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celestiamour · 2 months

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‧₊˚✧ ❛[ the "dying" wolverine ]❜

ft. logan howlett x gn! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ taking care of logan when he’s sick┊0.8k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, established relationship

➤ author's note: i’m feeling like shit so i’m making him suffer with me

what part of regenerative healing don’t you understand? it’s impossible for him to get sick in any capacity as his immune system is stronger than the adamantium in his body, so feel free to read any of the other logan fics written by all the amazing writers on this platform!!

but let’s say that he somehow contracted a special bug that managed to get past all that and managed to make him fall ill, requiring you to take care of him while wade goes on a mission to figure out what’s wrong with him…

this headstrong two-hundred-year mutant who can take stab wounds without flinching and is an invincible tank in battles will be the whinest son of the bitch. he always lets his guard down around you, but he’s the most vulnerable and immature that he’ll ever allow himself to be around anyone since he can’t remember the last time (or if he has ever in his life) felt so shitty. shivering despite being feverish and covered up in blankets which just made him sweaty and uncomfortable, an itchy nose that wouldn’t sneeze when he needed it to, coughing his lungs out every two minutes— it’s so alien to him.

when you finally show up to look after him, he’ll have uncharacteristically big puppy eyes as you gently place your hand on his forehead to gauge how bad it is. “how are you feeling, lo?”

“i feel like i’m going to fucking die.” there are several discarded tissues and water bottles overfilling the nearby trashcan, but it was clear that he had no idea how he was supposed to make himself feel better and suffering.

“i can tell,” you chuckle at how dramatic he sounds and it makes him frown, but he’s just so thankful that you’re here to take care of him (he doesn’t exactly trust al to do it, that woman is a bit too mysterious and cryptic for him, and the medicine she offered smelled funny even to his dulled senses). “let me go make you some soup.”

he doesn’t want you to leave at first because your cold skin feels so good against him, but he’ll lightly doze off for a bit now that he’s more comfortable and feels safer. don’t expect him to stay asleep for long though, he’ll get up from his little while you’re in the middle of cooking chicken vegetable soup to wrap his arms around you and rest his head on top of yours until you finish.

“why are there barely any vegetables in the fridge? i could only find half a carrot and wilted celery.”

“i don’t think anyone here eats that stuff.”

“logan, you need to eat your greens— all you guys do, how are all three of you in such good shape then?!”

“eh.”

he can’t make anything more complicated than butter noodles, wade sets nearly everything on fire, he feels slightly guilty eating the food made by an elderly blind lady when he’s already freeloading at the moment, and constantly ordering take-out becomes expensive. you’ve given some food in tupperware for him to eat up, but it isn’t quite the same. as if being sick didn’t make him miserable enough, he’s so fucking pissed that he couldn’t properly taste your freshly-cooked food and will make it known.

you scoff that it’s just soup and pour it out in a bowl for him to eat, but you’ll quickly find yourself spoon-feeding him. yes, his hands still work with perfectly fine motor functions. no, you’re not passing up the opportunity to baby him while he rolls his eyes (he’ll grunt at most and doesn’t say a word of protest, claiming that he’s merely allowing it since he’s too tired to fight with you over it and very glad no one could see it happening).

“here comes the airplane~”

“i’m a grown-ass man, don’t be ridiculous.”

“a grown-ass man without an ounce of whimsy in his life, open your fucking mouth and eat.”

this is one of the lower points in his life where he doesn’t quite understand why this is happening to him yet, so you obviously have give him as much affection as possible! keeping a cold glass of water nearby and a wet rag to dab on his face, he rests his head upon your thighs and you swear that you can hear him purring like a kitten. there’s not better pillow than his lover, soft, warm, and full of love as you hum a song to lull him to sleep.

“let’s get married one day…” he not sure how that slipped past his lips, it might be the fever talking for him, or the fact that he’s completely relaxed without any tension in his muscles and feeling himself falling in love all over again when you smile so sweetly at him

“okay, but you need to sleep and get better first.” you place a gentle kiss on his forehead until his eyes slowly drift shut, “i love you, logan.”

#📜. her works #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman

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lunammoon · 3 months

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🎀👖🍰🎁 -For the ask thing

Under readmore.

I've come up with more AUs since the last time this was ask

Marion Is The Tardis

So, in the AU where Marion is the TARDIS console (which with the newest episodes in mind might be very interesting. "Doctor, don't mean to alarm you just to let you know, the God of Death is hitching a ride with us." "What" "Yeah. Like I said I don't mean to alarm you..it's being dealt with" "How" "Can't say. I mean literally can'y say. Don't about it though worry").

The idea I had is Marion having a physical form that LOOKS fairly human, but is vaguely uncanny in the things that she says and does (I had an idea that she does the Janet thing where she always appears out of the corner of her eye and also that if multiple people are talking to her, they might describe her as being in different places). Her "projection" can leave the TARDIS, but it can't (or won't it's hard to tell) enter Other TARDISes.

She's possibly anchoring herself to the Doctor when he leaves. If asked if she's trapped in the TARDIS Marion asks the asker if they consider themself trapped in their body. Console!Marion is experiencing all of time all at once and her personal "present" is what she is currently focusing on (she implies she doesn't really have a choice on what to focus on at any given time and uses metaphors like looking at a particular page on a book or the rolling of dice).

Console!Marion can talk to multiple people at once assuming they are physically inside of the ship. Marion kind of helps the Doctor property pilot the TARDIS, but it's tricky.

Marion is a Time Lord and the Doctor is an odd human.

So we start out with a Patrexi named Emaeharayowen (read the name out loud). Emaehar is sat in front of the untempered schism, she sees all of time and all of space and the main thing she takes away from it is three things. The first is that the universe is full of so much beauty and wonder, the second is that the universe is full of so many creatures that want to destroy that beauty and wonder, and the third is that the Time Lord policy of non-interference allows the second to destroy the first and she can't have that.

Em doesn’t go to the museum with the intent to steal a capsule, but the woman with dark brown hair and eyes insisted and she's not one to ignore that sort of thing.

So she flies the capsule best she can (the ship likes her but it's navigation system is wacky and the previous owner used so many custom settings the manual is useless) going around a fixing things as they go wrong to keep the universe universing.

Late 1962 she investigates one such incident where aliens attempt to freeze Earth solid aided by a young girl named Susan Foreman who has also been trying to fix things. (Read the novel Time and Relative)

Crisis averted, Susan regularly goes to the junkyard where (I'm not sure if Susan calls her Miss Em or thinks her full name is her spelling her name and calls her Marion) has landed her TARDIS because she's very cool and she teaches her advanced science

one day, in November 1963, she's followed by two teachers and her grandfather Dr. John Smith who want to know where she's going off to.

The three all enter the TARDIS. Dr. Smith messes with the console trying to open the door. The TARDIS flies off and Em doesn’t know how to get back as she never set the coordinates in the first place. She just set them to take her where there was trouble.

More things happen. Susan goes home with Ian and Barabara while Doctor John stays

Em taps into the Time Vortex and so she knows when John is in danger

then one day, after an antartic incident with Cybermen and his age catching up to him, despite Em's best efforts to get him home, he dies.

From here I'm toying with a few ways to bring in other Doctor’s bc I don't want them to be full separate guys but either Em accidentally gives him a regeneration cycle trying to heal him (bc surely something like Old Age can be fixed. She can't lose John NOW, she refuses!), John is still the Timeless Child. He just got chucked to Earth instead of Gallifrey (...huh...I didn't think humans could do that...). Some kind of Reincarnation with memories where soon after the old man dies, the TARDIS takes Em to a certain time and place on Earth with a man with a Beatles haircut swearing he's her friend and having his memories. Em travels with him. Ben and Polly are skeptical and accuse her of replacing him so soon until he says something only John would know.

Don't know what else to say except her relationship with the Master can be summed up by the two of them initially being friends (agreeing non intervention is bullshit) but growing apart because his ideas of intervention would result in mass destruction. Their vibe is as such that mutiple people thing that they are divorced. He also is weirdly obsessed with and keeps trying to steal John in like a "divorced dad trying to turn the kids against the mom and get full custody" way. She flat out hated the Rani before and hates her even more when she attempts to experiment on John (she got to him before she could do much but holy shit). And I haven't pinned down her relationship with Romana, but Romana is exasperated by her but for different reasons than the Doctor.

Marion's ideal go to outfit is loose pants and a comfortable sweater with boots in colder weather. Perhaps with an overcoat. Her go to outfit in warmer weather is linen pants and a button-up or t-shirt. She also prefers suits over dresses.

Her favorite cake flavor is chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream icing. She's not really specific about types of cakes, but she doesn't particularly care for carrot or yellow.

Marion would be most happy to receive trinkets and things that the giver claims "reminded them of her". She herself is the kind of gift giver to passively make notes of things that people enjoy and their interests and then when she comes across something she thinks they might enjoy, she'll get it for them if she can.

#clsfaoqfc #the moon writes #celery fic #celery snacks #celery asks

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peachesofteal · 9 months

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Light on - single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader This will make the most sense if you read this first

Simon is chopping vegetables when the power goes down.

It happens in slow motion. The lights waver, warm yellow glow from the living room lamp trembling before it goes out with the television, along with the bright white glaze of the bulbs in the kitchen. They flicker, they flare, dipping his world into darkness.

Months ago, he might have panicked. His anxiety might have peaked, he would have considered checking the locks, ensuring the shades are drawn, validated any weak points of entry. He would have gone for closest stashed handgun.

But things are different now. His mind doesn't jump to a security breach, or an imminent threat. He doesn't consider his consider his "go bag", he doesn't reach for his "work" phone.

Instead, he only thinks of you.

He raises his voice to ensure it reaches you through the flat. "Think we lost power."

"Simon!" Your voice is drenched in fear, the two syllables of his name dripping in it, white flash of panic just on the edge, and the knife goes down easy on the cutting board, carrots and celery nearly finished, electric burners on the stove turning from red to black. Candles. There are candles in here somewhere, aren't there? And flashlights.

"Sweetheart?" The flashlight on his cell clicks on, and he double checks the knife is safely away from the edge of the counter. He calls your name, waiting for a response, for an acknowledgment from Emma's room, where the door is open with his girls inside, one of them fresh out of the bath and hopefully, nearly asleep.

There's no answer. He sweeps the flashlight across the ground, hoping to avoid blinding you or Emmaline, working his way closer to the pitch black doorway. The space in his mind that was calm a moment ago, now begins to spiral. Why aren't you answering him? "Honey? You alright?"

Emma begins to cry. It's not her hungry cry, or her full nappy cry, or her attention cry, but something else, something scared. Distressed.

He's in the room with the flashlight pointed at the ceiling to ensure it bounces off the white paint and around the four walls within a second, heart now hammering in his chest, and when he finds you, spine stiff, eyes peeled wide in terror, something in him breaks.

You're standing in front of the crib, Emmaline cradled tightly in your arms, rapid rise and fall of your chest too fast, too uncontrolled, your usual whimsical, effortless beauty marred by a grim absence, your body frozen into a cage around the baby, empty gaze locked on the floor.

He recognizes it immediately. Knows it too well, knows it in himself better than anything else, a cursory reaction pushing him forward- his touch over yours, his hands supporting Emma's weight. You gasp into him, wild, staggered breaths that make his stomach twist, and he rubs a soothing palm down your spine. "It's okay." He coos. "You're okay, just breathe. I'm here. You're safe, mama, I've got you." Emma hollers, confused and scared, and he pulls her into his chest, holding her there with one arm, another still tethered to you, trying to jog you back to yourself, to your body. To him. "Just breathe, sweetheart. You're alright, take a big breath."

It doesn't work, and he can't do both, so he makes a split second decision, one he hopes doesn't make everything worse. "I know, baby girl. I know. Mama's alright, she's okay." He bounces Emma, relaxing a fraction when her crying settles, and then leans in to cup your cheek, tipping your face up to his. "I'm going to put her in the living room, honey. In the pack and play, okay? I'll be right back. Jus' keep breathing." You give him nothing except for an attempt at a deeper inhale, and he soothes Emma with a close cuddle, finding your phone and pulling it from the dresser to make sure the baby isn't left alone in the dark.

She goes into the little pen in the living room so easily, already nearly asleep again, and he pats her back for a moment, ensuring she's comfortable before running into the room, back to you.

You're blinking now, cheeks wet and shining in the dark, breathing a bit less haggard, and it kills him, haunts him, to see you so terrified, so lost in your own head. "Hey sweetheart. Can you hear me?" He touches you carefully, intentionally, the lack of resistance encouraging to the point he feels confident enough to hold you, cradling your head against his chest, curled over your body like a shield.

"Si-Simon." Your fingers tighten into his side.

"It's me. I'm here, I've got you."

"Em..."

"She's in the next room. She's okay." He smooths a palm over your temple, into your hair. "Let's take a look at you, sweet girl, can we do that? Can you look at me?" You tilt back, eyes and lids sluggish, but with it, conscious, and the anxious knot in his heart relaxes slightly.

"The lights." You stammer, and he nods.

"The electric went out. Did it scare you?" You give him a confused look, like you didn't hear him, or didn't understand. He strokes a thumb across your tear stained cheek and repeats himself. "It's okay, did the dark give you a fright?"

"N-no. Not..." You shake with the denial. "It's... is there a fire?"... what? He cocks his head. A fire?

Oh.

His sweet, sweet girl. Not afraid of the dark, only lost and tormented by your grief. Terrified of losing again, trapped in a nightmare that is all too familiar to him.

"No, there's no fire, angel. I'm right here. I'm here, with you." He uncurls your frozen fingers to splay them flat against his chest, over where his heart thumps steadily, covering it with his own. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"You promise." You croak, and he hums, rocking you slowly, gently swaying in the dim light of the phone's flashlight.

"I promise." He swallows the shiver in his voice, burying his nose atop your hair, holding you as tightly as he can. "I swear. Nothing could keep me from you, nothing. Remember?" You rasp out a yeah, feathery soft and feeble, and he kisses the crown of your head, sweet and slow, rubbing your back, your shoulders, kneading the tension from your muscles until the glaze of your panic fades, somber expression tightening across your face. "None of that." He whispers, because he knows what you'll say, he know how you'll try to apologize, try to explain it. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

He gets you folded up on the couch in his arms after locating and lighting most of the candles, setting up a few flashlights in the bathroom and bedroom, collection of mix matched scents littering the coffee table. You're weepy and exhausted, watching Emma sleep in the pack and play, her blissful little face sugar plum sweet as she dreams, and he tucks you into his chest, laying you down, facing her, mouth pressing little kisses to your temple, your cheek, your ear.

"Close your eyes." He encourages when you yawn. "You can sleep. I just want to hold you." The fireplace pops, and you crack an eyelid wide.

"She might wake up." You mumble.

"I know, I'll get her." He soothes, and you wilt, easily reassured by him, something that makes his chest swell with pride. He keeps his fingers moving, stroking across your skin, settling you into twilight, and just as you slip into your own dreams, he whispers a final testament, something he carries with him, every second of every day. "I've got you. I've got you both."

#peaches writes #light on #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader

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lovebugism · 2 months

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steve request for adjusting back to normality with him after the upside down ends? however much u wanna write 🤭🤍🤍 ur writing is gorgeous btw

ty angel! hope you like it!! — steve helps his agoraphobic gf leave the house for the first time since the world ended (established relationship, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of agoraphobia | 1.5k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

You sit on the stairwell and tie your shoes, trying desperately to ignore the trembling of your anxious fingers. The thin laces threaten to slip from your tremoring hands as you knot one loop into the other. You couldn’t hide from your worry if you tried.

Steve’s heavy footsteps sound behind you in a steady, even rhythm as he walks down the stairs. You can hear the dull clapping of the boy patting his pockets to ensure his keys and wallet haven’t yet fallen from them. You know he’ll do exactly that another ten times before you step foot out of the house. He’s just as anxious as you are these days.

“Almost ready?” he says, huffing, though a smile is evident in his voice.

You nod to yourself and make careful work of fastening the laces. “Mhm,” you hum.

“Did you make sure to pack those Ants on a Log things? ‘Cause Dustin’ll kill me if we don’t bring ‘em,” Steve frets, for the second or third time that morning. He stills on the step just behind you and crosses a pair of golden arms over his chest. “Because, you know, he’s the only kid in America who actually likes celery.”

You tilt your chin to look up at him, smiling despite the fear pinching your chest. “Everything’s in the basket, Stevie.”

“Including the—”

“Yes, including the drinks. And the sandwiches. It’s all in the fridge,” you finish for him. “And the blanket’s in the car, so… Everything’s ready.”

Steve’s chest deflates with a distant sigh of relief. He’s been so used to doing everything on his own — carrying the load of that burden entirely by himself — that he forgot what it meant to have someone else to lean on.

“God, I’m so in love with you,” he murmurs fondly, mostly to himself, as he bends at the waist to kiss your hair. The plush of his lips brush your temple in a warm touch you lean instinctively into.

With a wide hand on your shoulder, Steve feels for the first time how tense you are. All rigid, muscles taut, like cradling a rock in his palm. You’ve kept a brave face for him all day, but there’s only so much hiding you can do.

“You’re still okay with this?” he wonders aloud as he stands to full height again.

His scruffy face is all twisted with concern, but you’re not looking at him to see it. You tie your right sneaker with a pair of graceless hands, where you seem to hold most of your anxiety, and scoff at the silly question. “Am I okay with the… picnic?” you echo.

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, lips jutted, as he walks past you down the steps. He turns and leans against the railing, trying hard to be casual. “‘Cause, you know, if you weren’t, we could just have it in the backyard or something. Make all the little shits come here.”

It takes you a moment too long to catch his meaning.

Sometimes you forget that you haven’t left the house all year. You’ve fallen into such a routine here, at Steve’s house (which you’ve come to see as your own), that you’ve forgotten there’s a whole world outside of it. A whole world you shut yourself out of after it nearly ended — after it chewed you up and spat you out again.

You tell yourself that you survived. You tell yourself that you lived in spite of the unfavorable odds. But sometimes, when you feel like shards of flesh and bones instead of a real-life human being, you wonder if you’re alive at all.

“I’m good, Steve,” you assure despite the waver in your voice. Your hands fumble with the laces, and you have to start all over again. “It’s just the park, babe. I can make it to the park.”

Steve nods in response, raking an anxious hand through his hair. He swallows down any attempts to remind you that you’ve barely made it out of the garage, let alone to the park.

“Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to be this pale in the middle of July, anyway,” you joke with a forced laugh.

The only time you really see the sun is when you’re sitting out on the patio — sipping at your morning coffee or watching Steve languish in the pool. You hardly last more than an hour, though, before a plane rumbles overhead or a car engine thunders too loudly. That’s all it takes for everything to come rushing back to you. The monsters, the soldiers, the blood. Then you lock yourself away all over again.

You hope this time is different.

Steve nods again, always hopeful, if only for your sake.

“Okay. Just… Just making sure, you know?” he trails off, then scrunches his nose. “Should we have a codeword, anyway? Like, for when the kids annoy the shit outta me, and I wanna get the hell outta there?”

You squint to yourself, pretending to ponder the question, as you rise from the stairs. You take a few steps downward until you’re standing just ahead of Steve — a few inches taller than him now.

“How about… Get me the hell outta here?” you offer with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

A wide, pink grin blossoms on his mouth. “That’s perfect, actually,” Steve muses sarcastically, then meets you halfway when you lean down to kiss him.

It’s a chaste and very innocuous peck that tastes faintly of Steve’s mouthwash and the peanut butter you licked from the spoon after making Dustin’s Ants on a Log.

Despite its fleeting nature, you hang onto the simple kiss your entire way through the front door.

The first step out of the house is the hardest.

You struggle to feel the ground beneath your feet as your mind threatens to wander. Thoughts of death plague your mind despite your attempts to push them away — roaring demogorgons, exploding guns, screaming teenagers. You have to fight the urge to cover your ears when a helicopter whizzes overhead, hidden somewhere in the clouds but sounding much closer than that.

Steve holds your hand the entire way. “Almost there,” you hear him mumbling beneath the heartbeat woosh, woosh, wooshing in your ears. Your eyes squeeze shut. He leads you to the car and squeezes your hand. “You’re doing amazin’, babe. Just a couple more steps.”

You’re at the car in five seconds flat, though it had felt like five minutes at the time — and took approximately five years off your life. You feel eons better when you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Steve’s 733i. You feel more grounded there — with the tires against the asphalt, and Steve’s hand on your thigh, and the radio cranked all the way up.

You’re still a shaking mess when you get to the park, but the kids are a good enough distraction.

You opt to busy your anxious hands with the picnic — handing out food, protecting drinks, and ensuring the emptying basket doesn’t blow away. You sit in the shade in the center of Steve’s quilt as leaves rustle in the warm breeze, allowing bits of summer sun to peek through and glitter on your skin.

You keep a watchful eye on the kids around you as they scatter mindlessly about, making sure no one ventures far enough where you can’t see them. Steve yells at them for it so you don’t have to — shouts at Max and El for getting too close to the tree line while he tosses a ball to Lucas.

He’s slowly mastering the art of throwing with his left hand. He hasn’t been able to lift his right one over his head since Starcourt. There’s a persistent ache in his shoulder he hasn’t been able to get rid of.

He walks over to you when the distance grows too much to bear, twisting his arm with a screwed-up face as he tries to find the root of the pain. “Whaddaya got for me, sweet thing?” he asks with a lopsided smile.

You reach into the basket beside you and pull out the last sandwich of the bunch, which you kept aside especially for him, wrapped neatly in plastic.

You hiss playfully through your teeth, then squint faux apologetically up at him. “All that’s left is tomato-avocado…” you joke, feigning horror.

Steve’s face twists. “Ugh. Seriously?” he huffs in disappointment.

“No,” you hum in response, smiling as you pass him his favorite sandwich. “Here you go.”

It’s a simple turkey, ham, and bacon number with all the fixings, but he particularly likes how you make it. (You argue that it can’t taste any better than a diner-made sandwich, but Steve always insists otherwise.)

Your fingers brush when it takes it from you. Steve finds it difficult not to melt for you entirely, and not just because of the sweltering summer heat.

He’s spent half of his life believing that no one ever gave him a passing thought — or that, at the very least, he was only ever an afterthought. But you remind him every day that he’s so much more than the nothing he often sees himself as. You remind him, through silly picnics and sandwiches made with love, what it means to be truly cared for.

“I love you,” Steve hums quietly, adoration melting in his honey eyes. “You know that?”

You nod once, hiding a smile as you squint one eye from the beaming sun. “I know.”

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #st drabbles #stevie drabble #event: bug's summer fic fest '24

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d3add0vedonoteat · 8 months

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Chicken Soup for Carmy

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ harsh language, sexism and violence in one scene (not from Carmy). Hurt/comfort, fluff.

A/N: I’m literally feral for this man. I’m sick atm and I started thinking about taking care of Carmy while I was making chicken soup. Bonus combo with Carmy protecting you from an asshole customer. Not proofread bc my brain is rotting. Plz be nice this is my first time posting a fic 🥺

It was cold. You braced yourself against the harsh Chicago wind as you made your way briskly down the street. After a late night phone call from your brother sent you into a spiral, you couldn’t sleep. You’d been tossing and turning all night until finally, at 4am, you flung off the covers and got dressed. It wasn’t a surprise that you’d come here. This place consumed all your mind and your heart since you started working here a few months ago. You used your key to unlock the door in the alley, sighing with relief as the warmth of The Beef welcomed you inside. It was quiet, the lights were down, it was peaceful. You slipped off your sneakers trading in your kitchen clogs and tucked your things safely away in your locker. You tied your handkerchief on your head as you moved. It was so comforting, the routine of The Beef’s prep work. You felt so at home, moving from the prep area to the walk in, diligently beginning the tasks that didn’t need to be started for a few more hours. He would understand. You thought to yourself as you began to prepare fresh stock for the day. He was a man after your own heart, your boss, Carmen Berzatto.

Avoidant, chaotically emotional, one wrong thing away from a complete meltdown, that you both disguised as workaholic tendencies. As you finely chopped onions, your mind quieted. Everything was shut out except for the task at hand. Your brother’s angry voice on the phone accusing you: “you never come home! You don’t even care about us! You can’t take come take care of your own mother?!” was drowned out by the rhythmic pound of your knife on the cutting board. You were in the zone.

Until a voice startled you out of your bubble. “Chef?” You jolted, looking up at the man before you. Carmy’s hair was messier than usual, the bags under his eyes were deeper and more purple. His lips were parted with each soft breath he took. He gave you a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”

“I uh-” your mouth felt dry and you tripped over your words, as usual when he set those intense blue eyes on you. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Carmy nodded, not pushing you any further. All he said before moving toward the office was a simple: “Heard, Chef.”

You watched him go, noticing the slump of his shoulders and the labor of his normally spry step. There was no mistaking it, Carmen was sick. You stared at the office door for a long moment before you made up your mind.

You set a heavy bottomed pot on the stove with some olive oil. Your hands moved with well practiced efficiency as you chopped garlic and onions, celery and carrots. The garlic and onions went in first. Then the celery. A sprig of thyme and a dash of white wine. While that simmered you quickly seared some chicken breast and chopped it into perfectly bite sized pieces. All into the pot with chicken stock and water, tightly covered to develop the flavors. Next came the pasta. You cracked eggs into the well of flour, mixing and kneading until it became a smooth golden dough. You carefully, tenderly rolled the dough and cut it into thick, short noodles. A bath in hot water to cook, then they too joined the pot. In no time at all, you were ladling a generous portion into a bowl. You set a toasted piece of chibatta on the side, grabbed a spoon, and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves. Softly, you knocked on the office door.

“Yeah?” His voice responded.

“Chef?” You entered, nervous. Words failing you as they so often did in his presence, you set the bowl before him. Carmy’s eyes widened. The aroma made his mouth water. He looked to you, gaze softening. “You made me chicken soup?”

Your cheeks grew warm. “Y-yeah, I mean chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

Carmy couldn’t believe you. You noticed? He smiled at you. You were so beautiful. You were always so confident and sure on the line, delegating with efficiency, respect, and authority. He had hired you the second you stepped into The Beef. Your resume was impressive but there was something in the way you carried yourself that truly earned the golden reputation you had in the culinary industry. But you were different with him, in the occasional moments like this where it was just you and him. Shy, almost bashful, gentle, and soft. He loved it. He wanted more of it. He lifted the spoon, bringing a bite to his lips.

“Gotta get a little of everything.” You muttered, eagerly awaiting his response.

Carmy shot you a sideways smile. It was good. No, it was better than good. The warm broth slid down his throat and each bite exploded with a depth of flavor he couldn’t believe. It was pure comfort. It reminded him of being a little kid staying home sick from school. Curled up on the couch while Jerry Springer played, eating crackers and ginger ale until his mom would bring a bowl of chicken noodle soup. But this soup, your soup, was more than that. People always talk about cooking with love but he swore he could taste it. Each ingredient had been so carefully handled. Perfectly chopped vegetables, moist and flavorful chicken. The warm feeling in his chest grew as he inspected the bowl.

“Did uh, did you make this pasta fresh?” He asked, eyeing you.

“Yeah, it’s better that way.” You blushed.

“Thank you, chef.” He said. “It’s really, really good.” Carmy looked down, suddenly feeling heavy. The fear of closeness set into him and all he could think about was how he’d fuck this up. “You-you didn’t have to make this for me.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” You insisted. “It was no big deal.” You began to leave, giving him one last truthful smile. “I like taking care of you.”

“I like taking care of you.” Your words rattled through Carmy’s mind all day. Throughout all of lunch, prep, and dinner he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said. The soup you had made was the first thing he’d eaten in too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him and you’d just done it because you noticed he wasn’t feeling well. No motive, no games, just tender love and concern.

Love.

Carmy shook his head to try and shake the thought from his mind. No, no, no there was no way you actually cared about him. Not like that. You were just being nice.

That’s just who you are; nice. You were always so kind. The way you’d help Marcus workshop pastries, the way you’d make Tina laugh and listen to her talk about whatever trouble Louis had gotten in, how you’d encourage Sydney and remind her that she can do this. Even the way you’d throw snark right back at Richie or how’d you’d always set aside a portion of Family for Fak and Sugar, even Pete. You were always thinking of others. Carmy wasn’t special.

Yeah. Not special.

Carmy insisted the thought as he scrubbed the grill. Not special. Not special. Not special.

“Carmy?” There you were. You were always there. You had a thick denim jacket on, bag on your shoulder, knit beanie pulled down over your hair. Your brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carmy shook his head. “I’m fine… you uh- you heading out?”

You shrugged, hoisting your bag a little higher on your shoulder and eyeing him skeptically. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah, in a bit.”

You chuckled, more exasperated than humorous. “No.”

“What?” Carmy asked, confused.

“No, you’re leaving too.” You insisted. You were feeling bold. Months of long looks and his hand on your lower back every time he passed you had culminated tonight.

You had taken over the front for Richie while he ducked out to take a call from his daughter. You’d insisted. It was slammed for dinner but everything was going fairly smooth until an irate customer approached you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He’d asked, slamming his plate onto the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean are you retarded or something?” He continued. You were stunned into silence. You had never had anyone speak to you like that. “How hard is it to make a fucking sandwich? I know your tits are bigger than your brain but Jesus fucking Christ it’s not hard!”

“I-I…” you were shaking. “I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied, sir. If you like, we can-”

“Not satisfied?!” He screamed. “How can I be satisfied with this piece of shit!”

He hurled the sandwich at you. It hit you in the chest, toppings and sauce splattering everywhere. Before you even knew what was happening, a blur of messy curls shot past you. Carmy launched over the counter, tackling the man. His fist collided with the man’s face over and over while Richie and Fak rushed after him. There was a cacophony of yells as Richie pulled Carmy back. “Get your girl!” Richie yelled. “Cousin! Go get your girl!”

Fak and Richie dragged the man out and threw him into the street. Carmy’s hands grasped your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He wiped the sauce splatters from your brow. “Look at me.”

Carmy burned with anger as he watched you shake. Your white shirt and blue apron were covered in the sandwich. He imagined what you would do for him if he was in your position. How you’d care for him, how you’d tend to him… so he tried to do what you would. Gently he guided you to your feet and wrapped his arm around your waist. He practically carried you to his office where he sat you on the couch and quickly went to grab a clean shirt from his own locker. You were in the same place he left you when he returned. Carmy knelt before you, taking your face in his hands once more.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tears welled in your eyes and you collapsed into his arms. He smoothed his hand over you back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over again. He felt like he was on fire. The feeling of you clinging to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, the smell of you, how you fit in his arms… it was too much. He wanted to run away and never speak to you again. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to find the piece of shit that yelled at you and rip him to pieces. He wanted your chicken soup every time he was sick.

All those feelings were closing in on Carmy once again as he stared at you across the kitchen. You still had his t shirt on. You were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, uh… what did you say?” Carmy’s voice was softer than he expected.

“I said I’ll walk home with you.”

“Oh, no that’s okay. Ive got to-“

“Carmy,” you stepped closer. Your voice was firm but so tender. “You need to get some rest. Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”

He couldn’t help but smile back at you. “Alright…” he conceded.

The two of you braced yourselves against the cold and hurried down the sidewalk side by side. You argued about who would walk who home. Carmy insisted on walking you to your apartment but you protested on the grounds that he’d just go back to the restaurant once he dropped you off.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But you have to call me when you get to your place so I know you made it home!”

Carmy looked at the ground, smiling. The warmth in his chest from your soup was steadily turning into a molten pool of lava.

“Heard.” He grinned. You wanted to know he’d made it home. You wanted to make sure he rested. I like taking care of you.

“Well, I’m just up here.” Your voice stopped his thoughts from spiraling before it could even start. Carmy’s brow furrowed. “What?” You asked, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

“You live over there?”

“Yeah? Like a block down?”

There was a beat of silence before Carmy let out a breathy laugh. “I live right there.” He pointed to the building on the other side of the street.

“No shit!” You laughed in earnest. Your hand came to rest on his arm. “Guess I’m gonna be walking you home more often.”

Carmy’s entire body was on fire. He could imagine the tingle of your soft hand on his skin through all the layers of clothing. He wanted to hold you close again like in his office, but this time you wouldn’t be crying. A deep pit opened in his stomach. How long before he made you cry? How long before he fucked it all up? Until you hated him and quit the restaurant and everything fell apart because he-

“Hey,” your voice. Always your voice that brought him back. When he looked over at you it was like everything but your face faded into a blurry background. You were all Carmy could see. “Do you want to come to mine? I haven’t eaten and I KNOW you haven’t either.”

Carmy’s heart fluttered. “O-okay.” He started, his confidence rising when he noticed your hand was still in his arm. “Only if you let me cook you something.”

“Ooh,” you smiled. “I’d never turn that down!”

Carmy chuckled, feeling lighter for the first time in years as he walked so close beside you that your shoulders brushed. “It won’t be as good as your chicken soup.”

#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmy x you #carmy x fem!reader #hurt/comfort #sickfic #carmen berzatto fluff

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hazzabeeforlou · 1 month

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i had a question and i hope that it doesn’t sound rude. do you feel ashamed being in the fandom and being a shipper at 32? i ask because i am 27, and have been in the fandom since 2012, off and on. i haven’t rly been in it actively for the last two years or so, but when i want to come back, i feel embarrassed. i also don’t think i could handle the stress of it tbh! lol. i hope you are well <3

I was going to answer this yesterday but then remembered I had a 7 hour drive today and didn’t want to stay up later than I already was. Because I’m an adult, with (now one) previous multiple jobs, a pet, rent, vehicle, three post high school diplomas, and student loans, and there are many things in my life I get ashamed of, like when I answer “you too” when a cashier tells me thanks for shopping or when I let a whole bag of celery go bad in my fridge without ever cleaning or eating it. Shame? At my tax dollars funding death weapons and family members voting for strong men? Sure. Latent homophobic internalized shame from my upbringing? Yeah, sometimes.

But life is too fucking short to be embarrassed or hold shame about a FANDOM. Listen, I “ship” Johnlock, or Merthur, but Larry wasn’t a ship for me it was a discovery of queer joy. Like I’m so sorry but baby Larry was real. 100%, actually, seriously legit, like how else do you fucking explain any or all of that. We watched two boys fall in love with each other and okay we don’t know the devil or the details but we have how many albums and interviews, jokes made by media personalities etc, plus the fact that now, this many years later, their solo stuff is still haunted by a nauseating back and forth, these odd lyrical choices that are echoed in the other?

Yeah it’s not a ship. It’s a thing that happened, that we witnessed, and by virtue of it happening and us witnessing it something about gay love became dreamable, reachable, attainable, soft and puppy and exciting and wild. Their secret sign language and mimed blow jobs and jealous looks and touches when they thought there were no cameras, all those things made queerness not just something you saw on Glee. Not just something your parents talked about while wrinkling their nose up about ‘those people.’ It’s a generational thing, the world has moved on, we don’t NEED Larry anymore. And that’s okay. But we don’t need it because it happened. Not to be a brat but you exist in the context of all in which you live and what came before you.

And yeah, we wrote fics about highly characterized and publicized versions of Larry, often inserting our own traumas or fantasies, creating a kind of gay mythos around this witnessed event from the periphery, from the lens of the consumer, the only lens we have. But I’m not ashamed of that. You think stories are only ever written about people that don’t exist? At some point you have to acknowledge that in our world, celebrities are the deities of our popular imagination. I could write a thesis, but before I get into the weeds, suffice to say Harry and Louis have created a world of what can be, unburdened by what has been.

Yk? Anyways. Hope this made you feel better. And hope you come back to visit from time to time. I’ll be here.

#Anonymous #larry #harry and louis

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