings that pv is being naive bc shes looking at a shapeshifter based off of pvs subconscious and that subconscious is showing so mucy nostalgia it probably hurts

hollyberry in the past probably really babied white lily + pure vanilla because she Knows theyre not eating . shes observant as hell and will always demand they have at least one bite of something in order to figure out if they're Really "not hungry".

the last one would probably land on golden cheese's bc again . her feelings are complicated and as such her subconscious would showcase that multifaceted issue of "knowing this is your friend and also knowing your friend is responsible for your kingdoms destruction".

[blue-devil-of-the-lord]

What kind of desert do you think Kurt would like? Is there any German deserts in particular he would like?

This is an interesting questions, thank you. So...

We don't really know a lot of what he likes in canon, however I seem to remember to have read that he is fond of chocolate and biscuits, which means I'm going from there.

I'd like to think, that Kurt is something we call a "Naschkatze" where I'm from. Don't know if it's used in other parts as well, but it's quite common from where I'm from. It's basically someone who loves to nibble on sweets as often as they can. Literally translate to "snacking cat" or "nibbeling cat"

He's got a sweet tooth, you could say. So, going from there:

He loves pastry. Doesn't matter if it's cake or cookies or cupakes, he loves it. If it got chocolate? He's in heaven. So, it's good that he's from Germany because we've got some really good cakes, if I may say so:

Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte: This is one of the most stereotypical cakes that you can find when looking up "German Cakes" but it's really good. It traditionally consists of several layers of chocolate sponge cake, cherries, cherry liqueur, whipped cream and chocolate rasps. It named after the "Schwarzwald" which is a region in Baden-Wüttenberg, the "neighbour" of Bavaria. It's really tasty and I'd like to think that he would love that.

Baumkuchen: Literellay means "tree cake", originating from it's looks. It consists of several layers of dough when baking it, making it look like the age rings of a tree. It's art to explain, but it's really good, one of my favourites actually.

Kalter Hund: Literally "Cold dog", also referred to as "Kalte Schnauze" or "Kalter Platt". I think this would be one of his all-time favourites because it not only consists of chocolate but also of biscuits. It is made from layers of chocolate cookies and a cream of chocolate and coconut oil. There are different variations of it, which can differ in the ingredients used. It's a little harder to make, at least in my experience, but it's really worth it.

Pudding: Kurt is in love with this stuff, especially chocolate, however only when it's hommade. The incredibly overly sweet stuff from the stores does not taste good in his opinion, so he refuses to eat it. He may have a sweet tooth but not that sweet.

Spekulatius: Another typical german sweet, that's an alltime favourite among Germans. It's usually just sold during Christmas time, due to the different spices that are used for it.

Mousse au Chocolat: Of course he's not restricted to German desserts only. It's a french dessert and since France is a neighbour of Germany it's not that far-feched that he loved it growing up. It's fluffy, it's chocolate... What more could he ask for?

Grießbrei mit Roter Grütze: "Semolina porridge with red fruit jelly" It's not really a dessert but it's quite famous and I personally know many many Germans who love it, me included.

Germknödel mit Vanillesoße: Germknödel are a traditional specialty of Austrian and Bavarian cuisine and are also popular in other regions of the Alpine countries. They are steamed yeast dumplings filled with a plum jam filling (Zwetschgenröster). Although the classic version is filled with plum jam, there are also variations of yeast dumplings with other fillings such as poppy seeds, apricots or curd cheese. Personally, I have always loved the fruit filling. Top it with vanilla sauce and poppy seed sugar and it's perfect.

Pictures in order

It's a bit much, but there are so many good desserts. In general I think he loves anything with chocolate in it, as long as it's real chocolate and not some fake stuff from the industries. He prefers usually darker chocolate but especially in cake she doesn't mind so much. He also likes a bit more heavy desserts such as Germknödel or Grießbrei, especially since he's from Bavaria where such desserts are more common, from my experience. You are welcome to correct me though.

Hope this was helpful :)

[3cremepie3]

i couldn't find any rules so i was wondering a sebek smut fic with a male reader with the reader being a soft top. also can the kinks be praise(sebek receiving), hickies, rough, and any others you want to add.

can they also have a part with after care and when it hits morning sebek realises he is nearly late for training just for him to get up take a few steps then fall down.

also you shall call me cheese as i will be here more often

Yours

Synopsis - bottom Sebek x Male top reader ( smut + fluff 18+)

Warnings - anal sex, cum and stuff, unprotected sex, chocking, rough sex, teasing

A/n - thanks for the request this was challenging to write because I don’t write for male readers typically I hope I did well :)!!

“You good,” you asked. “Yes keep going,” he grunted. You followed his orders pushing yourself further into his warmth. You felt him clench around you once you hit the halfway mark. “Sebek you gotta relax for me okay? You’re doing so good baby.” You kissed up his neck sucking at the skin you already stained.

This served as a distraction so you could push yourself in all the way. “People are gonna see those Y/n!” He complained verbally but you knew he loved the feeling of being marked. He was possessive about the things he loved one of those being you.

“Gotta show others we’re together.” You kissed him in between talking sucking up the little amount of air he was huffing out. “I don’t want anyone stealing you from me,” you vowed. “Especially when we’re made for each other like this don’t you feel good?”

“Yes, I feel amazing.” He gasped rocking his hips back into yours. He had quickly gotten used to you remembering the shape of your cock that you had put in him many times before. “Wanna make you feel even better,” you confessed. One of your hands reached up to his nipples and the other to his cock that was spilling out his jockstrap.

You freed his dick getting a view of the pre that was smearing the fabric. You thrust into him faster watching it swing back and forth from the friction. It slapped against his abs leaving a glistening you would lick up later.

“Touch me please,” he pleaded. You did so sliding your hand on him up and down until your hand became wet. “You’re always so leaky,” you noted. “Don’t say things like that out loud it’s embarrassing.” You laughed you always loved how quiet he was compared to his normal voice that boomed over yours.

“Why don’t you speak up? No need to be quiet now no one’s here?” You watched as Sebek struggled to form even one word. His tongue was being gripped by his fangs. You couldn’t just let him be quiet when you were making so much noise it was embarrassing.

"Have nothing to say?" You questioned pausing all your movements. "Continue at once," Sebek demanded. "Only if you speak up." You looked at him while your hand glided over his tip. He was growing frustrated and attempted to move on his own. But you pulled out not allowing him to get his way.

"You humans," he huffed. You watched him gape around nothing. "Fine... please fuck me." He asked his hands cupping his face. "As you wish," You laughed. The bed creaked violently into the wall as you trusted inside of him. His hands gripped your forearms. You collapsed on top of him unlike Sebek you didn't have unlimited stamina.

"Ha pathetic human is that all you got?" Mocking me when you were just the whiny one? You alligators have such audacity," you scoffed. "Guess I gotta make you Whiny again." You tightened the grip on his hips and pulled him closer into you balls deep.

You watched his pupils dilate with the stretch. His hand went to grab your side. You swatted the weak attempt away and continued to plow into him. His ass recoiled into your hips creating a loud clapping rhythm. The sound of your love song would have a fast beat.

Sebek grabbed a pillow trying to stabilize his body. He couldn't grab you unless he wanted to end up like his very own hips brutalized. His eyes clasped themselves shut saving the tears that threatened to spill. He couldn't help but moan out as you gave him your all.

"Hurts too fast," He explained. "You like a challenge come on you can take it slut." He groaned at your harsh tongue against his nipples. He knew he was sure to be sore later as you had him folded into a mating press he would never dare to get out of.

You looked down at the sight amazed to see that he had quietly come. "I only touched you for a minute," you chuckled. "Yes, but it felt good." He basically whispers his words too ashamed to utter praise any louder. "God I love you," You sighed. Your hand went to his neck holding him in place as you rammed into that spot.

You felt his sticky cum on your stomach as you slid in and out. "So messy that's my baby." You tightened your grip on his neck. "Wanna mark you real good. How about my handprint as a temporary tattoo." Sebek couldn't answer you but you figured it out for him leaving bruising as you let yourself go inside of him.

You collapsed obviously spent from your moment of rage. You let go of his neck instantly realizing what you had done. Sebek took huge breaths trying to regain his composure. "Sorry baby oh my god," you gasped."It's just when you talk about humans something snaps in me," you explained.

"Enough if you want to make up for your erratic behavior then take care of your mess at least." Soon you and Sebek headed to your bathroom Ramshakles old school interior came in handy when it came to tubs. They were huge and could easily fit you and your muscular boyfriend.

You sat behind him admiring the mess you made of his neck. It was dark purple and red littered with hickies. "All these bite marks make me think you're secretly a vampire fae. You rubbed his shoulder blades inwards until you got to his neck. "What's your deal," he pouted. "My deal is my boyfriend that I just want to show off." Why not let everyone else know that we are not available and won't be anytime soon."

The next morning

After a relaxing evening, the both of you feel asleep like a semi-truck had hit you. In doing so you must've not set your alarms. Grim who always naturally woke up late banged your dorm practically off its hinges.

Sebek awakens in a frenzy. "Oh no I'm late for practice," he yelled. He scared your half-asleep body as he jumped out of bed just to fall to the ground. He grunted in pain holding his swollen body. You looked down a slight smirk on your face.

"I dont think you can go to practice today." And whos fault is that," he yelled.

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

grumpy!reader x sunshine!spencer

Ruffled Feathers

Summary: Spencer wants to go grocery shopping early while Reader prefers sleeping in.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff

Content warnings: none

Word count: 1.1k

A/N: thank you for the request, love 🩵

“Let’s get the grocery shopping done early,” Spencer said at seven in the morning. “That way we have the rest of the day to spend at my place if we want," he said. The word “early” has a completely different meaning to you than to your peppy, early-bird boyfriend.

While you believe early is 9 am and anything before that should be considered unnatural, Spencer is always up before the sun. It’s pretty common to wake up to sunlight forcing your eyes to open while Spencer is in the living room on his second cup of coffee and rereading Tolstoy or Dickens. He never minds you sleeping in. He’ll even offer to make your coffee if he sees you peeling the covers off.

He offered you a cup this morning, and God did you take every drop. You got halfway through the second cup before Spencer was already itching to leave. Something else Spencer enjoys a lot is grocery shopping, eager like a puppy ready for the park. Luckily he offered to drive while you nursed on your second cup, shielding it from any hazardous bumps on the way.

You could admit your frustration with Spencer not giving you the time to wake up before heading out, but your silence throughout the drive says plenty. He’s familiar with it. It’s the silence that comes with five hours of sleep. He understands this is not a time to dabble in the produce section or the dairy aisle. He also understood you were ready to leave before even getting started, as you didn’t even try to change out of your pajamas.

That is one of the best things about having a profiler as a boyfriend. All the subtle cues and behavior changes he picks up on, and if he knows you well enough, he acts accordingly. So when he puts the car in the park, you feel him watching you take that last satisfying gulp of sugary liquid. Caffeine courses through your blood as you shakily put your travel mug between you in the cup holder. You both don’t speak a word when Spencer hands you a folded-up sheet of paper. You unfold it and read his scribbles: milk, cheese, ice cream, peanut butter, celery, sliced apples.

You look at Spencer. “There’s not much on mine.” Your voice is still groggy, but you clear it to sound more awake. It doesn’t work.

“I can take care of the rest.” He tells you, holding up his half (⅔ technically). “You can meet me at the checkout and we’ll be ready to head home.”

You nodded, mostly at the end of that sentence. Because crawling back into bed after a brief productive period has never sounded so heavenly. You were literally dressed for the occasion and suddenly eager to grocery shop, knowing this list is brief and the store is small. You’ll be done in minutes.

Upon entering the store, you and Spencer grab your respective shopping carts and split up. Spencer takes his cart and kicks on, his left foot perched onto the cart as he glides forward like a ballerina turned rogue from her box. You, however, patrol up and down, finding items in various orders. The brands you’re used to were in plenty. You even grabbed an extra jar of peanut butter for your secret (sometimes inebriated) snacking purposes.

Remembering said snacking ventures, you recall your favorite candy bar. You also recall how you’ve been low on stock at your place for weeks since they’re only sold at Spencer’s local store. The candy aisle is feet away at this point, so the decision is obvious. You charge toward it, with the brand and packaging in mind. You scan the shelves up and down, prominent brands obvious with saturated wrappers and bold lettering. At the end of the aisle, though, you learn the hard way that the candy bars, your candy bars, are out of stock.

Granted, it’s not a big deal. But it’s also a very big deal.

You try to drown out the deep sound of your disappointment. It strikes your soul, yet you push on, toward the self-checkout area. Spencer is already there, scanning items, and waving you over as if you didn’t already see him. You use your caffeine-coated might to push the cart along, past the forming line.

You give Spencer your items, per his request for extra points on his value card. You also let him bag and place them in the cart. Spencer nods and smiles as he reviews each item. The beep of the scanner is almost perfect with his efficiency and the look of small joys on his face is nearly enough to drown out your slightly exaggerated despair. Caffeine can help you behave the opposite, even though exhaustion is soon to follow.

You look back to find your cart empty, the other filled with eight bags. You both head to the exit and then to the car, each carrying four bags. The sun begins to blaze and the early summer heats up your fuzzy pajamas. The car is mere feet away as sweat breaks. Spencer, of course, cannot relate. Because every time you look over from one end of the parking lot to the other, he has this smirk on his face that you can't quite read.

You open Spencer's car's back door and put your bags in first. After shaking your arms from the burn of the weighted plastic bags left behind, you reach for the passenger door. Spencer, on the other hand (literally, he’s still holding bags, risking spillage), reaches out for your wrist. With your fingers wrapped around the handle, you look at your boyfriend with questioning eyes. He gives you one of the bags, leaving its own imprint on his skin. He says, "Take it," his smirk grows.

One eyebrow pricks up with a look of suspicion. All questions in your mind fall under the What Did You Do? Category. You take it anyway, with both hands as you let go of the door handle. “Do I ask?”

“Look at the bottom.”

You do as told, continuing to stare as you send your hand on a spelunking mission for secrets you’re not sure what to feel about. The matte finish with raised lettering screams out something very special. Your fingers brush against the sharp corners of the foil layer in the middle, and you count three of them: candy bars. Your favorite candy bars. You look up at Spencer. And as your skepticism melts into a soft pout, Spencer does the same. Is he mocking you? Yes. Does it soon morph into genuine pride at being the best boyfriend ever? Also yes.

And after your expression melts, your arms do too as they fall limp around Spencer’s waist. You hug him tight while burying your face in his chest.