#cheap car chicago

[allamericanlimo]

Hire Car Service in Chicago - All American Limousine

All American Limousine offers premium car service in Chicago! Whether you need transportation to the airport, a special event, or a night out in the city, we’ve got you covered. Experience luxury, comfort, and reliability with our professional chauffeurs and top-of-the-line vehicles. Book your ride today and travel in style!

[kmrealtygroup]

Is Chicago, Illinois Cheap or Expensive? Here’s the Answer.

If you’re mulling over a move to this bustling metropolis and scanning the “real estate for sale in Chicago, Illinois”, you’re likely curious: Is Chicago cheap or expensive?

Housing Costs in Chicago

When it comes to the housing market, the prices are as diverse as the city itself. A general consensus shows moderate costs compared to coastal cities.

Chicago’s Real Estate Market

From luxury condos downtown to single-family houses in the suburbs, Chicago has a range of accommodation styles. Naturally, the cost varies depending on the type and location.

Luxury Living in Chicago

If you opt for the high-end spectrum of “new properties for sale in the Chicagoland area and surrounding suburbs,” prices can reach into the millions.

Middle-of-the-pack Living

For more modest budgets, homes outside the hub can be attractively priced, providing excellent value in terms of space and amenities.

Cost of Living Index

Considering other living costs, Chicago’s index stands at 106.9, slightly above the U.S. average of 100. While some areas could be expensive, others are surprisingly affordable.

Food and Leisure Prices

Dining out in Chicago can be both a bargain and a splurge. Street food is wallet-friendly, whereas fine dining experiences can be quite steep.

Transportation Costs in Chicago

Getting around Chicago with public transit systems is reasonable. Meanwhile, parking and gas prices can significantly increase the commuting costs for car owners.

Verdict: Cheap or Expensive?

As seen, it completely depends on your lifestyle and where you choose to live and dine. By researching and budgeting, it’s possible to find cost-effective solutions.

Find Your Preferred Lifestyle

The housing options align with a wide range of budgets, whether you’re browsing budget-friendly homes or looking for extravagant properties for sale in the Chicagoland area and surrounding suburbs.

In Summary

Ultimately, living in Chicago can be cheap, expensive, or somewhere in between, factoring in your individual budget, lifestyle, and specific choices — particularly in housing.

KM Realty Group LLC — your trusted source for all your real estate needs in Chicago, Illinois!

[oharetaxi]

https://www.ohare-taxiservice.com/

Book Your Journey Now

[chicagolimoandblackcarservice]

Limo Service Chicago Will Provide a Place to Rest and Recharge

Don’t run out of energy; continue the fun with Chicago limousines to provide a haven of rest for weary travelers. Whether you’re traveling great distances or partying hard, a limo rental in Chicago will provide a place to rest and recharge so that you can continue in your efforts. With our services, you can enjoy long distance travel or enjoy a never-ending party while taking advantage of having a home base to which you can return.

Haven

We all need a home base, a place to which we can return in order to rest and prepare for whatever comes next. We offer a ride inherently comfortable where your group can do exactly that. As your traveling party enjoys Chicago Limousine Rentals wait in the wings with reclining seats, separate cargo areas, and roomy interiors. With this service, your stamina can be maintained to increase the enjoyment you all experience.

Party Rebound

Party Bus Rentals Chicago also offer a safe space in which travelers can rest and recharge for the next round. These machines offer a dance floor with pole; a bar with complementary ice, soda, cups, and water; a luxurious area of seating for multiple passengers; a high-quality speaker system; and superior televisions. Whether you party on as your ride or rest and get ready for what’s next, the machine provides a safe space.

No Need to Drive

Whatever model you choose comes with a professional chauffeur. You’ll not become fatigued from riding, and you can comfortably allow our chauffeurs control. They are trained, drug tested, and background checked in order to provide additional assurance for our riders in their competence.

High Quality

Being able to expect the company to be high quality is another aspect of professional transportation. We use only newer models with full insurance, licensing, and bonding. Regardless of your choice between charter or party bus or Cheap Limo Service Near Me, it will be high quality if it comes from our fleet because the entire fleet is impeccably well kept. You aren’t limited to one option for group transportation. The machine can match the purpose, and the quality will remain consistent with the change. Once you know the vehicle which you need, book easily online and enjoy your plans knowing that our service will provide a place to recharge and reset. Call us Now at (312) 757-4634

Source: https://chicagolimoandblackcarservice.blogspot.com/2023/05/Limo-Service-Chicago-Will-Provide-a-Place-to-Rest-and-Recharge.html

[dclimoandcarservice]

Chicago Airport Car Service at Affordable Prices with Limo Service DC

Visiting one of America’s biggest cities sure sounds like fun, but traversing through one can prove to be a problem for many of us. Thankfully, Chicago Airport Car Service can suit all of our needs when it comes to passenger transportation.

Safe and Reliable

Black Car Service Chicago has proven time and time again that they are one of the most reliable and affordable passenger transportation services you can hire. They did this by having one of the biggest and most imposing fleets of vehicles on the market. Of course, vehicles need to be taken care of properly in order to be safe for the road and you can rest assured that all of their vehicles are regularly maintained.

Now when it comes to safety one more thing is of paramount importance, passenger safety. In order to have a safe drive the men behind the wheel must be reliable and you can rest assured that all of the chauffeurs that will be accompanying you on your journey are well trained professionals with several years of experience on the road. The average cost for our O’Hare Airport car services range from $65 to $300 depending on the vehicle you select and the distance to be traveled.

Charter Buses Are Ideal for Larger Groups of Friends

With our private airport car service, you can save time by going door-to-door aboard late model sedans, SUVs, limos, or executive vans. Chicago Motor Coach Company is ideal if you have the need to transport a larger group of people anywhere in the States. They are accustomed to handling parties that count in the hundreds so renting out multiple Charter buses shouldn’t prove to be a problem. Limo Service DC service is, of course, available 24 hours per day, 7 days per week via phone or by visiting their website. Call us today at (202) 765-2350

Source:

https://dclimoandcarservice.blogspot.com/2023/03/Chicago-Airport-Car-Service-at-Affordable-Prices-with-Limo-Service-DC.html

[chicagolimo01]

Chicago Limo Rental for Weddings and Any Other Event

Chicago Limo Rental for Weddings and Any Other Event

Booking travel arrangements for your wedding should follow a basic inquiry into the essential aspects of limousine service in Chicago. Deal-Breakers for Wedding Limousine Service in Chicago. Finding the best wedding limousine service in Chicago to meet your needs and preferences doesn’t have to be complicated or lengthy. All that you have to do is evaluate the basic aspects of transportation for…

[bullet-prooflove]

Pears: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @wabi-sabi1090 @lostinwonderland314 @turtle-cant-communicate @fallout-girl219

Prequel to:

Bubble

Crazy, Stupid, Fucked Up World (NSFW)

Ironically the hellhole that’s stealing Carmen’s fucking soul is the place he falls in love with you. He’s been trying to source cheap organic produce for The Beef ever since he came back to Chicago and he’d found this eco-friendly little urban farm not too far away from the restaurant that’s willing to sell him their seasonal overflow for  next to nothing. It’s a win win because you deplore wastage and he needs the discount.

When you arrive at the back door with his order he has no fucking clue why you’re here because it’s late Christmas Eve and everyone else in the world is sending time with their families. Instead you’re standing in front of him, bundled up in a navy blue hat with a pompom with a matching scarf over your white quilted jacket.

“Christ, get in here.” He says tugging you inside because it’s minus who the fuck knows outside and he’s terrified you’ll freeze to death. “Why the fuck are you out in this? You should be tucked up somewhere warm with your family.”

“Because you asked me to asshole.” You reply, tugging off your hat so that your hair falls loose across your rosy features. “You called me up at stupid o'clock because you wanted pears for some seasonal shit you were trying out.”

“Shit.” He says, taking the box from you, because honestly he thought he dreamt that but now he realises he had another dissociative episode. They’ve starting to happen more and more recently since Mikey’s death. He wakes up and he finds himself doing weird shit, cooking plastic, re-organising the tins in his cupboard so they all face backwards, sorting his recycling into colours.

“Now we’ve ascertained why I’m here.” You say, stripping the gloves from your hands and tucking them into the pockets of your coat. “What are you doing here?”

“Christmas isn’t…” He hesitates because he’s thrown back into that last event, the one where Mikey was still alive, clutching that fork and his mother drove a car through the house. He doesn’t know how to explain something like that to you, someone who’s family isn’t as fucked up and dysfunctional as his is.

“I get it.” You say, your hand coming to rest on his arm and he finds himself staring down at it as your thumb traces lightly over the tattoo that’s etched onto his skin. “Christmas isn’t a great time for me either.”

He can’t remember the last time that someone touched him like this, with such care, such gentleness. Richie’s always clapping a hand on his shoulder, shifting him out of the way but it never feels like this. It doesn’t ignite something in his veins the way that yours does, it doesn’t sent a rush of heat flooding through his system.

“You wanna stay?” He asks you, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m about to make hot pear cider.”

You have such beautiful eyes, he’s never really noticed until now despite the fact he’s been in your company a handful of times. It’s a brilliant, rich hue that leaves him completely captivated as the edges of your mouth tip up into a smile. His heart palpitates in this chest because that smile, it makes something blossom inside of him, something that Carmen has never felt before in his entire life.

“That depends.” You say, your thumb trailing over the scar that resides alongside his tattoo. “Are you going to feed me too?”

“I’d cook you anything you damn well want.” He finds himself telling you before he captures himself, his cheeks flushing at the boldness of his words.

“Surprise me.” You say and he surprises you both by leaning and kissing you instead.

Your lips feel soft underneath his mouth, he can taste the strawberry lip balm, feel the press of your body against his as your fingers thread through his hair drawing him closer. He moans at the sensation because it’s been such a long time since he’s touched another human being like this and you, you make it feel like his entire body is on fire, like he’s burning from the inside out.

“Fuck, I’m sorry…” He says as he tries to pull away because he shouldn’t have done that, he knows he shouldn’t.

Your hands grip the fabric of his chef’s jacket, pulling him back towards you and he complies because this sensation he has, he wants to chase it, he wants to see where it goes, to hurtle head first into it.

“Don’t be.” You murmur, your fingertips ghosting along his cheek with a tenderness he doesn’t deserve. “We should do it again Carmy.”

Love Carmy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[mostlysignssomeportents]

No, Uber's (still) not profitable

Going to Defcon this weekend? I'm giving a keynote, "An Audacious Plan to Halt the Internet's Enshittification and Throw it Into Reverse," on Saturday at 12:30pm, followed by a book signing at the No Starch Press booth at 2:30pm!

https://info.defcon.org/event/?id=50826

Bezzle (n): 1. "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it" (JK Gabraith) 2. Uber.

Uber was, is, and always will be a bezzle. There are just intrinsic limitations to the profits available to operating a taxi fleet, even if you can misclassify your employees as contractors and steal their wages, even as you force them to bear the cost of buying and maintaining your taxis.

The magic of early Uber – when taxi rides were incredibly cheap, and there were always cars available, and drivers made generous livings behind the wheel – wasn't magic at all. It was just predatory pricing.

Uber lost $0.41 on every dollar they brought in, lighting $33b of its investors' cash on fire. Most of that money came from the Saudi royals, funneled through Softbank, who brought you such bezzles as WeWork – a boring real-estate company masquerading as a high-growth tech company, just as Uber was a boring taxi company masquerading as a tech company.

Predatory pricing used to be illegal, but Chicago School economists convinced judges to stop enforcing the law on the grounds that predatory pricing was impossible because no rational actor would choose to lose money. They (willfully) ignored the obvious possibility that a VC fund could invest in a money-losing business and use predatory pricing to convince retail investors that a pile of shit of sufficient size must have a pony under it somewhere.

This venture predation let investors – like Prince Bone Saw – cash out to suckers, leaving behind a money-losing business that had to invent ever-sweatier accounting tricks and implausible narratives to keep the suckers on the line while they blew town. A bezzle, in other words:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/19/fake-it-till-you-make-it/#millennial-lifestyle-subsidy

Uber is a true bezzle innovator, coming up with all kinds of fairy tales and sci-fi gimmicks to explain how they would convert their money-loser into a profitable business. They spent $2.5b on self-driving cars, producing a vehicle whose mean distance between fatal crashes was half a mile. Then they paid another company $400 million to take this self-licking ice-cream cone off their hands:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

Amazingly, self-driving cars were among the more plausible of Uber's plans. They pissed away hundreds of millions on California's Proposition 22 to institutionalize worker misclassification, only to have the rule struck down because they couldn't be bothered to draft it properly. Then they did it again in Massachusetts:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/15/simple-as-abc/#a-big-ask

Remember when Uber was going to plug the holes in its balance sheet with flying cars? Flying cars! Maybe they were just trying to soften us up for their IPO, where they advised investors that the only way they'd ever be profitable is if they could replace every train, bus and tram ride in the world:

https://48hills.org/2019/05/ubers-plans-include-attacking-public-transit/

Honestly, the only way that seems remotely plausible is when it's put next to flying cars for comparison. I guess we can be grateful that they never promised us jetpacks, or, you know, teleportation. Just imagine the market opportunity they could have ascribed to astral projection!

Narrative capitalism has its limits. Once Uber went public, it had to produce financial disclosures that showed the line going up, lest the bezzle come to an end. These balance-sheet tricks were as varied as they were transparent, but the financial press kept falling for them, serving as dutiful stenographers for a string of triumphant press-releases announcing Uber's long-delayed entry into the league of companies that don't lose more money every single day.

One person Uber has never fooled is Hubert Horan, a transportation analyst with decades of experience who's had Uber's number since the very start, and who has done yeoman service puncturing every one of these financial "disclosures," methodically sifting through the pile of shit to prove that there is no pony hiding in it.

In 2021, Horan showed how Uber had burned through nearly all of its cash reserves, signaling an end to its subsidy for drivers and rides, which would also inevitably end the bezzle:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/10/unter/#bezzle-no-more

In mid, 2022, Horan showed how the "profit" Uber trumpeted came from selling off failed companies it had acquired to other dying rideshare companies, which paid in their own grossly inflated stock:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/05/a-lousy-taxi/#a-giant-asterisk

At the end of 2022, Horan showed how Uber invented a made-up, nonstandard metric, called "EBITDA profitability," which allowed them to lose billions and still declare themselves to be profitable, a lie that would have been obvious if they'd reported their earnings using Generally Accepted Accounting Principles (GAAP):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/11/bezzlers-gonna-bezzle/#gryft

Like clockwork, Uber has just announced – once again – that it is profitable, and once again, the press has credulously repeated the claim. So once again, Horan has published one of his magisterial debunkings on Naked Capitalism:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2023/08/hubert-horan-can-uber-ever-deliver-part-thirty-three-uber-isnt-really-profitable-yet-but-is-getting-closer-the-antitrust-case-against-uber.html

Uber's $394m gains this quarter come from paper gains to untradable shares in its loss-making rivals – Didi, Grab, Aurora – who swapped stock with Uber in exchange for Uber's own loss-making overseas divisions. Yes, it's that stupid: Uber holds shares in dying companies that no one wants to buy. It declared those shares to have gained value, and on that basis, reported a profit.

Truly, any big number multiplied by an imaginary number can be turned into an even bigger number.

Now, Uber also reported "margin improvements" – that is, it says that it loses less on every journey. But it didn't explain how it made those improvements. But we know how the company did it: they made rides more expensive and cut the pay to their drivers. A 2.9m ride in Manhattan is now $50 – if you get a bargain! The base price is more like $70:

https://www.wired.com/story/uber-ceo-will-always-say-his-company-sucks/

The number of Uber drivers on the road has a direct relationship to the pay Uber offers those drivers. But that pay has been steeply declining, and with it, the availability of Ubers. A couple weeks ago, I found myself at the Burbank train station unable to get an Uber at all, with the app timing out repeatedly and announcing "no drivers available."

Normally, you can get a yellow taxi at the station, but years of Uber's predatory pricing has caused a drawdown of the local taxi-fleet, so there were no taxis available at the cab-rank or by dispatch. It took me an hour to get a cab home. Uber's bezzle destroyed local taxis and local transit – and replaced them with worse taxis that cost more.

Uber won't say why its margins are improving, but it can't be coming from scale. Before the pandemic, Uber had far more rides, and worse margins. Uber has diseconomies of scale: when you lose money on every ride, adding more rides increases your losses, not your profits.

Meanwhile, Lyft – Uber's also-ran competitor – saw its margins worsen over the same period. Lyft has always been worse at lying about it finances than Uber, but it is in essentially the exact same business (right down to the drivers and cars – many drivers have both apps on their phones). So Lyft's financials offer a good peek at Uber's true earnings picture.

Lyft is actually slightly better off than Uber overall. It spent less money on expensive props for its long con – flying cars, robotaxis, scooters, overseas clones – and abandoned them before Uber did. Lyft also fired 24% of its staff at the end of 2022, which should have improved its margins by cutting its costs.

Uber pays its drivers less. Like Lyft, Uber practices algorithmic wage discrimination, Veena Dubal's term describing the illegal practice of offering workers different payouts for the same work. Uber's algorithm seeks out "pickers" who are choosy about which rides they take, and converts them to "ants" (who take every ride offered) by paying them more for the same job, until they drop all their other gigs, whereupon the algorithm cuts their pay back to the rates paid to ants:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

All told, wage theft and wage cuts by Uber transferred $1b/quarter from labor to Uber's shareholders. Historically, Uber linked fares to driver pay – think of surge pricing, where Uber charged riders more for peak times and passed some of that premium onto drivers. But now Uber trumpets a custom pricing algorithm that is the inverse of its driver payment system, calculating riders' willingness to pay and repricing every ride based on how desperate they think you are.

This pricing is a per se antitrust violation of Section 2 of the Sherman Act, America's original antitrust law. That's important because Sherman 2 is one of the few antitrust laws that we never stopped enforcing, unlike the laws banning predator pricing:

https://ilr.law.uiowa.edu/sites/ilr.law.uiowa.edu/files/2023-02/Woodcock.pdf

Uber claims an 11% margin improvement. 6-7% of that comes from algorithmic price discrimination and service cutbacks, letting it take 29% of every dollar the driver earns (up from 22%). Uber CEO Dara Khosrowshahi himself says that this is as high as the take can get – over 30%, and drivers will delete the app.

Uber's food delivery service – a baling wire-and-spit Frankenstein's monster of several food apps it bought and glued together – is a loser even by the standards of the sector, which is unprofitable as a whole and experiencing an unbroken slide of declining demand.

Put it all together and you get a picture of the kind of taxi company Uber really is: one that charges more than traditional cabs, pays drivers less, and has fewer cars on the road at times of peak demand, especially in the neighborhoods that traditional taxis had always underserved. In other words, Uber has broken every one of its promises.

We replaced the "evil taxi cartel" with an "evil taxi monopolist." And it's still losing money.

Even if Lyft goes under – as seems inevitable – Uber can't attain real profitability by scooping up its passengers and drivers. When you're losing money on every ride, you just can't make it up in volume.

Image: JERRYE AND ROY KLOTZ MD (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:LA_BREA_TAR_PITS,_LOS_ANGELES.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

I’m kickstarting the audiobook for “The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation,” a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and bring back the old, good internet. It’s a DRM-free book, which means Audible won’t carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/09/accounting-gimmicks/#unter

Image: JERRYE AND ROY KLOTZ MD (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:LA_BREA_TAR_PITS,_LOS_ANGELES.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[butchcarmy]

ALEXITHYMIA CH 1: onions, weed, and pizza

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 2 ch 3 ch 4

Summary: Carmy can’t put into words how he feels about his roommate. It’s only been a couple months, but here he is looking forward to going home and sharing a smoke with them. That’s all it is, though. There are no underlying feelings, none at all, even if everyone around him has something to say about it. 

Or: Carmy is repressed as ever, but through the combined power of vulnerability, weed, and the horny, Carmy too can find love. 

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, cursing, yearning, repression, SO MUCH REPRESSION, angst, mental illness, canon-typical imagery, unresolved tension, for now, virgin carmy, use of weed, alcohol, all that good stuff, carmy character study, eventual smut, gender neutral reader, nonbinary reader, up to you

A/N: HI I've never posted fic on tumblr before but i deeply love Carmy...please enjoy!!!

CHAPTER 1: onions, weed, and pizza

It always stays the same. 

This is the thought that Carmy has when he wakes up, gasping for a chance to just catch his breath and keep it. It’s a kitchen knife twisting like a lock and key in his chest. It fits just right, as all awful and familiar things seem to do.

No matter how many times he wakes up, he’s never anywhere different. That drowning feeling suffocates him in his sleep and follows dutifully into his waking hours. He can’t remember when that haunting started, only that it’s always been with him.

He hates feeling like a drifter, like he’s lost (even though he is both of those things), so he picks a goal and runs after it like a monster. He’s an animal, hunting and working and bleeding until he fucking makes it work , because that’s who he is, and that’s who he’s always been. He can’t not make it work. Because if he can’t do it, then…then what was it all for? 

What is he even for?

These are the thrilling thoughts that serve as the background music to the swirl of his cheap morning coffee, oils rotating in a slow circle. He thinks about getting a nicer brand next time he goes grocery shopping. But that would mean change. That would mean less money on the restaurant, too.

Yeah, so it tastes like shit, but it doesn’t matter. Even if it mattered once. Less and less matters to him these days.

Mornings in Chicago are not technically quiet by definition, but when compared to other times of day, they are. Especially when most of his day is spent in the kitchen wringing out his throat. It isn’t bad to have a quiet morning by normal means, but for him…

The quiet is dangerous.

It’s not silent, but it’s not enough. There’s distant beeping of impatient cars. The whirring sound of the old AC unit. He tries to listen to them, but his rampant thoughts nonetheless rise above them all, buzzing everywhere with nowhere to land. 

A brief analysis of his thoughts reads as such:

Beef sandwiches eggs flour shipment Michael cigarettes smoking sore throat late shipment so tired not sleeping Michael Sugar Mom coffee tastes bad it’s too early my stomach hurts Michael fucking hates you Michael Michael Michael Michael Michael you piece of shit you fucking ki—

“Mornin’, Carmy.”

Until his roommate wakes up, that is. 

When he moved back to Chicago, there was a fact, plain, simple, and unchanging. He wasn’t gonna make rent on his own, not with the restaurant. Not with everything. So maybe he didn’t need to deal with a new roommate, but it’s not like there was a choice. It seemed bearable, survivable enough.

He keeps waiting for the thing that’ll make him grit his teeth, make him regret not getting a place on his own, but it never comes. They’re easy to live with. It’s so easy, as a matter of fact, that it feels strange. The difficulty that he was so certainly expecting just isn’t there. 

If anything, he looks forward to being at home. For someone who lives at work, that feeling is completely foreign.  

They don’t steal his food (not that there’s much). Instead, they cook him food, leaving heated leftovers on the stove on late nights. In Carmy’s case, that’s most nights. They don’t bring over obnoxious company and keep him up with the noise. Rather, he basks in their company, and they make a ruckus between their laughter. Their presence doesn’t stifle him, it soothes him, just like the candle they leave lit in the kitchen for him when he comes home.  They’re not just easy to live with, they’re good to live with, and that’s…

That’s been a hard adjustment, Carmy would say. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s not sure what to do with himself.

On those late nights, they’re usually fast asleep by the time he’s home. But as he sits and eats the leftovers they’ve kept for him, he wants to say something. Something about how a long time ago, there was once a Carmy who cooked for himself, who looked after himself, but that he’s not that Carmy anymore. That it doesn’t matter that he’s a five star chef and they’re just some guy in the kitchen, as they would put it, because he’s…

He’s grateful. Incredibly so.

And yet, the words will never come out. He feels the words tingling on his lips, but it feels scary. He can thank them as many times as he likes (which he does) but it will never capture what he’s really trying to say when he says thank you . There’s too many words, and it just can’t…it just can’t—

It always stays the same. 

“You’re up early,” he says to them when they enter the room. It’s a rare sight to see them up at the early hours he frequents. He sees the morning drowsiness in their mussed hair and big t-shirt stained with hair dye. They yawn back at him, nose scrunching.

Cute , he thinks, and he stamps it down as soon as it flashes through his mind. 

“Randomly woke up.” They fall into the empty seat next to him on the couch, and they rub at the crust around their eyes. “About to head off to work?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he replies. There’s a certain sentiment that lies on the tip of his tongue, something about how he wishes he could have a slow morning with them instead. Of course, he can’t voice it. He can’t even come close.

“The plague of the working man,” they sigh. “Well, I got an idea that might cheer you up.”

“...And that would be?”

“Let me paint you a beautiful picture,” they start. They clear their throat and gesture widely with their hands. He notices their chipped nail polish, the writing callus on their middle finger. “Imagine this—you come home from work, tired. You need to relax —something you need to do more often,” they add with a pointed look.  No comment. “And I have dinner ready. Some sort of soup, pasta maybe. I need to check the fridge.” They pause with a yawn. “And before we eat, we smoke a big, fat joint.”

He snorts as they finish, unable to hold back a laugh. 

“That’s a nice picture,” he admits. He doesn’t remember when he started smiling. “Y’know, I was wondering when the joint was gonna pop in.” 

“You fucking know me, man,” they reply, blooming with his interest, his smile. Not that he can perceive that. “So? Thoughts? Haven’t done that in a while, right?”

“Right, right,” he echoes faintly. His mind is already sorting through the pile of tasks on the schedule. “Well, I gotta go over this new recipe with Marcus, today,” he mutters, partially under his breath. “But before that, ingredient orders. And those invoices before the end of the day—and that, that toilet guy was supposed to come today…I think?”

“Dude, I do like, one task, and the day’s over for me,” they say sympathetically, and the look on their face is so serious that Carmy struggles to hide his smile. “You’re crazy.”

“I, I’ve seen you do tasks,” he argues. 

“Name one,” they argue back.

“You did two loads of laundry and did the dishes all before lunch time once,” he says, the memory clear and instant. “And when I woke up, you were vacuuming the whole place.” The immediacy surprises him, and it seems to surprise them, too. 

“Damn, I said name one , but I guess I’m just that good!” They laugh, a breathy, exasperated sort of thing. “Well, point taken. Anyway, it sounds like you’re not gonna be home early tonight.” 

“It is a Friday,” he says, “but…”

“But.”

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep,” he sighs, and shame melts over him like butter on a stainless steel pain. This isn’t anything new. 

“I know, I know,” they say, gracious as ever. “It’s okay. Such is the life of a business owner, yeah?” He searches for some thinly veiled shred of disappointment, frustration in their expression, but he doesn’t. No matter how many times he lets them down, the explosion he’s waiting for never comes. They remain patient, collected through it all. 

Says more about him than them, he supposes. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, “such is the life.” 

“C’est la fucking vie,” they say, and he laughs with a shake of his head. 

It can feel strange to laugh. He worries that the lightness in his chest will expand like a balloon, and he’ll float away. It’s uncontrollable, foreign. It should be scary, how his emotions lead him when he’s around them, not the other way around, but it’s not. 

It’s not scary to loosen up around them, and that’s the scary part. There are no words to describe why. All he can see is that the fear exists, stubborn and persistent. That fear is what makes him snap out of it, makes him look at the clock. He holds back a sigh. 

“Time to go,” he mutters, and they nod.

“And time for me to go back to bed.” They salute him. “Best of luck with your day, brave soldier. And just shoot me a text if you do end up coming back early, ok?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll try. And, thanks. You, you too,” he gets out. He stands up, readjusting the waistband of his pants. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“See you,” they say through a yawn, waving at him from where they’re lying down. They’ve taken his spot, sprawled across the couch, tangled hair flayed out on the pillows. 

Cute , he thinks again, and hearing the thought in his brain makes him wanna panic. 

He doesn’t wanna panic, doesn’t wanna think about it at all, so he nods, shuts the door, and heads out to work with a cigarette hastily lit in his mouth. 

By the time it’s Carmy’s lunch break, he swears his vocal cords must have snapped by how tight he was wringing them. 

The soreness has never stopped him from lighting a cig, though. As he stands outside in the back, finally forced to go on his 30, he smokes rather than eating. There’s a sandwich in his pocket, one that was bearing the brunt of test ingredients. He can feel the aluminum wrapping at his fingertips. 

Eventually, he does eat, though, because he sees the way his hands are shaking when he flicks his lighter. He doesn’t wanna shake when he uses a knife, so he eats. He tastes it, but he doesn’t really taste it.

In truth, he wasn’t even planning on taking his lunch break at all. Most days, he forgets about it. The kitchen’s always busy, there’s always something missing, there’s always something that hasn’t been prepped that’s ruining everything, the lights in the hallways keep flickering because they need to fixed, Fak’s supposed to fix them, but he can’t, because Richie’s still out getting the replacement bulbs, the pile of papers on his desk are bigger than he remembers, he doesn’t have enough fucking time—

But then he’s in the middle of chopping an onion, and the cutting board slips. The half-chopped onion and its sliced offspring scatter on the floor with the cutting board. The sound of its fall draws Sydney in like a whip. 

“You okay? Need a bandaid?” Sydney’s already kneeling by him, helping him pick the onions off the floor. 

“I, I’m fine, didn’t drop the knife,” he explains, and it feels like an ocean current is rushing by his ears. “Fucking, I just—such a stupid fucking—” He sucks in a breath and goes silent. 

His entire body feels tight, wound like a spring. He can barely fucking breathe. 

“Hey.” Carmy turns his intense stare from the onions to Sydney, and when he sees her searching expression, he remembers himself. “Maybe you should go take your lunch break.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he repeats, and he feels like he’s heard this before. From someone else. He can’t remember. Who was it? “The onions—we’re behind on onions—”

“I can handle onions for 30 minutes,” she interrupts, decisive and firm. “Seriously.”

Carmy’s about to say something, but then he’s looking at the onion half in his hand. His hand is shaking. 

“Okay,” he sighs after a beat. “Okay, yeah. Sorry. For fucking up.”

“It happens. We all have our moments.” She shrugs. When he keeps standing there, she makes this shoo-ing motion with her hand. “Go on. Take your 30!”

So here he is, taking his lunch break a whole hour later than he’s supposed to. Although it’s better than most days where he doesn’t take it at all.

She wouldn’t have had to tell you to take a break if you didn’t fuck it all up, he thinks to himself, eyebrows knitted together. When the last time I’ve fucked up something so fucking easy?

He thinks about his dream from last night. A familiar sight of red fire and flames up to the ceiling, crackling so loud it sounded like screaming. The only good part is that when he woke up, he wasn’t at the stove burning his place down. It hasn’t happened at this apartment yet. Carmy hopes it never happens. 

Just get it together, he thinks. He aggressively taps the ash out onto the decrepit ash tray they have in the back. It’s full. You’re supposed to be at this shit. So just be good.

“Cousin.” Carmy snaps his head up, and Richie’s at the door, stepping out. His presence yanks him out of his inner whirlpool, a quickly descending spiral. “Gimme one.”

Wordlessly, Carmy hands him a cigarette. Richie plucks it out of his hand like a flower.

“You had a lighter, but no cigarette?” Carmy comments, squinting at Richie pulling a busted up red lighter from his jean pocket. 

“Shut up,” Richie mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. “Got the wrong damn light bulbs,” he explains unprompted. 

“Alright,” Carmy sighs. He has so little energy that the frustration bypasses him completely, diving instantly into deflated acceptance. “Just return ‘em.”

“Can’t,” Richie says, and when Carmy gives him a look, he elaborates, “no receipt.” 

“ Dude .” Carmy opens his mouth, but then he shuts it again. It’s just not worth it. “Thanks anyway, cousin. We’ll get it done.”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, you asshole. I didn’t do shit.” Richie nudges him, but like before, it’s not an angry thing. “Also, toilet guy’s not comin’ today.”

“The fuck? Why ?”

“Canceled,” he replies simply. 

“Fucking hell,” Carmy mutters under his breath. “Did he say when he could reschedule?”

“Not yet.”

“Great.”

“Yep.” Richie tilts his head up, blowing out a slow stream of gray cigarette smoke. “Might as well wait for Fak to get his ass back in town at this rate.”

“I guess.” Carmy sighs. He thinks about all the things he still needs to do. “I dropped this onion I was chopping, earlier,” he mentions out of nowhere. 

“Okay.” Richie gives him a look. “And? You bitches chop those things up faster than I could cut one in half.” 

“I dropped it on the floor,” Carmy tries again, but Richie’s expression remains unchanged. “I never do shit like that.”

“Well, cousin, you did.” Carmy feels something in him deflate. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nevermind,” he replies, because he’s a coward. “Just—just forget it.”

Silence. The spark of a lighter. 

“I’m gonna leave early,” Richie says, like he can just do that. Which…he can, Carmy supposes. “If no one’s gonna show up, what’s the point?” He slaps Carmy’s back, and Carmy doesn’t watch him as he heads back inside. 

Guess all I need to do later is get rid of those papers on the desk , Carmy thinks to himself, idly moving the shortening cigarette between his lips. Then that’ll be it, I guess.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gone home early. It’s hard to even imagine what he does on days like those. Sleeping, probably.  There’s nothing much else for him to do, not with how tired he is—

Shoot me a text, okay?  

He hears them in the back of his head all of a sudden, and he remembers. 

Oh, he remembers, hands moving to take out his phone. Almost forgot.

“Sorry to bother you, chef.” Carmy’s not sure how he didn’t hear the door opening. Marcus’ head pops out, nose covered in flour. “Just wanted to let you know that we’re gonna need more flour for tomorrow.”

“Order’s not gonna come for a couple days. I thought we had an extra bag left,” Carmy tries, but the guilty look on Marcus’ face explains it all. 

“Dropped it,” Marcus grimaces, and Carmy’s already fucking over it. 

“We’re all fucking up today, chef,” Carmy replies, and the day goes on. 

. . . . .

It’s a strange, delightful miracle, but he manages to get out of the restaurant before the sun sets.

Considering their collective track record, the fact everyone was able to leave early was cosmic intervention. It helps that the toilet guy didn’t come, in an unfortunate way, but still. Standing outside of the restaurant in the evening like this feels…weird. 

It’s not that Carmy’s complaining about a nice thing, it’s just that he wasn’t prepared to have anything good today.

Shower, dinner, and weed, he thinks absentmindedly on the way home. He juggles the three around in his brain. Just the thought of it feels like relaxing. A little.

With company , his brain helpfully adds, and his stomach squirms. 

Self control, he thinks. He needs more self-control. He can’t just keep thinking of them so indulgently. He’s not allowed to think of them that way, because it’s not fair to them. Even if no matter how many times he chastises himself, it never works. Even if they remain in his brain like sun-spots in his vision. Even if it’s not his fault that he just can’t help it.

The thing is, though, it always is. Even when it’s not his fault, it actually is. Always.

You dropped that fucking onion , his brain helpfully adds for no particular reason. Fucking loser.

Fuck off , he thinks back as he approaches his front door. Predictably, it does not stop.

Just as his fingers search for his keys in all of his pockets, he hears something that makes him pause, hands stopped on his waist. It’s music, distant and muffled. They’re probably listening to music in the kitchen. He stands, trying to place the song, but he doesn’t recognize it. 

He does recognize the voice that’s singing over the music, though.

Oh, he realizes. That’s them.

The way their voice clumsily layers over the music shouldn’t make him pause like this. He shouldn’t be doing this, standing in the doorway and listening rather than opening the door. The keys are in his hand. This, this is a breach of privacy, he tells himself, feeling a little dizzy with distress, he just needs to just—

There’s an abrupt, loud clang, and he shoves the door open.

Concern is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there. The source of the noise lays face-down on the floor—a pan sitting in what seems to be tomato sauce. The matter next to it is what makes the words evaporate from his lips, like they were never there at all. 

They’re kneeled down next to the pan, paper towels in hand, but all they’re wearing is an apron. 

His mind blanks. He thinks he stops breathing. He’s never seen so much of their skin at once. He needs to look away, he thinks, but his eyes keep traveling, traveling, and traveling. It just happens so quickly. He doesn’t mean to look, he doesn’t, but they’re right there and he can see right down their—

“No, I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were coming back early!” They exclaim, quickly crossing their arms over their chest, and that’s what makes him tear his eyes away. 

“I—I thought I texted you,” he says quickly, hot face turned to the side, “on my lunch—...“ He stops there, the memory reconstructing itself. 

He forgot.

“It’s fine, I just feel bad about dinner, and, uh—okay, I’m just gonna change real quick, and then I’ll clean this up,” they reply, words rushing out. In the corner of his vision, he sees their bare legs dart to their room.

It seems wrong to just stand here staring at the tomato sauce slowly expand outwards on the floor, so he cleans it up. A couple paper towels later, he’s gotten most of it, and they’ve returned with a change of clothes.

“Sorry,” Carmy starts right as they also go “I’m sorry”. He pauses, meeting their eyes. It’s a lot easier now that they’re wearing leggings and a t-shirt as opposed to, well, nothing. Not to say he doesn’t appreciate the leggings. 

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” they sigh. “I don’t—I don’t usually walk around the place naked, I just—I didn’t think you’d be back—“

“I should’ve texted,” he interrupts. He struggles to not think about them walking around the living room naked. “I forgot. But it, it’s fine. You’re fine. Really. Sorry for not texting.”

“Okay. Cool.” They exhale, a tired noise. “And it’s okay. It happens.” They look at the floor and make a sound of surprise. “Did you clean this up?” The look they give him has far too much gratitude, and it feels like a searing hot iron.

“Yeah, uh.” His hands are moving like he’s trying to explain something, but no words crop up. “Felt weird not to.”

“Well.” They smile, grateful. “Thank you. That was gonna be dinner, but…” They trail off, looking at the floor with a sour expression. “I fucked up.”

“It’s just that sort of day today,” Carmy mutters.

“Shitty day for you, too?” 

“Yeah. Lots of shit went wrong.” Especially me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “You?”

“Gotcha.” They shrug. “As for me—yeah. Really not my best day. It was just, uh, some family shit. You know how it is.”

Carmy makes a sound of acknowledgement. “That sucks.” He doesn’t know much about their family other than that they’re fairly shitty. It’s the same the other way around, too. 

“It’s whatever,” they say, even though it really isn’t, and he knows it. They look at the floor one more time before looking up at him. “Do you just wanna order pizza or something?”

“Yeah, I do,” Carmy replies, his words coming out much more despondent than expected. 

They settle on some pepperoni pizza from a place down the street. It’s a tried and true method—they deliver, it’s cheap, it’s oily, it’s cheesy, it’s good. Just talking about it makes Carmy taste it on the tip of his tongue. 

“You can go and shower if you want. I’ll get the door when pizza comes,” they offer. They’re standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up. 

“Okay, thanks.” Carmy pauses then, gears turning. He’s vaguely worried his memory is going to shit. “Did—did I just say I was gonna shower?” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t, you just always shower when you get home from work, right?” They say it like it’s the weather, like it’s familiar, and that’s when Carmy realizes because it is. After several months of living together, of course they’ve picked up on his habits. It doesn’t need to be a thing. There’s no reason for it to be a thing.

“I do,” Carmy replies faintly, and for some reason, that’s all he can say. 

“Thought so.” They look at him for just a moment, but it makes him feel like his body’s gone transparent. “I notice these things, you know.”

“Yeah.” Carmy looks at them when they turn back to the dishes, back facing him. “You do.” 

He tells himself he’s not gonna think any harder about any of it. He’s not gonna think about the singing, the apron, the way they just notice these things, but then he does. 

He’s in the shower, and he thinks about everything.

The water pressure is pathetic, but the warmth still feels nice. Between that and the sound of the running shower, it’s usually enough to quiet his thoughts. This time, though, it doesn’t. To his credit, he does try to think about anything else. 

He thinks about work, because he always does. He thinks about flour, about onions, about knives. He thinks about the shampoo lathered in his hair. He thinks about those lightbulbs they still need to get. He thinks about food. He thinks about them. He thinks about pizza. He thinks about the way they sing when no one’s around. He thinks about the way they know him. 

He thinks about them, knees on the floor only in a—

He thinks of bashing his head into the tile wall until he explodes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispers to himself, rivulets of hot water trailing down his forehead and dripping off his lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

The soreness is still present in his body, but that never quite goes away. He does feel a bit better now that he doesn’t have sweaty, sticky skin, though. It gets even better when he puts on a clean white t-shirt and his favorite sweatpants. It’s a nice surprise from his past self who did his laundry for him. 

This amount of niceness is okay. This is what he’s used to—a shower and comfortable clothes when he’s home from work. That’s enough.

He steps out into the kitchen with a damp towel on his head. He finds them sitting by their one shitty window that opens, pizza box in front of them and joint lit. It casts an orange glow to mix with the golden light from the window. 

“Hey, pizza’s here!” They slap their hand on the greasy cardboard box. “Just got this joint started for us, too.”

“So you weren’t gonna smoke it all on your own?” He doesn’t mean to tease, but he does. He slips into the seat across them, arms resting on the table they placed by the window. 

“I couldn’t smoke this whole thing even if I wanted to,” they protest. “Besides, joints are made for sharing. Here—now you get to take it. Isn’t that nice?” With their elbow propped up on the pizza box, they hold up the joint to him. The lit end of it sizzles a bright orange, emitting a thin trail of smoke up to the ceiling. 

“That is very, very nice,” Carmy agrees, taking it carefully from their fingers. Their face spreads into that contagious grin of theirs, and he’s far from immune. Sometimes he smiles so much around them that his face hurts, rusty and unused. 

Sure, he can blame that on the weed, but if he’s being honest with himself (a rare occasion), that’s a complete lie. Obviously the weed lessens the tension, the stress that winds him up tight. It’s not just the weed that gets him to relax, though. 

It’s them. There’s something disarming about their presence, something that makes him loose-lipped around them. Even when he’s sober, he finds himself feeling comfortable. He’s not quite sure how that happened, or if that’s ever happened. He supposes that isn’t a bad thing. Just something he’s noticed. 

He wonders if they’ve noticed. 

“You like the new rolling papers?” They tuck their knees under their chin, propping their feet up on the chair. 

“Hm.” Carmy lowers the joint from his mouth to give it a good look. He rotates it around in his fingers. “Strawberry?”

“Yeah, it’s strawberry,” they confirm, poorly hiding the excitement in their demeanor. Not that they were trying to. “Can you taste it?” 

He pulls from the joint, the edges of the paper sizzling red with the weed. It’s an even burn this time. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth after he exhales a cloud of smoke. 

“Still no,” he decides after a beat, and they sigh. 

“I don’t know why I ever get my hopes up.”

“I do taste something else in this, though.” He takes another hit, stews on it. “Lavender?”

“Shoulda known you would’ve gotten it on your first tray. Yeah, it’s lavender. I found some lying around.”

“You made this one pretty nice,” he observes, eyes tracing the shape of the joint. “Between the lavender and the new papers, I mean.”

“Well, y’know.” The smile on their face is small and shy. “I don’t smoke joints often, so I wanted to make it nice, and I, uh…”

They’re paused for so long that Carmy interjects. 

“And?”

“And I—want that joint,” they finally say, outstretching their hand. Carmy has a strong feeling that they weren’t originally going to say that, but he hands over the joint nonetheless.

“Strain?” He asks curiously. He can feel the body high creeping up his shoulders, fluid and light.

“The strain that gets you high,” they reply with a grin.

“Oh, thank god,” Carmy sighs in relief, and the way that makes them laugh… It makes his chest tight. 

“To actually answer your question, though—I dunno.” He likes watching the smoke drift from the tip of the joint as they talk, thin gray wisps in the air. “I think it’s a hybrid? Not sure if it’s more one way or not, though…”

“As long as it’s not the weed that puts you to bed.”

“Um…well, if you smoke enough of it, it can.”

They sit together like this for a while, just sitting and taking turns with the joint. It’s an easy, fluid exchange, flowing between them like smoke. No matter how much they both try to blow it out the window, it always comes back in. The smell of weed is strong in the air, earthy and pungent.  

Although he would never describe himself as a talkative person, sitting stoned across from them makes the words come out. Sometimes, he thinks he likes himself better when he’s high—his mind isn’t running circles around itself, and the soreness of his body just floats away. He feels more like a human than a poor imitation of one like he usually does. 

This weed smells kinda good, he thinks, and when they laugh, nose scrunched up, he realizes he said that out loud. 

“That’s literally what I’ve been saying,” they agree, a bright grin lingering on their face. “That’s how you know you’re a fuckin’ stoner!” 

“Feels weird to call myself a stoner,” he muses. He plucks the joint from their outstretched hand. It definitely looks shorter from when they started a moment ago. “But I guess…”

“If you like the smell of weed, you’re too far gone,” they say with a grave expression. “It’s so fucking over for you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, equally as serious, and then they’re both bursting out into laughter. He likes the sound of their laugh—it’s unabashed, fills up the space. 

“Dude, I’m high,” they whisper after they both calm down, like it’s some sort of secret, and Carmy can’t stop himself from laughing all over again. “Oh my god. Are you high?”

“I—I think I might fucking be,” he gets out between laughs, and that sparks them straight into another cackle of laughter. He’s not supposed to be able to make others laugh, he doesn’t even make himself laugh—but then he’ll say something, and they’re lit up with laughter. 

“We need to eat this pizza now, ” they yell, projecting over their combined noise. They flip the pizza box open, and it smacks Carmy right in the face. 

“Oh,” he reacts mildly.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you punched me in the face,” he reasons, but their guilty expression persists. “It didn’t hurt, it’s just cardboard.”

“I’m sorry, I’m high,” they sigh apologetically. 

“I know,” he replies with a little smile. His eyes drift down to the pepperoni pizza sitting before them, glorious in its perverse amount of oil. “So, we’re gonna eat this, right?”

“Oh my god, yes we are,” they gasp, and the moment is forgotten. 

When he tears off a pizza slice, the cheese stretches in thin, gooey strings. They grab the slice adjacent to it to snap the strings in half, but they’re both leaned back in their chairs, pizzas in hand, and the cheese is still connected. 

“This doesn’t seem right,” Carmy mutters, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “We should’ve just cut it.”

“How could we have predicted this?” They pull their pizza further back, and the string still doesn’t break. “Wow. I’m honestly impressed. I don’t think it’s ever been this insane before.”

“I think we’d remember.” He’s not sure why he’s still talking and not just running his finger across the string to break it. 

“I think we would, too.” They snort, shaking their head. “This—this is some spaghetti type shit.”

“What? Spaghetti?” He’s genuinely perplexed.

“I—I mean like—that fucking disney movie. With the dogs.” They pause for a moment, mouth silently moving. “Fucking—lady and the, the truck—”

“Uh.” He has to hold back a laugh. “...The lady and the tramp?”

“ Holyshittheladyandthetramp ,” they blurt out in a rush, and the cheese string finally snaps in half. “…Well, I guess it’s not exactly like the lady and the tramp, then.” They take a large bite of their pizza, and it reminds Carmy exactly how hungry he is. 

“You mean lady and the truck,” he corrects, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. Especially not with how good this hot pizza is, delightfully salty and greasy in his mouth. 

“Shut up, I was trying,” they grunt through a mouthful of food. 

“How exactly is this like the lady and the tramp, again? Or, uh, not like it?” 

“Well, it was just like it, but then the string broke.” Somehow, they’re already halfway through their slice. “Could’ve been a beautiful spaghetti moment.”

“Spaghetti moment,” he echoes under his breath, holding back a laugh. “Remind me how that scene goes?”

They go quiet for a moment. It’s like he can see the gears turning in his head. If he’s being honest, he already remembers how that scene goes, but…he wants to hear them say it. He needs to hear them say it. 

“Uh, well, they’re…eating spaghetti. The titular lady and tramp.”  Their eyes are fidgety, flickering back and forth between their pizza and the window. “And they’re sharing the plate, the two of them. They’re eating together, and, um…” 

“...And?” 

They meet his eyes, mouth hanging open, and then they close it. 

“Um, I don’t remember, actually,” they say, shaking their head and blinking. He sees it for the blatant lie that it is, and yet. “Do, do you remember?”

As he stares back at them, unable to look away, he wonders. He wonders about what this really means. About if this really means anything at all, about if he’s going to find out if it does. 

“I don’t remember,” he answers quietly, cowardly, and neither of them say anything else.

Out of the two of them, they’ve always been better with recovering from awkward moments, so they do. They start talking about something else, and the world keeps turning. But in the back of his head, Carmy remains in that moment, unwilling to let it go. 

Why did you say that you didn’t remember? He wants to say. Why didn’t I say that I remembered how it went? Because I remember. They kiss—they fucking kiss. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what I wanted to hear?

But because he’s Carmy, he doesn’t say anything. He just eats.

He’s so hungry that the pizza disappears in minutes. It’s delicious, but he’s so high he’s not completely sure he can taste it. Somehow, it remains the best thing he’s ever eaten. 

The rest of the night is a blur. He remembers getting onto the couch at some point. They both decide on a random movie he doesn’t catch the name of. They finish off the joint on the couch together, sinking into its cushions. It burns hot in his throat as it reaches the end. 

And as it turns out, the weed he smoked is the one that puts him to bed. 

“...Ca…Car…” Someone’s calling him. “...Carmy, c’mon. You’re gonna complain about your neck tomorrow if you keep sleeping here.”

“Mhm,” he replies helpfully. He turns his head into the cushion. His body feels like an abstract blob, perfectly molded into the couch cushions.

“Okay, you made a good point. But. ” They laugh quietly, under their breath. “Movie’s been over for like 20 minutes now.”

“Mhm,” he repeats, nearly inaudible. He doesn’t wanna get up. Whenever he falls asleep, it always feels like he’s never gotten an hour of sleep in his life. There’s nothing he needs to think about, worry about. He’s warm and comfortable, and he doesn’t feel like letting that go just yet.

Everything goes silent again for a moment, save for the cars on the road. He begins to drift away again, slipping back into his dreamless sleep. 

But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s like a smoking brand on his skin. His eyes fly open and he jolts awake, jerking upright. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” they apologize, fretful. Between the dark of night and haze of sleep, they look pretty different. The blue light from the television is streaked across the blurry planes of their face.

“It’s fine,” he replies, drowsy. Speaking feels…heavy. Begrudgingly, he adjusts to sit up. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Weed,” they say with a shrug. 

“How, how long was I—?” He cuts himself off with a yawn, wide with condensation in the corners of his eyes. 

“Only like, 30 minutes.” They yawn back. Typical infectious yawning. “End of the movie sucked anyway.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What was the ending?”

“Love interest died,” they state plainly. “He told her about how he felt, got rejected, and then she died in a car accident. Pretty tragic.”

“Huh.” Carmy makes a face. “That does suck.”

“Yeah, a bit.” They’re idly fiddling with the remote, scrolling through Netflix without reading anything. “I feel like the movie was trying to say something profound about the unpredictability of life or something, but the writing was shit.”

“I guess it’d be too perfect if they got together,” he muses.

“I guess,” they echo. They turn off the tv, and the room goes dark. The only light is from the yellow street lamp right outside their window, wonderful in its inconvenient placement. It illuminates the shape of the back and leaves their face in shadow. “I think I remember how that scene went,” they say suddenly. 

“Oh.” Carmy’s heart feels stuck in his throat. “And how does it go?”

“Well, they’re—both eating spaghetti. Like I said.” They’re not facing him, leaving their face shrouded in shadow. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the shake in their voice or not. It’s beyond him why there would be any shakiness at all. “They somehow get the same noodle, so they, uh, kiss.”

“They kiss,” he repeats for some unknown reason.

“Yeah.” They let out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound like they actually find this funny. He wishes he could see the look on their face. 

“I don’t think pasta works like that,” he hears himself murmur faintly. For some reason, he can’t help but think that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s already said it. Maybe it’s the same reason as to why his heart is beating so urgently. 

“No, I, I don’t think so either,” they mumble. He refuses to place the way they’re feeling. 

I can’t fucking do this.

The thought resounds like a gong, hit with a mallet right next to his ear. 

“It’s late, I gotta head to bed.” It feels like someone else is speaking for him, moving his body for him. He can’t stop them. When he stands up, he avoids their face.

What the fuck are you doing?

Another thought resounds. He doesn’t respond.

“Right, I—didn’t even notice the time.” He pretends he doesn’t hear the strain in their voice. No, he didn’t word that right—there is no strain in their voice. “G’night.”

"Night,” he murmurs back.

This is enough, he tells himself as he falls into bed. His sheets are tangled. This is enough , he repeats, and it’s not because he’s scared, afraid, anxious, or any other stupid synonym. It’s because he believes it, needs to believe it. 

He tells himself, this is enough , even though he wonders, what is supposed to be enough? He doesn’t listen. He stamps down the protests, the thoughts that are out of line. The high usually helps with that, but it’s worn off, now just leaving him in a weary, sleepy state of things. 

This is enough, he thinks, and he falls asleep looking at their shrouded face behind his eyelids.

[leafatlaw]

sorry it’s the middle of the night but do you think rolan deep was ever homesick ? If he couldn’t sleep at night in Chicago where the sounds of cars and trains and people kept him up. Where the lights outside his window were always too bright through his blinds, brighter than anything had been in Galloway.

If rolan couldn’t sleep without the cicadas song, missed the buzz of mosquitos and gnats. Missed the creaks of his old house and his parents snores. Do you think Rolan desperately cracks open the window only to real back in disgust. Everything in Chicago so foreign so wrong, even the air is different.

I think Rolan gets homesick for something more. For the smell of the bayou and something sickly sweet, for the smell of cheap cigarette and lighter fluid. He misses the smell of the earth and bright clear starry skies and the smell of weed and feel of rough denim. I think, late at night when Rolan in between exhaustion and anxiety, Rolan misses his friend more than anything. The feeling of exhilaration at climbing onto the Rands roof at 3 in the morning, tapping Rands window to wake him up. Sharing a cigarette that he hates the taste of, so their hands can touch his for a moment. The feeling of safety and home that he only ever felt there, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his best friend. I think Rolan gets homesick alot.

[allamericanlimo]

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[i-spaced-sorry]

Creepy Guy

Requested? No. This is based off an experience that happened to me recently, but I changed it up a bit to match the One Chicago Universe. In this Halstead sister works at a bar, but it’s not Mollys.  TW: Creepy guy, pet names I guess. 

Jay Halstead x Halstead!sister

“Can I ask you something?” you asked while taking a seat on your brother’s couch. 

Pausing the game that was on TV, he turned to you and replied, “sure! What’s up”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, when you opened them, you saw concern looking back at you. 

“I know this was creepy and wrong, I don’t even know what I’m asking or saying, but I think I just need to tell someone I think” you started to fidget. 

Coming to crouch in front of you, Jay looked up at you, “Hey, it’s alright, what’s going on”

“So, I was coming home from work the other day and it was going great! The regulars were there, it wasn’t so busy with it not being Baseball season yet, but afterwards” you began, while looking everywhere but at your brother. 

“Y/N, do you need a ride?” asked your coworker Kyle. Kyle was an older guy - 30 - who had started working at your bar a few weeks ago. He already had gained the trust of everyone who worked there and all the customers loved interacting with him, since he always had wild stories. 

“Uh, I already called an uber” you replied while tilting your phone in his direction to show proof. 

Motioning for you to walk to his car, he stated, “come on, I’ll take you home. It will be faster and cheaper than an Uber.” 

Nodding, you quickly canceled your ride and hopped into his passenger seat. 

****

“The ride had started out chill. He started asking me about how long I’d been living in Chicago, what area I lived in, ya know so he could drive me home, and kept going on about how it was definitely cheaper to get a ride from him than to pay a stranger half a night's tips just to get home.” you had added, while starting to play with your fingers. 

“What happened next” prompted Jay, while shuffling to sit on the end of the coffee table rather than crouching on his knees. 

“So, Y/N, are you looking to move anytime soon?” Kyle asked abruptly. 

Laughing, you replied, “Actually? Yea I am! I’m looking in the Bridgeport neighborhood mostly.”

“Well, sweetheart, I’m actually looking for someone to take care of my plants in the coming weeks. I have two free rooms available in my house. Rent would be hella cheap and all you would have to do is keep my plants alive.” 

Looking out the window, you replied, “I’ll think about it” although you knew good and well you wouldn’t be taking him up on his offer. 

“Okay doll, I need to know when to make a turn to get to your place” he added while continuing to drive. 

****

“As the drive went on he kept shifting between driving and verging on flirting” you stated. And this time when you spoke, you looked your brother dead in the eyes. 

For half a second you saw the fire flame emoji flash in your brother’s eyes. Before he blinked and his green eyes stared back at you with concern. 

“Can you maybe, tell me a little bit more about how he flirted with you? Was it just calling you the pet names and asking you to move into his house?” This was starting to feel like a witness statement, if your knowledge of cop procedural shows and having a detective as a brother was anything to go off of. 

“No, he said other stuff too, like -” you started. 

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” Kyle blurted out while at a stop light. You could feel his eyes on you when he asked the question. 

Looking down at your phone to see how much longer you had to sit in this car with the creep, you replied, “No, and you’ll turn right in 3 stop lights” god you should have just taken the Uber. 

“We are going to discuss this!” He began while starting to drive again. 

“What do you mean you don’t have a boyfriend, you're gorgeous.”

Laughing uncomfortably, you replied shyly, “If I knew the answer to that, I would have one by now” god when would this end. 

“You’re so beautiful and is it weird for me to be attracted to you”

“Eh, sort of,” you said quietly.

The two of you then sat in silence, when Kyle spoke again, “how much further til I have to drop you off”

You began trying to tell him, when he cut you off and asked to see your phone. You passed it over. 

***

“What happened next, Y/N/N?” Jay asked when he noticed you paused in the middle of telling the story. 

“He started guilt tripping me, because it was further than he thought it was to take me home.”

“Guilt tripping how?”

You closed your eyes and breathed, when you opened them you began to curl in on yourself. 

“He started saying how I needed to now go out and get a drink with him because he took me this far home. He even said I now I had to take care of his plants. And he just kept complaining about how he wished he knew it would be this far when I got in the car. But the thing is he felt so cocky and sure of where I lived when I mentioned it to him in the parking lot at work. He kept getting mad when I started apologizing and telling him he could just drop me at a bus stop and I could bus the rest of the way home.”

When you paused again, Jay hugged you and asked, “What was his response to that?”

“He said and I quote, sweetheart, a 5ft1 pretty girl like you shouldn’t be riding public transportation late at night.” you began to get riled up, “I’m not naive! I’m not stupid! I’m 24 god dammit!  I know to be careful of my surroundings! I’m just not a rough around the edges jaded person either! I give people the benefit of the doubt and… and…” and before you knew it you were in tears sobbing. 

You hadn’t told a single soul what had happened that night. Nothing sexual happened but it was creepy as hell and all you wanted to do was bury it but it kept popping up in your subconscious. 

When you finished sobbing and were just reduced to tears and sniffles, Jay spoke. 

“First of all I’m so sorry that happened to you. That should have never happened.  I think you need to tell your boss about this though. Especially if he is well liked and respected by customers and coworkers. And I’m not saying that because I’m a cop, I’m saying that as your brother too. What he did was super inappropriate and creepy and that should not have happened.”

You sat there taking in what Jay was saying, “but, I got in his car though. I made that choice. I could have chosen to take an uber, but something in me thought he was a good guy”

Jay could see how you thought this was your fault and he hated that. 

“Listen to me, this was not your fault! You hear me. He offered to drive you home and you had evidence to back up your theory of him being a nice guy! So you did nothing wrong. You copy?”

“Copy”   

read on AO3

[macaroonff]

Taste- Lee Minho

Genre: Undercover detective x gang leader; the roaring 20s Paring: Minho x fem reader Content Warnings: Spice (no smut),mentions of alcohol, inaccurate historical representation, not intended to be factually correct, please forgive any inaccuracies. Word Count: 5.6k Suggested Songs: Taste- Stray Kids Whatever Lola Wants- Ella Fitzgerald Fall in Love With Swing- Trio Manouche Smooth Operator- Sade

Refer to this for context regarding specific terms in bold

No one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat in one of the many dressing rooms the jazz club contained. He hated how his sweaty palms digging into your lower back barely managed to keep both of you steady against the rough wall.

He despised how desperately you held onto the lapels of his tweed suit, as the cold pearls around your neck jingle against his watch with every turn of your head. Every jingle was followed by a gasp, and together they seemed to override the perky jazz coming from the stage. 

He hated how he was stuck here, unable to release himself from his hedonistic urges, to the point where he neglected his work, the reason he entered this shabby club. 

Priv. Detective Lee wasn't supposed to be here today, not in your embrace, not under your enchantment, not under the influence of something he was prohibited from. 

Alcohol.

Despite his deceptive actions and seemingly careless attitude towards alcohol at parties, Lee Minho had a restrained regimen for himself. Especially when he’s working, which is almost everyday.

He only lets himself go when necessary in social gatherings, in  those crowded salons where everyone had their eye on him, forced to follow skewed norms to strengthen his reputation as an owner of a winery acreage in France. A false identity pasted on him to get any sort of tip-off in this industry.

The industry where smuggling had become as common as a family buying a car.

Last Sunday, when he happened to be at another one of these parties, he was invited by his neighbour Mr Brown to a different wine tasting session at a strange, albeit new jazz club, rumoured to sell cheap booze. Of course he’d go.

Not just because of the "good" alcohol, but because of the fact that any place selling cheaper goods meant that it was smuggled. Not necessarily, and not always; but in this day and age he was sure it could be nothing else.

So he enters this somewhat run down club behind the busy streets of downtown Chicago, surprisingly packed with locals, a pungent smell of alcohol immediately welcoming him. A smell he thought he was used to, but clearly not enough to refrain from wincing, his eyebrows furrowed at the chaos and the crowd; at the suffocation he felt walking in.

At the centre of this chaos stood, in all her glory, the lead singer, her sweet voice accentuated by the saxophone, the quartet following it. She stood below the dim yellow chandelier hung above her as a spotlight, in her white satin, semi beaded dress which fell just below her knees, rather provocative.

He doesn't look away until Brown reminds him of the wine testing and ushers him towards a VIP parlour.

He makes his way through the crowd, pushing against bodies dancing the Charleston, a recently popular dance that Minho found amusing. All of this while he probes the ins and outs of the club, looking for all entry ways through which big cartons could arrive, as well as places for them to be stored.

All he found was a door that appeared to lead into the dressing rooms. That didn't deter his ambitions though, because he knew that behind this lively exterior, there had to be secrets involved . He would do whatever he had to in order to uncover the operation.

If he had any flaws, it would be this, that he was too stubborn to give up on what his intuition said. He was hard headed, but in no way was he stupid. He'd be devious if it was necessary, he'd lie if he had to. He'd also seduce if it was extreme.

It wasn't his first time trying seduction. He'd done it before, at least six attempts, and maybe five successful ones. The last one was into girls, and he hoped, fairly desperate that this one wasn't.

After a while, he uses needing a trip to the toilet as a somewhat acceptable reason for leaving the now boring session. The drunk men weren't their most reasonable, and paid no heed to the poor excuse. Apparently being a connoisseur meant taking proper breaks. He shrugs it off with a smile, promising to come back in some time.

Lies.

He was long gone to meet his mysterious flapper who he surveyed every corner for.

Under the new frosted light bulbs bought for the bar, you find yourself in the company of many men and women alike, all desperately trying to sink their teeth into your precious minutes. All of whom you appreciated but wanted nothing to do with. Most of them were here to sign record deals from new radio channels wanting to capitalise on the upcoming modern woman movement. All of which you supported but didn't see yourself working as.

Not because you liked working as the main singer for a rundown jazz club. But because your actual work meant that you were never supposed to find fame. Fame meant prying eyes, and nosey neighbours; something you'd have none of in this lifetime.

Why risk it for fame, when you had important business to take care of here?

You had to make sure that not a single thing was out of line and that not a single person would ever find out about the second business run here.

So far, you've done a good job at pretending to be the club's owner's sister. And although it was true, the story behind renovating your grandma's old house into a jazz club wasn't. There was no grandma's old house, there was no renovation, no grandma either. This was always a place for trade.

Your kind of trade. Where you’d find the good dupes and sell it at a higher price, and the actual bottles would be shipped out for a lump sum.

The excess or the bad bottles would be sold in this club, at a discount. It was pretty simple actually, and it made you money.

Sure it was illegal. But sometimes you needed the money, no questions asked. This was how your family knew to fend. This is how you'd continue to fend for yourself.

The risks you took were calculated, and you weren't afraid.

While your brother looked after the actual shipments, you'd deliver intel, in control of all the information passing through here. Nothing happening in town would ever slip away from your grasp.

So what if it was a jazz club?

Most people from different backgrounds always ended up at "The Charmer". Most people let themselves go. They always end up telling the bartender about their business, the dirty dealings that they've also been up to. The fact that most were more grey than the white that they appeared to be.

It was no different for you.

And if there was any difference, it was that you'd never let yourself slip-up. You weren't stupid. You weren't a naïve little Tomato like most believe. Even if you did find yourself faltering, you'd know how to convince others into changing their mind about you.

The same way you knew you could convince Mr Brown that you were interested in the specificities of wine when he almost caught you switching bottles from the basement. You barely convinced him, saying that true wine from France would have plum and black cherry aromas, which it did have. Lucky for you, Mr Brown had no idea that dupes could have chemical fragrances added to them too, because he'd never had to collect wine right from the port. Defeated, he said he'd ask his "very dear friend" to figure out the truth.

At first, you were shocked that there was another wine connoisseur you didn't know of, but after asking your people to investigate, you realised why Mr Brown was so confident. Why he was after your tail.

You knew he was new to this part of town; an insanely handsome, Big Cheese foreigner who wasn't yet used to life in America.

That his speciality was French Wine, and that if he was rich here, he was even richer back home. That he might even be a scofflaw, since he hung around in as many alcohol parties as he could, including the ones for the middle class. This piques your interest, and in a long while, you haven't been as excited to unearth someone's mask.

Now, all you had to do was wait. Because you hoped, no, you knew he would come to find you tonight, regardless of never having spoken before. Because most people do the first time they visit this club.

Most people come looking for you when you're done singing. Because they're enthralled, curious, or physically attracted to you. Because you're almost too beautiful for them to admire from a distance.

These weren't just based on what you heard, but accounts from your members, beyond tired of regulars ravishing about you. But that wasn't enough . You needed beyond sensuality to tempt and guarantee clients. Sure your circle of customers had grown over the last five years since you took over, but that didn't mean the risk had dissipated.

So while your confidence was with justification, your anxiety insisted on you keeping things tight-lipped. You had to know everything that occurred in this paltry but pertinent place.

Maybe that was why you were grateful when your target approaches you of his own accord. His deep brown eyes intent on yours, his long hands embellished by his expensive Rolex oyster- an wrist watch only few would dream of affording-, an orange tie loosened as though he had drunk the daylights out of himself.

He was perfect. Both handsome and tipsy, there was nothing more you'd want out of a potential threat?

"Stunning performance," you hear a deep voice say, in a slurred accent, you can't tell if it was because he was French, or just drunk.

"Thanks, first time here?" you ask.

He nods, leaning ahead. "Mr Brown told me, you have some really good wine down here, something I might be familiar with."

"Ahh you must be the foreigner Mr Brown keeps raving about... Mr?"

"Just call me Claude," he replies sweetly.

You raise your eyebrow. Was he so private as to not let his last name slip? You call the bartender over.

"A bottle of our finest Cheval Blanc." you look back and smile at him.

Claude smirks. "I'm familiar with this wine you know. It's made from the labour of my vineyards."

You examine his face, looking for any sign of deceit. You'd come across many con artists, most of whom didn't have adequate expertise in alcohol. Nobody knew the real in a world where fake was deliberately greater. But here's someone who claimed to know, here's someone who you were sure was lying, despite no hint of deceit.

Why would a rich French billionaire come down personally to your shabby store, instead of asking someone else to collect it?

Unless he had something to prove.

Soon the glasses are laid out, and half a bottle poured. You wait as he swirls the glass in his hand. Despite the loud jazz, you hear nothing but the sound of ice clinking in his glass, and the aroma of plum piercing through, making it difficult for you to breathe. You realise, that after a long time, you're nervous. You see him smell the alcohol briefly.

The cup reaches his lips, and he closes his pretty eyes. You watch him gulp a miniscule sip down. It is silent as his eyelashes flutter slowly as his mouth twitches in slight distaste. Just as anyone else would frown, but for some reason his seemed deliberate, somewhat dangerous.

Dangerous was what Lee Minho thought you were, with the real thing in the glass in front of him. Somehow, he knew it wasn't a dupe. It had the same percentage of alcohol as he knew it should, and not one flavour felt out of place. But then again, he couldn't be sure; he wasn't actually the person he claimed to be. He wasn't an actual connoisseur. If this was the real thing, then it made no sense for you to sell it at a discount.

"Why is one bottle so cheap?" he asks carefully, leaning against the counter. This time, he looks at you in search of deceit. Instead all he reads is a hint of surprise on your face, along with a little bit of glee, he couldn't be sure.

"You should know after tasting them shouldn't you?" you ask, eyebrows raised, a small smile on your lips, as though you had it all figured out.

Lee Minho falters, suddenly unarmed. What did that mean? Did you admit that it was fake? Or were you trying to gauge his identity?

A wrong answer now, and he'd give himself away.

"Of course I know why, but I'd rather hear from you." he avoids, to which you don't reply.

He needs to draw everything from you. "The discounts are unreasonably low, especially for a Cheval Blanc. It almost hurts my pride," he playfully pouts.

He sees you shaking your head in slight disappointment, an amused smile along with it. "You shouldn't worry about that, you're not losing any money here," you whisper close to his ear.

He tries so hard to ignore the smell of may rose and jasmine that accompanied your Chanel no. 5 parfum, and he tried to ignore how some of the others gaped at him, envious of how close he'd gotten to you.

"How can I be sure?" he questions his breath slightly arrhythmic.

How would you know rather, whether a rich business man would have lost his money? Really nobody would know unless they went through the ledgers. Something you were sure didn't exist in his company, or else he'd know just how much he'd lost.

Everything he said pointed to him being a careless business owner, something you thought would never be possible for a man so rich. You scan through his appearance again, his suit looked genuine, the tweed proper. You even gently caress the back of his broad lapels to confirm. He was rich, but was he anything close to the person he says he is?

Out of all the people you met in this small place, there was one thing you knew too well. If something or someone is too good to be true, it probably was. He was no vineyard owner from France, foreigner maybe, but not someone who knows business.

Something about the way he tried so desperately to gauge your business instead of you meant that he wasn't here to play, nor was he here to strike a deal. Most businesses that advertise try to get their way into you, instead of the business. They usually came knowing you were a snake charmer, someone who could sell all the bad ones for better prices. Selling rejected alcohol ended up being a way for them to reduce their losses.

The man in front of you, "Claude", could be one of two things. An embalmer like you, jealous of the profit you're making; or someone here to investigate your business. A situation you were familiar with.

Multiple cops had come to investigate before, all of whom were easy to shut up. However the person in front of you didn't feel like a cop, he didn't try to exert power, nor did he try to undermine yours. A man so hard to read, you weren't sure how to make head or tail of who he really was.

"Hmm, only if you tell me why you don't think it should be sold for less" you offer, laying out your cards in front of him. His response would determine if he was a tremendous master of deception.

"It is indeed the real thing; however the aroma feels diluted, although the drink's concentration seems correct. It is from a batch of wine of secondary quality made from bad grapes. However the year it was made in, suffered from excessive rain, and the waterlogged condition meant that production had reduced that year. It would make sense for you to sell it for a higher price due to excess demand."

You smirk, as he answers correctly. Somehow, he knew his stuff. The details however did feel as if he had thoroughly prepared for an interrogation.

"Unfortunately the people who buy here don't care about a particular year, they care just for the alcohol. It matters to only a few, such as Mr Brown and your friends who care enough to investigate, Claude."

"We're just curious, since we're linked to the same industry. I hope you don't take it the wrong way miss...?" he enquires, his eyes never leaving your lips.

"My name is a secret for those the first three times, if you return after our third meeting, I'll tell you. For now, goodbye; I have other patrons to meet."

With that you leave hastily, already unnerved at the fact that he somehow picked at your disguise. Annoyed yet excited.

After a long time, you find something vaguely resembling a challenge, and the following meetings would ensure that you get every second worth of thrill from him. You'd make sure that Claude, or whatever his handsome name was would only tread carefully from now.

Lee Minho should've known better, that a woman so beautiful was so secretive. That a woman so desired in this mysterious club would obviously play hard to get. Did it help that she was also the owner of this place? No it did not.

But what did help was that a set of the smoothest pearls had fallen into his lap, and either on purpose or by accident, you had left him your necklace. Lee Minho couldn't decipher your intent, but at the very least, he found himself an excuse. It was as though petty fate that stopped him before was helping him proceed in this mission.

He searches for you in the crowd with continuous effort, but you seem to have disappeared a long time ago, as though your conversation with him was just another of his delusions. Lee Minho also realises that he's a little tipsy. He's starting to sweat under the warm suit in the crowded room, and he feels his heart rate pick up rapidly. Unlike how he had become tolerant of the alcohol here in Chicago, he wasn't used to this club as an entity, he especially wasn't used to you. For a trained detective like Minho, two minutes was all it took for him to decipher what a person desires, what their intentions are, but you were so hard to read. He had never felt so incompetent, so out of it before. He looks back at the bartender, who had offered him another free drink.

"What do they call her, that flapper?"

"She isn't just any flapper," the man replies with a smirk, "she's the most famous in the city, her stage name is Estelle Vin."

"Is she always that... mysterious? I can't help be drawn to her," Minho confesses foolishly, wanting to gauge the bartender further.

"Well, you're not the only one." the bartender jokes.

"Well then I'll need these," he reveals. the pearls dangling from his hand, "if you know what I mean," he flashes a wink, pretending to be a lovesick fool, unsure if it was pretention on his part.

Lee Minho leaves with a small stumble, feeling the blood rush to his ears, his entire body getting warm. His vision is somewhat blurry, as he pushes his way towards the door he was eyeing before, his hands clutching the pearls close to his chest in his breast-pocket, holding on as though his entire life depended on it, and maybe it did.

He had to duck through the entrance to the dressing rooms, where he found himself standing in a complex maze. There were doors to the right and left of him, and a long corridor leading down. The shabby exterior was deceptive of the space within the club, and he could barely believe that it was just a small, rundown club that lured people in. He walks further down the corridor, when a singer comes out of a door on the left. She looks at him, startled by his intrusion. "Who...?How did you enter? It's authorised personals only."

He quickly apologises, and in convoluted sentences that his brain pushed out, explained that he had something to return. "The door was unlocked, and I need to see Ms Vin."

The lights dimmed nearby, signalling that a new performance was about to start. The stranger looks rushed and tries to shoo him away.

"Get out, and stop acting like a stalker. This would ruin your reputation Mr Claude Landry."

Lee Minho's eyebrows furrow in confusion. Why did a singer working here know his surname? He had only disclosed it to Mr Brown and a few other aristocrats. He was sure that most of them were tight-lipped about it, but now he was somewhat alarmed. Of course, as a man of public curiosity, along with him being a foreigner, it may not be as alarming. Maybe a clerk saw him sign as Landry, and he overruled his previous suspicions. Absorbed in his thoughts, he slowly back away from this new area shrouded in mystery, until he feels the floor under his feet vibrating, as though something heavy was moving below.

"There's no way what I'm feeling is an earthquake now ma'am?" he questions, his suspicions aroused for perhaps the hundredth time in the night.

"I think you've had too much of hooch Mr Landry," the stranger replies.

Sure, he was somewhat intoxicated but there's no way he'd be this gone. He also made sure that the bartender didn't have any chance to spike his drink, which makes him feel fluky. The feeling increases, and he swears he can hear glass shatter below him, although faint. The Whangdoodle from the stage increases their volume as this happens, and Minho finds his ears ringing.

It was at that moment you spring out of your dressing room, almost alarmed. "Why are they so lou-" you exclaim but stop when you notice Minho.

His eyes look into yours, and for a second he feels relieved to see someone he knows, though barely. At least the situation didn't seem as unfamiliar as it did before.

"It's loud isn't it Ms Vin?" he asks, back to his stoic self, as though examining your anxious demeanour.

You hold back a breath, unsure how to answer the question. A new shipment was supposed to arrive today, and they're usually stored in the basement, which unfortunately happened to be right below where you were standing. You'd ensure that the entrance to this area was secure, but most of the men had gone to help carry the shipment in, which happened to be in excess today, and you must have left it open when you came back with your head muddled with thoughts of Minho. It was scary. The fate that usually favoured you, happened to be sabotaging you today.

"Yeah, the band is louder than usual, I should probably check on them."

You locked your door to stop him from entering, and nod at your colleague. She tries to usher Minho back to the main area, and you also try to leave past him. He grabs your hands instead, and you feel his eyes on the back of your head.

"This must be yours," you see your pearls drop from his hands, clinking against his watch.

You only now notice that your neck was bare, putting your hand against it. Another sound erupts from the basement, and you get frantic. You watch as your colleague runs down to the basement to make them aware of how conspicuously loud they were being. Minho is quick to follow her with his eyes, suspicion written all over his face.

In spontaneity, you pull him into the dressing room you had previously locked. It was a last resort to distract him, stupid as it was.

"I... I can wear the necklace here," you say, pulling him closer to you. "Or maybe you'd like to put it on me?" you try flirtatiously hoping to keep his attention on just you. You sit down on the red chair, and remove the makeup from the counter. Luckily for you, Minho seems to appreciate this opportunity just as much as you, walking closer until his hand rests on your naked shoulders. He carefully held your long bob in a fist, placing the cold pearls as delicately as he could around your neck, taking his sweet time. As he moves in closer, you feel his warm breath fanning your ear, where you're taken aback by his rapid breathing. You could feel his sigh travel down your spine as he bends to snap the necklace in place. It felt like he was holding himself back, deliberate. Careful. Once he's done clasping the necklace, you look at him through the mirror, his eyes focused on you. You see him take your appearance in, and a small gasp leaves his mouth.

"You look beautiful y/n," he says in a deeper voice, taking you by surprise. You weren't taken aback by the compliment itself but by the fact that you had never once given him your real name, and the only thing he could find out was your stage name. Even some of your closest workers were hidden from your real identity.

But you didn't want to confirm this with this stranger, deciding it would be best to feign innocence. You furrow your brows as though it was annoyance. "Who's y/n? Your wife? A lover? A tomato you fell in love with?"

He smirks, "Future wife, maybe. Lover, if we're looking to start from today" he counters, snarky, yet in a weird way seductive. At this point you were beyond alarmed and tried extremely hard to keep yourself grounded to this new predicament.

"What do you mean by we? Besides if you want to address me, then you can call me Estelle."

"Well, are you jealous Estelle? Cause to be honest I'd rather call out your name later instead of y/n. I really hope you aren't y/n."

Who was he and Why did he care so much? Maybe he was mistaken, your name might be popular in France, or wherever he's from. Because there's no way he was referring to you.

You wanted to change the conversation desperately, you absolutely had to. In so many years of hiding behind a façade, it was scary having it disintegrated, crumble in seconds by a mere stranger.

"I'm not jealous, Claude. I don't think you should be here, unless you have more to speculate?"

He says nothing, instead he reaches for his breast-pocket for the umpteenth time, removing his linen handkerchief engraved with C.L and a classic fountain pen with gold borders.

"Time and date, for our next meeting," he asks sweetly, a charming smile painted on his lips.

You take his pen and examine it carefully. "Looks expensive, must be a family heirloom," you ask carelessly.

Minho smiles, as though he had already won this game of deception. Did he actually know your name? No. But he made a somewhat educated guess. Like most of the women of the time, you had tattooed on your back your social security number. As a celebration of autonomy, it had become a popular trend, which you also seemed to have followed. Luckily, for him, he had access to the case of a few bootleggers who were hidden so well that the only thing that could be traced was the social security number on someone's back. The number belonged to y/n l/n. Did it help that the social security number had no pictures? No. But did it help that the numbers on your back were visible to him as he placed the necklace on you? Of course it did. He decided to take a dangerous bet, and observe your reaction.

Beyond your unperturbed expression, he could see a shift in your body language, your fingers clasped onto your necklace tighter for some time, before you recovered, your confident face wavering and your beautiful eyes shifting away from him . All he had to do was catch you in the act.

"You're such a liar Claude." you say out of nowhere. "What are you? A cop? you say also catching him off-guard.

"A cop, those incompetent people with a meagre salary? Of course I'm not, don't be ridiculous darling." he replies slowly.

He watches you smile, a menacing one that pretended to be comforting. "It was a joke, of course you're not a cop, you're big cheese around here," he takes the handkerchief from you, where he sees all you've written on it is "today" with a red lipstick stain on it.

"Today?" he raises an eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah, unless your bank's closed?" you entice.

He smiles and pulls you in swiftly. His unexpectedly rough hand that you would not expect someone rich to have, is on your back, drawing circles as his lips are pushed against yours. You taste the same cheap wine you had offered him towards the back of his tongue, except that it tasted so much better this way. You could taste remnants of the fake plum flavouring, mixed with the scent of your Chanel no 5 parfum taking over all your senses. You feel as his cold fingers trace definitely around your back. "Three" he whispers, "Eight," he continues, moving leftwards, causing goosebumps where he'd left his impression. "One" he continues. You pause for a moment, confused at the numbers he was repeating, until it eventually dawns on you. You push him away worried, your pearls clinking as you move back. "Anything wrong?" he asks innocently. You knew you couldn't directly admit to being a criminal. He wouldn't know just by your social security number, unless he was working with someone important. But he also somehow knew your name.

At this point you knew he wasn't a French Casanova, observing how his supposed "heirloom" had different initials engraved on the pen, L.M., which you were sure didn't belong to a Claude Landry, or that of a real family. It must have been a stolen good bought illegally, or that L.M were his real initials. The only way you could find out was if you played along.

"Nothing, I just needed a breather, your kisses are quite intense," you make a stupid excuse. Despite realising that you weren't yourself around him, you go back to making out with this handsome stranger, his hands going back to where they were until he managed to trace your entire number. He removes his tweed suit, and lifts up your dress until it was hiked far above your thighs, and with every movement the tassels of your dress get tangled up near his zip. You unbutton his cotton shirt, holding the fabric close, revealing his chest which was so much warmer than your hands. A chill blows through the window, and you shiver in between his warm touches. He stops there for a minute, and eyes the bottle of rum on your counter. He lifts you with ease, and places you on the counter, where your social number was reflected in the mirror, as though everything about you had finally been revealed.

"We should make our last toast," he speaks up breathless, sipping out of the bottle, then holding it to your lips. You accept, and gulp down more than you usually do. Something tells you it would be the last time you'd be this delirious, yet so satisfied. It was like with every kiss, he meant to take you down, in more ways than one. His kisses travelled down your body, scattered, frenzied. He kissed as though this was the first and only time he'd be this close to you. Soon you also gave in to the delicate pressure with all your being, overruling your innate intuition, lost in his seduction.

You were so guilty of doing this. Of finding comfort in the way he moaned your name, your real name, in low whispers, something you'd never trust anyone to do. And it didn't matter what secrets he hid when he made you feel this good. Though you were always guilty of lying to others, so was he. In a weird way, for tonight both of you would be equals- equally guilty parties for betraying yourselves.

Similarly, no one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat, enjoying it despite knowing you were a criminal. It was as though he couldn't let go, and for a minute he felt like none of it mattered, and that you were as innocent as your kisses fluttering over his collarbones. For tonight, he'd become the sinner, not you.

The same Lee Minho who hated being drunk during work hours, was beyond pleased, convincing himself that it was just for tonight. For just this night, he'd given into this hedonistic urge, of wanting nothing but a taste of your body, of your attention and your entire world which he would eventually have to destroy tomorrow. But tomorrow was so many kisses, so many secrets and so many bottles of alcohol later. So he continued deluding himself with your moans and soft lips, until he could no longer despise himself for his new intoxication: you.

Hi there, a small repost. I thought this read better as a single post instead of a two part, hence why some transitions may be bad.

I hope you enjoyed

<3 macaroon

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[lady-severus-snape]

Random headcanon scene bullet points in my mind......

🌠 Severus is your bf, your wizarding bf. It's stupid cheap for him to take a portkey (international or not) to visit you compared to your muggle money cost and absolutely REFUSES to let you spend it on traveling to him. You basically have to conspire with Minerva to pop up as a surprise. Usually when he in school.

🌠 you both met one day when walking down the street in downtown Chicago (the potion guild was being held there that summer) and you both crash into each other when a bicyclist pushed you and your merch boxes from the bar you worked out into him. After a million apologies and hauling him up (he was shocked at your strength). You invited him into the bar for a drink on the house to make up for it.

🌠 after wards he kept coming by, and only when you were on shift. His demeanor drawed you in. Despite the age (45 to your 30) you began to fall for him. He had an air of danger, his prickly snarky comments had you in stitches. He was equally drawn to you. He had never met someone who tongue lashed others almost as well as he did. Your banter was something he enjoyed.

🌠 you give give him your number, though he did sat that he did not own a celly phone (cell phone you corrected gently)

🌠 he breaks down and gets one, because summer was almost over and thinking about not being able to talk to you made him squirrelly. You teach him the basics on how to work the call function, texting, and video chatting.

🌠 When you saw his dark mark by accident (it had been a particularly hot and humid day, even with A/C so he had ditched frock coat and rolled up his sleeves), Severus just about came undone at the seams, his magic flaring and exploding the sound system. You hugged him into submission and softly cooed at him until he had calmed down enough to explain what he could. He kissed you hard and deep after you told him that the choices he made were based on the tools available to him at the time.

🌠 He asks you to be his woman, you accept and little by little insert yourself into his life, improving his quality of self and acceptance without judgment and patience. Besides you adored his goth/victorian/wizard look.

🌠 "Sev, why not tie your hair back? I like your silver streak". He starts stealing your hair ties and wears his hair like a man bun. "Where did you get that waist coat? It looks wonderful on you" wears more styles like it. "Baby, we can always get a cover up of the cult tattoo you have. Or I can show you the best skin foundation that can hide it. It's water proof and can only be removed with the formulated alcohol solution." Suddenly starts asking questions on muggle tattoos and artists as well as the foundation you suggested.

🌠 one day while talking to you via video chat, he hisses and grabs his forearm. He bids you goodbye. Sick with worry you keep your phone on hand and call off from work. He appeared in the middle of your kitchen bruised, bloodied, and battered,.completely messed up. You barely got his dead weight to the bathroom where you cleaned him up and treated his wounds to the best of your ability. You hadn't told him, but you started taking CNA courses incase. Plus work at the bar was getting old and tiresome (you had been attacked by patron who wouldn't take no for an answer or accept you had a man already)

🌠severus recovering and breaks down crying telling you EVERYTHING. You hold his hand and pet his cheek, listening and raging internally at his suffering. Tell him to bring the boys (Potter and Malfoy) there, you will take them in under your wing and hide the two . His love for you grows.

🌠 He begrudgingly accepts being passenger princess because he does not know how to drive a muggle car and you know the streets better than he does. He ends up learning that your job takes you to the seediest parts of the city thus having you teach him because there was no way he was going to allow his woman to drive late at night to get home from your private home care case while he twiddled his thumbs at home.

🌠 he gets adorably flustered when your on the phone with your spanish speaking mother. He knows when you're gushing about him because of how animated you get and the glances you give him. He secretly LOVES how you say his name with a Mexican accent.

🌠 One time he comes to visit you at your bartending gig. He sat in the corner as he watched you turn on your sex appeal to draw customers in but sees how expertly you keep yourself from their touchy Feely hands. He absolutely fucks you stupid after your shift because he realized you were wearing one of button up shirts he was looking for back at hogwarts.

🌠 your mother always grew muicle (mexican honey suckle) so when he met your mother and saw the gold mine of FRESH muicle (its magical properties were the shit in potions dried, nevermind fresh) , Severus just about married you on the spot much to the amusement of your mother. She took to calling him mijo whenever she talked to him in her broken english. When he asked what that meant, his heart melted.

🌠 his favorite pet names from you: amorcito, corazoncito, guero, corazon de melon, flaco, bonbon. His super fav is bebé.

🌠 you and your mother absolutely exploit the fact he is 6ft7in and has gigantic hands to mix the masa for tamales and tortillas. Severus being moody at Hogwarts during the school year because he can't have good rice and beans the way you or your mother make. He calls her ma now. That had been an embarrassing time for him. It had slipped out when he had arrived to your house for winter break and found only her. He is now her mijo and no one was telling her any different.

🌠 He discovered he enjoyed mexican hot chocolate, atole, menudo, pozole. Though his favorite was red mole. Sometimes when he goes back to work, your mother and you prepare some and freeze it and place it in a box that Minerva gave you for Xmas a last year. It will shrink at the tap of your hand and preserves whatever is inside. So when Severus finds it after unpacking in his quarters he whoops for joy and happily eats when he has had a dog shit kind of day.

🌠 Severus snapping at the entire staff because Albus Fucking Dumbledore is telling him to give up his attachment to you. Ends up cussing their asses out in Spanish AND English. He channeled your ghetto side apparently.

🌠 Harry and Draco calling your mother abuelita because it sounds better than gran/gram. Draco struggling to adjust to muggle living, unconditional love and Harry having an actual decent summer free of absuse and neglect. Abuelita's chocolate is the best, out ranks yours (the little shits ♥️)

🌠 Severus watching you beat the absolute dog shit out of Black during one of the few visits to him, because Black called him Snivellus while he ate the empanadas Ma sent with you. Black hides everytime he hears your voice.

[storiesofsvu]

Kissing in the backseat

Going to galas wasn’t something that you were accustomed to, you were used to staying up in your little cove of Intelligence, working crazy amount of overtime hours while going up against Chicago’s worst. Flutes of expensive champagne and fancy finger foods weren’t exactly your forte, but when Trudy Platt was winning an award, the entire squad was going to be there to show their support.

The other thing you weren’t used to was keeping your hands to yourself on a Friday evening. Those were reserved for date nights with your girlfriend, dinner and a movie, hours spent wandering book stores with warm cups of coffee while picking out some new favourites. Take out on the couch while you sprawled across it together, watching old movies and binging tv show with cheap beer. All of course followed with hours tangled in the bedsheets together, which was exactly what you were looking forward to the most after this damn thing was over.

Because Hailey looked amazing.

She’d surprised you by going the route of a suit instead of the easier dress option, but you certainly weren’t complaining. It was extremely fitted, ghosting just over her frame perfectly, clinging to the curve of her ass that was accentuated more thanks to the heels on her feet. Her hair pinned up off her neck, a single strand of her bang framing her face, lips painted a deep red. Yes, keeping your hands off her was going to be a long and annoying task of the night, simply staying put and watching as she made her way around the ballroom. You would pretend to listen to what she was saying just to have an excuse to stare at her while she talked, your eyes trained on her lips, on her hands as she accented her words, daring to sneak down to the swell of her chest just peeking out over her shirt. Her lips would twitch up into a smirk whenever she caught you, which became more often than not after a few drinks.

Which is why you pounced on her the moment you were in the backseat of the uber. Your hands cupped her face, pulling her to you in search of her lips, meeting them hurriedly, letting out a small but uncontrollable moan at the feeling of her on your lips again. Your tongue slid across the seam of her lips just as she let out a surprised laugh, her lips bursting into a wide grin.

“Baby…” she giggled, “what has gotten into you.”

“You.” You replied with a smile, stealing another kiss, “you look so fucking gorgeous tonight, do you have any idea how hard it was to stay off you?” You leant in again, peppering her face with kisses, “sometimes I really can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Well you better believe it.” With a smirk her hand slid up your throat, only to gently guide you back to her, her thumb rubbing across your soft skin, “cause I am all yours, you’re stuck with me.”

“Good.” You murmured against her lips, kissing her again, “you better not make me go another five hours without a kiss ever again.”

“I don’t plan on it.” She said, nipping at your lip, “though if it gets you this needy maybe I’ll have to.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“How could I ever be mean,” she chuckled, her lips trailing across your jaw, “to the person I love?”

“You’re being mean right now.” You breathed out, feeling her teeth nip at your pulse point right before the car rolled to a stop. “and I love you too.”

“Well,” she reluctantly pulled herself away from your body, tugging you out of the car, “let’s get up stairs so I can show you just how much I love you.”

“Now that, sounds like something I can get behind.”

___________

@mickey-gomez @hbkpop @erinlindsayy @alexxavicry @mysticfalls01 @thatesqcrush @when-wolves-howl @geekyandgay98 @akingcalledkris @desperate-gay @tommyriddleobsessed @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble